While they were trying to drive him from under the bow of the boat or drown him, he would in broken and imploring accents say, “I did not steal the meat; I did not steal the meat.  My master lives up the river.  I want to see my master.  I did not steal the meat.  Do let me go home to master.”  After punching him, and striking him over the head for some time, he at last sunk in the water, to rise no more alive.

On the end of the pike-pole with which they were striking him was a hook which caught in his clothing, and they hauled him up on the bow of the boat.  Some said he was dead, others said he was “playing possum” while others kicked him to make him get up, but it was of no use—­he was dead.

As soon as they became satisfied of this, they commenced leaving, one after another.  One of the hands on the boat informed the captain that they had killed the man, and that the dead body was lying on the deck.  The captain came on deck, and said to those who were remaining, “You have killed this nigger; now take him off of my boat.”  The captain’s name was Hart.  The dead body was dragged on shore and left there.  I went on board of the boat where our gang of slaves were, and during the whole night my mind was occupied with what I had seen.  Early in the morning, I went on shore to see if the dead body remained there.  I found it in the same position that it was left the night before.  I watched to see what they would do with it.  It was left there until between eight and nine o’clock, when a cart, which takes up the trash out of the streets, came along, and the body was thrown in, and in a few minutes more was covered over with dirt which they were removing from the streets.  During the whole time, I did not see more than six or seven persons around it, who, from their manner, evidently regarded it as no uncommon occurrence.

During our stay in the city, I met with a young white man with whom I was well acquainted in St. Louis.  He had been sold into slavery, under the following circumstances.  His father was a drunkard, and very poor, with a family of five or six children.  The father died, and left the mother to take care of and provide for the children as best she might.  The eldest was a boy, named Burrill, about thirteen years of age, who did chores in a store kept by Mr. Riley, to assist his mother in procuring a living for the family.  After working with him two years, Mr. Riley took him to New Orleans to wait on him while in that city on a visit, and when he returned to St. Louis, he told the mother of the boy that he had died with the yellow fever.  Nothing more was heard from him, no one supposing him to be alive.  I was much astonished when Burrill told me his story.  Though I sympathized with him, I could not assist him.  We were both slaves.  He was poor, uneducated, and without friends; and if living, is, I presume, still held as a slave.

After selling out this cargo of human flesh, we returned to St. Louis, and my time was up with Mr. Walker.  I had served him one year, and it was the longest year I ever lived.