Some three hours elapsed， during which time Iremained seated on the low bench， absorbed in painfulmeditations. At length I heard the crowing of a cock， andsoon a distant rumbling sound， as of carriages hurryingthrough the streets， came to my ears， and I knew that itwas day. No ray of light， however， penetrated my prison.
Finally， I heard footsteps immediately overhead， as ofsome one walking to and fro. It occurred to me then thatI must be in an underground apartment， and the damp，mouldy odors of the place confirmed the supposition.
The noise above continued for at least an hour， when， atlast， I heard footsteps approaching from without. A keyrattled in the lock—a strong door swung back upon itshinges， admitting a flood of light， and two men enteredand stood before me. One of them was a large， powerfulman， forty years of age， perhaps， with dark， chestnutcoloredhair， slightly interspersed with gray. His face wasfull， his complexion flush， his features grossly coarse，expressive of nothing but cruelty and cunning. He wasabout five feet ten inches high， of full habit， and， withoutprejudice， I must be allowed to say， was a man whosewhole appearance was sinister and repugnant. His namewas James H. Burch， as I learned afterwards—a wellknown slave-dealer in Washington； and then， or latelyconnected in business， as a partner， with TheophilusFreeman， of New-Orleans. The person who accompaniedhim was a simple lackey， named Ebenezer Radburn， whoacted merely in the capacity of turnkey. Both of thesemen still live in Washington， or did， at the time of myreturn through that city from slavery in January last.
The light admitted through the open door enabled meto observe the room in which I was confined. It was abouttwelve feet square—the walls of solid masonry. The floorwas of heavy plank. There was one small window， crossedwith great iron bars， with an outside shutter， securelyfastened.
An iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell， or vault，wholly destitute of windows， or any means of admittinglight. The furniture of the room in which I was， consistedof the wooden bench on which I sat， an old-fashioned，dirty box stove， and besides these， in either cell， there wasneither bed， nor blanket， nor any other thing whatever.
The door， through which Burch and Radburn entered，led through a small passage， up a flight of steps into ayard， surrounded by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high，immediately in rear of a building of the same width asitself. The yard extended rearward from the house aboutthirty feet. In one part of the wall there was a stronglyironed door， opening into a narrow， covered passage，leading along one side of the house into the street. Thedoom of the colored man， upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed， was sealed. The topof the wall supported one end of a roof， which ascendedinwards， forming a kind of open shed. Underneath theroof there was a crazy loft all round， where slaves， if sodisposed， might sleep at night， or in inclement weatherseek shelter from the storm. It was like a farmer’sbarnyard in most respects， save it was so constructed thatthe outside world could never see the human cattle thatwere herded there.
The building to which the yard was attached， wastwo stories high， fronting on one of the public streets ofWashington. Its outside presented only the appearance ofa quiet private residence. A stranger looking at it， wouldnever have dreamed of its execrable uses. Strange as itmay seem， within plain sight of this same house， lookingdown from its commanding height upon it， was theCapitol. The voices of patriotic representatives boastingof freedom and equality， and the rattling of the poorslave’s chains， almost commingled. A slave pen within thevery shadow of the Capitol！
Such is a correct deion as it was in 1841， ofWilliams’ slave pen in Washington， in one of the cellarsof which I found myself so unaccountably confined.
“Well， my boy， how do you feel now？” said Burch，as he entered through the open door. I replied that Iwas sick， and inquired the cause of my imprisonment.
He answered that I was his slave— that he had boughtme， and that he was about to send me to New-Orleans.
I asserted， aloud and boldly， that I was a free man—aresident of Saratoga， where I had a wife and children，who were also free， and that my name was Northup.
I complained bitterly of the strange treatment I hadreceived， and threatened， upon my liberation， to havesatisfaction for the wrong. He denied that I was free，and with an emphatic oath， declared that I came fromGeorgia. Again and again I asserted I was no man’s slave，and insisted upon his taking off my chains at once. Heendeavored to hush me， as if he feared my voice would beoverheard. But I would not be silent， and denounced theauthors of my imprisonment， whoever they might be， asunmitigated villains. Finding he could not quiet me， heflew into a towering passion. With blasphemous oaths， hecalled me a black liar， a runaway from Georgia， and everyother profane and vulgar epithet that the most indecentfancy could conceive.
During this time Radburn was standing silently by.
His business was， to oversee this human， or ratherinhuman stable， receiving slaves， feeding and whippingthem， at the rate of two shillings a head per day. Turningto him， Burch ordered the paddle and cat-o’-ninetails tobe brought in. He disappeared， and in a few momentsreturned with these instruments of torture. The paddle，as it is termed in slave-beating parlance， or at least theone with which I first became acquainted， and of whichI now speak， was a piece of hard-wood board， eighteenor twenty inches long， moulded to the shape of an old027fashioned pudding stick， or ordinary oar. The flattenedportion， which was about the size in circumference of twoopen hands， was bored with a small auger in numerousplaces. The cat was a large rope of many strands— thestrands unraveled， and a knot tied at the extremity of each.
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