Solomon Northup (circa 1807/1808 to circa 1857/1864) was a free-born African American living in New York State when he was kidnapped in 1841 and sold into slavery. Northup was held in bondage for 12 years before he was freed through the efforts of friends and family in New York and documented his experience in his memoir Twelve Years a Slave (1853).
Northup's case is the best known, but kidnapping free Blacks – from both free and slave states – and selling them into slavery further south, was quite common during the same timeframe – circa 1780-1865 – that the Underground Railroad was in operation, freeing people from slavery. The term "Reverse Underground Railroad" – referring to the practice of kidnapping free Blacks or freedom seekers (fugitive slaves) – came into use among slavers during this time to mock the efforts of the Underground Railroad.
The only proof a free Black person had that they were free were official papers, which they carried at all times, but these were easily taken and destroyed. Slavers would then make up a name for their victim and a back story and sell them, often for a significant sum. The abolitionist Dr. John Doy (famous for his rescue from prison by The Immortal Ten in 1859) records an instance of this in his The Narrative of John Doy, of Lawrence Kansas (1860) describing how a Black man he knew to be free was claimed by a White Missouri farmer to be his slave and was sold.
This is exactly what happened to Northup, who, after he was kidnapped in Washington, D.C., was renamed "Platt Hamilton", given a fictitious backstory, and sold into slavery in New Orleans. He was helped by a Canadian abolitionist and carpenter, Samuel Bass (1807-1853), who was working on the house of Northup's master in 1852. Overhearing Bass express abolitionist views, Northup told him his story, and Bass wrote to Northup's family in the North, who were then able to free him in January 1853. Northup's book inspired the 2013 Hollywood film Twelve Years a Slave starring Chiwetel Ejiofor as Solomon Northup, regarded as an accurate cinematic version of his book.
Northup's Life & Kidnapping
Solomon Northup was born on 10 July 1807/1808 to a free woman and a former slave who had been freed. He had an older brother, Joseph, and since both were born of a free woman, both were free. His father chose Northup as the family name in honor of his late master, who had freed him.
Northup grew up working on farms and canals, learned to read and write, and became proficient with the violin, eventually becoming a popular entertainer. He married Anne Hampton on 25 December 1829, and they had three children: Elizabeth, Margaret, and Alonzo. In 1834, the family moved to Saratoga Springs, New York, where Anne worked as a cook and Solomon as a musician.
In April 1841, when Anne was 20 miles (32 km) away at work (with Elizabeth), and the two other children were with their aunt, two men – going by the names Merrill Brown and Abram Hamilton – offered Northup a quick gig playing music for their show in New York City and for a circus they were involved with in Washington, D.C. Northup took the job, traveled with the men to Manhattan and then to Washington, D.C., where he was drugged, kidnapped, and sold to the slave trader James H. Birch who then sent him to his partner, Theophilus Freeman, in New Orleans.
Life as a Slave & Redemption
Northup was sold by Freeman to the preacher William Prince Ford, who, in 1842, sold him to John M. Tibaut to pay off a debt. Ford had been a gentle master, but Tibaut beat Northup often and once tried to hang him. Tibaut sold Northup to one Edwin Epps, also a cruel master, who frequently beat his slaves. Northup was held by Epps until he met Samuel Bass, who was working on Epps' home as a carpenter.
Bass was able to find Northup's family, who contacted the lawyer Henry B. Northup, the son of Solomon's father's late master, and Henry Northup brought the case to the attention of New York Governor Washington Hunt. Citing the New York State law that prohibited the removal of slaves from New York to the South, and having sworn affidavits from people who knew Solomon in Saratoga Springs as a free Black man, his family was able to have him freed in 1853.
Once back in New York, he wrote Twelve Years a Slave, edited by the historian, lawyer, politician, and writer David Wilson (1818-1870). The book became a bestseller, and Northup embarked on a speaking tour, telling his story; he was especially popular on the abolitionist circuit of the Northeast.
After 1857, he is no longer recorded as living with his family and disappears from the historical record save for a possible visit to a friend in 1863. According to some scholars, Northup took up drinking once he was back in New York, and this may have caused the rift with his family and the end of his speaking engagements. How he died, when, and where is unknown. His kidnappers, though charged and brought to court, were never punished for their crimes.
Text
The following is taken from Chapter II of Twelve Years a Slave (1853) by Solomon Northup, describing his kidnapping and enslavement. The excerpt has been edited for space, with omissions indicated by ellipses. The full electronic text of Northup's book is below in the bibliography and External Links.
