Rebelling lies in every 1800’s slave mind, but will they they really do it? Well I did, and boy am I happy I did. I, Madison Washington, a former slave cook in Virginia, write this journal to help preserve our great success in November 1841.

“Hey did you hear Master is going to trade us? Yesterday he and Sir Charlie were planning on sending us overseas all the way to Louisiana! How could he do this…” Sarah spat, rubbing her rigid brown feet against the dirt.

“Ahh I guess we oughta just ride the wave sweetie. We can’t do nuthin about it, we never will.” Says Abram, looking out the musky shack window.

“What are you all talking about? This could be our chance!” Flinging my arms I walk over to Sarah. “We could escape, be free! No longer will we be the ones being stepped on for our skin. Don’t y'all want that liberty?” How could they be like this, after all these years and they’ve just lost hope!

“Ok ok alright Madison. We’ll talk about it later, for now we’ve got to get back to work, before Master catches us slackin.” Pauline gives me a one eyed squint, meaning we’ll talk later.

“Fine, but you should know when the time comes, I’m rebelling, no matter how many of you are behind me.” I get up and head into the kitchen, preparing the meatloaf and potatoes for tonight.


Life on Master William’s plantation is rough, by far the worst of them all. The farm slaves have 20 working hours a day, with the rest split between food, breaks and sleep. Lucky me, I’m a house slave. Cooking and cleaning for the family ain’t so bad, its only when one of those spoiled brats complains is when I get a beatin. Master comes over to me and splats my hands against the stove and burns my fingers to shingles. I cry and cry, but he don't care, to him I'm just a malfunctioning machine. Finally he stops, then returns to his family at the kitchen table. Everytime that happens I should be worried that he'll sell me, but I'm not, I want to be sold.



Being a chef gives me a lot of time to think, and boy do I think of lots of things. Freedom, stepping onto North territory, or rebelling against Master William, fighting out of slavery by brute force, anger and will. After hearing that Master is trading us slaves by ship to Louisiana, my heart skipped a beat. All 135 of us could easily overcome this ship of his, and sail somewhere in Britain where we could be set free. Yes that's how it'll happen, we'll overcome them mid trip and set sail to freedom. But it all depends on how gutsy Pauline, Sarah and Abram are, because without them no one else will follow the revolt.





A week before we are traded I gather a large group of other slaves in the barn, and tell them of my plan.


"Hello brothers and sisters, I risk this meeting today to tell you that we will be traded next week to somewhere called Louisiana, by ship." I say, gazing around at all of their shocked faces. Some begin to shudder, children hide behind mothers and other men like I just keep a solid face.


"What! How can we believe you, Madison! We ain't no cotton to be plucked at, tell the truth!" An older man walks out of the crowd, face to face with me.


"I do speak the truth suh, but this is good! We should be happy, excited to be escaping this hell hole! Don't ya'll see, we are mere horses doing this white man's work. We are being traded into a better life, and a better life I mean a free one. Don't ya'll see we can revolt on the ship, take over the mast and sail to freedom!" I am trying my hardest not to scream, which would risk one of the overseers waking up.


Most look even more shocked, even scared, darting their eyes towards the doorway and at each other. But as some think the plan through, they realize how great of an advantage we have on the ship. Shocked eyes of men turns into growing excitement and lust, and the wives follow. Soon the whole group is sneering and laughing, perfect soldiers for a revolt. My wife Pauline and father Abram stand at my side, nodding approval of my speech. We are ready.


A couple of weeks later Master Thompson officially announces that we will be traded to Sir. Charlie. Of course we all already knew that, but we did our part and seemed surprised. His reasoning was that he is too broke to afford the plantation. Apparently the market for cotton is depleting, so he has to sell us off before it reaches rock bottom. I hadn't heard about the market crash before, and that gives me hope that other plantations will be closed as well.















October, 1841


Its the day of the trade. My fellow brothers and I choose which belongings to take with us, making sure to keep under the three pound limit Master has given. I can see his white family hauling bags upon bags of belongings with them, not limited nearly as much as we are.


"Abram, Abram! It's time to go, we need to be at the front gate now!" Pauline screeches at my father, whos moving awfully sluggish.



"Ok ok, I'm coming. Quit freaking like Anna used to." Abram murmurs.


My breath catches at the mention of his wife. Abram never talks about Anna, as the thought of her sets a tear to his eye. You see Anna was Abram's wife for 30 years, until she was separated from us at the slave auction in 1834. Seven long years my father has been separated, and he has never shown love since.


