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308   TWELVE YEARS A SLAVE
malicious tone of voice, "you needn't feel so cussed
tickled--you ain't gone yet--I'll see about this busi-
ness at Marksville to-morrow."
   I was only a "nigger" and knew my place, but felt
as strongly as if I had been a white man that it
would have been an inward comfort, had I dared to
have given him a parting kick. On my way back to
the carriage, Patsey ran from behind a cabin and
threw her arms about my neck.
   "Oh? Platt," she cried, tears streaming down her
face, "You're goin' to be free -- you're goin' way off
yonder, where we'll nebber see ye any more. You've 
saved me a good many whippins, Platt; I'm glad
you're goin' to be free -- but oh! de Lord, de Lord!
what'll become of me?
    I disengaged myself from her, and entered the
carriage. The driver cracked his whip and away we 
rolled. I looked back and saw Patsey, with drooping
head, half reclining on the ground; Mrs. Epps was on the piazza; Uncle Abram, and Bob, and Wiley, and
Aunt Phebe stood by the gate, gazing after me. I
waved my hand, but the carriage turned a bend of 
the bayou, hiding them from my eyes forever.
    We stopped a moment at Carey's sugar house,
where a great number of slaves were at work, such
an establishment being a curiosity to a Northern man.
Epps dashed by us on horseback at full speed -- on
the way, as we learned next day, to the "Pine
Woods," to see William Ford, who had brought me
into the country.