ALL NIGHT LONG I was in a state of apprehension. I knew at New Orleans the steamer would be met by officers of the law who would take note of every person who came off the boat the next morning. The law and society were organized to catch any misguided wretch who thought he could slip through the net spread for him. I had committed an unforgivable crime, and I was well aware of it. I had made up my mind I would get off the boat safely or else go to the river for my final escape from a life that had already become intolerable to me.
It was a drippy and wet morning when the steamer docked in broad daylight at New Orleans. I boldly went forward among the passengers who were grouped in the bow ready to go ashore. From this position I picked out the officers whom I was to elude. There they stood at the foot of the gangplank ready to leap onto poor deluded me. As I stood wondering without a plan, I happened to see the kitchen supplies piled up on the dock.
Without waiting for the last passenger to go ashore, I leaped upon the plank, ran down with alacrity and seized a bag of potatoes, and waited with a quaking heart. My boldness evidently deceived the officers as they stood silently by, giving me no further attention.
When the last passenger was ashore, I picked up the bag of potatoes and trotted aboard, carrying them to the kitchen. There the cook thought I was a boy from ashore. By the time I had made a few trips with the provisions, no one thought of asking me to give an account of myself. After begging breakfast from the cook, I walked confidently down the gangplank, past the officers, and across the quay as though I had a perfect right to do so.
As there were a number of lads of my own age and color on the streets of the city, as long as I kept walking, I knew no one would question my presence. At noontime I realized what was going to menace my safety. It was food. I dare not beg, I could not ask for work, I had no money, but I must eat. I walked the streets all day, plagued by an appetite that dogged me as I walked. My hope was [that] under cover of night, I could steal. Even then I was under restraint, because there was a curfew hour, past which I did not dare be on the street.
Rather than take chances, I went to bed early on top of a pile of cotton covered with a tarpaulin. Cotton in the fluff is soft enough for a bed, but in the bale it is hard and ungiving, so I slept restlessly. It may seem strange that I am able to give all these minor details of my wanderings, but impressions of that period were indelible and marked on my mind, which is [a] pretty good one, if I am compelled to give this evidence myself.
Broad daylight is no time for a runaway slave to crawl out from beneath a tarpaulin on the docks of New Orleans. Several times I endeavored to get out from under the covering, but neighboring voices were too menacing for me to take chances. By noon my hunger and my fears drove me to desperation. As I had not eaten anything since the morning before, I was in such a frame of mind I did not care what happened. Fearfully, I pushed the heavy tarpaulin aside and stepped out into the sunshine, which fairly blinded me by its brightness. I stood dazed for a moment, expecting to be pounced upon, but my good fortune was with me. Much to my delight I stepped off as sprightly as if I had an important matter in the city.
Wandering farther and farther away from the dock, my hunger fairly over came me. So I went back and walked along the river determined to find food or make my last leap into the river for my freedom. Again I was disappointed. Resolutely, I set my face towards the city. As I came out on a side street from the dock, I came onto a large frame house standing all alone in a well-dressed yard of grass.
This house had a personality of friendliness, at least I thought it had at the time, which invited me to come in. I needed no second invitation to enter. Boldly I walked up to the back door, opened it, and entered without knocking.
I walked straight into paradise, for there on the stove was a pot of beans, spreading its beneficent fragrance on the empty air. Not exactly empty either, for there was an old Negro cook occupying her part of the air. Her presence played no part in my life just then. It was the odor of the bean soup that overwhelmed me. There was no fooling that cook. She took one short look at me. My heart sank low down, and I thought it was all over with me. But she was a wise and friendly soul who knew. Without either of us saying a word, she went to the cupboard, took out a good-sized bowl, put it in front of me, handed me a ladle, pointed at the pot of soup, and went out of the room.
The astounding fact remains that all the years that have passed have not completely blotted out the taste of that soup. I fairly oozed bean soup when I had finished [feeding] the gnawing of a demanding stomach. I waited for my friend to come back, but she never did. I am sure, however, that I heard the slats of the window shutter rattle as I walked slowly by them on my way [out]. With a full [stomach], life took on a new aspect as I left behind me that friendly house and the kindly old cook, and the fragrant bean pot.
There was a fascination about the river that I could not resist, because I knew that was my only avenue of escape from my bondage, which grew more and more hateful to me. As I sauntered along the dock, I came on a steamer which was being loaded with freight. Looking up, I saw a large sign: “For Memphis and Upriver Points.”
