In 1877, almost fifty years after he had escaped slavery, Josiah Henson returned to the Maryland plantation on which he had spent most of his enslaved life. On arriving, he is met by an African American boy.

In 1877, almost fifty years after he had escaped slavery, Josiah Henson returned to the Maryland plantation on which he had spent most of his enslaved life. On arriving, he is met by an African American boy.

Ancestors: On being enslaved Part 4

In 1877, almost fifty years after he had escaped slavery, Josiah Henson returned to the Maryland plantation on which he had spent most of his enslaved life. On arriving, he is met by an African American boy.

“Does Mrs. Riley live here?” I asked. “Yes, sir.”
“Is she at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can she be seen?”
“Dunno, sir; she’s poorly, and isn’t out of bed to-day.”
“Well, I have come a very long distance on purpose to see her.” “I’ll ask,” said the boy, and vanished. Soon I heard a querulous
voice ask within, “Who is he?”
“Dunno! He’s a black gemman.”
“And he wants to see me? Well, tell him to come in.”
We went in, and there was the old mistress, sure enough, but
instead of the young, blooming woman of twenty, she was a poor,
fretful invalid of seventy. Her bed was in the old sitting-room, which was the first place that I had seen that seemed at all familiar. The room and the old corner cupboard, where master used to keep his brandy, just as they were fifty years ago; but the furniture was scanty and dilapidated, and the floor was utterly bare; in fact, there was not a scrap of carpet in the whole house.
“I went up to her and bowed.
“How do you do, madam?”
“I am poorly ⎯ poorly. How do you do?”
“I am very well, thank you.”
“I ⎯ I don’t seem to know you,” said the poor creature, looking hard at me.
“Is that so? You have seen me many a time.”
“I don’t seem to,” she repeated, and thought a moment; when, suddenly springing up in bed, she
exclaimed ⎯ “Can it be Si?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Not Si Henson! ⎯ surely, surely, it can never be!”
“Yes, madam.”
“I cannot believe it,” she cried in great excitement. “Let me feel of your arms, then I shall know!” I flung back my cloak, and she put her trembling hands on my arms that were shattered in her
husband’s defense so long ago. Like the doubting Thomas, this convinced her. She burst into tears, and cried,
“It is Si! Indeed, it is Si! Oh! Si, your master is dead and gone!”
“No, madam. My master is alive.”
“I mean Mr. Riley. If only he was here you would be good friends now; I know you would. You were
always a good man, Si. I never blamed you for running away. Oh! Si, don’t you wish you could see your old master again?”
“I tried to say yes, and to shed a tear with her; but I couldn’t get up a real honest cry, so I gave it up. Pretty soon she became quiet, and, looking at me more attentively, said,
“Why, Si, you are a gentleman!” “I always was, madam.”

JOSIAH HENSON, An Autobiography of the Rev. Josiah Henson (“Uncle Tom”). From 1789 to 1881, 1881

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