After reading the letters and documents presented him，and listening to a representation of the circumstancesunder which I had been carried away into captivity， Mr.
Waddill at once proffered his services， and entered intothe affair with great zeal and earnestness. He， in commonwith others of like elevated character， looked uponthe kidnapped with abhorrence. The title of his fellowparishioners and clients to the property which constitutedthe larger proportion of their wealth， not only dependedupon the good faith in which slave sales were transacted，but he was a man in whose honorable heart emotions ofindignation were aroused by such an instance of injustice.
Marksville， although occupying a prominent position，and standing out in impressive italics on the map ofLouisiana， is， in fact， but a small and insignificant hamlet.
Aside from the tavern， kept by a jolly and generousboniface， the court house， inhabited by lawless cows andswine in the seasons of vacation， and a high gallows， withits dissevered rope dangling in the air， there is little toattract the attention of the stranger.
Solomon Northup was a name Mr. Waddill had neverheard， but he was confident that if there was a slavebearing that appellation in Marksville or vicinity， hisblack boy Tom would know him. Tom was accordinglycalled， but in all his extensive circle of acquaintancesthere was no such personage.
The letter to Parker and Perry was dated at BayouBoeuf. At this place， therefore， the conclusion was， Imust be sought. But here a difficulty suggested itself， ofa very grave character indeed. Bayou Boeuf， at its nearestpoint， was twenty-three miles distant， and was the nameapplied to the section of country extending betweenfifty and a hundred miles， on both sides of that stream.
Thousands and thousands of slaves resided upon itsshores， the remarkable richness and fertility of the soilhaving attracted thither a great number of planters. Theinformation in the letter was so vague and indefinite asto render it difficult to conclude upon any specific courseof proceeding. It was finally determined， however， asthe only plan that presented any prospect of success，that Northup and the brother of Waddill， a student inthe office of the latter， should repair to the Bayou， andtraveling up one side and down the other its whole length，inquire at each plantation for me. Mr. Waddill tenderedthe use of his carriage， and it was definitely arrangedthat they should start upon the excursion early Mondaymorning.
It will be seen at once that this course， in all probability，would have resulted unsuccessfully. It would have beenimpossible for them to have gone into the fields and272
examine all the gangs at work. They were not aware thatI was known only as Platt； and had they inquired of Eppshimself， he would have stated truly that he knew nothingof Solomon Northup.
The arrangement being adopted however ， there wasnothing further to be done until Sunday had elapsed. Theconversation between Messrs. Northup and Waddill， in thecourse of the afternoon， turned upon New-York politics.
“I can scarcely comprehend the nice distinctions andshades of political parties in your State，” observed Mr.
Waddill. “I read of soft-shells and hard-shells， hunkersand barnburners， woolly-heads and silver-grays， andam unable to understand the precise difference betweenthem. Pray， what is it？”
Mr. Northup， re-filling his pipe， entered into quite anelaborate narrative of the origin of the various sectionsof parties， and concluded by saying there was anotherparty in New-York， known as free-soilers or abolitionists.
“You have seen none of those in this part of the country， Ipresume？” Mr. Northup remarked.
“Never， but one，” answered Waddill， laughingly. “Wehave one here in Marksville， an eccentric creature， whopreaches abolitionism as vehemently as any fanatic atthe North. He is a generous， inoffensive man， but alwaysmaintaining the wrong side of an argument. It affordsus a deal of amusement. He is an excellent mechanic，and almost indispensable in this community. He is acarpenter. His name is Bass.”
Some further good-natured conversation was hadat the expense of Bass’ peculiarities， when Waddill allat once fell into a reflective mood， and asked for themysterious letter again.
“Let me see—l-e-t m-e s-e-e！” he repeated， thoughtfullyto himself， running his eyes over the letter once more.
“‘Bayou Boeuf， August 15.’ August 15—post-marked here.
‘He that is writing for me—’ Where did Bass work lastsummer？” he inquired， turning suddenly to his brother.
His brother was unable to inform him， but rising， left theoffice， and soon returned with the intelligence that “Bassworked last summer somewhere on Bayou Boeuf.”
“He is the man，” ‘bringing down his hand emphaticallyon the table，’ “who can tell us all about Solomon Northup，”
exclaimed Waddill.
Bass was immediately searched for， but could notbe found. After some inquiry， it was ascertained he wasat the landing on Red River. Procuring a conveyance，young Waddill and Northup were not long in traversingthe few miles to the latter place. On their arrival， Basswas found， just on the point of leaving， to be absent afortnight or more. After an introduction， Northup beggedthe privilege of speaking to him privately a moment. Theywalked together towards the river， when the followingconversation ensued：
“Mr. Bass，” said Northup， “allow me to ask you if youwere on Bayou Boeuf last August？”
“Yes， sir， I was there in August，” was the reply.
“Did you write a letter for a colored man as that placeto some gentleman in Saratoga Springs？”
“Excuse me， sir， if I say that is none of your business，”
answered Bass， stopping and looking his interrogatorsearchingly in the face.
