But in all the crowd that thronged the wharf， there wasno one who knew or cared for me. Not one. No familiar voice greeted my ears， nor was there a single face that Ihad ever seen. Soon Arthur would rejoin his family， andhave the satisfaction of seeing his wrongs avenged： myfamily， alas， should I ever see them more？ There was afeeling of utter desolation in my heart， filling it with adespairing and regretful sense， that I had not gone downwith Robert to the bottom of the sea.
Very soon traders and consignees came on board.
One， a tall， thin-faced man， with light complexion anda little bent， made his appearance， with a paper in hishand. Burch’s gang， consisting of myself， Eliza and herchildren， Harry， Lethe， and some others， who had joinedus at Richmond， were consigned to him. This gentlemanwas Mr. Theophilus Freeman. Reading from his paper，he called， “Platt.” No one answered. The name was calledagain and again， but still there was no reply. Then Lethewas called， then Eliza， then Harry， until the list wasfinished， each one stepping forward as his or her namewas called.
“Captain， where’s Platt？” demanded Theophilus Freeman.
The captain was unable to inform him， no one being，on board answering to that name.
“Who shipped that nigger？” he again inquired of thecaptain， pointing to me.
“Burch，” replied the captain.
“Your name is Platt—you answer my description. Whydon’t you come forward？” he demanded of me， in anangry tone.
I informed him that was not my name； that I hadnever been called by it， but that I had no objection to it asI knew of.
“Well， I will learn you your name，” said he； “and so youwon’t forget it either， by—，” he added.
Mr. Theophilus Freeman， by the way， was not a whitbehind his partner， Burch， in the matter of blasphemy.
On the vessel I had gone by the name of “Steward，” andthis was the first time I had ever been designated asPlatt—the name forwarded by Burch to his consignee.
From the vessel I observed the chain-gang at work onthe levee. We passed near them as we were driven toFreeman’s slave pen. This pen is very similar to Goodin’sin Richmond， except the yard was enclosed by plank，standing upright， with ends sharpened， instead of brickwalls.
Including us， there were now at least fifty in this pen.
Depositing our blankets in one of the small buildingsin the yard， and having been called up and fed， we wereallowed to saunter about the enclosure until night， whenwe wrapped our blankets round us and laid down underthe shed， or in the loft， or in the open yard， just as eachone preferred.
It was but a short time I closed my eyes that night.
Thought was busy in my brain. Could it be possible thatI was thousands of miles from home—that I had beendriven through the streets like a dumb beast— that I hadbeen chained and beaten without mercy—that I was even060
then herded with a drove of slaves， a slave myself？ Werethe events of the last few weeks realities indeed？—orwas I passing only through the dismal phases of a long，protracted dream？ It was no illusion. My cup of sorrowwas full to overflowing. Then I lifted up my hands toGod， and in the still watches of the night， surrounded bythe sleeping forms of my companions， begged for mercyon the poor， forsaken captive. To the Almighty Fatherof us all—the freeman and the slave—I poured forth thesupplications of a broken spirit， imploring strength fromon high to bear up against the burden of my troubles，until the morning light aroused the slumberers， usheringin another day of bondage.