ONE morning, towards the latter part of the month of March 1841, having at that time no particular business to engage my attention, I was walking about the village of Saratoga Springs, thinking to myself where I might obtain some present employment, until the busy season should arrive. Anne, as was her usual custom, had gone over to Sandy Hill, a distance of some twenty miles, to take charge of the culinary department at Sherrill's Coffee House, during the session of the court. Elizabeth, I think, had accompanied her. Margaret and Alonzo were with their aunt at Saratoga.
On the corner of Congress Street and Broadway near the tavern, then, and for aught I know to the contrary, still kept by Mr. Moon, I was met by two gentlemen of respectable appearance, both of whom were entirely unknown to me. I have the impression that they were introduced to me by some one of my acquaintances, but who, I have in vain endeavored to recall, with the remark that I was an expert player on the violin.
At any rate, they immediately entered into conversation on that subject, making numerous inquiries touching my proficiency in that respect. My responses being to all appearances satisfactory, they proposed to engage my services for a short period, stating, at the same time, I was just such a person as their business required. Their names, as they afterwards gave them to me, were Merrill Brown and Abram Hamilton, though whether these were their true appellations, I have strong reasons to doubt…
They were connected, as they informed me, with a circus company, then in the city of Washington; that they were on their way thither to rejoin it… They also remarked that they had found much difficulty in procuring music for their entertainments, and that if I would accompany them as far as New-York, they would give me one dollar for each day's services, and three dollars in addition for every night I played at their performances, besides sufficient to pay the expenses of my return from New-York to Saratoga.
…Thinking my absence would be brief, I did not deem it necessary to write to Anne whither I had gone; in fact, supposing that my return, perhaps, would be as soon as hers.
…I drove away from Saratoga on the road to Albany, elated with my new position, and happy as I had ever been, on any day in all my life…
Early next morning we renewed our journey. The burden of their conversation now was the expression of an anxiety to reach the circus without delay… I supposed my journey was at an end, and expected in a day or two at least, to return to my friends and family at Saratoga.
Brown and Hamilton, however, began to importune me to continue with them to Washington. They alleged that, immediately on their arrival, now that the summer season was approaching, the circus would set out for the north. They promised me a situation and high wages if I would accompany them [and] I finally concluded to accept the offer.
The next morning, they suggested that, inasmuch as we were about entering a slave State, it would be well, before leaving New-York, to procure free papers. The idea struck me as a prudent one, though I think it would scarcely have occurred to me, had they not proposed it. We proceeded at once to what I understood to be the Custom House. They made oath to certain facts showing I was a free man… I placed the papers in my pocket, and started with my two friends to our hotel…
All the way from New-York, their anxiety to reach the circus seemed to grow more and more intense. We left the carriage at Baltimore, and entering the cars, proceeded to Washington, at which place we arrived just at nightfall, the evening previous to the funeral of General Harrison, and stopped at Gadsby's Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue.
After supper they called me to their apartments, and paid me forty-three dollars, a sum greater than my wages amounted to, Which act of generosity was in consequence, they said, of their not having exhibited as often as they had given me to anticipate, during our trip from Saratoga.
They moreover informed me that it had been the intention of the circus company to leave Washington the next morning, but that on account of the funeral, they had concluded to remain another day. They were then, as they had been from the time of our first meeting, extremely kind. No opportunity was omitted of addressing me in the language of approbation; while, on the other hand, I was certainly much prepossessed in their favor.
I gave them my confidence without reserve and would freely have trusted them to almost any extent. Their constant conversation and manner towards me—their foresight in suggesting the idea of free papers, and a hundred other little acts, unnecessary to be repeated— all indicated that they were friends indeed, sincerely solicitous for my welfare. I know not but they were. I know not but they were innocent of the great wickedness of which I now believe them guilty.
Whether they were accessory to my misfortunes—subtle and inhuman monsters in the shape of men—designedly luring me away from home and family, and liberty, for the sake of gold—those that read these pages will have the same means of determining as myself. If they were innocent, my sudden disappearance must have been unaccountable indeed; but revolving in my mind all the attending circumstances, I never yet could indulge, towards them, so charitable a supposition…
The next day there was a great pageant in Washington. The roar of cannon and the tolling of bells filled the air, while many houses were shrouded with crape, and the streets were black with people…
From early in the morning, I was constantly in the company of Hamilton and Brown. They were the only persons I knew in Washington. We stood together as the funeral pomp passed by. I remember distinctly how the window glass would break and rattle to the ground, after each report of the cannon they were firing in the burial ground. We went to the Capitol and walked a long time about the grounds. In the afternoon, they strolled towards the President's House, all the time keeping me near to them, and pointing out various places of interest. As yet, I had seen nothing of the circus. In fact, I had thought of it but little, if at all, amidst the excitement of the day.
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 someone 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 passageway, 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 meaning 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.
