William
Wells Brown was
born near Lexington, Kentucky, in 1814. His
father was George
Higgins, a white plantation owner, but his mother was a black slave.
His mother had seven children, all with different fathers. William
served several slave-masters before escaping in 1834. He adopted the
name of his friend, Wells Brown,
a Quaker who had helped him obtain his
freedom.
Brown became a conductor on the Underground
Railroad and worked on a Lake Erie steamer ferrying slaves to
freedom in Canada.
In 1843 Brown became a lecturing agent for the New York Anti-Slavery
Society. After obtaining a reputation as one of the movement's best
orators, Brown was employed by the American
Anti-Slavery Society where he worked closely with William
Lloyd Garrison and Wendell Phillips.
Brown, who settled in Boston, published his autobiography, Narrative
of William W. Brown, a Fugitive Slave,
in 1847. He obtained a living lecturing on slavery
and temperance reform in America
and Europe. This inspired his book, Three
Years in Europe
(1852).
In 1853 Brown published Clotel,
a story about Thomas Jefferson's relationship with a slave mistress
Sally Hemings. The book is believed to be the first novel to be published
by an African-American. Brown also wrote a play, The
Escape
(1958) and several historical works including The
Black Man
(1963), The
Negro in the American Revolution
(1867),
The Rising Son
(1873) and another volume of autobiography, My
Southern Home
(1880). William
Wells Brown
died on the 6th November, 1884, in Chelsea, Massachusetts.
Brown and his mother captured after attempting to escape from
slavery. Illustration in Narrative of William W. Brown (1847)
(1) William Wells Brown, Narrative
of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave (1847)
I was born in Lexington, Kentucky. The man who stole me as soon as
I was born, recorded the births of all the infants which he claimed
to be born his property, in a book which he kept for that purpose.
My mother's name was Elizabeth. She had seven children, Solomon, Leander,
Benjamin, Joseph, Millford, Elizabeth, and myself. No two of us were
children of the same father. My father's name, as I learned from my
mother, was George Higgins. He was a white man, a relative of my master,
and connected with some of the first families in Kentucky.
(2)
William Wells Brown, Narrative
of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave (1847)
My master owned about forty slaves, twenty-five of whom were field
hands. He removed from Kentucky to Missouri when I was quite young,
and settled thirty or forty miles above St. Charles, on the Missouri,
where, in addition to his practice as a physician, he carried on milling,
merchandising and farming. He had a large farm, the principal productions
of which were tobacco and hemp. The slave cabins were situated on
the back part of the farm, with the house of the overseer, whose name
was Grove Cook, in their midst. He had the entire charge of the farm,
and having no family, was allowed a woman to keep house for him, whose
business it was to deal out the provisions for the hands.
A woman
was also kept at the quarters to do the cooking for the field hands,
who were summoned to their unrequited toil every morning, at four
o'clock, by the ringing of a bell, hung on a post near the house of
the overseer. They were allowed half an hour to eat their breakfast,
and get to the field. At half past four a horn was blown by the overseer,
which was the signal to commence work; and every one that was not
on the spot at the time, had to receive ten lashes from the negro-whip,
with which the overseer always went armed. The handle was about three
feet long, with the butt-end filled with lead, and the lash, six or
seven feet in length, made of cow-hide, with platted wire on the end
of it. This whip was put in requisition very frequently and freely,
and a small offence on the part of a slave furnished an occasion for
its use.
During the time that Mr. Cook was overseer, I was a house servant
-- a situation preferable to that of a field hand, as I was better
fed, better clothed, and not obliged to rise at the ringing of the
bell, but about half an hour after. I have often laid and heard the
crack of the whip, and the screams of the slave. My mother was a field
hand, and one morning was ten or fifteen minutes behind the others
in getting into the field. As soon as she reached the spot where they
were at work, the overseer commenced whipping her. She cried, "Oh!
pray - Oh! pray - Oh! pray" - these are generally the words of
slaves, when imploring mercy at the hands of their oppressors. I heard
her voice, and knew it, and jumped out of my bunk, and went to the
door. Though the field was some distance from the house, I could hear
every crack of the whip, and every groan and cry of my poor mother.
