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by Harriet Jacobs (AKA Linda Brent)

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Title: Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl
       Written by Herself

Author: Harriet Jacobs (AKA Linda Brent)

Release Date: February 11, 2004 [eBook #11030]
[Most recently updated: August 9, 2021]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: Juliet Sutherland, Andre Lapierre and PG Distributed
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Revised by Richard Tonsing.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A
SLAVE GIRL ***




[Transcriber’s note: The spelling irregularities of the original have been
retained in this etext.]


Incidents

in the

Life of a Slave Girl.


Written by Herself.

Linda Brent


“Northerners know nothing at all about Slavery. They think it is perpetual
bondage only. They have no conception of the depth of _degradation_
involved in that word, SLAVERY; if they had, they would never cease their
efforts until so horrible a system was overthrown.”

A Woman Of North Carolina.


“Rise up, ye women that are at ease! Hear my voice, ye careless daughters!
Give ear unto my speech.”

Isaiah xxxii. 9.


Edited By L. Maria Child.

Boston: Published For The Author.

1861.




Preface By The Author


Reader be assured this narrative is no fiction. I am aware that some of my
adventures may seem incredible; but they are, nevertheless, strictly true.
I have not exaggerated the wrongs inflicted by Slavery; on the contrary, my
descriptions fall far short of the facts. I have concealed the names of
places, and given persons fictitious names. I had no motive for secrecy on
my own account, but I deemed it kind and considerate towards others to
pursue this course.

I wish I were more competent to the task I have undertaken. But I trust my
readers will excuse deficiencies in consideration of circumstances. I was
born and reared in Slavery; and I remained in a Slave State twenty-seven
years. Since I have been at the North, it has been necessary for me to work
diligently for my own support, and the education of my children. This has
not left me much leisure to make up for the loss of early opportunities to
improve myself; and it has compelled me to write these pages at irregular
intervals, whenever I could snatch an hour from household duties.

When I first arrived in Philadelphia, Bishop Paine advised me to publish a
sketch of my life, but I told him I was altogether incompetent to such an
undertaking. Though I have improved my mind somewhat since that time, I
still remain of the same opinion; but I trust my motives will excuse what
might otherwise seem presumptuous. I have not written my experiences in
order to attract attention to myself; on the contrary, it would have been
more pleasant to me to have been silent about my own history. Neither do I
care to excite sympathy for my own sufferings. But I do earnestly desire to
arouse the women of the North to a realizing sense of the condition of two
millions of women at the South, still in bondage, suffering what I
suffered, and most of them far worse. I want to add my testimony to that of
abler pens to convince the people of the Free States what Slavery really
is. Only by experience can any one realize how deep, and dark, and foul is
that pit of abominations. May the blessing of God rest on this imperfect
effort in behalf of my persecuted people!

—_Linda Brent_




Introduction By The Editor


The author of the following autobiography is personally known to me, and
her conversation and manners inspire me with confidence. During the last
seventeen years, she has lived the greater part of the time with a
distinguished family in New York, and has so deported herself as to be
highly esteemed by them. This fact is sufficient, without further
credentials of her character. I believe those who know her will not be
disposed to doubt her veracity, though some incidents in her story are more
romantic than fiction.

At her request, I have revised her manuscript; but such changes as I have
made have been mainly for purposes of condensation and orderly arrangement.
I have not added any thing to the incidents, or changed the import of her
very pertinent remarks. With trifling exceptions, both the ideas and the
language are her own. I pruned excrescences a little, but otherwise I had
no reason for changing her lively and dramatic way of telling her own
story. The names of both persons and places are known to me; but for good
reasons I suppress them.

It will naturally excite surprise that a woman reared in Slavery should be
able to write so well. But circumstances will explain this. In the first
place, nature endowed her with quick perceptions. Secondly, the mistress,
with whom she lived till she was twelve years old, was a kind, considerate
friend, who taught her to read and spell. Thirdly, she was placed in
favorable circumstances after she came to the North; having frequent
intercourse with intelligent persons, who felt a friendly interest in her
welfare, and were disposed to give her opportunities for self-improvement.

I am well aware that many will accuse me of indecorum for presenting these
pages to the public; for the experiences of this intelligent and
much-injured woman belong to a class which some call delicate subjects, and
others indelicate. This peculiar phase of Slavery has generally been kept
veiled; but the public ought to be made acquainted with its monstrous
features, and I willingly take the responsibility of presenting them with
the veil withdrawn. I do this for the sake of my sisters in bondage, who
are suffering wrongs so foul, that our ears are too delicate to listen to
them. I do it with the hope of arousing conscientious and reflecting women
at the North to a sense of their duty in the exertion of moral influence on
the question of Slavery, on all possible occasions. I do it with the hope
that every man who reads this narrative will swear solemnly before God
that, so far as he has power to prevent it, no fugitive from Slavery shall
ever be sent back to suffer in that loathsome den of corruption and
cruelty.

—_L. Maria Child_




Contents


Childhood

The New Master And Mistress

The Slaves’ New Year’s Day

The Slave Who Dared To Feel Like A Man

The Trials Of Girlhood

The Jealous Mistress

The Lover

What Slaves Are Taught To Think Of The North

Sketches Of Neighboring Slaveholders

A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl’s Life

The New Tie To Life

Fear Of Insurrection

The Church And Slavery

Another Link To Life

Continued Persecutions

Scenes At The Plantation

The Flight

Months Of Peril

The Children Sold

New Perils

The Loophole Of Retreat

Christmas Festivities

Still In Prison

The Candidate For Congress

Competition In Cunning

Important Era In My Brother’s Life

New Destination For The Children

Aunt Nancy

Preparations For Escape

Northward Bound

Incidents In Philadelphia

The Meeting Of Mother And Daughter

A Home Found

The Old Enemy Again

Prejudice Against Color

The Hairbreadth Escape

A Visit To England

Renewed Invitations To Go South

The Confession

The Fugitive Slave Law

Free At Last

Appendix




Incidents

in the

Life of A Slave Girl,

Seven Years Concealed.


       *       *       *       *       *




I. Childhood


I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood
had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent
and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were
to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On
condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting
himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs.
His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several
times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In
complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were
termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we
were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a
piece of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be
demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was two
years younger than myself—a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great
treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many
respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his
death, left her mother and his three children free, with money to go to St.
Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War;
and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to
different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me;
but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a little girl when she
was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard
her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she
evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and
mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of
such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in
the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to
seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers
became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of
obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked
permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the
household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she
would clothe herself and her children from the profits. Upon these terms,
after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight
bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved
profitable; and each year she laid by a little, which was saved for a fund
to purchase her children. Her master died, and the property was divided
among his heirs. The widow had her dower in the hotel which she continued
to keep open. My grandmother remained in her service as a slave; but her
children were divided among her master’s children. As she had five,
Benjamin, the youngest one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an
equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference in our
ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He was a bright,
handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother
had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven
hundred and twenty dollars were paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow
to my grandmother, but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with
renewed energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her
children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her mistress one day
begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon. The reader probably knows that
no promise or writing given to a slave is legally binding; for, according
to Southern laws, a slave, _being_ property, can _hold_ no property. When
my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely
to her honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave!

To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother
Willie and I often received portions of the crackers, cakes, and preserves,
she made to sell; and after we ceased to be children we were indebted to
her for many more important services.

Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When
I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I
learned, by the talk around me, that I was a slave. My mother’s mistress
was the daughter of my grandmother’s mistress. She was the foster-sister of
my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother’s breast. In fact, my
mother had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress
might obtain sufficient food. They played together as children; and, when
they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to her whiter
foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her children
should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she kept her
word. They all spoke kindly of my dead mother, who had been a slave merely
in name, but in nature was noble and womanly. I grieved for her, and my
young mind was troubled with the thought who would now take care of me and
my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her mistress;
and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable duties were imposed
on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I was always glad to do her
bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as my young years would permit.
I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently, with a heart as free
from care as that of any free-born white child. When she thought I was
tired, she would send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather
berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were happy days—too happy
to last. The slave child had no thought for the morrow; but there came that
blight, which too surely waits on every human being born to be a chattel.

When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As
I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I prayed
in my heart that she might live! I loved her; for she had been almost like
a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died, and they buried her
in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her
grave.

I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to
begin to think of the future; and again and again I asked myself what they
would do with me. I felt sure I should never find another mistress so kind
as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that her children
should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled
her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes
that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would be so.
They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my mother’s love and
faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a faithful
slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block.

After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we
learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister’s daughter, a child of
five years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the
precepts of God’s Word: “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”
“Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.”
But I was her slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her
neighbor. I would give much to blot out from my memory that one great
wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy days
I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of
injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for
this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a slave, I bless her
memory.

She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed
among her relatives. Five of them were my grandmother’s children, and had
shared the same milk that nourished her mother’s children. Notwithstanding
my grandmother’s long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her
children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no
more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the
horses they tend.




II. The New Master And Mistress.


Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my
mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not
without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my
unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the same
family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting
business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than
is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up
under such influences, he daily detested the name of master and mistress.
One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the
same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had
the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his
mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, “You both called me,
and I didn’t know which I ought to go to first.”

“You are _my_ child,” replied our father, “and when I call you, you should
come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water.”

Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master.
Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in
the credulous hearts of youth.

When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and
cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned
and wept, I felt so desolate and alone.

I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was
buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only
child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I still had
something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, “Come with me,
Linda;” and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led
me apart from the people, and then said, “My child, your father is dead.”
Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard
that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart rebelled
against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend.
The good grandmother tried to comfort me. “Who knows the ways of God?” said
she. “Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to come.”
Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a mother to
her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and
strengthened by her love, I returned to my master’s. I thought I should be
allowed to go to my father’s house the next morning; but I was ordered to
go for flowers, that my mistress’s house might be decorated for an evening
party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons,
while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared
my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they
thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they
were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach;
presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters.

The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my
dear mother. There were those who knew my father’s worth, and respected his
memory.

My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little
slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the
joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried to
comfort him, by saying, “Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come by
and by.”

“You don’t know any thing about it, Linda,” he replied. “We shall have to
stay here all our days; we shall never be free.”

I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we
might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn
money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to say than
to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We held daily
controversies upon this subject.

Little attention was paid to the slaves’ meals in Dr. Flint’s house. If
they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave
myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my
grandmother’s house, where there was always something to spare for me. I
was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my
grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something
for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to _her_ for all my comforts,
spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe.
I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every
winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery.

While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings,
the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When
her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed executor. When
grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent,
and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from
retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money.
I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to
generation.

My grandmother’s mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she
should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise.
But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant
that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold.

On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up,
proclaiming that there would be a “public sale of negroes, horses, &c.” Dr.
Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her
feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose
of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she
understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very
spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress
intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it.
She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves;
consequently, “Aunt Marthy,” as she was called, was generally known, and
every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good character. Her
long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the
intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she
took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon
the auction block. Many voices called out, “Shame! Shame! Who is going to
sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don’t stand there! That is no place for _you_.”
Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At
last, a feeble voice said, “Fifty dollars.” It came from a maiden lady,
seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother’s deceased mistress. She
had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how
faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been
defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer
waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above
her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made
out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she
had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant
her freedom.

At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had
passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had
defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of
my mother’s sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She
was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and
waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of
every thing.

Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She
had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were
so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped,
till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of
the church; but partaking of the Lord’s supper did not seem to put her in a
Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that
particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till
it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used
for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking
out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings.
The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them.
Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I
can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour
barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly
what size they ought to be.

Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without
fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his liking,
he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat every
mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have
objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram it
down her throat till she choked.

They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered
to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was
held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a few
minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been well
cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for
the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman’s stomach
was stronger than the dog’s; but her sufferings afterwards proved that he
was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her master and
mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a
whole day and night.

When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves was
brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he arrived,
and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied up to the
joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that situation he
was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget
that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall;
in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his “O, pray
don’t, massa,” rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many
conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master
accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with his
wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being the
father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very fair.

I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet with
blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and
continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint
handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value
into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of
sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader’s hands,
she said. “You _promised_ to treat me well.” To which he replied, “You have
let your tongue run too far; damn you!” She had forgotten that it was a
crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child.

From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once
saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white.
In her agony she cried out, “O Lord, come and take me!” Her mistress stood
by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. “You suffer, do you?” she
exclaimed. “I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too.”

The girl’s mother said, “The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor
child will soon be in heaven, too.”

“Heaven!” retorted the mistress. “There is no such place for the like of
her and her bastard.”

The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her,
feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, “Don’t grieve so,
mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me.”

Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt
unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on
her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but
the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God
for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life.




III. The Slaves’ New Year’s Day.


Dr. Flint owned a fine residence in town, several farms, and about fifty
slaves, besides hiring a number by the year.

Hiring day at the south takes place on the 1st of January. On the 2d, the
slaves are expected to go to their new masters. On a farm, they work until
the corn and cotton are laid. They then have two holidays. Some masters
give them a good dinner under the trees. This over, they work until
Christmas eve. If no heavy charges are meantime brought against them, they
are given four or five holidays, whichever the master or overseer may think
proper. Then comes New Year’s eve; and they gather together their little
alls, or more properly speaking, their little nothings, and wait anxiously
for the dawning of day. At the appointed hour the grounds are thronged with
men, women, and children, waiting, like criminals, to hear their doom
pronounced. The slave is sure to know who is the most humane, or cruel
master, within forty miles of him.

It is easy to find out, on that day, who clothes and feeds his slaves well;
for he is surrounded by a crowd, begging, “Please, massa, hire me this
year. I will work _very_ hard, massa.”

If a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped, or locked
up in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to run away during
the year. Should he chance to change his mind, thinking it justifiable to
violate an extorted promise, woe unto him if he is caught! The whip is used
till the blood flows at his feet; and his stiffened limbs are put in
chains, to be dragged in the field for days and days!

If he lives until the next year, perhaps the same man will hire him again,
without even giving him an opportunity of going to the hiring-ground. After
those for hire are disposed of, those for sale are called up.

O, you happy free women, contrast _your_ New Year’s day with that of the
poor bondwoman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the light of the day
is blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where, and gifts are showered
upon you. Even hearts that have been estranged from you soften at this
season, and lips that have been silent echo back, “I wish you a happy New
Year.” Children bring their little offerings, and raise their rosy lips for
a caress. They are your own, and no hand but that of death can take them
from you.

But to the slave mother New Year’s day comes laden with peculiar sorrows.
She sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children who may all be torn
from her the next morning; and often does she wish that she and they might
die before the day dawns. She may be an ignorant creature, degraded by the
system that has brutalized her from childhood; but she has a mother’s
instincts, and is capable of feeling a mother’s agonies.

On one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to the
auction block. She knew that _some_ of them would be taken from her; but
they took _all_. The children were sold to a slave-trader, and their mother
was bought by a man in her own town. Before night her children were all
far away. She begged the trader to tell her where he intended to take them;
this he refused to do. How _could_ he, when he knew he would sell them, one
by one, wherever he could command the highest price? I met that mother in
the street, and her wild, haggard face lives to-day in my mind. She wrung
her hands in anguish, and exclaimed, “Gone! All gone! Why _don’t_ God kill
me?” I had no words wherewith to comfort her. Instances of this kind are of
daily, yea, of hourly occurrence.

Slaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of getting rid
of _old_ slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their service. I knew an
old woman, who for seventy years faithfully served her master. She had
become almost helpless, from hard labor and disease. Her owners moved to
Alabama, and the old black woman was left to be sold to any body who would
give twenty dollars for her.




IV. The Slave Who Dared To Feel Like A Man.


Two years had passed since I entered Dr. Flint’s family, and those years
had brought much of the knowledge that comes from experience, though they
had afforded little opportunity for any other kinds of knowledge.

