The Washington Post, March 7th, 1999
He drained the drink. Just one drink. The nausea was almost instantaneous. Then his head exploded in pain. Solomon Northup's new friends led him from the tavern to the National Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue and Sixth Street, where he had awakened that morning with the glorious sum of $43 in his pocket and a document proclaiming him a free black man in slave territory. The day had been almost dreamlike for the young man who had been raised on a farm. He and his white companions had wandered the Capitol's grounds like tourists, visited the White House and joined the throngs in the streets awaitin...
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