I remained at the door, not daring to venture any further. The cold
chills ran over me, and I wept aloud. After giving her ten lashes,
the sound of the whip ceased, and I returned to my bed, and found
no consolation but in my tears. Experience has taught me that nothing
can be more heart-rending than for one to see a dear and beloved mother
or sister tortured, and to hear their cries, and not be able to render
them assistance. But such is the position which an American slave
occupies.
(3)
When he was a child, William Wells Brown's master moved to St. Louis.
My mother was hired out in the
city, and I was also hired out there to Major Freeland, who kept a
public house. He was formerly from Virginia, and was a horse-racer,
cock-fighter, gambler, and withal an inveterate drunkard. There were
ten or twelve servants in the house, and when he was present, it was
cut and slash - knock down and drag out. In his fits of anger, he
would take up a chair, and throw it at a servant; and in his more
rational moments, when he wished to chastise one, he would tie them
up in the smoke-house, and whip them; after which, he would cause
a fire to be made of tobacco stems, and smoke them. This he called
"Virginia play."
I complained to my master of the
treatment which I received from Major Freeland; but it made no difference.
He cared nothing about it, so long as he received the money for my
labor. After living with Major Freeland five or six months, I ran
away, and went into the woods back of the city; and when night came
on, I made my way to my master's farm, but
was afraid to be seen, knowing that if Mr. Haskell, the overseer,
should discover me, I should be again carried back to Major Freeland;
so I kept in the woods. One day, while in the woods, I heard the barking
and howling of dogs, and in a short time they came so near that I
knew them to be the bloodhounds of Major Benjamin O'Fallon. He kept
five or six, to hunt runaway slaves with.
As soon as I was convinced that it was them, I knew there was no chance
of escape. I took refuge in the top of a tree, and the hounds were
soon at its base, and there remained until the hunters came up in
a half or three quarters of an hour afterwards. There were two men
with the dogs, who, as soon as they came up, ordered me to descend.
I came down, was tied, and taken to St. Louis jail. Major Freeland
soon made his appearance, and took me out, and ordered me to follow
him, which I did. After we returned home, I was tied up in the smoke-house,
and was very severely whipped. After the major had flogged me to his
satisfaction, he sent out his son Robert, a young man eighteen or
twenty years of age, to see that I was well smoked. He made a fire
of tobacco stems, which soon set me to coughing and sneezing. This,
Robert told me, was the way his father used to do to his slaves in
Virginia. After giving me what they conceived to be a decent smoking,
I was untied and again set to work.
(4) William
Wells Brown, Narrative of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave
(1847)
I was soon after taken from Mr. Colburn's, and hired to Elijah P.
Lovejoy, who was at that time publisher and editor of the St. Louis
Times. My work, while with him, was mainly in the printing office,
waiting on the hands, working the press, etc. Mr. Lovejoy was a very
good man, and decidedly the best master that I had ever had. I am
chiefly indebted to him, and to my employment in the printing office,
for what little learning I obtained while in slavery.
While living with Mr. Lovejoy, I was often sent on errands to the
office of the Missouri Republican, published by Mr. Edward
Charless. Once, while returning to the office with type, I was attacked
by several large boys, sons of slave-holders, who pelted me with snow-balls.
Having the heavy form of type in my hands, I could not make my escape
by running; so I laid down the type and gave them battle. They gathered
around me, pelting me with stones and sticks, until they overpowered
me, and would have captured me, if I had not resorted to my heels.
Upon my retreat they took possession of the type; and what to do to
regain it I could not devise. Knowing Mr. Lovejoy to be a very humane
man, I went to the office and laid the case before him. He told me
to remain in the office. He took one of the apprentices with him and
went after the type, and soon returned with it; but on his return
informed me that Samuel McKinney had told him he would whip me, because
I had hurt his boy. Soon after, McKinney was seen making his way to
the office by one of the printers, who informed me of the fact, and
I made my escape through the back door.
McKinney not being able to find me on his arrival, left
the office in a great rage, swearing that he would whip me to death.