My grandmother had, as much as possible, been a mother to her orphan
grandchildren. By perseverance and unwearied industry, she was now mistress
of a snug little home, surrounded with the necessaries of life. She would
have been happy could her children have shared them with her. There
remained but three children and two grandchildren, all slaves. Most
earnestly did she strive to make us feel that it was the will of God: that
He had seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and though it seemed
hard, we ought to pray for contentment.

It was a beautiful faith, coming from a mother who could not call her
children her own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it. We
reasoned that it was much more the will of God that we should be situated
as she was. We longed for a home like hers. There we always found sweet
balsam for our troubles. She was so loving, so sympathizing! She always met
us with a smile, and listened with patience to all our sorrows. She spoke
so hopefully, that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine. There
was a grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for the
town, and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for us.

But, alas! Even the charms of the old oven failed to reconcile us to our
hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and gracefully
made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave. My brother
William, now twelve years old, had the same aversion to the word master
that he had when he was an urchin of seven years. I was his confidant. He
came to me with all his troubles. I remember one instance in particular. It
was on a lovely spring morning, and when I marked the sunlight dancing here
and there, its beauty seemed to mock my sadness. For my master, whose
restless, craving, vicious nature roved about day and night, seeking whom
to devour, had just left me, with stinging, scorching words; words that
scathed ear and brain like fire. O, how I despised him! I thought how glad
I should be, if some day when he walked the earth, it would open and
swallow him up, and disencumber the world of a plague.

When he told me that I was made for his use, made to obey his command in
_every_ thing; that I was nothing but a slave, whose will must and should
surrender to his, never before had my puny arm felt half so strong.

So deeply was I absorbed in painful reflections afterwards, that I neither
saw nor heard the entrance of any one, till the voice of William sounded
close beside me. “Linda,” said he, “what makes you look so sad? I love you.
O, Linda, isn’t this a bad world? Every body seems so cross and unhappy. I
wish I had died when poor father did.”

I told him that every body was _not_ cross, or unhappy; that those who had
pleasant homes, and kind friends, and who were not afraid to love them,
were happy. But we, who were slave-children, without father or mother,
could not expect to be happy. We must be good; perhaps that would bring us
contentment.

“Yes,” he said, “I try to be good; but what’s the use? They are all the
time troubling me.” Then he proceeded to relate his afternoon’s difficulty
with young master Nicholas. It seemed that the brother of master Nicholas
had pleased himself with making up stories about William. Master Nicholas
said he should be flogged, and he would do it. Whereupon he went to work;
but William fought bravely, and the young master, finding he was getting
the better of him, undertook to tie his hands behind him. He failed in that
likewise. By dint of kicking and fisting, William came out of the skirmish
none the worse for a few scratches.

He continued to discourse, on his young master’s _meanness_; how he whipped
the _little_ boys, but was a perfect coward when a tussle ensued between
him and white boys of his own size. On such occasions he always took to his
legs. William had other charges to make against him. One was his rubbing up
pennies with quicksilver, and passing them off for quarters of a dollar on
an old man who kept a fruit stall. William was often sent to buy fruit, and
he earnestly inquired of me what he ought to do under such circumstances. I
told him it was certainly wrong to deceive the old man, and that it was his
duty to tell him of the impositions practised by his young master. I
assured him the old man would not be slow to comprehend the whole, and
there the matter would end. William thought it might with the old man, but
not with _him_. He said he did not mind the smart of the whip, but he did
not like the _idea_ of being whipped.

While I advised him to be good and forgiving I was not unconscious of the
beam in my own eye. It was the very knowledge of my own shortcomings that
urged me to retain, if possible, some sparks of my brother’s God-given
nature. I had not lived fourteen years in slavery for nothing. I had felt,
seen, and heard enough, to read the characters, and question the motives,
of those around me. The war of my life had begun; and though one of God’s
most powerless creatures, I resolved never to be conquered. Alas, for me!

If there was one pure, sunny spot for me, I believed it to be in Benjamin’s
heart, and in another’s, whom I loved with all the ardor of a girl’s first
love. My owner knew of it, and sought in every way to render me miserable.
He did not resort to corporal punishment, but to all the petty, tyrannical
ways that human ingenuity could devise.

I remember the first time I was punished. It was in the month of February.
My grandmother had taken my old shoes, and replaced them with a new pair. I
needed them; for several inches of snow had fallen, and it still continued
to fall. When I walked through Mrs. Flint’s room, their creaking grated
harshly on her refined nerves. She called me to her, and asked what I had
about me that made such a horrid noise. I told her it was my new shoes.
“Take them off,” said she; “and if you put them on again, I’ll throw them
into the fire.”

I took them off, and my stockings also. She then sent me a long distance,
on an errand. As I went through the snow, my bare feet tingled. That night
I was very hoarse; and I went to bed thinking the next day would find me
sick, perhaps dead. What was my grief on waking to find myself quite well!

I had imagined if I died, or was laid up for some time, that my mistress
would feel a twinge of remorse that she had so hated “the little imp,” as
she styled me. It was my ignorance of that mistress that gave rise to such
extravagant imaginings.

Dr. Flint occasionally had high prices offered for me; but he always said,
“She don’t belong to me. She is my daughter’s property, and I have no right
to sell her.” Good, honest man! My young mistress was still a child, and I
could look for no protection from her. I loved her, and she returned my
affection. I once heard her father allude to her attachment to me, and his
wife promptly replied that it proceeded from fear. This put unpleasant
doubts into my mind. Did the child feign what she did not feel? or was her
mother jealous of the mite of love she bestowed on me? I concluded it must
be the latter. I said to myself, “Surely, little children are true.”

One afternoon I sat at my sewing, feeling unusual depression of spirits. My
mistress had been accusing me of an offence, of which I assured her I was
perfectly innocent; but I saw, by the contemptuous curl of her lip, that
she believed I was telling a lie.

I wondered for what wise purpose God was leading me through such thorny
paths, and whether still darker days were in store for me. As I sat musing
thus, the door opened softly, and William came in. “Well, brother,” said I,
“what is the matter this time?”

“O Linda, Ben and his master have had a dreadful time!” said he.

My first thought was that Benjamin was killed. “Don’t be frightened,
Linda,” said William; “I will tell you all about it.”

It appeared that Benjamin’s master had sent for him, and he did not
immediately obey the summons. When he did, his master was angry, and began
to whip him. He resisted. Master and slave fought, and finally the master
was thrown. Benjamin had cause to tremble; for he had thrown to the ground
his master—one of the richest men in town. I anxiously awaited the
result.

That night I stole to my grandmother’s house; and Benjamin also stole
thither from his master’s. My grandmother had gone to spend a day or two
with an old friend living in the country.

“I have come,” said Benjamin, “to tell you good by. I am going away.”

I inquired where.

“To the north,” he replied.

I looked at him to see whether he was in earnest. I saw it all in his firm,
set mouth. I implored him not to go, but he paid no heed to my words. He
said he was no longer a boy, and every day made his yoke more galling. He
had raised his hand against his master, and was to be publicly whipped for
the offence. I reminded him of the poverty and hardships he must encounter
among strangers. I told him he might be caught and brought back; and that
was terrible to think of.

He grew vexed, and asked if poverty and hardships with freedom, were not
preferable to our treatment in slavery. “Linda,” he continued, “we are dogs
here; foot-balls, cattle, every thing that’s mean. No, I will not stay. Let
them bring me back. We don’t die but once.”

He was right; but it was hard to give him up. “Go,” said I, “and break your
mother’s heart.”

I repented of my words ere they were out.

“Linda,” said he, speaking as I had not heard him speak that evening, “how
_could_ you say that? Poor mother! be kind to her, Linda; and you, too,
cousin Fanny.”

Cousin Fanny was a friend who had lived some years with us.

Farewells were exchanged, and the bright, kind boy, endeared to us by so
many acts of love, vanished from our sight.

It is not necessary to state how he made his escape. Suffice it to say, he
was on his way to New York when a violent storm overtook the vessel. The
captain said he must put into the nearest port. This alarmed Benjamin, who
was aware that he would be advertised in every port near his own town. His
embarrassment was noticed by the captain. To port they went. There the
advertisement met the captain’s eye. Benjamin so exactly answered its
description, that the captain laid hold on him, and bound him in chains.
The storm passed, and they proceeded to New York. Before reaching that port
Benjamin managed to get off his chains and throw them overboard. He escaped
from the vessel, but was pursued, captured, and carried back to his master.

When my grandmother returned home and found her youngest child had fled,
great was her sorrow; but, with characteristic piety, she said, “God’s will
be done.” Each morning, she inquired if any news had been heard from her
boy. Yes, news _was_ heard. The master was rejoicing over a letter,
announcing the capture of his human chattel.

That day seems but as yesterday, so well do I remember it. I saw him led
through the streets in chains, to jail. His face was ghastly pale, yet full
of determination. He had begged one of the sailors to go to his mother’s
house and ask her not to meet him. He said the sight of her distress would
take from him all self-control. She yearned to see him, and she went; but
she screened herself in the crowd, that it might be as her child had said.

We were not allowed to visit him; but we had known the jailer for years,
and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the jail door for my
grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we entered the cell not
a sound broke the stillness. “Benjamin, Benjamin!” whispered my
grandmother. No answer. “Benjamin!” she again faltered. There was a jingle
of chains. The moon had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the
bars of the window. We knelt down and took Benjamin’s cold hands in ours.
We did not speak. Sobs were heard, and Benjamin’s lips were unsealed; for
his mother was weeping on his neck. How vividly does memory bring back that
sad night! Mother and son talked together. He asked her pardon for the
suffering he had caused her. She said she had nothing to forgive; she could
not blame his desire for freedom. He told her that when he was captured, he
broke away, and was about casting himself into the river, when thoughts of
_her_ came over him, and he desisted. She asked if he did not also think of
God. I fancied I saw his face grow fierce in the moonlight. He answered,
“No, I did not think of him. When a man is hunted like a wild beast he
forgets there is a God, a heaven. He forgets every thing in his struggle to
get beyond the reach of the bloodhounds.”

“Don’t talk so, Benjamin,” said she. “Put your trust in God. Be humble, my
child, and your master will forgive you.”

“Forgive me for _what_, mother? For not letting him treat me like a dog?
No! I will never humble myself to him. I have worked for him for nothing
all my life, and I am repaid with stripes and imprisonment. Here I will
stay till I die, or till he sells me.”

The poor mother shuddered at his words. I think he felt it; for when he
next spoke, his voice was calmer. “Don’t fret about me, mother. I ain’t
worth it,” said he. “I wish I had some of your goodness. You bear every
thing patiently, just as though you thought it was all right. I wish I
could.”

She told him she had not always been so; once, she was like him; but when
sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm to lean upon, she learned
to call on God, and he lightened her burdens. She besought him to do
likewise.

We overstaid our time, and were obliged to hurry from the jail.

Benjamin had been imprisoned three weeks, when my grandmother went to
intercede for him with his master. He was immovable. He said Benjamin
should serve as an example to the rest of his slaves; he should be kept in
jail till he was subdued, or be sold if he got but one dollar for him.
However, he afterwards relented in some degree. The chains were taken off,
and we were allowed to visit him.

As his food was of the coarsest kind, we carried him as often as possible a
warm supper, accompanied with some little luxury for the jailer.

Three months elapsed, and there was no prospect of release or of a
purchaser. One day he was heard to sing and laugh. This piece of indecorum
was told to his master, and the overseer was ordered to re-chain him. He
was now confined in an apartment with other prisoners, who were covered
with filthy rags. Benjamin was chained near them, and was soon covered with
vermin. He worked at his chains till he succeeded in getting out of them.
He passed them through the bars of the window, with a request that they
should be taken to his master, and he should be informed that he was
covered with vermin.

This audacity was punished with heavier chains, and prohibition of our
visits.

My grandmother continued to send him fresh changes of clothes. The old ones
were burned up. The last night we saw him in jail his mother still begged
him to send for his master, and beg his pardon. Neither persuasion nor
argument could turn him from his purpose. He calmly answered, “I am waiting
his time.”

Those chains were mournful to hear.

Another three months passed, and Benjamin left his prison walls. We that
loved him waited to bid him a long and last farewell. A slave-trader had
bought him. You remember, I told you what price he brought when ten years
of age. Now he was more than twenty years old, and sold for three hundred
dollars. The master had been blind to his own interest. Long confinement
had made his face too pale, his form too thin; moreover, the trader had
heard something of his character, and it did not strike him as suitable for
a slave. He said he would give any price if the handsome lad was a girl. We
thanked God that he was not.

Could you have seen that mother clinging to her child, when they fastened
the irons upon his wrists; could you have heard her heart-rending groans,
and seen her bloodshot eyes wander wildly from face to face, vainly
pleading for mercy; could you have witnessed that scene as I saw it, you
would exclaim, _Slavery is damnable_! Benjamin, her youngest, her pet, was
forever gone! She could not realize it. She had had an interview with the
trader for the purpose of ascertaining if Benjamin could be purchased. She
was told it was impossible, as he had given bonds not to sell him till he
was out of the state. He promised that he would not sell him till he
reached New Orleans.

With a strong arm and unvaried trust, my grandmother began her work of
love. Benjamin must be free. If she succeeded, she knew they would still be
separated; but the sacrifice was not too great. Day and night she labored.
The trader’s price would treble that he gave; but she was not discouraged.

She employed a lawyer to write to a gentleman, whom she knew, in New
Orleans. She begged him to interest himself for Benjamin, and he willingly
favored her request. When he saw Benjamin, and stated his business, he
thanked him; but said he preferred to wait a while before making the trader
an offer. He knew he had tried to obtain a high price for him, and had
invariably failed. This encouraged him to make another effort for freedom.
So one morning, long before day, Benjamin was missing. He was riding over
the blue billows, bound for Baltimore.

For once his white face did him a kindly service. They had no suspicion
that it belonged to a slave; otherwise, the law would have been followed
out to the letter, and the _thing_ rendered back to slavery. The brightest
skies are often overshadowed by the darkest clouds. Benjamin was taken
sick, and compelled to remain in Baltimore three weeks. His strength was
slow in returning; and his desire to continue his journey seemed to retard
his recovery. How could he get strength without air and exercise? He
resolved to venture on a short walk. A by-street was selected, where he
thought himself secure of not being met by any one that knew him; but a
voice called out, “Halloo, Ben, my boy! what are you doing _here_!”

His first impulse was to run; but his legs trembled so that he could not
stir. He turned to confront his antagonist, and behold, there stood his old
master’s next door neighbor! He thought it was all over with him now; but
it proved otherwise. That man was a miracle. He possessed a goodly number
of slaves, and yet was not quite deaf to that mystic clock, whose ticking
is rarely heard in the slaveholder’s breast.

“Ben, you are sick,” said he. “Why, you look like a ghost. I guess I gave
you something of a start. Never mind, Ben, I am not going to touch you. You
had a pretty tough time of it, and you may go on your way rejoicing for all
me. But I would advise you to get out of this place plaguy quick, for there
are several gentlemen here from our town.” He described the nearest and
safest route to New York, and added, “I shall be glad to tell your mother I
have seen you. Good by, Ben.”

Benjamin turned away, filled with gratitude, and surprised that the town he
hated contained such a gem—a gem worthy of a purer setting.

This gentleman was a Northerner by birth, and had married a southern lady.
On his return, he told my grandmother that he had seen her son, and of the
service he had rendered him.

Benjamin reached New York safely, and concluded to stop there until he had
gained strength enough to proceed further. It happened that my
grandmother’s only remaining son had sailed for the same city on business
for his mistress. Through God’s providence, the brothers met. You may be
sure it was a happy meeting. “O Phil,” exclaimed Benjamin, “I am here at
last.” Then he told him how near he came to dying, almost in sight of free
land, and how he prayed that he might live to get one breath of free air.
He said life was worth something now, and it would be hard to die. In the
old jail he had not valued it; once, he was tempted to destroy it; but
something, he did not know what, had prevented him; perhaps it was fear. He
had heard those who profess to be religious declare there was no heaven for
self-murderers; and as his life had been pretty hot here, he did not desire
a continuation of the same in another world. “If I die now,” he exclaimed,
“thank God, I shall die a freeman!”

