The Charlotte Herald

THE CHARLOTTE HERALD

As a commentator of this fine paper, I feel compelled by the urging of
the Almighty, who has appealed to my conscience to set forth a
denunciation of my own previous assertions, of the inferior attributes
of the African race and justification of the institution of
slavery.
I had with zeal equal to Saul, set out to advance the notion, that all
Negroes were inherently deficient in the qualities needed to progress
to the degree of civilized refinement, as our own race.
But I had written with ignorance and an obdurate mind-set; my
contention being that they are by their lowly existence, fully
subordinate to the white race; that Negroes are endowed with the
physical qualities allowing them to bear up under heavy burdens, and to
toil under the sun for long hours; alleviating our enterprising and
fair skinned brother unnecessary labor.
I propounded this fallacious theory, hoping your good senses would not
be carried away with pity, heralded by the vociferous abolitionist
lamenting on the evils of slavery.
I believed then, that abolitionists were enemies to the progression of
our fledgling nation, by denouncing our inherent right to own Negro
slaves.
Citizens and friends, allow me penance by confessing to you this tragic
mistake. I erred terribly in my heart and soul, and it was by my very
hand that penned such rubbish, defiling the very paper beholding its
words. I bear much shame upon my confession to you, but it was truth
revealed to me, exposing my shame. For that end, I am deeply
grateful.
May I say to you in this letter, as my heart guides me to speak the
truth; that slavery of any human being is unconscionable and abominable
to God.
Have you forgotten how our Lord heard the cries of the ancient Hebrews
while in bondage and rescued them, leaving the wake of His wrath upon
the Egyptians? Have we forgotten what the good book say's? "And the
Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his
nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul."
Now you may contend that the scripture is not relevant concerning the
black man. Perhaps you believe, as I had once, that they were hatched
from the bowels of the earth; from some convulsing, volcanic eruption
of black ash, then transmogrified into lowly beings by the prince of
darkness himself. What nonsense!
Imagine if you will-the forced and inhumane subjugation of any created
being; One wrought from the same hands that wrought you from the dust
of the earth. Were there particles of dust set aside for the fair hared
and comely Caucasian, and another piled aside for the beastly and
ape-like black man? Would God in his purity and justice, cheat the
scales by electing what is to succeed and what is to fail.
Nay my friends, our Lord would never compromise His own perfect nature
by creating a race of people just for the entertainment of watching
them suffer and toil at the hands of another race; the one deemed
superior.
Imagine again I pray; the forced enslavement of those who hearts beat
with the breath of God, their limbs weary and stretched beyond
endurance and bent from various tortures inflicted by their slave
masters, their flesh ripped and seared from the lash, only to be
toiling again that same evening in the fields, or their hearts breaking
with grief, as their young children are torn from them to be sold upon
the auction block. Yet heaped upon all those evils, there's no relief
from their labors, while even the ox is spelled for a time to renew his
strength, before being set again to the plow.
With these thoughts in mind, allow me through your patience to describe
to you my recent experience, which changed my life forever. An
experience that set in motion my undying efforts to campaign for
manumission of the Negro slave. This is my story:

