Slave

By Zachary Furr

It started off so simply, with only my voice and a sound that could be heard throughout the ages.

I wanted nothing more than what was required of me.

I wished for nothing more than the freedom that I needed.

I had that which I did not want.

I am a slave in Southern Mississippi, and I long to be free from the torment of the daily life of hot humid fields.

I long to feel the cool breeze of the fall.

I want to be able to wander where I like.

I want to be able to move with my wife to a place all my own.

I want to live in peace without a hunter coming to my door.

These are the wishes and wants of a free man.

I till the fields and pick the cotton.

I see my wife taking a break from kitchen duties waving to me.

I see my son in the far off distance picking the vegetables of tomorrow’s meal.

I hear my daughters receiving instruction on how to clean house.

I smell the dirt as the horse breaks it in front of me.

I feel my callouses start to bruise and blister as the hoe becomes more difficult to power through the new field.

I feel the fresh stains of the new marks across my back as a reminder of what I am.

This does not diminish who I am.

I am a man that longs for freedom.

I am a father that wishes the best for his children.

I am a husband that does not want to be separated from his wife.

I am a slave that wants what he sees his master enjoy everyday.

These are the desires of a free man.

These are the desires of a slave looking at freedom but being unable to obtain it.

My life has never been a simple one. Sold off at the age of eight, made to work in the fields until I was twelve, forced to do any chore that my master has set for me. I am a slave in southern Mississippi. My name is Jon. The master that gave me that name said he gave it to me because he named all of his slaves ‘Jon’. Said he wouldn’t have to remember all of our names, and since we were his property we did not have a choice in the matter.

I met my wife as I turned eighteen, during my third master. She was sitting under the awning of the kitchen porch, when I first saw her peeling potatoes. I waved to her as I was picking vegetables, I got whipped by the warden for that. Fifteen lashes then sent back to work. I was tended that night by Sara, the girl I waved at. She said that the blood from the marks stained my shirt. I said that I didn’t care as long as she care for me. We carried on with our relationship in that fashion for the year until she became pregnant. It was a joy that I was not expecting.

The master allowed the baby to be born to Sara, for he did not always allow the babies to be born. I cared little for his opinion. Sara seems happy at the moment though. I have seen my son for the first time ten days after he is born. I work the hardest that I have ever worked just to see him. My body was tired but my mind and spirit were very much alive when I saw him.

Three years past I keep looking out for my son to make sure that he comes to very little harm. My body keeps getting whipped and bruised, but no true harm has befallen my son. It is a dreaded time of year, in the harvest. It is the time of year when the master goes to market, and not to say that the market is bad, but we all came from the market. None of us want to go to the market, it is a place to sell slaves and trade family and disrupt lives to the benefit of other masters.

Sara and Little Jon are taken with the master to go to the market. I try to go after them, but my body has been tormented too much and I am beaten and restrained again as I see Sara and my son carted off in a cage. I feel a cool breeze in the barn where I am tied up at. I long to see Sara again, to feel her hands clean my fresh wounds. I feel my sweat and blood pool around me. I smell the stink of manure all around me. I can no longer think of anything but my son. I wish that I could see him one more time before I die.

From a slave named Jon

September 21, 1862