Born in Portland, Maine, and raised in Boston, the African American novelist and editor Pauline E. Hopkins (1859–1930) is best known for her four novels published at the turn of the twentieth century: Contending Forces (1900), Hagar’s Daughter (1901), Winona (1902), and Of One Blood (1902). All except Contending Forces were serialized in the Colored American Magazine, where she worked as literary editor. In 1901 she began publishing in the magazine a series of sketches that she called “Heroes and Heroines in Black.” Her fictionalized account of the Creole rebellion, “A Dash for Liberty,” appeared in the August 1901 issue of the Colored American Magazine, the source of the text below. At the time of its publication, Hopkins gave the story a subtitle, “Founded on an article written by Col. T. W. Higginson, for the Atlantic Monthly, June 1861,” but the noted editor of the Atlantic Monthly never wrote on Madison Washington. His June 1861 essay was on the black conspirator Denmark Vesey, who allegedly plotted to burn Charleston, South Carolina, to the ground in an effort to liberate the city’s black slaves. Perhaps the essay inspired Hopkins to consider Madison Washington in the tradition of Vesey, as William Wells Brown did at the end of his chapter on the Creole rebellion in The Negro in the American Rebellion. Hopkins admired Douglass and Brown, but it is unclear whether she had read Douglass’s The Heroic Slave (she seems more familiar with Brown’s accounts in The Black Man and The Negro in the American Rebellion). More than other authors writing on the Creole, she presents Washington’s wife as actively engaged in the rebellion. Hopkins lost her job at the Colored American Magazine in 1904 when Booker T. Washington gained control of the magazine and fired those challenging his accommodationist approach to race relations. Hopkins continued to work in journalism, and in subsequent years cofounded her own publishing house and magazine, both of which were short-lived, while working as a stenographer at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
So, Madison, you are bound to try it?”
“Yes, sir,” was the respectful reply.
There was silence between the two men for a space, and Mr. Dickson drove his horse to the end of the furrow he was making and returned slowly to the starting point, and the sombre figure awaiting him.
“Do I not pay you enough, and treat you well?” asked the farmer as he halted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why not stay here and let well enough alone?”
“Liberty is worth nothing to me while my wife is a slave.”
“We will manage to get her to you in a year or two.”
The man smiled and sadly shook his head. “A year or two would mean forever, situated as we are, Mr. Dickson. It is hard for you to understand; you white men are all alike where you are called upon to judge a Negro’s heart,” he continued bitterly. “Imagine yourself in my place; how would you feel? The relentless heel of oppression in the States will have ground my rights as a husband into the dust, and have driven Susan to despair in that time. A white man may take up arms to defend a bit of property; but a black man has no right to his wife, his liberty or his life against his master! This makes me low-spirited, Mr. Dickson, and I have determined to return to Virginia for my wife. My feelings are centred in the idea of liberty,” and as he spoke he stretched his arms toward the deep blue of the Canadian sky in a magnificent gesture. Then with a deep-drawn breath that inflated his mighty chest, he repeated the word: “Liberty! I think of it by day and dream of it by night; and I shall only taste it in all its sweetness when Susan shares it with me.”
Madison was an unmixed African, of grand physique, and one of the handsomest of his race. His dignified, calm and unaffected bearing marked him as a leader among his fellows. His features bore the stamp of genius. His firm step and piercing eye attracted the attention of all who met him. He had arrived in Canada along with many other fugitives during the year 1840, and being a strong, able-bodied man, and a willing worker, had sought and obtained employment on Mr. Dickson’s farm.
After Madison’s words, Mr. Dickson stood for some time in meditative silence.
“Madison,” he said at length, “there’s desperate blood in your veins, and if you get back there and are captured, you’ll do desperate deeds.”
“Well, put yourself in my place: I shall be there single-handed. I have a wife whom I love, and whom I will protect. I hate slavery, I hate the laws that make my country a nursery for it. Must I be denied the right of aggressive defense against those who would overpower and crush me by superior force?”
“I understand you fully, Madison; it is not your defense but your rashness that I fear. Promise me that you will be discreet, and not begin an attack.” Madison hesitated. Such a promise seemed to him like surrendering a part of those individual rights for which he panted. Mr. Dickson waited. Presently the Negro said significantly: “I promise not to be indiscreet.”
There were tears in the eyes of the kind-hearted farmer as he pressed Madison’s hand.
“God speed and keep you and the wife you love; may she prove worthy.”
In a few days, Madison received the wages due him, and armed with tiny saws and files to cut a way to liberty, if captured, turned his face toward the South.
It was late in the fall of 1840 when Madison found himself again at home in the fair Virginia State. The land was blossoming into ripe maturity, and the smiling fields lay waiting for the harvester.
The fugitive, unable to travel in the open day, had hidden himself for three weeks in the shadow of the friendly forest near his old home, filled with hope and fear, unable to obtain any information about the wife he hoped to rescue from slavery. After weary days and nights, he had reached the most perilous part of his mission. Tonight there would be no moon and the clouds threatened a storm; to his listening ears the rising wind bore the sound of laughter and singing. He drew back into the deepest shadow. The words came distinctly to his ears as the singers neared his hiding place.
