Twelve Years a Slave

himself, he would have stated truly that he knew nothing of Solomon Northup.
    The arrangement being adopted however , there was nothing further to be done until Sunday had elapsed. The conversation between Messrs. Northup and Waddill, in the course of the afternoon, turned upon New-York politics.
    “I can scarcely comprehend the nice distinctions and shades of political parties in your State,” observed Mr. Waddill. “I read of soft-shells and hard-shells, hunkers and barnburners, woolly-heads and silver-grays, and am unable to understand the precise difference between them. Pray, what is it?”
    Mr. Northup, re-filling his pipe, entered into quite an elaborate narrative of the origin of the various reactions of parties, and concluded by saying there was another party in New-York, known as free-soilers or abolitionists. “You have seen none of those in this part of the country, I presume?” Mr. Northup remarked.
    “Never, but one,” answered Waddill, laughingly. “We have one here in Marksville, an eccentric creature, who preaches abolitionism as vehemently as any fanatic at the North. He is a generous, inoffensive man, but always maintaining the wrong side of an argument. It affords us a deal of amusement. He is an excellent mechanic, and almost indispensable in this community. He is a carpenter. His name is Bass.”
    Some further good-natured conversation was had at the expense of Bass’ peculiarities, when Waddill all at once fell into a reflective mood, and asked for the mysterious letter again.
    “Let me see — l-e-t m-e s-e-e!” he repeated, thoughtfully to himself, running his eyes over the letter once more. “‘Bayou Boeuf, August 15.’ August 15 — post-marked here. ‘He that is writing for me — ‘ Where did Bass work last summer?” he inquired, turning suddenly to his brother. His brother was unable to inform him, but rising, left the office, and soon returned with the intelligence that “Bass worked last summer somewhere on Bayou Boeuf.”
    “He is the man,” ‘bringing down his hand emphatically on the table,’ “who can tell us all about Solomon Northup,” exclaimed Waddill.
    Bass was immediately searched for, but could not be found. After some inquiry, it was ascertained he was at the landing on Red River. Procuring a conveyance, young Waddill and Northup were not long in traversing the few miles to the latter place. On their arrival, Bass was found, just on the point of leaving, to be absent a fortnight or more. After an introduction, Northup begged the privilege of speaking to him privately a moment. They walked together towards the river, when the following conversation ensued:
    “Mr. Bass,” said Northup, “allow me to ask you if you were on Bayou Boeuf last August?”
    “Yes, sir, I was there in August,” was the reply.
    “Did you write a letter for a colored man as that place to some gentleman in Saratoga Springs?”
    “Excuse me, sir, if I say that is none of your business,” answered Bass, stopping and looking his interrogator searchingly in the face.
    “Perhaps I am rather hasty, Mr. Bass; I beg your pardon; but I have come from the State of New-York to accomplish the purpose the writer of a letter dated the 15th of August, post-marked at Marksville, had in view. Circumstances have led me to think that you are perhaps the man who wrote it. I am in search of Solomon Northup. If you know him, I beg you to inform me frankly where he is, and I assure you the source of any information you may give me shall not be divulged, if you desire it not to be.”
    A long time Bass looked his new acquaintance steadily in the eyes, without opening his lips. He seemed to be doubting in his own mind if there was not an attempt to practice some deception upon him. Finally he said, deliberately —
    “I have done nothing to be ashamed of I am the man who wrote the letter. If you have come to rescue Solomon Northup, I am glad to see you.”
    “When did you last see him, and where is he?” Northup inquired.
    “I last saw him Christmas, a week ago to-day. He is the slave of Edwin Epps, a planter on Bayou Boeuf, near Holmesville. He is not known as Solomon Northup; he is called Platt.”
    The secret was out — the mystery was unraveled. Through the thick, black cloud, amid whose dark and dismal shadows I had walked twelve years, broke the star that was to light me back to liberty. All mistrust and hesitation were soon thrown aside, and the two men conversed long and freely upon