A few days after, as I was walking along Main street, he seized me
by the collar, and struck me over the head five or six times with
a large cane, which caused the blood to gush from my nose and ears
in such a manner that my clothes were completely saturated with blood.
After beating me to his satisfaction he let me go, and I returned
to the office so weak from the loss of blood that Mr. Lovejoy sent
me home to my master. It was five weeks before I was able to walk
again. During this time it was necessary to have some one to supply
my place at the office and I lost the situation.
(5)
William Wells Brown, Narrative
of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave (1847)
Though slavery is thought, by some, to be mild
in Missouri, when compared with the cotton, sugar and rice growing
states, yet no part of our slave-holding country is more noted for
the barbarity of its inhabitants than St. Louis. It was here that
Col. Harney, a United States officer, whipped a slave woman to death.
It was here that Francis McIntosh, a free colored man from Pittsburg,
was taken from the steamboat Flora and burned at the stake. During
a residence of eight years in this city, numerous cases of extreme
cruelty came under my own observation; to record them all would occupy
more space than could possibly be allowed in this little volume.
(6)
William Wells
Brown, Narrative of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave (1847)
A few weeks after, on our downward passage, the boat took on board,
at Hannibal, a drove of slaves, bound for the New Orleans market.
They numbered from fifty to sixty, consisting of men and women from
eighteen to forty years of age. A drove of slaves on a southern steamboat,
bound for the cotton or sugar regions, is an occurrence so common,
that no one, not even the passengers, appear to notice it, though
they clank their chains at every step. There was, however, one in
this gang that attracted the attention of the passengers and crew.
It was a beautiful girl, apparently about twenty years of age, perfectly
white, with straight light hair and blue eyes. But it was not the
whiteness of her skin that created such a sensation among those who
gazed upon her - it was her almost unparalleled beauty. She had been
on the boat but a short time, before the attention of all the passengers,
including the ladies, had been called to her, and the common topic
of conversation was about the beautiful slave-girl. She was not in
chains. The man who claimed this article of human merchandise was
a Mr. Walker - a well known slave-trader, residing in St. Louis. There
was a general anxiety among the passengers and crew to learn the history
of the girl. Her master kept close by her side, and it would have
been considered impudent for any of the passengers to have spoken
to her, and the crew were not allowed to have any conversation with
them. When we reached St. Louis, the slaves were removed to a boat
bound for New Orleans, and the history of the beautiful slave-girl
remained a mystery.
(7)
William eventually escaped from slavery in 1834. On his way to Canada
he was helped by a Quaker called Wells
Brown.
The kind friend that had taken me in was named Wells Brown. He was
a devoted friend of the slave; but was very old, and not in the enjoyment
of good health. After being by the fire awhile, I found that my feet
had been very much frozen. I was seized with a fever, which threatened
to confine me to my bed. But my friends soon raised me, treating me
as kindly as if I had been one of their own children. I remained with
them twelve or fifteen days, during which time they made me some clothing,
and the old gentleman purchased me a pair of boots. I
found that I was about fifty or sixty miles from Dayton, in the State
of Ohio, and between one and two hundred miles from Cleveland, on
Lake Erie, a place I was desirous of reaching on my way to Canada.
This I know will sound strangely to the ears of people in foreign
lands, but it is nevertheless true. An American citizen was fleeing
from a democratic, republican, Christian government, to receive protection
under the monarchy of Great Britain. While the people of the United
States boast of their freedom, they at the same time keep three millions
of their own citizens in chains; and while I am seated here in sight
of Bunker Hill Monument, writing this narrative, I am a slave, and
no law, not even in Massachusetts, can protect me from the hands of
the slave-holder!
Before leaving this good Quaker friend, he inquired what my name was
besides William. I told him that I had no other name. "Well,"
said he, "thee must have another name. Since thee has got out
of slavery, thee has become a man, and men always have two names."
I told him that he was the first man to extend the hand of friendship
to me, and I would give him the privilege of naming me.
"If I name thee," said he, "I shall call thee Wells
Brown, after myself."