Being travel weary after two days on horseback, I was met head-on by a
furious tempest. The rain sodden trail we followed became a wash, and I
meandered hopelessly trying to get my bearings, only to be met by
barriers of thicket at every turn.
A continuous cannonade of thunder reverberated around me sending dread
through my veins. I was afraid I would perish under the full weight of
the crushing storm or be washed away with it's furious downpour.
Considering my precarious state, I regretted that I was remiss in
leaving an itinerary with anybody here in Charlotte. My mind was
hastily set in surprising my good friend with a visit to his
home.
The aforementioned friend, Mr. W-would be oblivious of my intentions,
and was no doubt at that moment ensconced within his sprawling
plantation, warming his prodigious backside beside the cozy hearth,
sipping a strong glass of apricot brandy.
Meanwhile, the situation worsened when a bolt of lightning struck not
twenty feet from me, causing my horse to dash in panic through the
black woods. While trying to gain some measure of control, I pulled
back hard on the reigns, while at the same instant a tree branch
knocked me squarely of my horse.
For some time I laid on the rain drenched ground unable to move or
think clearly. I was sure my leg was broken and my head felt like a
squashed melon. Rivulets of blood washed over my eyes as the rain
continued its torrent.
I began to despair for my life, (for no man should die alone and in
such a deplorable condition) and hoped that God had considered a
mansion for the likes of me.
It was then that a dark figure appeared from nowhere, towering over me.
Was this a ministering angel I wondered, or was this figure of a more
sinister portent? In my condition, I was unable to piece together even
the simplest realities. Yet I was cognizant of being lifted by two
strong arms, and as human portage, was carried along with powerful
strides, just as my father had carried me when I was a child.
Lightning continued to bombard the night sky, and through the
brilliance I spied the chiseled face of a black man. He spoke something
encouraging to me by its tone, but the words were drowned out by the
thunder.
I awoke later with sobering alarm. Still somewhat cloudy from a
concussion, I wondered if I had indeed been turned back from the Pearly
Gates. That's when I saw him; tall and sinewy, naked to the waist and
barefoot, wearing dirty pantaloons; muddied and rolled up to his knees.
He was feeding a small fire with wet pine branches, emitting cacophonic
snapping, like the harsh snapping of a horsewhip, while a small black
iron kettle, hung from a hook above, seethed with steam.
The room was small and Spartan, with dirt floors quickly becoming mired
with muck as rain leaked from the roof. I noticed there were no beds,
except for the one I slept on. The mattress was teeming with vermin,
and stuffed with cornhusks and some unwashed rags.
The door opened and a short wiry black woman and a frail looking girl
walked in, each carrying a small bundle of wet branches. The woman saw
that I was awake, and dropping the sticks by the fire, grabbed a damp
rag and began to gently rub some of the blood off my face.
"Lawdy, Lawdy," she said, "ain't never seen no white man wit so much
bleedin'. Seen plenty a Negroes bleedin' after a good whuppin', but it
look like you done went and tried to milk a pregnit coon. Good thing my
man Julius was lookin' for some sticks fo burnin', or you'd still be
lyin' in dem awful woods."
"Where am I?" I asked.
"You in our place. I'm Matillda and dats Julius my husband. We slaves
to Massa Beefish. This here's his cotton plantation. His big house is
up the road a spelt."
"Can you fetch him?" I asked.
"No sir, ain't nobody messin' wit da storm dis nasty. All da roads be
flooded and ain't no good for nutin. Least till mornin', den we'll
see."
Julius brought over some hot bitter tea and handed it to me without a
word.
"I want to thank you Julius, for saving my life," I said.
Julius just shrugged his lean shoulders, smiled and said, "Can't just
let a man ta die, it just ain't a Christian thing ta do; white or
otherwise.
Julius turned and walked back to the fire and I saw his back clearly
for the first time. It was seamed with scars from the back of his neck
and reached down beneath his belt. I realized he had been whipped on
more than one occasion and I inquired as to the extent of his
crimes.
After a little recollection, he spoke. "I was whupped first time when I
was nine cause I spilt a bucket of water on Sampson's boots. He da
slave driver. That was da worst one cause I was just gettin' done wit
da fever and hat da chill in my bones real bad. Second time was when I
got caught runnin' away. Dem hounds found me hidin' in a tool shed near
Marse Poker's tobacca farm. Dem slave hunters hitched me to a tree and
whupped me while dem hounds of theirs tore at my legs. I thought I was
gonna die den fer sure. But da driver just laugh and say I'm a strong
buck and dat it would take more dan da whip and a few hounds to kill O'
Julius. I guess dat slave driver was right, cause I still here. Da last
time I was whupped was when I stole a ham from da Massa's kitchen. My
family was so hungry we was eaten' bark off da trees, dats when knew I
hat to git some meat. Dat slave driver Sampson was makin' his rounds
when he smelt it cookin' in our shack, and hat me dragged outside. He
made me dig a deep grave fo da ham, and after burin it, whupped me
naked at da stock wit my hands and feets tied together through da
holes. He also made my wife destroy da li'l patch where we tried to
grow a few taters and some corn. I don't know how we made it through
dat spell, but Gawd Almighty seen it fittin' to let us go on. Sampson
was kilt later when a copperhead bit him, and I knows dat ole slave
driver Sampson is burnin' in hell today, and it pleasures me to know
it."
I remarked to Julius that I would need to see a doctor as soon as
possible. My head was reeling and the pain in my leg was
excruciating.
"Yassuh, soon as da storm let up, I'll go fetch Doctor Waters; he live
yonder near da widow Johnson's place. Some time he fix up da Negro
chillen when they come down wit da chills. He comes around wit his bag
and sets to fixin' da workers hands. They hands crack open and bleed
from pickin' cotton when frost sets on da bolls. It gets mighty cold
when da freeze hits. Yassuh, he a good man, dat Doctor Waters."
Fearing that I might not live to see tomorrow, I implored Julius once
more. "Julius, I need a doctor tonight. I'm in awful shape. If it's all
possible, won't you please try and reach him."
Julius looked long at his wife and child, then back at me.
Slowly he nodded his head. "Suppose I can. The Lawd's been good to me
dis far. I'll git as soon as I can fetch some mo sticks fo da fire.
Meanwhile, Matilda will fetch you some pickled pork and corn bread.
Some food might make yous better.
Julius, half-naked and barefoot, went out into the raging storm.
Returning shortly, he dropped the sticks into a pile near the fire,
kissed his wife and child goodbye, and left for Doctor Waters.