“All dem purty gals will be dar,
Shuck dat corn before you eat.
Dey will fix it fer us rare,
Shuck dat corn before you eat.
I know dat supper will be big,
Shuck dat corn before you eat.
I think I smell a fine roast pig,
Shuck dat corn before you eat.
Stuff dat coon an’ bake him down,
I spec some niggers dar from town.
Shuck dat corn before you eat.
Please cook dat turkey nice an’ brown.
By de side of dat turkey I’ll be foun,’
Shuck dat corn before you eat.”1
“Don’t talk about dat turkey; he’ll be gone before we git dar.”
“He’s talkin,’ ain’t he?”
“Las’ time I shucked corn, turkey was de toughes’ meat I eat fer many a day; you’s got to have teef sharp lak a saw to eat it.”
“S’pose you ain’t got no teef, den what you gwine ter do?”
“Why ef you ain’t got no teef you muss gum it!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
Madison glided in and out among the trees, listening until he was sure that it was a gang going to a corn-shucking, and he resolved to join it, and get, if possible some news of Susan. He came out upon the highway, and as the company reached his hiding place, he fell into the ranks and joined in the singing. The darkness hid his identity from the company while he learned from their conversation the important events of the day.
On they marched by the light of weird, flaring pine knots, singing their merry cadences, in which the noble minor strains habitual to Negro music, sounded the depths of sadness, glancing off in majestic harmony, that touched the very gates of paradise in suppliant prayer.
It was close to midnight; the stars had disappeared and a steady rain was falling when, by a circuitous route, Madison reached the mansion where he had learned that his wife was still living. There were lights in the windows. Mirth at the great house kept company with mirth at the quarters.
The fugitive stole noiselessly under the fragrant magnolia trees and paused, asking himself what he should do next. As he stood there he heard the hoof-beats of the mounted patrol, far in the distance, die into silence. Cautiously he drew near the house and crept around to the rear of the building directly beneath the window of his wife’s sleeping closet. He swung himself up and tried it; it yielded to his touch. Softly he raised the sash, and softly he crept into the room. His foot struck against an object and swept it to the floor. It fell with a loud crash. In an instant the door opened. There was a rush of feet, and Madison stood at bay. The house was aroused; lights were brought.
“I knowed ‘twas him!” cried the overseer in triumph. “I heern him a-gettin’ in the window, but I kept dark till he knocked my gun down; then I grabbed him! I knowed this room’d trap him ef we was patient about it.”
Madison shook his captor off and backed against the wall. His grasp tightened on the club in his hand; his nerves were like steel, his eyes flashed fire.
“Don’t kill him,” shouted Judge Johnson, as the overseer’s pistol gleamed in the light. “Five hundred dollars for him alive!”
With a crash, Madison’s club descended on the head of the nearest man; again, and yet again, he whirled it around, doing frightful execution each time it fell. Three of the men who had responded to the overseer’s cry for help were on the ground, and he himself was sore from many wounds before, weakened by loss of blood, Madison finally succumbed.
The brig “Creole” lay at the Richmond dock taking on her cargo of tobacco, hemp, flax and slaves. The sky was cloudless, and the blue waters rippled but slightly under the faint breeze. There was on board the confusion incident to departure. In the hold and on deck men were hurrying to and fro, busy and excited, making the final preparations for the voyage. The slaves came aboard in two gangs: first the men, chained like cattle, were marched to their quarters in the hold; then came the women to whom more freedom was allowed.
In spite of the blue sky and the bright sunlight that silvered the water the scene was indescribably depressing and sad. The procession of gloomy-faced men and weeping women seemed to be descending into a living grave.
The captain and the first mate were standing together at the head of the gangway as the women stepped aboard. Most were very plain and bore the marks of servitude, a few were neat and attractive in appearances; but one was a woman whose great beauty immediately attracted attention; she was an octoroon.2 It was a tradition that her grandfather had served in the Revolutionary War, as well as in both Houses of Congress. That was nothing, however, at a time when the blood of the proudest F. F. V.’s3 was freely mingled with that of the African slaves on their plantations. Who wonders that Virginia has produced great men of color from among the exbondmen, or, that illustrious black men proudly point to Virginia as a birthplace? Posterity rises to the plane that their ancestors bequeath, and the most refined, the wealthiest and the most intellectual whites of that proud State have not hesitated to amalgamate with the Negro.
“What a beauty!” exclaimed the captain as the line of women paused a moment opposite him.
“Yes,” said the overseer in charge of the gang. “She’s as fine a piece of flesh as I have had in trade for many a day.”
“What’s the price?” demanded the captain.
“Oh, way up. Two or three thousand. She’s a lady’s maid, well-educated, and can sing and dance. We’ll get it in New Orleans. Like to buy?”
“You don’t suit my pile,”4 was the reply, as his eyes followed the retreating form of the handsome octoroon. “Give her a cabin to herself; she ought not to herd with the rest,” he continued, turning to the mate.
