[The following is an excerpt from Solomon Northup’s memoir, 12 Years a Slave. Solomon Northup was a free man living in the Northern states, who was kidnapped by black-market slave traders and illegally sold in the deep south as a “runaway slave from Georgia,” named Platt. After 12 years in captivity, he was eventually freed after getting word out to friends and acquaintances in the North, about his whereabouts and condition. Here, Solomon had woken up in a slave pen in Washington DC and is just now realizing the nature of his imprisonment.]
The pain in my head had subsided in a measure, but I was very faint and weak. I was sitting upon a low bench, made of rough boards, and without coat or hat. I was hand-cuffed. Around my ankles also were a pair of heavy fetters. One end of a chain was fastened to a large ring in the floor, the other to the fetters on my ankles. I tried in vain to stand upon my feet. Waking from such a painful trance, it was some time before I could collect my thoughts. Where was I? What was the meaning of these chains? Where were Brown and Hamilton? What had I done to deserve imprisonment in such a dungeon? I could not comprehend. There was a blank of some indefinite period, preceding my awakening in that lonely place, the events of which the utmost stretch of memory was unable to recall. I listened intently for some sign or sound of life, but nothing broke the oppressive silence, save the clinking of my chains, whenever I chose to move.
I spoke aloud, but the sound of my voice startled me. I felt of my pockets, so far as the fetters would allow – enough, indeed, to ascertain that I had not only been robbed of property, but that my money and free papers were also gone! Then did the idea begin to break upon my mind, at first dim and confused, that I had been kidnapped. But that I thought was incredible. There must have been some misapprehension – some unfortunate mistake. It could not be that a free citizen of New-York, who had wronged no man, nor violated any law, should be dealt with thus inhumanly. The more I contemplated my situation, however, the more I became confirmed in my suspicions. It was a desolate thought, indeed. I felt there was no trust or mercy in unfeeling man; and commending myself to the God of the oppressed, bowed my head upon my fettered hands, and wept most bitterly.
Source:
Northup, Solomon. “Chapter 2.” Twelve Years a Slave. Graymalkin Media, 2014. 16-7. Print.
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