He begged my uncle Phillip not to return south; but stay and work with him,
till they earned enough to buy those at home. His brother told him it would
kill their mother if he deserted her in her trouble. She had pledged her
house, and with difficulty had raised money to buy him. Would he be bought?

“No, never!” he replied. “Do you suppose, Phil, when I have got so far out
of their clutches, I will give them one red cent? No! And do you suppose I
would turn mother out of her home in her old age? That I would let her pay
all those hard-earned dollars for me, and never to see me? For you know she
will stay south as long as her other children are slaves. What a good
mother! Tell her to buy _you_, Phil. You have been a comfort to her, and I
have been a trouble. And Linda, poor Linda; what’ll become of her? Phil,
you don’t know what a life they lead her. She has told me something about
it, and I wish old Flint was dead, or a better man. When I was in jail, he
asked her if she didn’t want _him_ to ask my master to forgive me, and take
me home again. She told him, No; that I didn’t want to go back. He got mad,
and said we were all alike. I never despised my own master half as much as
I do that man. There is many a worse slaveholder than my master; but for
all that I would not be his slave.”

While Benjamin was sick, he had parted with nearly all his clothes to pay
necessary expenses. But he did not part with a little pin I fastened in his
bosom when we parted. It was the most valuable thing I owned, and I thought
none more worthy to wear it. He had it still.

His brother furnished him with clothes, and gave him what money he had.

They parted with moistened eyes; and as Benjamin turned away, he said,
“Phil, I part with all my kindred.” And so it proved. We never heard from
him again.

Uncle Phillip came home; and the first words he uttered when he entered the
house were, “Mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in New York.” She stood
looking at him with a bewildered air. “Mother, don’t you believe it?” he
said, laying his hand softly upon her shoulder. She raised her hands, and
exclaimed, “God be praised! Let us thank him.” She dropped on her knees,
and poured forth her heart in prayer. Then Phillip must sit down and repeat
to her every word Benjamin had said. He told her all; only he forbore to
mention how sick and pale her darling looked. Why should he distress her
when she could do him no good?

The brave old woman still toiled on, hoping to rescue some of her other
children. After a while she succeeded in buying Phillip. She paid eight
hundred dollars, and came home with the precious document that secured his
freedom. The happy mother and son sat together by the old hearthstone that
night, telling how proud they were of each other, and how they would prove
to the world that they could take care of themselves, as they had long
taken care of others. We all concluded by saying, “He that is _willing_ to
be a slave, let him be a slave.”




V. The Trials Of Girlhood.


During the first years of my service in Dr. Flint’s family, I was
accustomed to share some indulgences with the children of my mistress.
Though this seemed to me no more than right, I was grateful for it, and
tried to merit the kindness by the faithful discharge of my duties. But I
now entered on my fifteenth year—a sad epoch in the life of a slave girl.
My master began to whisper foul words in my ear. Young as I was, I could
not remain ignorant of their import. I tried to treat them with
indifference or contempt. The master’s age, my extreme youth, and the fear
that his conduct would be reported to my grandmother, made him bear this
treatment for many months. He was a crafty man, and resorted to many means
to accomplish his purposes. Sometimes he had stormy, terrific ways, that
made his victims tremble; sometimes he assumed a gentleness that he thought
must surely subdue. Of the two, I preferred his stormy moods, although they
left me trembling. He tried his utmost to corrupt the pure principles my
grandmother had instilled. He peopled my young mind with unclean images,
such as only a vile monster could think of. I turned from him with disgust
and hatred. But he was my master. I was compelled to live under the same
roof with him—where I saw a man forty years my senior daily violating the
most sacred commandments of nature. He told me I was his property; that I
must be subject to his will in all things. My soul revolted against the
mean tyranny. But where could I turn for protection? No matter whether the
slave girl be as black as ebony or as fair as her mistress. In either case,
there is no shadow of law to protect her from insult, from violence, or
even from death; all these are inflicted by fiends who bear the shape of
men. The mistress, who ought to protect the helpless victim, has no other
feelings towards her but those of jealousy and rage. The degradation, the
wrongs, the vices, that grow out of slavery, are more than I can describe.
They are greater than you would willingly believe. Surely, if you credited
one half the truths that are told you concerning the helpless millions
suffering in this cruel bondage, you at the north would not help to tighten
the yoke. You surely would refuse to do for the master, on your own soil,
the mean and cruel work which trained bloodhounds and the lowest class of
whites do for him at the south.

Every where the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery
the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows. Even the little child,
who is accustomed to wait on her mistress and her children, will learn,
before she is twelve years old, why it is that her mistress hates such and
such a one among the slaves. Perhaps the child’s own mother is among those
hated ones. She listens to violent outbreaks of jealous passion, and cannot
help understanding what is the cause. She will become prematurely knowing
in evil things. Soon she will learn to tremble when she hears her master’s
footfall. She will be compelled to realize that she is no longer a child.
If God has bestowed beauty upon her, it will prove her greatest curse. That
which commands admiration in the white woman only hastens the degradation
of the female slave. I know that some are too much brutalized by slavery to
feel the humiliation of their position; but many slaves feel it most
acutely, and shrink from the memory of it. I cannot tell how much I
suffered in the presence of these wrongs, nor how I am still pained by the
retrospect. My master met me at every turn, reminding me that I belonged to
him, and swearing by heaven and earth that he would compel me to submit to
him. If I went out for a breath of fresh air, after a day of unwearied
toil, his footsteps dogged me. If I knelt by my mother’s grave, his dark
shadow fell on me even there. The light heart which nature had given me
became heavy with sad forebodings. The other slaves in my master’s house
noticed the change. Many of them pitied me; but none dared to ask the
cause. They had no need to inquire. They knew too well the guilty practices
under that roof; and they were aware that to speak of them was an offence
that never went unpunished.

I longed for some one to confide in. I would have given the world to have
laid my head on my grandmother’s faithful bosom, and told her all my
troubles. But Dr. Flint swore he would kill me, if I was not as silent as
the grave. Then, although my grandmother was all in all to me, I feared her
as well as loved her. I had been accustomed to look up to her with a
respect bordering upon awe. I was very young, and felt shamefaced about
telling her such impure things, especially as I knew her to be very strict
on such subjects. Moreover, she was a woman of a high spirit. She was
usually very quiet in her demeanor; but if her indignation was once
roused, it was not very easily quelled. I had been told that she once
chased a white gentleman with a loaded pistol, because he insulted one
of her daughters. I dreaded the consequences of a violent outbreak;
and both pride and fear kept me silent. But though I did not confide
in my grandmother, and even evaded her vigilant watchfulness and inquiry,
her presence in the neighborhood was some protection to me. Though she
had been a slave, Dr. Flint was afraid of her. He dreaded her scorching
rebukes. Moreover, she was known and patronized by many people; and he
did not wish to have his villainy made public. It was lucky for me that
I did not live on a distant plantation, but in a town not so large that
the inhabitants were ignorant of each other’s affairs. Bad as are the
laws and customs in a slaveholding community, the doctor, as a
professional man, deemed it prudent to keep up some outward show of
decency.

O, what days and nights of fear and sorrow that man caused me! Reader, it
is not to awaken sympathy for myself that I am telling you truthfully what
I suffered in slavery. I do it to kindle a flame of compassion in your
hearts for my sisters who are still in bondage, suffering as I once
suffered.

I once saw two beautiful children playing together. One was a fair white
child; the other was her slave, and also her sister. When I saw them
embracing each other, and heard their joyous laughter, I turned sadly away
from the lovely sight. I foresaw the inevitable blight that would fall on
the little slave’s heart. I knew how soon her laughter would be changed to
sighs. The fair child grew up to be a still fairer woman. From childhood to
womanhood her pathway was blooming with flowers, and overarched by a sunny
sky. Scarcely one day of her life had been clouded when the sun rose on her
happy bridal morning.

How had those years dealt with her slave sister, the little playmate of her
childhood? She, also, was very beautiful; but the flowers and sunshine of
love were not for her. She drank the cup of sin, and shame, and misery,
whereof her persecuted race are compelled to drink.

In view of these things, why are ye silent, ye free men and women of the
north? Why do your tongues falter in maintenance of the right? Would that I
had more ability! But my heart is so full, and my pen is so weak! There are
noble men and women who plead for us, striving to help those who cannot
help themselves. God bless them! God give them strength and courage to go
on! God bless those, every where, who are laboring to advance the cause of
humanity!




VI. The Jealous Mistress.


I would ten thousand times rather that my children should be the
half-starved paupers of Ireland than to be the most pampered among the
slaves of America. I would rather drudge out my life on a cotton
plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to live with an
unprincipled master and a jealous mistress. The felon’s home in a
penitentiary is preferable. He may repent, and turn from the error of his
ways, and so find peace; but it is not so with a favorite slave. She is not
allowed to have any pride of character. It is deemed a crime in her to wish
to be virtuous.

Mrs. Flint possessed the key to her husband’s character before I was born.
She might have used this knowledge to counsel and to screen the young and
the innocent among her slaves; but for them she had no sympathy. They were
the objects of her constant suspicion and malevolence. She watched her
husband with unceasing vigilance; but he was well practised in means to
evade it. What he could not find opportunity to say in words he manifested
in signs. He invented more than were ever thought of in a deaf and dumb
asylum. I let them pass, as if I did not understand what he meant; and many
were the curses and threats bestowed on me for my stupidity. One day he
caught me teaching myself to write. He frowned, as if he was not well
pleased; but I suppose he came to the conclusion that such an
accomplishment might help to advance his favorite scheme. Before long,
notes were often slipped into my hand. I would return them, saying, “I
can’t read them, sir.” “Can’t you?” he replied; “then I must read them to
you.” He always finished the reading by asking, “Do you understand?”
Sometimes he would complain of the heat of the tea room, and order his
supper to be placed on a small table in the piazza. He would seat himself
there with a well-satisfied smile, and tell me to stand by and brush away
the flies. He would eat very slowly, pausing between the mouthfuls. These
intervals were employed in describing the happiness I was so foolishly
throwing away, and in threatening me with the penalty that finally awaited
my stubborn disobedience. He boasted much of the forbearance he had
exercised towards me, and reminded me that there was a limit to his
patience. When I succeeded in avoiding opportunities for him to talk to me
at home, I was ordered to come to his office, to do some errand. When
there, I was obliged to stand and listen to such language as he saw fit to
address to me. Sometimes I so openly expressed my contempt for him that he
would become violently enraged, and I wondered why he did not strike me.
Circumstanced as he was, he probably thought it was better policy to be
forebearing. But the state of things grew worse and worse daily. In
desperation I told him that I must and would apply to my grandmother for
protection. He threatened me with death, and worse than death, if I made
any complaint to her. Strange to say, I did not despair. I was naturally of
a buoyant disposition, and always I had a hope of somehow getting out of
his clutches. Like many a poor, simple slave before me, I trusted that some
threads of joy would yet be woven into my dark destiny.

I had entered my sixteenth year, and every day it became more apparent that
my presence was intolerable to Mrs. Flint. Angry words frequently passed
between her and her husband. He had never punished me himself, and he would
not allow any body else to punish me. In that respect, she was never
satisfied; but, in her angry moods, no terms were too vile for her to
bestow upon me. Yet I, whom she detested so bitterly, had far more pity for
her than he had, whose duty it was to make her life happy. I never wronged
her, or wished to wrong her, and one word of kindness from her would have
brought me to her feet.

After repeated quarrels between the doctor and his wife, he announced his
intention to take his youngest daughter, then four years old, to sleep in
his apartment. It was necessary that a servant should sleep in the same
room, to be on hand if the child stirred. I was selected for that office,
and informed for what purpose that arrangement had been made. By managing
to keep within sight of people, as much as possible, during the day time, I
had hitherto succeeded in eluding my master, though a razor was often held
to my throat to force me to change this line of policy. At night I slept by
the side of my great aunt, where I felt safe. He was too prudent to come
into her room. She was an old woman, and had been in the family many years.
Moreover, as a married man, and a professional man, he deemed it necessary
to save appearances in some degree. But he resolved to remove the obstacle
in the way of his scheme; and he thought he had planned it so that he
should evade suspicion. He was well aware how much I prized my refuge by
the side of my old aunt, and he determined to dispossess me of it. The
first night the doctor had the little child in his room alone. The next
morning, I was ordered to take my station as nurse the following night. A
kind Providence interposed in my favor. During the day Mrs. Flint heard of
this new arrangement, and a storm followed. I rejoiced to hear it rage.

After a while my mistress sent for me to come to her room. Her first
question was, “Did you know you were to sleep in the doctor’s room?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who told you?”

“My master.”

“Will you answer truly all the questions I ask?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell me, then, as you hope to be forgiven, are you innocent of what I have
accused you?”

“I am.”

She handed me a Bible, and said, “Lay your hand on your heart, kiss this
holy book, and swear before God that you tell me the truth.”

I took the oath she required, and I did it with a clear conscience.

“You have taken God’s holy word to testify your innocence,” said she. “If
you have deceived me, beware! Now take this stool, sit down, look me
directly in the face, and tell me all that has passed between your master
and you.”

I did as she ordered. As I went on with my account her color changed
frequently, she wept, and sometimes groaned. She spoke in tones so sad,
that I was touched by her grief. The tears came to my eyes; but I was soon
convinced that her emotions arose from anger and wounded pride. She felt
that her marriage vows were desecrated, her dignity insulted; but she had
no compassion for the poor victim of her husband’s perfidy. She pitied
herself as a martyr; but she was incapable of feeling for the condition of
shame and misery in which her unfortunate, helpless slave was placed. Yet
perhaps she had some touch of feeling for me; for when the conference was
ended, she spoke kindly, and promised to protect me. I should have been
much comforted by this assurance if I could have had confidence in it; but
my experiences in slavery had filled me with distrust. She was not a very
refined woman, and had not much control over her passions. I was an object
of her jealousy, and, consequently, of her hatred; and I knew I could not
expect kindness or confidence from her under the circumstances in which I
was placed. I could not blame her. Slaveholders’ wives feel as other women
would under similar circumstances. The fire of her temper kindled from
small-sparks, and now the flame became so intense that the doctor was
obliged to give up his intended arrangement.

I knew I had ignited the torch, and I expected to suffer for it afterwards;
but I felt too thankful to my mistress for the timely aid she rendered me
to care much about that. She now took me to sleep in a room adjoining her
own. There I was an object of her especial care, though not to her especial
comfort, for she spent many a sleepless night to watch over me. Sometimes I
woke up, and found her bending over me. At other times she whispered in my
ear, as though it was her husband who was speaking to me, and listened to
hear what I would answer. If she startled me, on such occasions, she would
glide stealthily away; and the next morning she would tell me I had been
talking in my sleep, and ask who I was talking to. At last, I began to be
fearful for my life. It had been often threatened; and you can imagine,
better than I can describe, what an unpleasant sensation it must produce to
wake up in the dead of night and find a jealous woman bending over you.
Terrible as this experience was, I had fears that it would give place to
one more terrible.

My mistress grew weary of her vigils; they did not prove satisfactory. She
changed her tactics. She now tried the trick of accusing my master of
crime, in my presence, and gave my name as the author of the accusation. To
my utter astonishment, he replied, “I don’t believe it; but if she did
acknowledge it, you tortured her into exposing me.” Tortured into exposing
him! Truly, Satan had no difficulty in distinguishing the color of his
soul! I understood his object in making this false representation. It was
to show me that I gained nothing by seeking the protection of my mistress;
that the power was still all in his own hands. I pitied Mrs. Flint. She was
a second wife, many years the junior of her husband; and the hoary-headed
miscreant was enough to try the patience of a wiser and better woman. She
was completely foiled, and knew not how to proceed. She would gladly have
had me flogged for my supposed false oath; but, as I have already stated,
the doctor never allowed any one to whip me. The old sinner was politic.
The application of the lash might have led to remarks that would have
exposed him in the eyes of his children and grandchildren. How often did I
rejoice that I lived in a town where all the inhabitants knew each other!
If I had been on a remote plantation, or lost among the multitude of a
crowded city, I should not be a living woman at this day.