Out of a clear blue sky there came to me as clearly as though some one had spoken it aloud: “That’s your boat.” Furthermore it was to leave that night. I had not the least doubt from that time forward I would be safely aboard when she cast off on her trip north. That decision having been made, I went back to the city as contented as though I was to be a first-class passenger instead of a stowaway.
As soon as it was good and dark I went back to my steamer, the Magnolia.10 It was one thing, I discovered, to receive a message from the high heavens, but it was quite another thing to fulfill that message. When I came back to take my steamer, the dock was alive with stevedores loading the boat, besides the usual spectators who gather to see a steamer start on its way to places they would like to go. They were all there; so was I with all eyes to see what could be done for myself.
Great iron baskets swinging on iron rods, filled with resin, lighted up the scene, much to my confusion. I mention all these as being of a personal nature to me, because they were my active friends or enemies. If you have never seen one of these old-time fire baskets in operation, you have no idea how brightly a puddle of resin thrown on the fire will illuminate a wide area. The one compensation to me about my glowing enemy, the fire basket, was that [after] a brief moment of intense brilliance, then it began to fade away until it threatened to go out completely. It was a fitful and unsatisfactory light, but it was the best that could be had and held full sway on the river up to the time of the coming of electric lights—quite a space of time.
Standing in the shadow of a pile of cotton, I watched and watched and wondered and wondered how I was to get aboard my steamer. The blazing fire pots [were] at both ends of the gangplank on which the deck hands walked back and forth. There were cables that tied the steamer to the dock, but I was no tightrope walker, so they were dismissed. There apparently was no means left for one except [to] go up that broad gangplank. If that was my way, it was my way, was my fatalistic conclusion.
Just as I was about to take my fate in my own hands, my way opened up. It was in a narrow gangplank in the bow which the deckhands threw out when they tied up the forward cables. I saw how plainly it was lighted up when the fire box blazed and how much it was in the dark when it faded away. What further gladdened my heart was, there was an open hatch at the end of the board that led to the hull. My lucky star I felt was shining as I made my way toward the dock end of the slim and narrow board. When the light in the fire box faded out, I made a run for it, dropped into the hold, just as my enemy the fire box lighted even the hold where I was lying panting with fear. But then I was unseen, safely aboard my steamer bound north. This episode I believe gave me confidence in myself, in my ability to meet any and all situations which might arise to confront me.
Now that I was in the hold it was easy for me to disappear into the black void that surrounded me. The next thing was to find a safe hiding place, to which I might retire in case of a necessity. Then came my first surprise, for I found absolutely nothing in the hold except a few bales of cotton. It never occurred to me until it was forced upon me now that river steamers carried no cargo in their holds. As a matter of fact, the hull was merely a floating platform, on which a superstructure of deck and cabin were built. The cargo was carried openly on deck. At the time, this did not mean a thing to my enthusiastic, youthful soul.
Climbing on top of a bale of cotton, I went sound asleep through sheer exhaustion. Waking up and feeling the vibration of the boat, I felt happy indeed that I was on my way to freedom. A sniff of the bilgewater told me a fearful story. Making my way forward, I found the latch fastened down. It was so high overhead I could not reach it. I hastened back to the stern to find the aft latch fastened as well. I was a prisoner in the hold with nothing to eat or drink. The foul air and solid blackness did not help the situation. I went back to my cotton bale, sat on top of it, and had a good think.
Matters did not straighten themselves out to my liking. All I could see then was starvation ahead of me, because the latches would not be taken off until Memphis, which meant several days. However, I lay down and went to sleep. When I woke up, I was festered with thirst more than hunger. I tried to drink the bilgewater, but it made me deathly sick. Then I took to wandering aimlessly around in the darkness hoping to find something, I did not know what. Then I went to sleep on my friendly bale of cotton.
Waking moments were filled with anguish of thirst and hunger. The steamer stopped several times, taking on and putting off freight. At such times, the hold was perfectly quiet, so I felt if the worst came to worst I could pound on the hatch and be heard. My trouble was that the hull was so deep, I could not reach the latch.
My only chance was to roll my bale of cotton up near the hatch. By clambering on top of it I could hammer on the hatch with my fists. How much time I was at this task [I do not know], but after much exertion I finally succeeded in getting it almost to the hatch. By this time my thirst was almost unendurable. Weaving around and around in the darkness, I suddenly felt a drop of moisture strike my hand. I stopped [and] held my breath, lest the least movement of mine would take me away from this precious gift. I waited when again there came that slow drop. Holding my hand steady, I moved my body until it had taken the position of my hand, then stood with my mouth wide open to receive that welcome drop. It never came again.