An African in New York: Creative Assignment Henry H. Toll

This is a story based on a true person with some changes

Name:  Henry Toll                                                                        March 2017

Humanities                                                Africans in NY: Creative Narrative Assignment

 

                                You Are Never Free

 

I was never given a chance. My name is Solomon Peters and I was part of the first slave generation born in New Amsterdam. I worked all day at a plantation, learning how unfair life is. I had no name when I was born, but my master decided to reward me. So he gave me a name. I think he just wanted to make his life easier by making it easier to remember me.

My only family was my dad, but he was mentally broken by his sorrows. My father was called Berewa, until they took his name away. He was the leader of our tribe back in Africa. He was the first person in our tribe to become enslaved. He was defending our village from the white man. They had guns. He had only a stick he found on the ground. He fought with everything he had. He told me about how the men beat him to the ground. He said how everything went black shortly after he fell. He had woken up in chains and a gag was in his mouth. He told me about the travel from Africa to America. He told me that to survive the Middle Passage and the walk to the coast you had to have no emotion. The white men would call them property and not human. He had become not human when he saw a man fall and die on their way to the coast. He could not even stop moving for the man that died. The man’s wife went for him, and the white men beat her to the ground and chained her even further. He told me about the shrieks of pain that came from all around him on the slave ship.

He explained how lucky I was to be born here. He was not the same when he left that ship — he was obedient and not sane. He had been broken on that ship, and had been made new into a tool. My father died of serious back pain from his hard work on our plantation. He had taught me to be a fighter for my freedom.

I worked hard for many years, but I was fed up. I found a way to escape without running away. A year after my father died, I sued the Dutch West India company for my freedom. I was 19. He inspired me to fight and become free, not to break like him. I won and was given $2. Then I worked at a black farm for 10 years.

My old master was very angry at me leaving and tried illegally to get me back. I ran from the farm with my money to the Blacklands outside New York. I met Maria that year in the Blacklands. She had also been a slave, but had run away and became free. She became free because some nice black man had bought her then set her free. I married her and we had a family. I was living the good life for many years. I had a nice family and a big farm. I was happy.

But currently, I am starting to wonder if I am safe. I have noticed white men looking at me in the town center. I am scared they are going to take me and even worse my family back to the plantation where I grew up. A plan started to form in my head to lead the slave hunters away. Even though I was young, I wrote my will to protect my family, so if I died they would get everything. I first gave everything to my wife. When she passed, my oldest son would get 4 pounds, I gave the rest of my kids 18 shillings.

I left that night pretending to be sneaky. I did this to make the slave hunters follow me. On my way out, I grabbed some gunpowder. I ran to the forest, where I would execute my plan. I was going to scare the men, by using their religion against them. I set up a fire in a very dense dark area of the forest. Then I put some sticks in weird angles around the fire to make them look like some ancient language. I set up 4 piles of gunpowder around the fire, with little trails to me were I could light them. I finally started the fire. It was massive, at least 8 feet tall. I made deep footprints in the soil towards the fire. Then I walked over the sticks into a bush near by. Then I waited. I knew the men would follow me.

It was nightfall when they arrived. I could see they were scared by their faces. There were 3 of them. They all had swords except one. One of them had a gun, another was wearing a fancy hat, and the final was a servant.

The servant said “This looks like demon magic, the devil be here.”

“There be no devil here, now keep your mouth quiet,” the man with the fancy hat said.

Then, I said in my best demonic voice “Ha ha ha, you foolish humans are my people now.”

The man with the gun came closer to the fire. I could see him more clearly. He was wearing a redcoat uniform.

They were Brits or loyalist, I don’t know but they were the enemy. They were trying to make life harder for us free blacks. Many thought they were going to pass some serious bills.

The redcoat with the gun said “We are good christian men and you can not control us.”

I said in return in that demon voice “You have entered my area and are now my subjects.”

The servant started to run away from this fire.

The man with the fancy hat said “Get back here you coward, or I will put a reward for your death.”

The servant turned around and came back. The man with the gun, now looking down at the ground closely, said “ What happened to the runaway slave? His footprints walk into the fire.”

I said in the demonic tone “This is a portal to hell, the greatest prison for my people.” I continued in that voice to say “That slave is now part of my people and he wants revenge.”

The man with the hat stepped back, and I could see his face. He was my old master.

He said “I do not fear you Satan, the power of God propels me.”

“God does not have power in the new world, now fear me,” I said in that tone.

At that moment, I lit the fuse to the gunpowder and hit the tree next to me in the same rhythm as my father’s old drum song. The gunpowder exploded and all the men jumped back.

I could tell they were scared. Good, very good.

My old master said in a shaky voice “That song is from that old slave born in Africa.”

I said in the demonic tone “Yes, it is the calling of Satan. I will haunt you!” The servant ran away again, but this time the rest followed.

My old master said “I will have none of this, I am going back to England where their are no God-hating patriots or slave ghosts.”

I never saw those men again, but I knew I could not go back to my family. If I did, my master would know that I was not dead and would enslave us all. I moved to a new house in a village 3 miles north. Every year I would check on my family. I lived a peaceful life for the rest of my days. The last I heard of my family they had to give up their property, because of some laws passed by the British.