The secrets of slavery are concealed like those of the Inquisition. My
master was, to my knowledge, the father of eleven slaves. But did the
mothers dare to tell who was the father of their children? Did the other
slaves dare to allude to it, except in whispers among themselves? No,
indeed! They knew too well the terrible consequences.

My grandmother could not avoid seeing things which excited her suspicions.
She was uneasy about me, and tried various ways to buy me; but the
never-changing answer was always repeated: “Linda does not belong to _me_.
She is my daughter’s property, and I have no legal right to sell her.” The
conscientious man! He was too scrupulous to _sell_ me; but he had no
scruples whatever about committing a much greater wrong against the
helpless young girl placed under his guardianship, as his daughter’s
property. Sometimes my persecutor would ask me whether I would like to be
sold. I told him I would rather be sold to any body than to lead such a
life as I did. On such occasions he would assume the air of a very injured
individual, and reproach me for my ingratitude. “Did I not take you into
the house, and make you the companion of my own children?” he would say.
“Have _I_ ever treated you like a negro? I have never allowed you to be
punished, not even to please your mistress. And this is the recompense I
get, you ungrateful girl!” I answered that he had reasons of his own for
screening me from punishment, and that the course he pursued made my
mistress hate me and persecute me. If I wept, he would say, “Poor child!
Don’t cry! don’t cry! I will make peace for you with your mistress. Only
let me arrange matters in my own way. Poor, foolish girl! you don’t know
what is for your own good. I would cherish you. I would make a lady of you.
Now go, and think of all I have promised you.”

I did think of it.

Reader, I draw no imaginary pictures of southern homes. I am telling you
the plain truth. Yet when victims make their escape from the wild beast of
Slavery, northerners consent to act the part of bloodhounds, and hunt the
poor fugitive back into his den, “full of dead men’s bones, and all
uncleanness.” Nay, more, they are not only willing, but proud, to give
their daughters in marriage to slaveholders. The poor girls have romantic
notions of a sunny clime, and of the flowering vines that all the year
round shade a happy home. To what disappointments are they destined! The
young wife soon learns that the husband in whose hands she has placed her
happiness pays no regard to his marriage vows. Children of every shade of
complexion play with her own fair babies, and too well she knows that they
are born unto him of his own household. Jealousy and hatred enter the
flowery home, and it is ravaged of its loveliness.

Southern women often marry a man knowing that he is the father of many
little slaves. They do not trouble themselves about it. They regard such
children as property, as marketable as the pigs on the plantation; and it
is seldom that they do not make them aware of this by passing them into the
slave-trader’s hands as soon as possible, and thus getting them out of
their sight. I am glad to say there are some honorable exceptions.

I have myself known two southern wives who exhorted their husbands to free
those slaves towards whom they stood in a “parental relation;” and their
request was granted. These husbands blushed before the superior nobleness
of their wives’ natures. Though they had only counselled them to do that
which it was their duty to do, it commanded their respect, and rendered
their conduct more exemplary. Concealment was at an end, and confidence
took the place of distrust.

Though this bad institution deadens the moral sense, even in white women,
to a fearful extent, it is not altogether extinct. I have heard southern
ladies say of Mr. Such a one, “He not only thinks it no disgrace to be the
father of those little niggers, but he is not ashamed to call himself their
master. I declare, such things ought not to be tolerated in any decent
society!”




VII. The Lover.


Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine
around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of
violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can
bow in resignation, and say, “Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!” But
when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he
causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a
young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved and I indulged the hope that the
dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the
land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land

   Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind;
   Nor words a language; nor e’en men mankind.
   Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
   And each is tortured in his separate hell.

There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free-born man.
We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together
afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I
loved him with all the ardor of a young girl’s first love. But when I
reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the
marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I
knew that Dr. Flint was too willful and arbitrary a man to consent to that
arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sort of opposition,
and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would have been delighted
to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind
of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I
was married near home I should be just as much in her husband’s power as I
had previously been,—for the husband of a slave has no power to protect
her. Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves
had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely
to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young
slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. “I
will have you peeled and pickled, my lady,” said she, “if I ever hear you
mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending
_my_ children with the children of that nigger?” The girl to whom she said
this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The
poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his
helpless offspring.

Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss
what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults
that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about
it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She
had long suspected all was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I
knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes.

This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not
bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in
the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint’s, who often visited the
house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a
friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great influence
with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I
was aware that my lover’s being a free-born man would prove a great
objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that
arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price.
She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that
perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her
of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her
utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I
believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose.

How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his
presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next
morning, a message was brought to me: “Master wants you in his study.” I
found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who
claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear
calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked
fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, “I have half a mind
to kill you on the spot.” At last he broke the silence, and that was a
relief to both of us.

“So you want to be married, do you?” said he, “and to a free nigger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger
fellow you honor so highly. If you _must_ have a husband, you may take up
with one of my slaves.”

What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of _his_ slaves, even
if my heart had been interested!

I replied, “Don’t you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference
about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?”

“Do you love this nigger?” said he, abruptly.

“Yes, sir.”

“How dare you tell me so!” he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight
pause, he added, “I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt
above the insults of such puppies.”

I replied, “If he is a puppy, I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro
race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call
a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not
believe me to be a virtuous woman.”

He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the
first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my
anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, “You
have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!”

There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be
my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to reflect on what I
had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, “Do you know what
you have said?”

“Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it.”

“Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,—that I can kill
you, if I please?”

“You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do
as you like with me.”

“Silence!” he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. “By heavens, girl, you
forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to
your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne
from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How
would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?”

“I know I have been disrespectful, sir,” I replied; “but you drove me to
it; I couldn’t help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me
there than there is here.”

“You deserve to go there,” said he, “and to be under such treatment, that
you would forget the meaning of the word _peace_. It would do you good. It
would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send
you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and
forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you
happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you
have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be
lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your
character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you
and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish
you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that
fellow’s name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I
will cowhide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will
shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I’ll teach you
a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last
time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject.”

Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I
never shall again. Somebody has called it “the atmosphere of hell;” and I
believe it is so.

For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me;
to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable
addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base proposals
of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were
very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he
watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me
read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters
with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry
for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he
contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it,
and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed
regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was
wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was
doing myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up his
mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and
intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she
was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I
merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly
bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following
day.

The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I
laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my
answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young
mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to
stop at his office on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter,
and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, “I am your daughter’s
property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you
please.” He said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we
should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and
I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However
that might be, I was determined that I would never go to Louisiana with
him.

Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint’s eldest son was sent
to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news
did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with _him_.
That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to
the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of
the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields
to work. Is it strange, that I was not proud of these protectors? As for
the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a
bloodhound.

Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I
heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the
corner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my
master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I
was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. “When
is mistress to be married?” said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths
and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man!
that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in the street!

Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no
hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron
will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was an
intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to
marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to
protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the
insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I
knew they must “follow the condition of the mother.” What a terrible blight
that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For _his_ sake, I
felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was
going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and
hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to
come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would
not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He
left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me
the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt
lonely and desolate.

Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my
affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into
my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I
still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by
the reflection that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden
freak of my master. If he had known how we loved each other, I think he
would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could
get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said
than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of
getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was
strongly opposed to her children’s undertaking any such project. She had
not forgotten poor Benjamin’s sufferings, and she was afraid that if
another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To
me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself,
“William _must_ be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him.”
Many a slave sister has formed the same plans.




VIII. What Slaves Are Taught To Think Of The North.


Slaveholders pride themselves upon being honorable men; but if you were to
hear the enormous lies they tell their slaves, you would have small respect
for their veracity. I have spoken plain English. Pardon me. I cannot use a
milder term. When they visit the north, and return home, they tell their
slaves of the runaways they have seen, and describe them to be in the most
deplorable condition. A slaveholder once told me that he had seen a runaway
friend of mine in New York, and that she besought him to take her back to
her master, for she was literally dying of starvation; that many days she
had only one cold potato to eat, and at other times could get nothing at
all. He said he refused to take her, because he knew her master would not
thank him for bringing such a miserable wretch to his house. He ended by
saying to me, “This is the punishment she brought on herself for running
away from a kind master.”

This whole story was false. I afterwards staid with that friend in New
York, and found her in comfortable circumstances. She had never thought of
such a thing as wishing to go back to slavery. Many of the slaves believe
such stories, and think it is not worth while to exchange slavery for such
a hard kind of freedom. It is difficult to persuade such that freedom could
make them useful men, and enable them to protect their wives and children.
If those heathen in our Christian land had as much teaching as some
Hindoos, they would think otherwise. They would know that liberty is more
valuable than life. They would begin to understand their own capabilities,
and exert themselves to become men and women.

But while the Free States sustain a law which hurls fugitives back into
slavery, how can the slaves resolve to become men? There are some who
strive to protect wives and daughters from the insults of their masters;
but those who have such sentiments have had advantages above the general
mass of slaves. They have been partially civilized and Christianized by
favorable circumstances. Some are bold enough to _utter_ such sentiments to
their masters. O, that there were more of them!

Some poor creatures have been so brutalized by the lash that they will
sneak out of the way to give their masters free access to their wives and
daughters. Do you think this proves the black man to belong to an inferior
order of beings? What would _you_ be, if you had been born and brought up a
slave, with generations of slaves for ancestors? I admit that the black man
_is_ inferior. But what is it that makes him so? It is the ignorance in
which white men compel him to live; it is the torturing whip that lashes
manhood out of him; it is the fierce bloodhounds of the South, and the
scarcely less cruel human bloodhounds of the north, who enforce the
Fugitive Slave Law. _They_ do the work.

Southern gentlemen indulge in the most contemptuous expressions about the
Yankees, while they, on their part, consent to do the vilest work for them,
such as the ferocious bloodhounds and the despised negro-hunters are
employed to do at home. When southerners go to the north, they are proud to
do them honor; but the northern man is not welcome south of Mason and
Dixon’s line, unless he suppresses every thought and feeling at variance
with their “peculiar institution.” Nor is it enough to be silent. The
masters are not pleased, unless they obtain a greater degree of
subservience than that; and they are generally accommodated. Do they
respect the northerner for this? I trow not. Even the slaves despise “a
northern man with southern principles;” and that is the class they
generally see. When northerners go to the south to reside, they prove very
apt scholars. They soon imbibe the sentiments and disposition of their
neighbors, and generally go beyond their teachers. Of the two, they are
proverbially the hardest masters.

They seem to satisfy their consciences with the doctrine that God created
the Africans to be slaves. What a libel upon the heavenly Father, who “made
of one blood all nations of men!” And then who _are_ Africans? Who can
measure the amount of Anglo-Saxon blood coursing in the veins of American
slaves?

I have spoken of the pains slaveholders take to give their slaves a bad
opinion of the north; but, notwithstanding this, intelligent slaves are
aware that they have many friends in the Free States. Even the most
ignorant have some confused notions about it. They knew that I could read;
and I was often asked if I had seen any thing in the newspapers about white
folks over in the big north, who were trying to get their freedom for them.
Some believe that the abolitionists have already made them free, and that
it is established by law, but that their masters prevent the law from going
into effect. One woman begged me to get a newspaper and read it over. She
said her husband told her that the black people had sent word to the queen
of ’Merica that they were all slaves; that she didn’t believe it, and went
to Washington city to see the president about it. They quarrelled; she drew
her sword upon him, and swore that he should help her to make them all
free.

That poor, ignorant woman thought that America was governed by a Queen, to
whom the President was subordinate. I wish the President was subordinate to
Queen Justice.




IX. Sketches Of Neighboring Slaveholders.


There was a planter in the country, not far from us, whom I will call Mr.
Litch. He was an ill-bred, uneducated man, but very wealthy. He had six
hundred slaves, many of whom he did not know by sight. His extensive
plantation was managed by well-paid overseers. There was a jail and a
whipping post on his grounds; and whatever cruelties were perpetrated
there, they passed without comment. He was so effectually screened by his
great wealth that he was called to no account for his crimes, not even for
murder.

Various were the punishments resorted to. A favorite one was to tie a rope
round a man’s body, and suspend him from the ground. A fire was kindled
over him, from which was suspended a piece of fat pork. As this cooked, the
scalding drops of fat continually fell on the bare flesh. On his own
plantation, he required very strict obedience to the eighth commandment.
But depredations on the neighbors were allowable, provided the culprit
managed to evade detection or suspicion. If a neighbor brought a charge of
theft against any of his slaves, he was browbeaten by the master, who
assured him that his slaves had enough of every thing at home, and had no
inducement to steal. No sooner was the neighbor’s back turned, than the
accused was sought out, and whipped for his lack of discretion. If a slave
stole from him even a pound of meat or a peck of corn, if detection
followed, he was put in chains and imprisoned, and so kept till his form
was attenuated by hunger and suffering.

A freshet once bore his wine cellar and meat house miles away from the
plantation. Some slaves followed, and secured bits of meat and bottles of
wine. Two were detected; a ham and some liquor being found in their huts.
They were summoned by their master. No words were used, but a club felled
them to the ground. A rough box was their coffin, and their interment was a
dog’s burial. Nothing was said.

Murder was so common on his plantation that he feared to be alone after
nightfall. He might have believed in ghosts.

His brother, if not equal in wealth, was at least equal in cruelty. His
bloodhounds were well trained. Their pen was spacious, and a terror to the
slaves. They were let loose on a runway, and, if they tracked him, they
literally tore the flesh from his bones. When this slaveholder died, his
shrieks and groans were so frightful that they appalled his own friends.
His last words were, “I am going to hell; bury my money with me.”

After death his eyes remained open. To press the lids down, silver dollars
were laid on them. These were buried with him. From this circumstance, a
rumor went abroad that his coffin was filled with money. Three times his
grave was opened, and his coffin taken out. The last time, his body was
found on the ground, and a flock of buzzards were pecking at it. He was
again interred, and a sentinel set over his grave. The perpetrators were
never discovered.

Cruelty is contagious in uncivilized communities. Mr. Conant, a neighbor of
Mr. Litch, returned from town one evening in a partial state of
intoxication. His body servant gave him some offence. He was divested of
his clothes, except his shirt, whipped, and tied to a large tree in front
of the house. It was a stormy night in winter. The wind blew bitterly cold,
and the boughs of the old tree crackled under falling sleet. A member of
the family, fearing he would freeze to death, begged that he might be taken
down; but the master would not relent. He remained there three hours; and,
when he was cut down, he was more dead than alive. Another slave, who stole
a pig from this master, to appease his hunger, was terribly flogged. In
desperation, he tried to run away. But at the end of two miles, he was so
faint with loss of blood, he thought he was dying. He had a wife, and he
longed to see her once more. Too sick to walk, he crept back that long
distance on his hands and knees. When he reached his master’s, it was
night. He had not strength to rise and open the gate. He moaned, and tried
to call for help. I had a friend living in the same family. At last his cry
reached her. She went out and found the prostrate man at the gate. She ran
back to the house for assistance, and two men returned with her. They
carried him in, and laid him on the floor. The back of his shirt was one
clot of blood. By means of lard, my friend loosened it from the raw flesh.
She bandaged him, gave him cool drink, and left him to rest. The master
said he deserved a hundred more lashes. When his own labor was stolen from
him, he had stolen food to appease his hunger. This was his crime.

Another neighbor was a Mrs. Wade. At no hour of the day was there cessation
of the lash on her premises. Her labors began with the dawn, and did not
cease till long after nightfall. The barn was her particular place of
torture. There she lashed the slaves with the might of a man. An old slave
of hers once said to me, “It is hell in missis’s house. ’Pears I can never
get out. Day and night I prays to die.”

The mistress died before the old woman, and, when dying, entreated her
husband not to permit any one of her slaves to look on her after death. A
slave who had nursed her children, and had still a child in her care,
watched her chance, and stole with it in her arms to the room where lay her
dead mistress. She gazed a while on her, then raised her hand and dealt two
blows on her face, saying, as she did so, “The devil is got you _now_!” She
forgot that the child was looking on. She had just begun to talk; and she
said to her father, “I did see ma, and mammy did strike ma, so,” striking
her own face with her little hand. The master was startled. He could not
imagine how the nurse could obtain access to the room where the corpse lay;
for he kept the door locked. He questioned her. She confessed that what the
child had said was true, and told how she had procured the key. She was
sold to Georgia.