"I know you're upset Abram, but it'll be alright. We have the numbers to rebel, and with the hell Master William has put us through, everyone will battle their hearts out." She walks over to his side and pecks him on the cheek, starting his rusty engine to get up.


Outside we hear an overseer approaching, with the clanking of shackles not far behind. The front gate is lifted and the musty old overseer spats at us,


"Come 'ere negros! Line up with your feet straight and arms behind you!"




We all do as told, some more hesitant than others, like Sarah. I give her a "not now" look and she falls into step with me, lining up with the others. The hefty iron shackles encase my wrists and surround each of my ankles, nearly grounding me. A jerk of the shackles gets me moving through the gate and into the wagon parked on the dark, muddy roads flanked by emerald, pine-filled trees.


"Well, off ya go!" Master William waves as he enters his own, white and elegent wagon.



We arrive at the port after about 3 days of travel. I have never seen a port before, its like a giant get together of ships, all tied to long docks full of fisherman. And the best part of seeing the port was the lake it was part of. I have never seen a lake like that before, one stretching out as far as the eye can see and then some. I try to ask Abram if hes ever seen a lake like that, but the overseer pulls us tight on these shackles. Left, right, left our feet went for a good 30 minutes, until we arrive at a well sized ship.



"Hello fine sir. How do you do?" I overhear Master saying to a dark green cloaked man, with a circle shaped glass on his eye.



"I am doing quite well William, is this all 135 negros?" The cloaked man asks, casting his arms towards our direction.


"It is indeed," Master laughs, "all strong and healthy for Sir Charles fields."


This must be Sir Charles handler, by the way Master praises us. We load on the ship one by one up a thin , cracked plank. Sarah almost slips but I grab her just in time, I doubt Master would've gone after her anyways. Once all of us are on the main deck, the handler announces,

"All of you are Master Charles now, there aint no going back..." He snickers and pulls us downstairs.

When he shows us to our holding room, we all shudder. There are dozens of shelves full
of little cubbies, short in height and width but 6 feet deep. When we look closely there are small step holes along the beams, man would I hate to have a high up cubby. Little buckets are at the bottom of each stack. I wonder what those are for..
November, 1841

We have been on this drunken boat for 2 weeks. The conditions are absolutely miserable, we are packed so tight into these shelves that when one man gets a cough, we all do. There aint no padding or nuthin, just solid, splintered wood. I found out what the buckets are for, they are for when we need to you know “go”. No privacy allowed, just squat and plop it goes. How could we live like this, how could those whites be so cruel as to put us in a place like this. I feel the body heat of others wrapping around my skin, its like being a piece of coal, slowly burning away with nuthin to do. We have to shout just to hear one another over the blisterous crashing of the waves. Sickness spreads like a wildfire, you can just smell the rotting bodies of those already dead. We better rebel soon before I too join the dead.


Its night time when we strike. It started with the signal, a soft bird call from Pauline. Her strong lungs launch the call around the shelves, awakening us all. I creep out of my shelf and silently awaken those still asleep.

“It’s time.” I whisper to each one, clutching their shoulder.

Within five minutes everyone is up and alert, waiting for orders from me.

“Hello all, it is time to take over this ship! Take justice to those who have scarred our backs and spit on our hearts.” I hold it for a moment, letting it sink in. “It is time to sail to freedom in Britain and be released from these shackles. It is all or nothing friends, I, no we, need every single one of you to win this last battle. Are you ready?”

“Yes Madison!” Everyone shouts bracing their arms.

Arbram, Pauline, Sarah and I lead the charge up the stairs, with 131 others right behind. At the top there is a heavy trap door, that doesn’t even budge. It’ll take all of us to tackle this challenge. Without notice ten burly field slaves come out from behind, and flip the door up onto the deck. Heavy, bitter tasting rain falls onto us, concealing any steps from being heard. We trudge onto the deck, limiting any moving room. I look at the front mast, and spot a light dangling by a white painted door.

“There!” I point at the door, and we slowly move towards it, anxious for what lies inside.

Along the way to the door, we pick up items capable of killing, like shovels, barrels, paddles and planks. We reach the door rather quickly, and those same strong men from earlier lift up the latch.

“AHHHHH!!!” A battle roar emits from everyone’s throats, stunning anyone inside the latch.
“Don’t, please!” The white men cry, cowering hands above their heads.
We slaughter them quickly, careless of their mercy calls. The horror of what we just did hangs in the air, but eventually turns into joy as we realize we are free. We celebrate our success by inhaling turkey, wine and bread from the cellar. Women comfortably feed their babies, and we men release our tongues with jokes and songs. It feels nice to be free, choosing what we want to do whenever we want. And the very next morning, we sail to a new life.