(8)
William Wells
Brown, Narrative of William W. Brown, A Fugitive Slave (1847)
Slaveholders hide themselves behind the church. A more praying, preaching,
psalm-singing people cannot be found than the slaveholders at the
south. The religion of the south is referred to every day, to prove
that slaveholders are good, pious men. But with all their pretensions,
and all the aid which they get from the northern church, they cannot
succeed in deceiving the Christian portion of the world. Their child-robbing,
man-stealing, woman-whipping, chain-forging, marriage-destroying,
slave-manufacturing, man-slaying religion, will not be received as
genuine; and the people of the free states cannot expect to live in
union with slaveholders, without becoming contaminated with slavery.
The American slave-trader, with the constitution in his hat and his
license in his pocket, marches his gang of chained men and women under
the very eaves of the nation's capitol. And this, too, in a country
professing to be the freest nation in the world. They profess to be
democrats, republicans, and to believe in the natural equality of
men; that they are "all created with certain inalienable rights,
among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."
They call themselves a Christian nation; they rob three millions of
their countrymen of their liberties, and then talk of their piety,
their democracy, and their love of liberty.
(9)
William Wells
Brown, The American Slave-Trade, The Liberty Bell (1848)
Few persons who have visited the slave states have not, on their return,
told of the gangs of slaves they had seen on their way to the southern
market. This trade presents some of the most revolting and atrocious
scenes which can be imagined. Slave-prisons, slave-auctions, handcuffs,
whips, chains, bloodhounds, and other instruments of cruelty, are
part of the furniture which belongs to the American slave-trade. It
is enough to make humanity bleed at every pore, to see these implements
of torture.
Known to God only is the amount of human agony and suffering which
sends its cry from these slave-prisons, unheard or unheeded by man,
up to His ear; mothers weeping for their children -- breaking the
night-silence with the shrieks of their breaking hearts. We wish no
human being to experience emotions of needless pain, but we do wish
that every man, woman, and child in New England, could visit a southern
slave-prison and auction-stand.
I shall never forget a scene which took place in the city of St. Louis,
while I was in slavery. A man and his wife, both slaves, were brought
from the country to the city, for sale. They were taken to the rooms
of Austin & Savage, auctioneers.
Several slave-speculators, who are always to be found at auctions
where slaves are to be sold, were present. The man was first put up,
and sold to the highest bidder. The wife was next ordered to ascend
the platform. I was present. She slowly obeyed the order. The auctioneer
commenced, and soon several hundred dollars were bid. My eyes were
intensely fixed on the face of the woman, whose cheeks were wet with
tears. But a conversation between the slave and his new master attracted
my attention. I drew near them to listen. The slave was begging his
new master to purchase his wife. Said he, "Master, if you will
only buy Fanny, I know you will get the worth of your money. She is
a good cook, a good washer, and her last mistress liked her very much.
If you will only buy her how happy I shall be." The new master
replied that he did not want her but if she sold cheap he would purchase
her. I watched the countenance of the man while the different persons
were bidding on his wife. When his new master bid on his wife you
could see the smile upon his countenance, and the tears stop; but
as soon as another would bid, you could see the countenance change
and the tears start afresh.
From this change of countenance one could see the workings of the
inmost soul. But this suspense did not last long; the wife was struck
off to the highest bidder, who proved not to be the owner of her husband.
As soon as they became aware that they were to be separated, they
both burst into tears; and as she descended from the auction-stand,
the husband, walking up to her and taking her by the hand, said, "Well,
Fanny, we are to part forever, on earth; you have been a good wife
to me. I did all that I could to get my new master to buy you; but
he did not want you, and all I have to say is, I hope you will try
to meet me in heaven. I shall try to meet you there." The wife
made no reply, but her sobs and cries told, too well, her own feelings.
I saw the countenances of a number of whites who were present, and
whose eyes were dim with tears at hearing the man bid his wife farewell.
Such are but common occurrences in the slave states. At these
auction-stands, bones, muscles, sinews, blood and nerves, of human
beings, are sold with as much indifference as a farmer in the north
sells a horse or sheep.
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