“Since I am now the owner of everything that was my husband’s—unless a judge can tell me otherwise—you also belong to me, Quash. And whatever my husband may have said, since you have disobeyed me, I have decided to sell you. This gentleman happened to be in the market today, and he has bought you. You will go with him at once.”

I was so shocked I couldn’t speak a word. I must have looked round, as though I was wanting to escape.

“I have two men with me,” the planter said sharply. “Don’t try any of that.”

I still couldn’t believe the Mistress would do such a thing to me.

“Mistress,” I cried, “after all these years …”

But she just turned her head away.

“That’s it. Bring him now,” the planter called out; and two men came into the room. One was about my size, but I could tell he was very strong. The other was a giant of a man.

“I got to get my things,” I mumbled.

“Hurry,” said the planter. “Go with him,” he told the two men.

So I collected my possessions, including my little store of money that I’d always hidden away safe. And I was afraid they would take that, but they didn’t. I was still in a daze as they led me out to a cart and drove me away.

The planter had a farm about ten miles north of Manhattan. The building was a Dutch farmhouse with a hip roof. But the English planter had added a wide covered veranda all around it. He had half a dozen slaves, who were kept in a low wooden shed near the cow pen.

When we arrived, the planter said I should take my shirt off, so he could inspect me; and he did so. “Well,” he said, “you ain’t young, but you look strong enough. I dare say we shall get some years of work out of you.” They were leading me toward the slave shed when he said: “Stop.” There was a big post in the ground just there, and suddenly his two men took my arms and put my wrists in a pair of manacles hanging in chains from the top of the post.

“Now then, nigger,” the planter said to me. “Your mistress tells me that you stole from her and that you tried to run off. Well, that kind of thing won’t be allowed here, you understand?” And he nodded to the shorter man, who was the foreman. And the foreman went into the house through the veranda, and he came out with a terrible-looking whip. “So now you are going to learn some good behavior,” said the planter. And I was looking around, unable to believe this was happening. “Turn your face back,” the planter said.

And then the foreman gave me the first lash.

I had never been struck with a whip before. That only time the Boss had given me a whipping, when I was a boy, had been with his belt. But the whip is nothing like that at all.