In my childhood I knew a valuable slave, named Charity, and loved her, as
all children did. Her young mistress married, and took her to Louisiana.
Her little boy, James, was sold to a good sort of master. He became
involved in debt, and James was sold again to a wealthy slaveholder, noted
for his cruelty. With this man he grew up to manhood, receiving the
treatment of a dog. After a severe whipping, to save himself from further
infliction of the lash, with which he was threatened, he took to the woods.
He was in a most miserable condition—cut by the cowskin, half naked, half
starved, and without the means of procuring a crust of bread.

Some weeks after his escape, he was captured, tied, and carried back to his
master’s plantation. This man considered punishment in his jail, on bread
and water, after receiving hundreds of lashes, too mild for the poor
slave’s offence. Therefore he decided, after the overseer should have
whipped him to his satisfaction, to have him placed between the screws of
the cotton gin, to stay as long as he had been in the woods. This wretched
creature was cut with the whip from his head to his feet, then washed with
strong brine, to prevent the flesh from mortifying, and make it heal sooner
than it otherwise would. He was then put into the cotton gin, which was
screwed down, only allowing him room to turn on his side when he could not
lie on his back. Every morning a slave was sent with a piece of bread and
bowl of water, which was placed within reach of the poor fellow. The slave
was charged, under penalty of severe punishment, not to speak to him.

Four days passed, and the slave continued to carry the bread and water. On
the second morning, he found the bread gone, but the water untouched. When
he had been in the press four days and five night, the slave informed his
master that the water had not been used for four mornings, and that
horrible stench came from the gin house. The overseer was sent to examine
into it. When the press was unscrewed, the dead body was found partly eaten
by rats and vermin. Perhaps the rats that devoured his bread had gnawed him
before life was extinct. Poor Charity! Grandmother and I often asked each
other how her affectionate heart would bear the news, if she should ever
hear of the murder of her son. We had known her husband, and knew that
James was like him in manliness and intelligence. These were the qualities
that made it so hard for him to be a plantation slave. They put him into a
rough box, and buried him with less feeling than would have been manifested
for an old house dog. Nobody asked any questions. He was a slave; and the
feeling was that the master had a right to do what he pleased with his own
property. And what did _he_ care for the value of a slave? He had hundreds
of them. When they had finished their daily toil, they must hurry to eat
their little morsels, and be ready to extinguish their pine knots before
nine o’clock, when the overseer went his patrol rounds. He entered every
cabin, to see that men and their wives had gone to bed together, lest the
men, from over-fatigue, should fall asleep in the chimney corner, and
remain there till the morning horn called them to their daily task. Women
are considered of no value, unless they continually increase their owner’s
stock. They are put on a par with animals. This same master shot a woman
through the head, who had run away and been brought back to him. No one
called him to account for it. If a slave resisted being whipped, the
bloodhounds were unpacked, and set upon him, to tear his flesh from his
bones. The master who did these things was highly educated, and styled a
perfect gentleman. He also boasted the name and standing of a Christian,
though Satan never had a truer follower.

I could tell of more slaveholders as cruel as those I have described. They
are not exceptions to the general rule. I do not say there are no humane
slaveholders. Such characters do exist, notwithstanding the hardening
influences around them. But they are “like angels’ visits—few and far
between.”

I knew a young lady who was one of these rare specimens. She was an orphan,
and inherited as slaves a woman and her six children. Their father was a
free man. They had a comfortable home of their own, parents and children
living together. The mother and eldest daughter served their mistress
during the day, and at night returned to their dwelling, which was on the
premises. The young lady was very pious, and there was some reality in her
religion. She taught her slaves to lead pure lives, and wished them to
enjoy the fruit of their own industry. _Her_ religion was not a garb put on
for Sunday, and laid aside till Sunday returned again. The eldest daughter
of the slave mother was promised in marriage to a free man; and the day
before the wedding this good mistress emancipated her, in order that her
marriage might have the sanction of _law_.

Report said that this young lady cherished an unrequited affection for a
man who had resolved to marry for wealth. In the course of time a rich
uncle of hers died. He left six thousand dollars to his two sons by a
colored woman, and the remainder of his property to this orphan niece. The
metal soon attracted the magnet. The lady and her weighty purse became his.
She offered to manumit her slaves—telling them that her marriage might
make unexpected changes in their destiny, and she wished to insure their
happiness. They refused to take their freedom, saying that she had always
been their best friend, and they could not be so happy any where as with
her. I was not surprised. I had often seen them in their comfortable home,
and thought that the whole town did not contain a happier family. They had
never felt slavery; and, when it was too late, they were convinced of its
reality.

When the new master claimed this family as his property, the father became
furious, and went to his mistress for protection. “I can do nothing for you
now, Harry,” said she. “I no longer have the power I had a week ago. I have
succeeded in obtaining the freedom of your wife; but I cannot obtain it for
your children.” The unhappy father swore that nobody should take his
children from him. He concealed them in the woods for some days; but they
were discovered and taken. The father was put in jail, and the two oldest
boys sold to Georgia. One little girl, too young to be of service to her
master, was left with the wretched mother. The other three were carried to
their master’s plantation. The eldest soon became a mother; and when the
slaveholder’s wife looked at the babe, she wept bitterly. She knew that her
own husband had violated the purity she had so carefully inculcated. She
had a second child by her master, and then he sold her and his offspring to
his brother. She bore two children to the brother and was sold again. The
next sister went crazy. The life she was compelled to lead drove her mad.
The third one became the mother of five daughters. Before the birth of the
fourth the pious mistress died. To the last, she rendered every kindness to
the slaves that her unfortunate circumstances permitted. She passed away
peacefully, glad to close her eyes on a life which had been made so
wretched by the man she loved.

This man squandered the fortune he had received, and sought to retrieve his
affairs by a second marriage; but, having retired after a night of drunken
debauch, he was found dead in the morning. He was called a good master; for
he fed and clothed his slaves better than most masters, and the lash was
not heard on his plantation so frequently as on many others. Had it not
been for slavery, he would have been a better man, and his wife a happier
woman.

No pen can give an adequate description of the all-pervading corruption
produced by slavery. The slave girl is reared in an atmosphere of
licentiousness and fear. The lash and the foul talk of her master and his
sons are her teachers. When she is fourteen or fifteen, her owner, or his
sons, or the overseer, or perhaps all of them, begin to bribe her with
presents. If these fail to accomplish their purpose, she is whipped or
starved into submission to their will. She may have had religious
principles inculcated by some pious mother or grandmother, or some good
mistress; she may have a lover, whose good opinion and peace of mind are
dear to her heart; or the profligate men who have power over her may be
exceedingly odious to her. But resistance is hopeless.

   The poor worm
   Shall prove her contest vain. Life’s little day
   Shall pass, and she is gone!

The slaveholder’s sons are, of course, vitiated, even while boys, by the
unclean influences every where around them. Nor do the master’s daughters
always escape. Severe retributions sometimes come upon him for the wrongs
he does to the daughters of the slaves. The white daughters early hear
their parents quarrelling about some female slave. Their curiosity is
excited, and they soon learn the cause. They are attended by the young
slave girls whom their father has corrupted; and they hear such talk as
should never meet youthful ears, or any other ears. They know that the
woman slaves are subject to their father’s authority in all things; and in
some cases they exercise the same authority over the men slaves. I have
myself seen the master of such a household whose head was bowed down in
shame; for it was known in the neighborhood that his daughter had selected
one of the meanest slaves on his plantation to be the father of his first
grandchild. She did not make her advances to her equals, nor even to her
father’s more intelligent servants. She selected the most brutalized, over
whom her authority could be exercised with less fear of exposure. Her
father, half frantic with rage, sought to revenge himself on the offending
black man; but his daughter, foreseeing the storm that would arise, had
given him free papers, and sent him out of the state.

In such cases the infant is smothered, or sent where it is never seen by
any who know its history. But if the white parent is the _father_, instead
of the mother, the offspring are unblushingly reared for the market. If
they are girls, I have indicated plainly enough what will be their
inevitable destiny.

You may believe what I say; for I write only that whereof I know. I was
twenty-one years in that cage of obscene birds. I can testify, from my own
experience and observation, that slavery is a curse to the whites as well
as to the blacks. It makes white fathers cruel and sensual; the sons
violent and licentious; it contaminates the daughters, and makes the wives
wretched. And as for the colored race, it needs an abler pen than mine to
describe the extremity of their sufferings, the depth of their degradation.

Yet few slaveholders seem to be aware of the widespread moral ruin
occasioned by this wicked system. Their talk is of blighted cotton
crops—not of the blight on their children’s souls.

If you want to be fully convinced of the abominations of slavery, go on a
southern plantation, and call yourself a negro trader. Then there will be
no concealment; and you will see and hear things that will seem to you
impossible among human beings with immortal souls.




X. A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl’s Life.


After my lover went away, Dr. Flint contrived a new plan. He seemed to have
an idea that my fear of my mistress was his greatest obstacle. In the
blandest tones, he told me that he was going to build a small house for me,
in a secluded place, four miles away from the town. I shuddered; but I was
constrained to listen, while he talked of his intention to give me a home
of my own, and to make a lady of me. Hitherto, I had escaped my dreaded
fate, by being in the midst of people. My grandmother had already had high
words with my master about me. She had told him pretty plainly what she
thought of his character, and there was considerable gossip in the
neighborhood about our affairs, to which the open-mouthed jealousy of Mrs.
Flint contributed not a little. When my master said he was going to build a
house for me, and that he could do it with little trouble and expense, I
was in hopes something would happen to frustrate his scheme; but I soon
heard that the house was actually begun. I vowed before my Maker that I
would never enter it: I had rather toil on the plantation from dawn till
dark; I had rather live and die in jail, than drag on, from day to day,
through such a living death. I was determined that the master, whom I so
hated and loathed, who had blighted the prospects of my youth, and made my
life a desert, should not, after my long struggle with him, succeed at last
in trampling his victim under his feet. I would do any thing, every thing,
for the sake of defeating him. What _could_ I do? I thought and thought,
till I became desperate, and made a plunge into the abyss.

And now, reader, I come to a period in my unhappy life, which I would
gladly forget if I could. The remembrance fills me with sorrow and shame.
It pains me to tell you of it; but I have promised to tell you the truth,
and I will do it honestly, let it cost me what it may. I will not try to
screen myself behind the plea of compulsion from a master; for it was not
so. Neither can I plead ignorance or thoughtlessness. For years, my master
had done his utmost to pollute my mind with foul images, and to destroy the
pure principles inculcated by my grandmother, and the good mistress of my
childhood. The influences of slavery had had the same effect on me that
they had on other young girls; they had made me prematurely knowing,
concerning the evil ways of the world. I knew what I did, and I did it with
deliberate calculation.

But, O, ye happy women, whose purity has been sheltered from childhood, who
have been free to choose the objects of your affection, whose homes are
protected by law, do not judge the poor desolate slave girl too severely!
If slavery had been abolished, I, also, could have married the man of my
choice; I could have had a home shielded by the laws; and I should have
been spared the painful task of confessing what I am now about to relate;
but all my prospects had been blighted by slavery. I wanted to keep myself
pure; and, under the most adverse circumstances, I tried hard to preserve
my self-respect; but I was struggling alone in the powerful grasp of the
demon Slavery; and the monster proved too strong for me. I felt as if I was
forsaken by God and man; as if all my efforts must be frustrated; and I
became reckless in my despair.

I have told you that Dr. Flint’s persecutions and his wife’s jealousy had
given rise to some gossip in the neighborhood. Among others, it chanced
that a white unmarried gentleman had obtained some knowledge of the
circumstances in which I was placed. He knew my grandmother, and often
spoke to me in the street. He became interested for me, and asked questions
about my master, which I answered in part. He expressed a great deal of
sympathy, and a wish to aid me. He constantly sought opportunities to see
me, and wrote to me frequently. I was a poor slave girl, only fifteen years
old.

So much attention from a superior person was, of course, flattering; for
human nature is the same in all. I also felt grateful for his sympathy, and
encouraged by his kind words. It seemed to me a great thing to have such a
friend. By degrees, a more tender feeling crept into my heart. He was an
educated and eloquent gentleman; too eloquent, alas, for the poor slave
girl who trusted in him. Of course I saw whither all this was tending. I
knew the impassable gulf between us; but to be an object of interest to a
man who is not married, and who is not her master, is agreeable to the
pride and feelings of a slave, if her miserable situation has left her any
pride or sentiment. It seems less degrading to give one’s self, than to
submit to compulsion. There is something akin to freedom in having a lover
who has no control over you, except that which he gains by kindness and
attachment. A master may treat you as rudely as he pleases, and you dare
not speak; moreover, the wrong does not seem so great with an unmarried
man, as with one who has a wife to be made unhappy. There may be sophistry
in all this; but the condition of a slave confuses all principles of
morality, and, in fact, renders the practice of them impossible.

When I found that my master had actually begun to build the lonely cottage,
other feelings mixed with those I have described. Revenge, and calculations
of interest, were added to flattered vanity and sincere gratitude for
kindness. I knew nothing would enrage Dr. Flint so much as to know that I
favored another, and it was something to triumph over my tyrant even in
that small way. I thought he would revenge himself by selling me, and I was
sure my friend, Mr. Sands, would buy me. He was a man of more generosity
and feeling than my master, and I thought my freedom could be easily
obtained from him. The crisis of my fate now came so near that I was
desperate. I shuddered to think of being the mother of children that should
be owned by my old tyrant. I knew that as soon as a new fancy took him, his
victims were sold far off to get rid of them; especially if they had
children. I had seen several women sold, with babies at the breast. He
never allowed his offspring by slaves to remain long in sight of himself
and his wife. Of a man who was not my master I could ask to have my
children well supported; and in this case, I felt confident I should obtain
the boon. I also felt quite sure that they would be made free. With all
these thoughts revolving in my mind, and seeing no other way of escaping
the doom I so much dreaded, I made a headlong plunge. Pity me, and pardon
me, O virtuous reader! You never knew what it is to be a slave; to be
entirely unprotected by law or custom; to have the laws reduce you to the
condition of a chattel, entirely subject to the will of another. You never
exhausted your ingenuity in avoiding the snares, and eluding the power of a
hated tyrant; you never shuddered at the sound of his footsteps, and
trembled within hearing of his voice. I know I did wrong. No one can feel
it more sensibly than I do. The painful and humiliating memory will haunt
me to my dying day. Still, in looking back, calmly, on the events of my
life, I feel that the slave woman ought not to be judged by the same
standard as others.

The months passed on. I had many unhappy hours. I secretly mourned over the
sorrow I was bringing on my grandmother, who had so tried to shield me from
harm. I knew that I was the greatest comfort of her old age, and that it
was a source of pride to her that I had not degraded myself, like most of
the slaves. I wanted to confess to her that I was no longer worthy of her
love; but I could not utter the dreaded words.

As for Dr. Flint, I had a feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the
thought of telling _him_. From time to time he told me of his intended
arrangements, and I was silent. At last, he came and told me the cottage
was completed, and ordered me to go to it. I told him I would never enter
it. He said, “I have heard enough of such talk as that. You shall go, if
you are carried by force; and you shall remain there.”

I replied, “I will never go there. In a few months I shall be a mother.”

He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house without a
word. I thought I should be happy in my triumph over him. But now that the
truth was out, and my relatives would hear of it, I felt wretched. Humble
as were their circumstances, they had pride in my good character. Now, how
could I look at them in the face? My self-respect was gone! I had resolved
that I would be virtuous, though I was a slave. I had said, “Let the storm
beat! I will brave it till I die.” And now, how humiliated I felt!