He turned with a meaning laugh to execute the order.
The “Creole” proceeded slowly on her way towards New Orleans. In the men’s cabin, Madison Monroe5 lay chained to the floor and heavily ironed. But from the first moment on board ship he had been busily engaged in selecting men who could be trusted in the dash for liberty that he was determined to make. The miniature files and saws which he still wore concealed in his clothing were faithfully used in the darkness of night. The man was at peace, although he had caught no glimpse of the dearly loved Susan. When the body suffers greatly, the strain upon the heart becomes less tense, and a welcome calmness had stolen over the prisoner’s soul.
On the ninth day out the brig encountered a rough sea, and most of the slaves were sick, and therefore not watched with very great vigilance. This was the time for action, and it was planned that they should rise that night. Night came on; the first watch was summoned; the wind was blowing high. Along the narrow passageway that separated the men’s quarters from the women’s, a man was creeping.
The octoroon lay upon the floor of her cabin, apparently sleeping, when a shadow darkened the door, and the captain stepped into the room, casting bold glances at the reclining figure. Profound silence reigned. One might have fancied one’s self on a deserted vessel, but for the sound of an occasional footstep on the deck above, and the murmur of voices in the opposite hold.
She lay stretched at full length with her head resting upon her arm, a position that displayed to the best advantage the perfect symmetry of her superb figure; the dim light of a lantern played upon the long black ringlets, finely-chiselled mouth and well-rounded chin, upon the marbled skin veined by her master’s blood,—representative of two races, to which did she belong?
For a moment the man gazed at her in silence; then casting a glance around him, he dropped upon one knee and kissed the sleeping woman full upon the mouth.
With a shriek the startled sleeper sprang to her feet. The woman’s heart stood still with horror; she recognized the intruder as she dashed his face aside with both hands.
“None of that, my beauty,” growled the man, as he reeled back with an oath, and then flung himself forward and threw his arm about her slender waist. “Why did you think you had a private cabin, and all the delicacies of the season? Not to behave like a young catamount,6 I warrant you.”
The passion of terror and desperation lent the girl such strength that the man was forced to relax his hold slightly. Quick as a flash, she struck him a stinging blow across the eyes, and as he staggered back, she sprang out of the doorway, making for the deck with the evident intention of going overboard.
“God have mercy!” broke from her lips as she passed the men’s cabin, closely followed by the captain.
“Hold on, girl; we’ll protect you!” shouted Madison, and he stooped, seized the heavy padlock which fastened the iron ring that encircled his ankle to the iron bar, and stiffening the muscles, wrenched the fastening apart, and hurled it with all his force straight at the captain’s head.
His aim was correct. The padlock hit the captain not far from the left temple. The blow stunned him. In a moment Madison was upon him and had seized his weapons, another moment served to handcuff the unconscious man.
“If the fire of Heaven were in my hands, I would throw it at these cowardly whites. Follow me: it is liberty or death!”7 he shouted as he rushed for the quarter-deck. Eighteen others followed him, all of whom seized whatever they could wield as weapons.
The crew were all on deck; the three passengers were seated on the companion smoking. The appearance of the slaves all at once completely surprised the whites.
So swift were Madison’s movements that at first the officers made no attempt to use their weapons; but this was only for an instant. One of the passengers drew his pistol, fired, and killed one of the blacks. The next moment he lay dead upon the deck from a blow with a piece of a capstan bar in Madison’s hand. The fight then became general, passengers and crew taking part.
The first and second mates were stretched out upon the deck with a single blow each. The sailors ran up the rigging for safety, and in short time Madison was master of the “Creole.”
After his accomplices had covered the slaver’s deck, the intrepid leader forbade the shedding of more blood. The sailors came down to the deck, and their wounds were dressed. All the prisoners were heavily ironed and well guarded except the mate, who was to navigate the vessel; with a musket doubly charged pointed at his breast, he was made to swear to take the brig into a British port.
By one splendid and heroic stroke, the daring Madison had not only gained his own liberty, but that of one hundred and thirty-four others.
The next morning all the slaves who were still fettered, were released, and the cook was ordered to prepare the best breakfast that the stores would permit; this was to be a fête in honor of the success of the revolt and as a surprise to the females, whom the men had not yet seen.
As the women filed into the captain’s cabin, where the meal was served, weeping, singing and shouting over their deliverance, the beautiful octoroon with one wild, half-frantic cry of joy sprang towards the gallant leader.
“Madison!”
“My God! Susan! My wife!”
She was locked to his breast; she clung to him convulsively. Unnerved at last by the revulsion to more than relief and ecstacy, she broke into wild sobs, while the astonished company closed around them with loud hurrahs.
Madison’s cup of joy was filled to the brim. He clasped her to him in silence, and humbly thanked Heaven for its blessing and mercy.
The next morning the “Creole” landed at Nassau, New Providence, where the slaves were offered protection and hospitality.
Every act of oppression is a weapon for the oppressed. Right is a dangerous instrument; woe to us if our enemy wields it.