place during the day. On the third night of my escape I arrived at Lake Providence about one o'clock in the morning, and securing a row boat, I safely crossed the river into the State of Mississippi, and continued my journey a few miles along the banks of the river, and then, concealed myself in the swamp.
I was unaware of the vigilance kept along the banks of the Mississippi river between Vicksburg and Memphis for the capture of runaway slaves. I was not aware that both sides of the river was being patrolled night and day by those who made their livelihood by capturing escaped slaves, and thereby securing the rewards, which were frequently as high as five hundred dollars if captured alive, and one-half that sum for their dead bodies.
I did not know that blood hounds were let loose at all the accessible places of crossing in order to scent the tracks of any one who might have crossed the river during the night unobserved. But I was soon made aware of these facts. About nine o'clock in the morning, while snugly perched in the forks of a tree, I heard the old familiar howl of hounds, and although the sound was a long distance from me, yet I was sure a human being was being pursued.
But whether it was myself or some one else I was not able to determine. Blood hounds are not fleet until within a few rods of their game. About five miles an hour is their ordinary gait when following a cold trail, or when their game is two or three miles ahead of them; but as they draw nearer they double their speed, and they never tire and are as unerring as time itself. I have known them to follow a trail for five consecutive days and win their game. The owners of them generally follow on horseback and about a mile in the rear.
About ten minutes after hearing the first echos of their howls it was repeated, but was much nearer and more distinct; and then I knew that it was myself that was being pursued, and I determined to foil them if possible. I at once left my hiding place and started for the river, which was about a mile away, and when having run about two-thirds of the distance they gave me another one of their terrible warnings that they were not more than a half mile behind me.
The thoughts of freedom and the dread of Dick Fallon renewed my energy and doubled my speed in my superhuman efforts to reach the river. It was a race against time, a run for my life. I knew that if I could reach the river it was possible to elude them by wading into the water along the bank, and then retracing a few miles of my journey. The canebrake and underbrush that grew along the banks would conceal me, and the water would cover my trail. But it was a task beyond human strength and human speed to execute, for as I neared the river the ground would not bear my weight only by slow and cautious tread. I was wading in six inches of mud and water, and the bogs and mounds were trembling and sinking beneath my feet, and another tremendous howl from a score of those pursuing man eaters made my blood run cold; for they were not more than one hundred rods behind me, while twice that distance must be traveled ere I could reach the river. It was sure death for me to be run down by that swarm of hunting tigers, for the men on horseback were perhaps a mile away, and I knew I would be torn limb from limb before they could possibly arrive.
I knew I must leave the ground, and very speedly, for as I cast one backward glance, I saw the grass swaying and splitting and the canebrake was cracking and falling, as the hounds came rushing after me, and not more than fifty rods away. A small cypress tree stood about ten rods to my left and my life depended on my ability to reach it.
Reader, picture the scene, if possible, of a man running for his life and a score of mad hounds pursuing him to drink his blood. There were no chasms, no cliffs, no places of concealment, no possible chance of escape, except by reaching that cypress tree and ascending beyond their reach ere they came sweeping down upon me. It was the crisis of my life, and although it happened nearly fifty years ago, yet it startles me, even now in my old age.
I succeeded in reaching the cypress tree, and had not a minute to spare, for before I was ten feet from the ground I was surrounded by twenty-one of the largest and most ferocious looking blood hounds I ever saw; and I was still in great danger, for the tree was not more than six inches in diameter, and I was afraid of its being uprooted or torn down before the men on horseback could arrive. They would have succeeded in doing this had I not begun to throw my clothing among them. First I threw my hat and coat, which they tore into shreds in less time than I could relate it. Then I hurled my old shoes at them, which only deterred some of them for perhaps a minute; and at last I hurled my pants among them, which they consumed as speedily as they had the rest of my clothing. And then they at once began digging and tearing at the roots of the tree. Then I began to realize that the end was near, for the tree had begun to reel and totter just as the men on horses hove in sight; and one shrill sound of the bugle was sufficient to cause those well-trained animals to cease their efforts to devour me, and it also caused them to form a complete circle at the root of the tree. It may not be generally known that well-trained blood hounds can be called from the chase by the sounding of the bugle in the hands of their owner, and the same means is also used as a signal for them to renew the chase, and they will readily obey the bugle at any distance within its sound.
When they were within a few rods of me I observed they were seven in number, and I was greatly relieved to see that Dick Fallon was not among them; but, as I have previously stated, it was a party of men that make their living by catching runaway Negroes.
They all dismounted and the one that seemed to be the leader of the party thus addressed me:
"Hello! up there, you black gorilla; what are you doing up there? Don't you know that cocoanuts don't grow on cypress trees? Come down from there, d___n quick, too."
And I immediately obeyed them.
When I had descended to the ground the following conversation passed between us:
"Where is your clothing?"
"The dogs tore them up, master."
"Yes, and you are d___d lucky they did not tear you up. Who are you anyhow? Who's nigger are you? Why, you look like Adam in the garden of Eden. Where do you hail from, and where were you heading to?"
I replied that my home was in old Virginia and I was on my way to Canada, for I did not want them to know that I belonged to Dick Fallon and I was in hopes they would send me back to old Virginia.
I was asked a great many questions concerning Virginia; all of which I was able to answer, for it was the land where I was born and nurtured; but when I was asked why I was in Mississippi if I belonged in Virginia and on my way to Canada I could not make a satisfactory reply.
It was only a matter of time for them to find my owner, for it was customary with them, when they captured a runaway slave, to advertise for the owner and also give a general description of the captured Negro, a process which made it almost impossible for the master not to know the whereabouts of his property.
Of course I was to be kept in jail during the time of the inquiry. They were somewhat puzzled in regards how to supply me with clothing suitable to convey me through the streets of Lake Providence, for the dogs had torn my clothing so fine that there was not enough left to cover the back of a good-sized rabbit, and one of the men suggested that it would be well to take enough skin off my back to make a suit of clothes for me. Finally I was supplied with a horse blanket and was commanded to wrap it around my body in true Indian style, and we all began to retrace our journey toward Lake Providence, which was perhaps some five or six miles away.
I was confined in jail at Lake Providence, with twenty-three other runaways that were held for identification by their owners and the offering of a satisfactory reward, and all of them had been captured by the same party that captured me.
There was one man held in confinement, of whom I will relate a circumstance that happened while I was in jail and of which I was an eye witness. He had escaped from a planter in the northwestern part of Louisiana by the name of Robert Johnson, and was captured while crossing the Mississippi river at Lake Providence and was jailed at that place. His master had seen the advertisement and had come after him. I had frequently heard him say that he would never be carried back alive; and surely he was justified in his declaration, for from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet it would have been impossible to have found a square inch that was not gashed with the lash, and his clothing was glued to his flesh with the exudation from running sores.
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