I went to my grandmother. My lips moved to make confession, but the words
stuck in my throat. I sat down in the shade of a tree at her door and began
to sew. I think she saw something unusual was the matter with me. The
mother of slaves is very watchful. She knows there is no security for her
children. After they have entered their teens she lives in daily
expectation of trouble. This leads to many questions. If the girl is of a
sensitive nature, timidity keeps her from answering truthfully, and this
well-meant course has a tendency to drive her from maternal counsels.
Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman, and accused me concerning
her husband. My grandmother, whose suspicions had been previously awakened,
believed what she said. She exclaimed, “O Linda! Has it come to this? I had
rather see you dead than to see you as you now are. You are a disgrace to
your dead mother.” She tore from my fingers my mother’s wedding ring and
her silver thimble. “Go away!” she exclaimed, “and never come to my house,
again.” Her reproaches fell so hot and heavy, that they left me no chance
to answer. Bitter tears, such as the eyes never shed but once, were my only
answer. I rose from my seat, but fell back again, sobbing. She did not
speak to me; but the tears were running down her furrowed cheeks, and they
scorched me like fire. She had always been so kind to me! _So_ kind! How I
longed to throw myself at her feet, and tell her all the truth! But she had
ordered me to go, and never to come there again. After a few minutes, I
mustered strength, and started to obey her. With what feelings did I now
close that little gate, which I used to open with such an eager hand in my
childhood! It closed upon me with a sound I never heard before.

Where could I go? I was afraid to return to my master’s. I walked on
recklessly, not caring where I went, or what would become of me. When I had
gone four or five miles, fatigue compelled me to stop. I sat down on the
stump of an old tree. The stars were shining through the boughs above me.
How they mocked me, with their bright, calm light! The hours passed by, and
as I sat there alone a chilliness and deadly sickness came over me. I sank
on the ground. My mind was full of horrid thoughts. I prayed to die; but
the prayer was not answered. At last, with great effort I roused myself,
and walked some distance further, to the house of a woman who had been a
friend of my mother. When I told her why I was there, she spoke soothingly
to me; but I could not be comforted. I thought I could bear my shame if I
could only be reconciled to my grandmother. I longed to open my heart to
her. I thought if she could know the real state of the case, and all I had
been bearing for years, she would perhaps judge me less harshly. My friend
advised me to send for her. I did so; but days of agonizing suspense passed
before she came. Had she utterly forsaken me? No. She came at last. I knelt
before her, and told her the things that had poisoned my life; how long I
had been persecuted; that I saw no way of escape; and in an hour of
extremity I had become desperate. She listened in silence. I told her I
would bear any thing and do any thing, if in time I had hopes of obtaining
her forgiveness. I begged of her to pity me, for my dead mother’s sake. And
she did pity me. She did not say, “I forgive you;” but she looked at me
lovingly, with her eyes full of tears. She laid her old hand gently on my
head, and murmured, “Poor child! Poor child!”




XI. The New Tie To Life.


I returned to my good grandmother’s house. She had an interview with Mr.
Sands. When she asked him why he could not have left her one ewe
lamb,—whether there were not plenty of slaves who did not care about
character,—he made no answer, but he spoke kind and encouraging words. He
promised to care for my child, and to buy me, be the conditions what they
might.

I had not seen Dr. Flint for five days. I had never seen him since I made
the avowal to him. He talked of the disgrace I had brought on myself; how I
had sinned against my master, and mortified my old grandmother. He
intimated that if I had accepted his proposals, he, as a physician, could
have saved me from exposure. He even condescended to pity me. Could he have
offered wormwood more bitter? He, whose persecutions had been the cause of
my sin!

“Linda,” said he, “though you have been criminal towards me, I feel for
you, and I can pardon you if you obey my wishes. Tell me whether the fellow
you wanted to marry is the father of your child. If you deceive me, you
shall feel the fires of hell.”

I did not feel as proud as I had done. My strongest weapon with him was
gone. I was lowered in my own estimation, and had resolved to bear his
abuse in silence. But when he spoke contemptuously of the lover who had
always treated me honorably; when I remembered that but for _him_ I might
have been a virtuous, free, and happy wife, I lost my patience. “I have
sinned against God and myself,” I replied; “but not against you.”

He clinched his teeth, and muttered, “Curse you!” He came towards me, with
ill-suppressed rage, and exclaimed, “You obstinate girl! I could grind your
bones to powder! You have thrown yourself away on some worthless rascal.
You are weak-minded, and have been easily persuaded by those who don’t care
a straw for you. The future will settle accounts between us. You are
blinded now; but hereafter you will be convinced that your master was your
best friend. My lenity towards you is a proof of it. I might have punished
you in many ways. I might have whipped till you fell dead under the lash.
But I wanted you to live; I would have bettered your condition. Others
cannot do it. You are my slave. Your mistress, disgusted by your conduct,
forbids you to return to the house; therefore I leave you here for the
present; but I shall see you often. I will call to-morrow.”

He came with frowning brows, that showed a dissatisfied state of mind.
After asking about my health, he inquired whether my board was paid, and
who visited me. He then went on to say that he had neglected his duty; that
as a physician there were certain things that he ought to have explained to
me. Then followed talk such as would have made the most shameless blush. He
ordered me to stand up before him. I obeyed. “I command you,” said he, “to
tell me whether the father of your child is white or black.” I hesitated.
“Answer me this instant!” he exclaimed. I did answer. He sprang upon me
like a wolf, and grabbed my arm as if he would have broken it. “Do you love
him?” said he, in a hissing tone.

“I am thankful that I do not despise him,” I replied.

He raised his hand to strike me; but it fell again. I don’t know what
arrested the blow. He sat down, with lips tightly compressed. At last he
spoke. “I came here,” said he, “to make you a friendly proposition; but
your ingratitude chafes me beyond endurance. You turn aside all my good
intentions towards you. I don’t know what it is that keeps me from killing
you.” Again he rose, as if he had a mind to strike me.

But he resumed. “On one condition I will forgive your insolence and crime.
You must henceforth have no communication of any kind with the father of
your child. You must not ask any thing from him, or receive any thing from
him. I will take care of you and your child. You had better promise this at
once, and not wait till you are deserted by him. This is the last act of
mercy I shall show towards you.”

I said something about being unwilling to have my child supported by a man
who had cursed it and me also. He rejoined, that a woman who had sunk to my
level had no right to expect any thing else. He asked, for the last time,
would I accept his kindness? I answered that I would not.

“Very well,” said he; “then take the consequences of your wayward course.
Never look to me for help. You are my slave, and shall always be my slave.
I will never sell you, that you may depend upon.”

Hope died away in my heart as he closed the door after him. I had
calculated that in his rage he would sell me to a slave-trader; and I knew
the father of my child was on the watch to buy me.

About this time my uncle Phillip was expected to return from a voyage. The
day before his departure I had officiated as bridesmaid to a young friend.
My heart was then ill at ease, but my smiling countenance did not betray
it. Only a year had passed; but what fearful changes it had wrought! My
heart had grown gray in misery. Lives that flash in sunshine, and lives
that are born in tears, receive their hue from circumstances. None of us
know what a year may bring forth.

I felt no joy when they told me my uncle had come. He wanted to see me,
though he knew what had happened. I shrank from him at first; but at last
consented that he should come to my room. He received me as he always had
done. O, how my heart smote me when I felt his tears on my burning cheeks!
The words of my grandmother came to my mind,—“Perhaps your mother and
father are taken from the evil days to come.” My disappointed heart could
now praise God that it was so. But why, thought I, did my relatives ever
cherish hopes for me? What was there to save me from the usual fate of
slave girls? Many more beautiful and more intelligent than I had
experienced a similar fate, or a far worse one. How could they hope that I
should escape?

My uncle’s stay was short, and I was not sorry for it. I was too ill in
mind and body to enjoy my friends as I had done. For some weeks I was
unable to leave my bed. I could not have any doctor but my master, and I
would not have him sent for. At last, alarmed by my increasing illness,
they sent for him. I was very weak and nervous; and as soon as he entered
the room, I began to scream. They told him my state was very critical. He
had no wish to hasten me out of the world, and he withdrew.

When my babe was born, they said it was premature. It weighed only four
pounds; but God let it live. I heard the doctor say I could not survive
till morning. I had often prayed for death; but now I did not want to die,
unless my child could die too. Many weeks passed before I was able to leave
my bed. I was a mere wreck of my former self. For a year there was scarcely
a day when I was free from chills and fever. My babe also was sickly. His
little limbs were often racked with pain. Dr. Flint continued his visits,
to look after my health; and he did not fail to remind me that my child was
an addition to his stock of slaves.

I felt too feeble to dispute with him, and listened to his remarks in
silence. His visits were less frequent; but his busy spirit could not
remain quiet. He employed my brother in his office; and he was made the
medium of frequent notes and messages to me. William was a bright lad, and
of much use to the doctor. He had learned to put up medicines, to leech,
cup, and bleed. He had taught himself to read and spell. I was proud of my
brother, and the old doctor suspected as much. One day, when I had not seen
him for several weeks, I heard his steps approaching the door. I dreaded
the encounter, and hid myself. He inquired for me, of course; but I was
nowhere to be found. He went to his office, and despatched William with a
note. The color mounted to my brother’s face when he gave it to me; and he
said, “Don’t you hate me, Linda, for bringing you these things?” I told him
I could not blame him; he was a slave, and obliged to obey his master’s
will. The note ordered me to come to his office. I went. He demanded to
know where I was when he called. I told him I was at home. He flew into a
passion, and said he knew better. Then he launched out upon his usual
themes,—my crimes against him, and my ingratitude for his forbearance. The
laws were laid down to me anew, and I was dismissed. I felt humiliated that
my brother should stand by, and listen to such language as would be
addressed only to a slave. Poor boy! He was powerless to defend me; but I
saw the tears, which he vainly strove to keep back. The manifestation of
feeling irritated the doctor. William could do nothing to please him. One
morning he did not arrive at the office so early as usual; and that
circumstance afforded his master an opportunity to vent his spleen. He was
put in jail. The next day my brother sent a trader to the doctor, with a
request to be sold. His master was greatly incensed at what he called his
insolence. He said he had put him there, to reflect upon his bad conduct,
and he certainly was not giving any evidence of repentance. For two days he
harassed himself to find somebody to do his office work; but every thing
went wrong without William. He was released, and ordered to take his old
stand, with many threats, if he was not careful about his future behavior.

As the months passed on, my boy improved in health. When he was a year old,
they called him beautiful. The little vine was taking deep root in my
existence, though its clinging fondness excited a mixture of love and pain.
When I was most sorely oppressed I found a solace in his smiles. I loved to
watch his infant slumbers; but always there was a dark cloud over my
enjoyment. I could never forget that he was a slave. Sometimes I wished
that he might die in infancy. God tried me. My darling became very ill. The
bright eyes grew dull, and the little feet and hands were so icy cold that
I thought death had already touched them. I had prayed for his death, but
never so earnestly as I now prayed for his life; and my prayer was heard.
Alas, what mockery it is for a slave mother to try to pray back her dying
child to life! Death is better than slavery. It was a sad thought that I
had no name to give my child. His father caressed him and treated him
kindly, whenever he had a chance to see him. He was not unwilling that he
should bear his name; but he had no legal claim to it; and if I had
bestowed it upon him, my master would have regarded it as a new crime, a
new piece of insolence, and would, perhaps, revenge it on the boy. O, the
serpent of Slavery has many and poisonous fangs!




XII. Fear Of Insurrection.


Not far from this time Nat Turner’s insurrection broke out; and the news
threw our town into great commotion. Strange that they should be alarmed,
when their slaves were so “contented and happy”! But so it was.

It was always the custom to have a muster every year. On that occasion
every white man shouldered his musket. The citizens and the so-called
country gentlemen wore military uniforms. The poor whites took their places
in the ranks in every-day dress, some without shoes, some without hats.
This grand occasion had already passed; and when the slaves were told there
was to be another muster, they were surprised and rejoiced. Poor creatures!
They thought it was going to be a holiday. I was informed of the true state
of affairs, and imparted it to the few I could trust. Most gladly would I
have proclaimed it to every slave; but I dared not. All could not be relied
on. Mighty is the power of the torturing lash.

By sunrise, people were pouring in from every quarter within twenty miles
of the town. I knew the houses were to be searched; and I expected it would
be done by country bullies and the poor whites. I knew nothing annoyed them
so much as to see colored people living in comfort and respectability; so I
made arrangements for them with especial care. I arranged every thing in my
grandmother’s house as neatly as possible. I put white quilts on the beds,
and decorated some of the rooms with flowers. When all was arranged, I sat
down at the window to watch. Far as my eye could reach, it rested on a
motley crowd of soldiers. Drums and fifes were discoursing martial music.
The men were divided into companies of sixteen, each headed by a captain.
Orders were given, and the wild scouts rushed in every direction, wherever
a colored face was to be found.

It was a grand opportunity for the low whites, who had no negroes of their
own to scourge. They exulted in such a chance to exercise a little brief
authority, and show their subserviency to the slaveholders; not reflecting
that the power which trampled on the colored people also kept themselves in
poverty, ignorance, and moral degradation. Those who never witnessed such
scenes can hardly believe what I know was inflicted at this time on
innocent men, women, and children, against whom there was not the slightest
ground for suspicion. Colored people and slaves who lived in remote parts
of the town suffered in an especial manner. In some cases the searchers
scattered powder and shot among their clothes, and then sent other parties
to find them, and bring them forward as proof that they were plotting
insurrection. Every where men, women, and children were whipped till the
blood stood in puddles at their feet. Some received five hundred lashes;
others were tied hands and feet, and tortured with a bucking paddle, which
blisters the skin terribly. The dwellings of the colored people, unless
they happened to be protected by some influential white person, who was
nigh at hand, were robbed of clothing and every thing else the marauders
thought worth carrying away. All day long these unfeeling wretches went
round, like a troop of demons, terrifying and tormenting the helpless. At
night, they formed themselves into patrol bands, and went wherever they
chose among the colored people, acting out their brutal will. Many women
hid themselves in woods and swamps, to keep out of their way. If any of the
husbands or fathers told of these outrages, they were tied up to the public
whipping post, and cruelly scourged for telling lies about white men. The
consternation was universal. No two people that had the slightest tinge of
color in their faces dared to be seen talking together.

I entertained no positive fears about our household, because we were in the
midst of white families who would protect us. We were ready to receive the
soldiers whenever they came. It was not long before we heard the tramp of
feet and the sound of voices. The door was rudely pushed open; and in they
tumbled, like a pack of hungry wolves. They snatched at every thing within
their reach. Every box, trunk, closet, and corner underwent a thorough
examination. A box in one of the drawers containing some silver change was
eagerly pounced upon. When I stepped forward to take it from them, one of
the soldiers turned and said angrily, “What d’ye foller us fur? D’ye s’pose
white folks is come to steal?”

I replied, “You have come to search; but you have searched that box, and I
will take it, if you please.”

At that moment I saw a white gentleman who was friendly to us; and I called
to him, and asked him to have the goodness to come in and stay till the
search was over. He readily complied. His entrance into the house brought
in the captain of the company, whose business it was to guard the outside
of the house, and see that none of the inmates left it. This officer was
Mr. Litch, the wealthy slaveholder whom I mentioned, in the account of
neighboring planters, as being notorious for his cruelty. He felt above
soiling his hands with the search. He merely gave orders; and, if a bit of
writing was discovered, it was carried to him by his ignorant followers,
who were unable to read.

My grandmother had a large trunk of bedding and table cloths. When that was
opened, there was a great shout of surprise; and one exclaimed, “Where’d
the damned niggers git all dis sheet an’ table clarf?”

My grandmother, emboldened by the presence of our white protector said,
“You may be sure we didn’t pilfer ’em from _your_ houses.”

“Look here, mammy,” said a grim-looking fellow without any coat, “you seem
to feel mighty gran’ ’cause you got all them ’ere fixens. White folks
oughter have ’em all.”

His remarks were interrupted by a chorus of voices shouting, “We’s got ’em!
We’s got ’em! Dis ’ere yaller gal’s got letters!”

