“Twelve Years a Slave”: Kidnapped Into the Horror of Slavery

Get the Penguin paperback edition of Twelve Years a Slave, under the editorship of Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Make a contribution of $25 or more and receive it now. Just click here.

Originally published in 1853, Twelve Years a Slave has periodically been revived to provide a detailed, first-person account of the business and culture of enslavement in the Southern United States. In 2013, Northup’s memoir became a national sensation as a film directed by Steve McQueen, a British-born director, and starring Chiwetelu Ejiofor, an actor also from the UK, as Solomon Northup.

Historically, Northup was hardly the only free black man abducted and sold into slavery. Because few of those who were kidnapped ever returned to freedom, there are only estimates, and they run into the thousands among some scholars. But through a series of circumstances, Northup was able to surreptitiously gain the assistance of New York state in securing his release.

His memoir offers a vivid, horrifying account of the abominable practice. It was released just a few years prior to the Civil War. Although it did not have the widespread impact of writers and abolitionists such as Frederick Douglas, it was an important testimonial that influenced a growing Northern movement to end slavery.

Indeed, Frederick Douglas said of Twelve Years a Slave (as quoted in the introduction to the Penguin edition):

“Think of it. For thirty years a man with all a man’s hopes, fears and aspirations – with a wife and children to call him by endearing names of husband and father – with a home, humble it may be, but still a home…then for twelve years a thing, a chattel personal, classed with mules and horses….It chills the blood.”

The following is an excerpt that describes the moment that Solomon Northup was drugged and chained before he was sold into slavery:

My friends, several times during the afternoon, entered drinking saloons, and called for liquor. They were by no means in the habit, however, so far as I knew them, of indulging to excess. On these occasions, after serving themselves, they would pour out a glass and hand it to me. I did not become intoxicated, as may be inferred from what subsequently occurred. Towards evening, and soon after partaking of one of these potations, I began to experience most unpleasant sensations. I felt extremely ill. My head commenced aching—a dull, heavy pain, inexpressibly disagreeable.

At the supper table, I was without appetite; the sight and flavor of food was nauseous. About dark the same servant conducted me to the room I had occupied the previous night. Brown and Hamilton advised me to retire, commiserating me kindly, and expressing hopes that I would be better in the morning. Divesting myself of coat and boots merely, I threw myself upon the bed. It was impossible to sleep. The pain in my head continued to increase, until it became almost unbearable.

In a short time I became thirsty. My lips were parched. I could think of nothing but water—of lakes and flowing rivers, of brooks where I had stooped to drink, and of the dripping bucket, rising with its cool and overflowing nectar, from the bottom of the well. Towards midnight, as near as I could judge, I arose, unable longer to bear such intensity of thirst. I was a stranger in the house, and knew nothing of its apartments. There was no one up, as I could observe.

Groping about at random, I knew not where, I found the way at last to a kitchen in the basement. Two or three colored servants were moving through it, one of whom, a woman, gave me two glasses of water. It afforded momentary relief, but by the time I had reached my room again, the same burning desire of drink, the same tormenting thirst, had again returned. It was even more torturing than before, as was also the wild pain in my head, if such a thing could be. I was in sore distress—in most excruciating agony! I seemed to stand on the brink of madness! The memory of that night of horrible suffering will follow me to the grave.

In the course of an hour or more after my return from the kitchen, I was conscious of some one entering my room. There seemed to be several—a mingling of various voices,—but how many, or who they were, I cannot tell. Whether Brown and Hamilton were among them, is a mere matter of conjecture. I only remember, with any degree of distinctness, that I was told it was necessary to go to a physician and procure medicine, and that pulling on my boots, without coat or hat, I followed them through a long passage-way, or alley, into the open street. It ran out at right angles from Pennsylvania Avenue. On the opposite side there was a light burning in a window.

My impression is there were then three persons with me, but it is altogether indefinite and vague, and like the memory of a painful dream. Going towards the light, which I imagined proceeded from a physician’s office, and which seemed to recede as I advanced, is the last glimmering recollection I can now recall. From that moment I was insensible. How long I remained in that condition—whether only that night, or many days and nights—I do not know; but when consciousness returned, I found myself alone, in utter darkness, and in chains.

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 mean- ing 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 chanced 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—far enough, indeed, to ascertain that I had not only been robbed of liberty, 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.

Get the Penguin paperback edition of Twelve Years a Slave, under the editorship of Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Make a contribution of $25 or more and receive it now. Just click here.

Reprinted by arrangement with Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company.