were out against him; this negro
was a lickspittle or tell-tale, as little boys call them--we could not
steal a bit of tea or sugar, or any other kind of nourishment for our
sick, or do anything else we did not want to be known, but if he got to
know it he would run and tell master or mistress, or the overseer, so we
all wanted him dead; and now I thought of him--he was just the proper
sacrifice for me to lay upon the altar of confession, so I told master I
believed that it was Dick: moreover, I told him that I had seen him in and
out of the stable on Saturday night, so master tied Dick up and gave him
39 lashes more, and washed his back down with salt and water, and told him
that at night if he did not confess, he would give him as much more; so at
night, when master went out to Dick again, he asked if he had made up his
mind to tell him the truth, Dick said, yes, master;--well, said master,
let me hear it. Well master, said Dick, I did turn the horses out; but
will never do so again. So master, satisfied with this confession, struck
Dick no more, and ordered him to be untied; but Dick had a sore back for
many weeks. And now to return to the negroes I had left at the dance, when
they discovered that their horses were gone there was the greatest
consternation amongst them, the forebodings of the awful consequences if
they dared to go home induced many that night to seek salvation in the
direction and guidance of the north star. Several who started off on that
memorable night I have since shook hands with in Canada. They told me
there were sixteen of them went off together, four of them were shot or
killed by the bloodhounds, and one was captured while asleep in a barn;
the rest of those who were at the dance either went home and took their
floggings, or strayed into the woods until starved out, and then
surrendered. One of those I saw in Toronto, is Dan Patterson; he has a
house of his own, with a fine horse and cart, and he has a beautiful Sambo
woman for his wife, and four fine healthy-looking children. But, like
myself, he had left a wife and six children in slavery. When I was about
seventeen, I was deeply smitten in love with a yellow girl belonging to
Doctor Tillotson. This girl's name was Mary, of whose lovliness I dreamt
every night. I certainly thought she was the prettiest girl I had ever
seen in my life. Her colour was very fair, approaching almost to white;
her countenance was frank and open, and very inviting;