There was a general rush for the supposed letter, which, upon examination,
proved to be some verses written to me by a friend. In packing away my
things, I had overlooked them. When their captain informed them of their
contents, they seemed much disappointed. He inquired of me who wrote them.
I told him it was one of my friends. “Can you read them?” he asked. When I
told him I could, he swore, and raved, and tore the paper into bits. “Bring
me all your letters!” said he, in commanding tone. I told him I had none.
“Don’t be afraid,” he continued, in an insinuating way. “Bring them all to
me. Nobody shall do you any harm.” Seeing I did not move to obey him, his
pleasant tone changed to oaths and threats. “Who writes to you? half free
niggers?” inquired he. I replied, “O, no; most of my letters are from white
people. Some request me to burn them after they are read, and some I
destroy without reading.”

An exclamation of surprise from some of the company put a stop to our
conversation. Some silver spoons which ornamented an old-fashioned buffet
had just been discovered. My grandmother was in the habit of preserving
fruit for many ladies in the town, and of preparing suppers for parties;
consequently she had many jars of preserves. The closet that contained
these was next invaded, and the contents tasted. One of them, who was
helping himself freely, tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, and said, “Wal
done! Don’t wonder de niggers want to kill all de white folks, when dey
live on ’sarves” [meaning preserves]. I stretched out my hand to take the
jar, saying, “You were not sent here to search for sweetmeats.”

“And what _were_ we sent for?” said the captain, bristling up to me. I
evaded the question.

The search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn us.
They next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush and vine,
with no better success. The captain called his men together, and, after a
short consultation, the order to march was given. As they passed out of the
gate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a malediction on the house.
He said it ought to be burned to the ground, and each of its inmates
receive thirty-nine lashes. We came out of this affair very fortunately;
not losing any thing except some wearing apparel.

Towards evening the turbulence increased. The soldiers, stimulated by
drink, committed still greater cruelties. Shrieks and shouts continually
rent the air. Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under the window
curtain. I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored people, each white
man, with his musket upraised, threatening instant death if they did not
stop their shrieks. Among the prisoners was a respectable old colored
minister. They had found a few parcels of shot in his house, which his wife
had for years used to balance her scales. For this they were going to shoot
him on Court House Green. What a spectacle was that for a civilized
country! A rabble, staggering under intoxication, assuming to be the
administrators of justice!

The better class of the community exerted their influence to save the
innocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded, by
keeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated. At last the white
citizens found that their own property was not safe from the lawless rabble
they had summoned to protect them. They rallied the drunken swarm, drove
them back into the country, and set a guard over the town.

The next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored people
that lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were committed
with perfect impunity. Every day for a fortnight, if I looked out, I saw
horsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles, and compelled
by the lash to keep up with their speed, till they arrived at the jail
yard. Those who had been whipped too unmercifully to walk were washed with
brine, tossed into a cart, and carried to jail. One black man, who had not
fortitude to endure scourging, promised to give information about the
conspiracy. But it turned out that he knew nothing at all. He had not even
heard the name of Nat Turner. The poor fellow had, however, made up a
story, which augmented his own sufferings and those of the colored people.

The day patrol continued for some weeks, and at sundown a night guard was
substituted. Nothing at all was proved against the colored people, bond or
free. The wrath of the slaveholders was somewhat appeased by the capture of
Nat Turner. The imprisoned were released. The slaves were sent to their
masters, and the free were permitted to return to their ravaged homes.
Visiting was strictly forbidden on the plantations. The slaves begged the
privilege of again meeting at their little church in the woods, with their
burying ground around it. It was built by the colored people, and they had
no higher happiness than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour
out their hearts in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the
church was demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a
certain portion of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There,
when every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction had
been pronounced, the minister said, “Come down, now, my colored friends.”
They obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine, in
commemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, “God is your Father,
and all ye are brethren.”




XIII. The Church And Slavery.


After the alarm caused by Nat Turner’s insurrection had subsided, the
slaveholders came to the conclusion that it would be well to give the
slaves enough of religious instruction to keep them from murdering their
masters. The Episcopal clergyman offered to hold a separate service on
Sundays for their benefit. His colored members were very few, and also very
respectable—a fact which I presume had some weight with him. The
difficulty was to decide on a suitable place for them to worship. The
Methodist and Baptist churches admitted them in the afternoon; but their
carpets and cushions were not so costly as those at the Episcopal church.
It was at last decided that they should meet at the house of a free colored
man, who was a member.

I was invited to attend, because I could read. Sunday evening came, and,
trusting to the cover of night, I ventured out. I rarely ventured out by
daylight, for I always went with fear, expecting at every turn to encounter
Dr. Flint, who was sure to turn me back, or order me to his office to
inquire where I got my bonnet, or some other article of dress. When the
Rev. Mr. Pike came, there were some twenty persons present. The reverend
gentleman knelt in prayer, then seated himself, and requested all present,
who could read, to open their books, while he gave out the portions he
wished them to repeat or respond to.

His text was, “Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters
according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your
heart, as unto Christ.”

Pious Mr. Pike brushed up his hair till it stood upright, and, in deep,
solemn tones, began: “Hearken, ye servants! Give strict heed unto my words.
You are rebellious sinners. Your hearts are filled with all manner of evil.
’Tis the devil who tempts you. God is angry with you, and will surely
punish you, if you don’t forsake your wicked ways. You that live in town
are eyeservants behind your master’s back. Instead of serving your masters
faithfully, which is pleasing in the sight of your heavenly Master, you are
idle, and shirk your work. God sees you. You tell lies. God hears you.
Instead of being engaged in worshipping him, you are hidden away somewhere,
feasting on your master’s substance; tossing coffee-grounds with some
wicked fortuneteller, or cutting cards with another old hag. Your masters
may not find you out, but God sees you, and will punish you. O, the
depravity of your hearts! When your master’s work is done, are you quietly
together, thinking of the goodness of God to such sinful creatures? No; you
are quarrelling, and tying up little bags of roots to bury under the
doorsteps to poison each other with. God sees you. You men steal away to
every grog shop to sell your master’s corn, that you may buy rum to drink.
God sees you. You sneak into the back streets, or among the bushes, to
pitch coppers. Although your masters may not find you out, God sees you;
and he will punish you. You must forsake your sinful ways, and be faithful
servants. Obey your old master and your young master—your old mistress and
your young mistress. If you disobey your earthly master, you offend your
heavenly Master. You must obey God’s commandments. When you go from here,
don’t stop at the corners of the streets to talk, but go directly home, and
let your master and mistress see that you have come.”

The benediction was pronounced. We went home, highly amused at brother
Pike’s gospel teaching, and we determined to hear him again. I went the
next Sabbath evening, and heard pretty much a repetition of the last
discourse. At the close of the meeting, Mr. Pike informed us that he found
it very inconvenient to meet at the friend’s house, and he should be glad
to see us, every Sunday evening, at his own kitchen.

I went home with the feeling that I had heard the Reverend Mr. Pike for the
last time. Some of his members repaired to his house, and found that the
kitchen sported two tallow candles; the first time, I am sure, since its
present occupant owned it, for the servants never had any thing but pine
knots. It was so long before the reverend gentleman descended from his
comfortable parlor that the slaves left, and went to enjoy a Methodist
shout. They never seem so happy as when shouting and singing at religious
meetings. Many of them are sincere, and nearer to the gate of heaven than
sanctimonious Mr. Pike, and other long-faced Christians, who see wounded
Samaritans, and pass by on the other side.

The slaves generally compose their own songs and hymns; and they do not
trouble their heads much about the measure. They often sing the following
verses:

   Old Satan is one busy ole man;
   He rolls dem blocks all in my way;
   But Jesus is my bosom friend;
   He rolls dem blocks away.

   If I had died when I was young,
   Den how my stam’ring tongue would have sung;
   But I am ole, and now I stand
   A narrow chance for to tread dat heavenly land.

I well remember one occasion when I attended a Methodist class meeting. I
went with a burdened spirit, and happened to sit next a poor, bereaved
mother, whose heart was still heavier than mine. The class leader was the
town constable—a man who bought and sold slaves, who whipped his brethren
and sisters of the church at the public whipping post, in jail or out of
jail. He was ready to perform that Christian office any where for fifty
cents. This white-faced, black-hearted brother came near us, and said to
the stricken woman, “Sister, can’t you tell us how the Lord deals with your
soul? Do you love him as you did formerly?”

She rose to her feet, and said, in piteous tones, “My Lord and Master, help
me! My load is more than I can bear. God has hid himself from me, and I am
left in darkness and misery.” Then, striking her breast, she continued, “I
can’t tell you what is in here! They’ve got all my children. Last week they
took the last one. God only knows where they’ve sold her. They let me have
her sixteen years, and then—O! O! Pray for her brothers and sisters! I’ve
got nothing to live for now. God make my time short!”

She sat down, quivering in every limb. I saw that constable class leader
become crimson in the face with suppressed laughter, while he held up his
handkerchief, that those who were weeping for the poor woman’s calamity
might not see his merriment. Then, with assumed gravity, he said to the
bereaved mother, “Sister, pray to the Lord that every dispensation of his
divine will may be sanctified to the good of your poor needy soul!”

The congregation struck up a hymn, and sung as though they were as free as
the birds that warbled round us,—

   Ole Satan thought he had a mighty aim;
   He missed my soul, and caught my sins.
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

   He took my sins upon his back;
   Went muttering and grumbling down to hell.
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

   Ole Satan’s church is here below.
   Up to God’s free church I hope to go.
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

Precious are such moments to the poor slaves. If you were to hear them at
such times, you might think they were happy. But can that hour of singing
and shouting sustain them through the dreary week, toiling without wages,
under constant dread of the lash?

The Episcopal clergyman, who, ever since my earliest recollection, had been
a sort of god among the slaveholders, concluded, as his family was large,
that he must go where money was more abundant. A very different clergyman
took his place. The change was very agreeable to the colored people, who
said, “God has sent us a good man this time.” They loved him, and their
children followed him for a smile or a kind word. Even the slaveholders
felt his influence. He brought to the rectory five slaves. His wife taught
them to read and write, and to be useful to her and themselves. As soon as
he was settled, he turned his attention to the needy slaves around him. He
urged upon his parishioners the duty of having a meeting expressly for them
every Sunday, with a sermon adapted to their comprehension. After much
argument and importunity, it was finally agreed that they might occupy the
gallery of the church on Sunday evenings. Many colored people, hitherto
unaccustomed to attend church, now gladly went to hear the gospel preached.
The sermons were simple, and they understood them. Moreover, it was the
first time they had ever been addressed as human beings. It was not long
before his white parishioners began to be dissatisfied. He was accused of
preaching better sermons to the negroes than he did to them. He honestly
confessed that he bestowed more pains upon those sermons than upon any
others; for the slaves were reared in such ignorance that it was a
difficult task to adapt himself to their comprehension. Dissensions arose
in the parish. Some wanted he should preach to them in the evening, and to
the slaves in the afternoon. In the midst of these disputings his wife
died, after a very short illness. Her slaves gathered round her dying bed
in great sorrow. She said, “I have tried to do you good and promote your
happiness; and if I have failed, it has not been for want of interest in
your welfare. Do not weep for me; but prepare for the new duties that lie
before you. I leave you all free. May we meet in a better world.” Her
liberated slaves were sent away, with funds to establish them comfortably.
The colored people will long bless the memory of that truly Christian
woman. Soon after her death her husband preached his farewell sermon, and
many tears were shed at his departure.

Several years after, he passed through our town and preached to his former
congregation. In his afternoon sermon he addressed the colored people. “My
friends,” said he, “it affords me great happiness to have an opportunity of
speaking to you again. For two years I have been striving to do something
for the colored people of my own parish; but nothing is yet accomplished. I
have not even preached a sermon to them. Try to live according to the word
of God, my friends. Your skin is darker than mine; but God judges men by
their hearts, not by the color of their skins.” This was strange doctrine
from a southern pulpit. It was very offensive to slaveholders. They said he
and his wife had made fools of their slaves, and that he preached like a
fool to the negroes.

I knew an old black man, whose piety and childlike trust in God were
beautiful to witness. At fifty-three years old he joined the Baptist
church. He had a most earnest desire to learn to read. He thought he should
know how to serve God better if he could only read the Bible. He came to
me, and begged me to teach him. He said he could not pay me, for he had no
money; but he would bring me nice fruit when the season for it came. I
asked him if he didn’t know it was contrary to law; and that slaves were
whipped and imprisoned for teaching each other to read. This brought the
tears into his eyes. “Don’t be troubled, uncle Fred,” said I. “I have no
thoughts of refusing to teach you. I only told you of the law, that you
might know the danger, and be on your guard.” He thought he could plan to
come three times a week without its being suspected. I selected a quiet
nook, where no intruder was likely to penetrate, and there I taught him his
A, B, C. Considering his age, his progress was astonishing. As soon as he
could spell in two syllables he wanted to spell out words in the Bible. The
happy smile that illuminated his face put joy into my heart. After spelling
out a few words, he paused, and said, “Honey, it ’pears when I can read dis
good book I shall be nearer to God. White man is got all de sense. He can
larn easy. It ain’t easy for ole black man like me. I only wants to read
dis book, dat I may know how to live; den I hab no fear ’bout dying.”

I tried to encourage him by speaking of the rapid progress he had made.
“Hab patience, child,” he replied. “I larns slow.”

I had no need of patience. His gratitude, and the happiness imparted, were
more than a recompense for all my trouble.

At the end of six months he had read through the New Testament, and could
find any text in it. One day, when he had recited unusually well, I said,
“Uncle Fred, how do you manage to get your lessons so well?”

“Lord bress you, chile,” he replied. “You nebber gibs me a lesson dat I
don’t pray to God to help me to understan’ what I spells and what I reads.
And he _does_ help me, chile. Bress his holy name!”

There are thousands, who, like good uncle Fred, are thirsting for the water
of life; but the law forbids it, and the churches withhold it. They send
the Bible to heathen abroad, and neglect the heathen at home. I am glad
that missionaries go out to the dark corners of the earth; but I ask them
not to overlook the dark corners at home. Talk to American slaveholders as
you talk to savages in Africa. Tell _them_ it was wrong to traffic in men.
Tell them it is sinful to sell their own children, and atrocious to violate
their own daughters. Tell them that all men are brethren, and that man has
no right to shut out the light of knowledge from his brother. Tell them
they are answerable to God for sealing up the Fountain of Life from souls
that are thirsting for it.

There are men who would gladly undertake such missionary work as this; but,
alas! their number is small. They are hated by the south, and would be
driven from its soil, or dragged to prison to die, as others have been
before them. The field is ripe for the harvest, and awaits the reapers.
Perhaps the great grandchildren of uncle Fred may have freely imparted to
them the divine treasures, which he sought by stealth, at the risk of the
prison and the scourge.

Are doctors of divinity blind, or are they hypocrites? I suppose some are
the one, and some the other; but I think if they felt the interest in the
poor and the lowly, that they ought to feel, they would not be so _easily_
blinded. A clergyman who goes to the south, for the first time, has usually
some feeling, however vague, that slavery is wrong. The slaveholder
suspects this, and plays his game accordingly. He makes himself as
agreeable as possible; talks on theology, and other kindred topics. The
reverend gentleman is asked to invoke a blessing on a table loaded with
luxuries. After dinner he walks round the premises, and sees the beautiful
groves and flowering vines, and the comfortable huts of favored household
slaves. The southerner invites him to talk with those slaves. He asks them
if they want to be free, and they say, “O, no, massa.” This is sufficient
to satisfy him. He comes home to publish a “South Side View of Slavery,”
and to complain of the exaggerations of abolitionists. He assures people
that he has been to the south, and seen slavery for himself; that it is a
beautiful “patriarchal institution;” that the slaves don’t want their
freedom; that they have hallelujah meetings and other religious privileges.

What does _he_ know of the half-starved wretches toiling from dawn till
dark on the plantations? of mothers shrieking for their children, torn from
their arms by slave-traders? of young girls dragged down into moral filth?
of pools of blood around the whipping post? of hounds trained to tear human
flesh? of men screwed into cotton gins to die? The slaveholder showed him
none of these things, and the slaves dared not tell of them if he had asked
them.