The child, I found out from her mother, was named Deborah. She was
barely seven years old and put to the fields with the rest of the
family hauling buckets of water and performing other menial chores. She
was a fearful child and said not a word while I lay there immobile. I
asked Matilda why she was so quiet and her answer shocked me.
"She was caught eatin' a tater on the sly while we was in da fields
workin' one day. She slipped a tater into da ashes, and when she ran to
da fire to take it out and eat it, da slave driver seared her tongue
wit a hot poker from da ashes. She can't speak a lick no mo.
I reached out to Deborah and gently held her skinny little hand in
mind. She was so puny, I imagine a strong gale could blow her all the
way to Canada. I managed to evoke a cautious smile from her, for I'm
sure no white man ever gave her the scantiest affection.
I can't describe the pity I felt for that poor little soul. Even with
my previous disposition towards slavery, my heart broke for this
pitiful family. Where at one time they were no more a fixture to me
than a dung pile or a hitching post-I now saw them as living breathing
beings; endowed with a heart, soul, mind and spirit.
It was the frail, weak hand of Deborah that burned through my bigoted
heart; bigotry fanned by years of mindless propaganda and specious
arguments for this flawed institution of slavery.
With Deborah's hand lying limp in mine, I finally understood by her
touch, the goodness of God, and the retched evils of man. What tragedy
man has inflicted on this poor child and her family-upon this whole
race of people. I knew then that I had to rectify my error. I knew in
my heart, from her touch, that my life would never be the same.

Later that evening as Matillda tended to my wounds, the cabin door flew
open and there stood two rugged slave hunters with Julius in tow,
bloodied and battered, with a noose around his neck.
Surprised at the sight of me prostrate in a slave's quarters, the two
believed they stumbled onto a compromising moment between Matillda and
I.
"My God! What did you do to him?" I asked.
One of the hunters explained, "We caught your nigga trying to escape.
Found him trying to break into Doctor Waters home. Good thing we were
out huntin' for that other nigga who violated Missus Hunsted, or we'd
have never caught this buck of yours. Gave him one heck of a whippin'.
Don't think he'll be runnin' away for some time."
"You fools! I sent him for the doctor to come to my aid. I was in an
accident and he brought me here, probably saving my life."
The retched slave hunters, unfazed at my outburst, dropped Julius hard
onto the dirt floor. After roughly removing the rope from around
Julius's neck, one of the hunters remarked, "Well, just the same sir,
this nigga shouldn't be out and about without legal papers. Ain't our
fault we took him for a runaway. Hope there ain't no hard feelins'."
Then taking a conciliatory turn, they said they'd go get Doctor Waters
out of bed and escort him to me personally.
After they left, Matillda washed and mended her husband's open
wounds.
It was incredible to fathom the pain and suffering this good man and
his family had suffered. Julius, stalwart and proud, but gentle as a
lamb; Matillda, a strong and loyal companion, yet resigned to her lot
as a perpetual slave, and Deborah, a terrorized child who's love and
trust of humanity was buried forever by the barbarous whim of a slave
driver.

That my friends, is where the story ends, but not my efforts to rid
this nation of human bondage. I began my mission by securing the
freedom of Julius, Matillda, and Deborah. They are now "freemen" living
in a free state. I wish I could free the entire slave population, but I
am also a realist. I am aware that the prevalent attitude can only be
reconciled from a changed heart-from which I have testified; or worse,
wrath from the fruit of immorality unchecked. God has to hear their
cries, and when His ears break for want of justice, then let every man
stand and give an account.
As for me, whether it is with the condemning rhetoric of damnation, or
with the martyred blood of my very life, I shall forever fight to see
the slave unshackled from the tyranny of the slave master.

Thomas Redding
The Charlotte Herald
March 2, 1859