London
John Holmes
My name in slavery was John Clopton. I belonged originally in Hanover Co., Va. My treatment was so bad, I hate to say any thing about it. Slaves were not allowed to open a book where I came from: they were allowed to go to meeting, if the master gave them a pass—some have that privilege, and some do not. My owners never gave me a hat in the world, nor hardly any clothes. When I got big enough, I worked nights to get me a hat and some clothes. One neighbor of ours was worse than the evil one wanted him to be. He used to make a married man get out of his bed in the morning and he would go and get into it. What I have seen, I seldom say any thing about, because people would not believe it,—they would not believe people could be so hard-hearted. They whipped so much, I could n’t tell any particular reason for it.
The horn would sound at the time the cocks crowed. Then they all got up. When it blowed the second time all had to start for the field: if any remained after this, the overseer would go in and whip them. Daylight never caught us in the house. Then the overseer would get on his horse and ride to the field; and if any one came in after him, he would apply the lash—perhaps fifty, perhaps a hundred. I have seen the women jump for the field with their shoes and stockings in their hands, and a petticoat wrapped over their shoulders, to dress in the field the best way they could. The head magistrate of that county (L—J—) was about the hardest of any of ’em. When I came away, one of his men had maggots in his back. His brother E—was not so hard,—he was killed in a duel. Another brother was very hard toward his wife, his slaves, and everybody else. His name was B—J—. He was so bad he could n’t live any longer—he killed himself by drinking a quart of brandy from a case-bottle—a case-bottle full. Next morning he was dead. This was before I came away, and I left in 1825. I do n’t know my age. They don’t tell the slaves any thing about their age. There were but two that I known of, who used their people any way decent.
T—P—was so bad he would n’t give his people Sunday. He had two or three farms. On a Saturday night his people would pack up, and travel Sunday to another farm, so as to be ready for work Monday morning. He had one overseer named L—, who called himself a bull-dog, and said he could manage any “nigger.” They allow eight ears of corn for a horse at noon. A young man was about feeding a horse; L—says, “How many ears have you got?” “I did n’t count them.” L—counted,—there were ten ears. Just for that L—seized a flail, and struck the young man breaking two of his ribs—he hit him with the flail until he found the young man was dying—then he sent for the doctor. The doctor said, “What did you kill this man, and then send for me for?” I knew the young man and knew the overseer.
The first time I was shot, my young master, Dr.—(who had married one of the girls) and I got into a skirmish. I was in the kitchen before anybody was up