Twelve Years a Slave

looked at me significantly, as much as to say, “Keep dark, we understand each other.” It was ten o’clock at night before the labors of the day were performed, when I entered the cabin. At that time Uncle Abram and Bob occupied it with me. I laid down upon my board and feigned I was asleep. When my companions had fallen into a profound slumber, I moved stealthily out of the door, and watched, and listened attentively for some sign or sound from Bass. There I stood until long after midnight, but nothing could be seen or heard. As I suspected, he dared not leave the house, through fear of exciting the suspicion of some of the family. I judged, correctly, he would rise earlier than was his custom, and take the opportunity of seeing me before Epps was up. Accordingly I aroused Uncle Abram an hour sooner than usual, and sent him into the house to build a fire, which, at that season of the year, is a part of Uncle Abram’s duties.
    I also gave Bob a violent shake, and asked him if he intended to sleep till noon, saying master would be up before the mules were fed. He knew right well the consequence that would follow such an event, and, jumping to his feet, was at the horse-pasture in a twinkling.
    Presently, when both were gone, Bass slipped into the cabin.
    “No letter yet, Platt,” said he. The announcement fell upon my heart like lead.
    “Oh, do write again, Master Bass,” I cried; “I will give you the names of a great many I know. Surely they are not all dead. Surely some one will pity me.”
    “No use,” Bass replied, “no use. I have made up my mind to that. I fear the Marksville post-master will mistrust something, I have inquired so often at his office. Too uncertain — too dangerous.”
    “Then it is all over,” I exclaimed. “Oh, my God, how can I end my days here!”
    “You’re not going to end them here,” he said, “unless you die very soon. I’ve thought this matter all have come to a determination. There are more ways than one to manage this business, and a better and surer way than writing letters. I have a job or two on hand which can be completed by March or April. By that time I shall have a considerable sum of money, and then, Platt, I am going to Saratoga myself.”
    I could scarcely credit my own senses as the words fell from his lips. But he assured me, in a manner that left no doubt of the sincerity of his intention, that if his life was spared until spring, he should certainly undertake the journey.
    “I have lived in this region long enough,” he considered; “I may as well be in one place as another. For a long time I have been thinking of going back more to the place where I was born. I’m tired of Slavery as well as you. If I can succeed in getting you away from here, it will be a good act that I shall like to think of all my life. And I shall succeed, Platt; I’m bound to do it. Now let me tell you what I want. Epps will be up soon, and it won’t do to be caught here. Think of a great many men at Saratoga and Sandy Hill, and in that neighborhood, who once knew you. I shall make excuse to come here again in the course of the winter, when I will write down their names. I will then know who to call on when I go north. Think of all you can. Cheer up! Don’t be discouraged. I’m with you, life or death. Good-bye. God bless you,” and saying this he left the cabin quickly, and entered the great house.
    It was Christmas morning — the happiest day in the whole year for the slave. That morning he need not hurry to the field, with his gourd and cotton-bag. Happiness sparkled in the eyes and overspread the countenances of all. The time of feasting and dancing had come. The cane and cotton fields were deserted. That day the clean dress was to. be donned — the red ribbon displayed; there were to be re-unions, and joy and laughter, and hurrying to and fro. It was to be a day of liberty among the children of Slavery. Wherefore they were happy, and rejoiced.
    After breakfast Epps and Bass sauntered about the yard, conversing upon the price of cotton, and various other topics.
    “Where do your niggers hold Christmas?” Bass inquired.
    “Platt is going to Tanners to-day. His fiddle is in great demand. They want him at Marshall’s Monday, and Miss Mary McCoy, on the old Norwood plantation, writes me a note that she wants him to play for her niggers Tuesday.”
    “He is rather a smart boy, ain’t he?” said Bass. “Come here, Platt,” he added, looking at me as I