There is a great difference between Christianity and religion at the south.
If a man goes to the communion table, and pays money into the treasury of
the church, no matter if it be the price of blood, he is called religious.
If a pastor has offspring by a woman not his wife, the church dismiss him,
if she is a white woman; but if she is colored, it does not hinder his
continuing to be their good shepherd.

When I was told that Dr. Flint had joined the Episcopal church, I was much
surprised. I supposed that religion had a purifying effect on the character
of men; but the worst persecutions I endured from him were after he was a
communicant. The conversation of the doctor, the day after he had been
confirmed, certainly gave _me_ no indication that he had “renounced the
devil and all his works.” In answer to some of his usual talk, I reminded
him that he had just joined the church. “Yes, Linda,” said he. “It was
proper for me to do so. I am getting in years, and my position in society
requires it, and it puts an end to all the damned slang. You would do well
to join the church, too, Linda.”

“There are sinners enough in it already,” rejoined I. “If I could be
allowed to live like a Christian, I should be glad.”

“You can do what I require; and if you are faithful to me, you will be as
virtuous as my wife,” he replied.

I answered that the Bible didn’t say so.

His voice became hoarse with rage. “How dare you preach to me about your
infernal Bible!” he exclaimed. “What right have you, who are my negro, to
talk to me about what you would like and what you wouldn’t like? I am your
master, and you shall obey me.”

No wonder the slaves sing,—

   Ole Satan’s church is here below;
   Up to God’s free church I hope to go.




XIV. Another Link To Life.


I had not returned to my master’s house since the birth of my child. The
old man raved to have me thus removed from his immediate power; but his
wife vowed, by all that was good and great, she would kill me if I came
back; and he did not doubt her word. Sometimes he would stay away for a
season. Then he would come and renew the old threadbare discourse about his
forbearance and my ingratitude. He labored, most unnecessarily, to convince
me that I had lowered myself. The venomous old reprobate had no need of
descanting on that theme. I felt humiliated enough. My unconscious babe was
the ever-present witness of my shame. I listened with silent contempt when
he talked about my having forfeited _his_ good opinion; but I shed bitter
tears that I was no longer worthy of being respected by the good and pure.
Alas! slavery still held me in its poisonous grasp. There was no chance for
me to be respectable. There was no prospect of being able to lead a better
life.

Sometimes, when my master found that I still refused to accept what he
called his kind offers, he would threaten to sell my child. “Perhaps that
will humble you,” said he.

Humble _me_! Was I not already in the dust? But his threat lacerated my
heart. I knew the law gave him power to fulfil it; for slaveholders have
been cunning enough to enact that “the child shall follow the condition of
the _mother_,” not of the _father_, thus taking care that licentiousness
shall not interfere with avarice. This reflection made me clasp my innocent
babe all the more firmly to my heart. Horrid visions passed through my mind
when I thought of his liability to fall into the slave-trader’s hands. I
wept over him, and said, “O my child! perhaps they will leave you in some
cold cabin to die, and then throw you into a hole, as if you were a dog.”

When Dr. Flint learned that I was again to be a mother, he was exasperated
beyond measure. He rushed from the house, and returned with a pair of
shears. I had a fine head of hair; and he often railed about my pride of
arranging it nicely. He cut every hair close to my head, storming and
swearing all the time. I replied to some of his abuse, and he struck me.
Some months before, he had pitched me down stairs in a fit of passion; and
the injury I received was so serious that I was unable to turn myself in
bed for many days. He then said, “Linda, I swear by God I will never raise
my hand against you again;” but I knew that he would forget his promise.

After he discovered my situation, he was like a restless spirit from the
pit. He came every day; and I was subjected to such insults as no pen can
describe. I would not describe them if I could; they were too low, too
revolting. I tried to keep them from my grandmother’s knowledge as much as
I could. I knew she had enough to sadden her life, without having my
troubles to bear. When she saw the doctor treat me with violence, and heard
him utter oaths terrible enough to palsy a man’s tongue, she could not
always hold her peace. It was natural and motherlike that she should try to
defend me; but it only made matters worse.

When they told me my new-born babe was a girl, my heart was heavier than it
had ever been before. Slavery is terrible for men; but it is far more
terrible for women. Superadded to the burden common to all, _they_ have
wrongs, and sufferings, and mortifications peculiarly their own.

Dr. Flint had sworn that he would make me suffer, to my last day, for this
new crime against _him_, as he called it; and as long as he had me in his
power he kept his word. On the fourth day after the birth of my babe, he
entered my room suddenly, and commanded me to rise and bring my baby to
him. The nurse who took care of me had gone out of the room to prepare some
nourishment, and I was alone. There was no alternative. I rose, took up my
babe, and crossed the room to where he sat. “Now stand there,” said he,
“till I tell you to go back!” My child bore a strong resemblance to her
father, and to the deceased Mrs. Sands, her grandmother. He noticed this;
and while I stood before him, trembling with weakness, he heaped upon me
and my little one every vile epithet he could think of. Even the
grandmother in her grave did not escape his curses. In the midst of his
vituperations I fainted at his feet. This recalled him to his senses. He
took the baby from my arms, laid it on the bed, dashed cold water in my
face, took me up, and shook me violently, to restore my consciousness
before any one entered the room. Just then my grandmother came in, and he
hurried out of the house. I suffered in consequence of this treatment; but
I begged my friends to let me die, rather than send for the doctor. There
was nothing I dreaded so much as his presence. My life was spared; and I
was glad for the sake of my little ones. Had it not been for these ties to
life, I should have been glad to be released by death, though I had lived
only nineteen years.

Always it gave me a pang that my children had no lawful claim to a name.
Their father offered his; but, if I had wished to accept the offer, I dared
not while my master lived. Moreover, I knew it would not be accepted at
their baptism. A Christian name they were at least entitled to; and we
resolved to call my boy for our dear good Benjamin, who had gone far away
from us.

My grandmother belonged to the church; and she was very desirous of having
the children christened. I knew Dr. Flint would forbid it, and I did not
venture to attempt it. But chance favored me. He was called to visit a
patient out of town, and was obliged to be absent during Sunday. “Now is
the time,” said my grandmother; “we will take the children to church, and
have them christened.”

When I entered the church, recollections of my mother came over me, and I
felt subdued in spirit. There she had presented me for baptism, without any
reason to feel ashamed. She had been married, and had such legal rights as
slavery allows to a slave. The vows had at least been sacred to _her_, and
she had never violated them. I was glad she was not alive, to know under
what different circumstances her grandchildren were presented for baptism.
Why had my lot been so different from my mother’s? _Her_ master had died
when she was a child; and she remained with her mistress till she married.
She was never in the power of any master; and thus she escaped one class of
the evils that generally fall upon slaves.

When my baby was about to be christened, the former mistress of my father
stepped up to me, and proposed to give it her Christian name. To this I
added the surname of my father, who had himself no legal right to it; for
my grandfather on the paternal side was a white gentleman. What tangled
skeins are the genealogies of slavery! I loved my father; but it mortified
me to be obliged to bestow his name on my children.

When we left the church, my father’s old mistress invited me to go home
with her. She clasped a gold chain round my baby’s neck. I thanked her for
this kindness; but I did not like the emblem. I wanted no chain to be
fastened on my daughter, not even if its links were of gold. How earnestly
I prayed that she might never feel the weight of slavery’s chain, whose
iron entereth into the soul!




XV. Continued Persecutions.


My children grew finely; and Dr. Flint would often say to me, with an
exulting smile. “These brats will bring me a handsome sum of money one of
these days.”

I thought to myself that, God being my helper, they should never pass into
his hands. It seemed to me I would rather see them killed than have them
given up to his power. The money for the freedom of myself and my children
could be obtained; but I derived no advantage from that circumstance. Dr.
Flint loved money, but he loved power more. After much discussion, my
friends resolved on making another trial. There was a slaveholder about to
leave for Texas, and he was commissioned to buy me. He was to begin with
nine hundred dollars, and go up to twelve. My master refused his offers.
“Sir,” said he, “she don’t belong to me. She is my daughter’s property, and
I have no right to sell her. I mistrust that you come from her paramour. If
so, you may tell him that he cannot buy her for any money; neither can he
buy her children.”

The doctor came to see me the next day, and my heart beat quicker as he
entered. I never had seen the old man tread with so majestic a step. He
seated himself and looked at me with withering scorn. My children had
learned to be afraid of him. The little one would shut her eyes and hide
her face on my shoulder whenever she saw him; and Benny, who was now nearly
five years old, often inquired, “What makes that bad man come here so many
times? Does he want to hurt us?” I would clasp the dear boy in my arms,
trusting that he would be free before he was old enough to solve the
problem. And now, as the doctor sat there so grim and silent, the child
left his play and came and nestled up by me. At last my tormentor spoke.
“So you are left in disgust, are you?” said he. “It is no more than I
expected. You remember I told you years ago that you would be treated so.
So he is tired of you? Ha! ha! ha! The virtuous madam don’t like to hear
about it, does she? Ha! ha! ha!” There was a sting in his calling me
virtuous madam. I no longer had the power of answering him as I had
formerly done. He continued: “So it seems you are trying to get up another
intrigue. Your new paramour came to me, and offered to buy you; but you may
be assured you will not succeed. You are mine; and you shall be mine for
life. There lives no human being that can take you out of slavery. I would
have done it; but you rejected my kind offer.”

I told him I did not wish to get up any intrigue; that I had never seen the
man who offered to buy me.

“Do you tell me I lie?” exclaimed he, dragging me from my chair. “Will you
say again that you never saw that man?”

I answered, “I do say so.”

He clinched my arm with a volley of oaths. Ben began to scream, and I told
him to go to his grandmother.

“Don’t you stir a step, you little wretch!” said he. The child drew nearer
to me, and put his arms round me, as if he wanted to protect me. This was
too much for my enraged master. He caught him up and hurled him across the
room. I thought he was dead, and rushed towards him to take him up.

“Not yet!” exclaimed the doctor. “Let him lie there till he comes to.”

“Let me go! Let me go!” I screamed, “or I will raise the whole house.” I
struggled and got away; but he clinched me again. Somebody opened the door,
and he released me. I picked up my insensible child, and when I turned my
tormentor was gone. Anxiously, I bent over the little form, so pale and
still; and when the brown eyes at last opened, I don’t know whether I was
very happy. All the doctor’s former persecutions were renewed. He came
morning, noon, and night. No jealous lover ever watched a rival more
closely than he watched me and the unknown slaveholder, with whom he
accused me of wishing to get up an intrigue. When my grandmother was out of
the way he searched every room to find him.

In one of his visits, he happened to find a young girl, whom he had sold to
a trader a few days previous. His statement was, that he sold her because
she had been too familiar with the overseer. She had had a bitter life with
him, and was glad to be sold. She had no mother, and no near ties. She had
been torn from all her family years before. A few friends had entered into
bonds for her safety, if the trader would allow her to spend with them the
time that intervened between her sale and the gathering up of his human
stock. Such a favor was rarely granted. It saved the trader the expense of
board and jail fees, and though the amount was small, it was a weighty
consideration in a slave-trader’s mind.

Dr. Flint always had an aversion to meeting slaves after he had sold them.
He ordered Rose out of the house; but he was no longer her master, and she
took no notice of him. For once the crushed Rose was the conqueror. His
gray eyes flashed angrily upon her; but that was the extent of his power.
“How came this girl here?” he exclaimed. “What right had you to allow it,
when you knew I had sold her?”

I answered, “This is my grandmother’s house, and Rose came to see her. I
have no right to turn any body out of doors, that comes here for honest
purposes.”

He gave me the blow that would have fallen upon Rose if she had still been
his slave. My grandmother’s attention had been attracted by loud voices,
and she entered in time to see a second blow dealt. She was not a woman to
let such an outrage, in her own house, go unrebuked. The doctor undertook
to explain that I had been insolent. Her indignant feelings rose higher and
higher, and finally boiled over in words. “Get out of my house!” she
exclaimed. “Go home, and take care of your wife and children, and you will
have enough to do, without watching my family.”

He threw the birth of my children in her face, and accused her of
sanctioning the life I was leading. She told him I was living with her by
compulsion of his wife; that he needn’t accuse her, for he was the one to
blame; he was the one who had caused all the trouble. She grew more and
more excited as she went on. “I tell you what, Dr. Flint,” said she, “you
ain’t got many more years to live, and you’d better be saying your prayers.
It will take ’em all, and more too, to wash the dirt off your soul.”

“Do you know whom you are talking to?” he exclaimed.

She replied, “Yes, I know very well who I am talking to.”

He left the house in a great rage. I looked at my grandmother. Our eyes
met. Their angry expression had passed away, but she looked sorrowful and
weary—weary of incessant strife. I wondered that it did not lessen her
love for me; but if it did she never showed it. She was always kind, always
ready to sympathize with my troubles. There might have been peace and
contentment in that humble home if it had not been for the demon Slavery.

The winter passed undisturbed by the doctor. The beautiful spring came; and
when Nature resumes her loveliness, the human soul is apt to revive also.
My drooping hopes came to life again with the flowers. I was dreaming of
freedom again; more for my children’s sake than my own. I planned and I
planned. Obstacles hit against plans. There seemed no way of overcoming
them; and yet I hoped.

Back came the wily doctor. I was not at home when he called. A friend had
invited me to a small party, and to gratify her I went. To my great
consternation, a messenger came in haste to say that Dr. Flint was at my
grandmother’s, and insisted on seeing me. They did not tell him where I
was, or he would have come and raised a disturbance in my friend’s house.
They sent me a dark wrapper, I threw it on and hurried home. My speed did
not save me; the doctor had gone away in anger. I dreaded the morning, but
I could not delay it; it came, warm and bright. At an early hour the doctor
came and asked me where I had been last night. I told him. He did not
believe me, and sent to my friend’s house to ascertain the facts. He came
in the afternoon to assure me he was satisfied that I had spoken the truth.
He seemed to be in a facetious mood, and I expected some jeers were coming.
“I suppose you need some recreation,” said he, “but I am surprised at your
being there, among those negroes. It was not the place for _you_. Are you
_allowed_ to visit such people?”

I understood this covert fling at the white gentleman who was my friend;
but I merely replied, “I went to visit my friends, and any company they
keep is good enough for me.”

He went on to say, “I have seen very little of you of late, but my interest
in you is unchanged. When I said I would have no more mercy on you I was
rash. I recall my words. Linda, you desire freedom for yourself and your
children, and you can obtain it only through me. If you agree to what I am
about to propose, you and they shall be free. There must be no
communication of any kind between you and their father. I will procure a
cottage, where you and the children can live together. Your labor shall be
light, such as sewing for my family. Think what is offered you, Linda—a
home and freedom! Let the past be forgotten. If I have been harsh with you
at times, your willfulness drove me to it. You know I exact obedience from
my own children, and I consider you as yet a child.”

He paused for an answer, but I remained silent. “Why don’t you speak?”
said he. “What more do you wait for?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Then you accept my offer?”

“No, sir.”

His anger was ready to break loose; but he succeeded in curbing it, and
replied, “You have answered without thought. But I must let you know there
are two sides to my proposition; if you reject the bright side, you will be
obliged to take the dark one. You must either accept my offer, or you and
your children shall be sent to your young master’s plantation, there to
remain till your young mistress is married; and your children shall fare
like the rest of the negro children. I give you a week to consider it.”

He was shrewd; but I knew he was not to be trusted. I told him I was ready
to give my answer now.

“I will not receive it now,” he replied. “You act too much from impulse.
Remember that you and your children can be free a week from to-day if you
choose.”

On what a monstrous chance hung the destiny of my children! I knew that my
master’s offer was a snare, and that if I entered it escape would be
impossible. As for his promise, I knew him so well that I was sure if he
gave me free papers, they would be so managed as to have no legal value.
The alternative was inevitable. I resolved to go to the plantation. But
then I thought how completely I should be in his power, and the prospect
was appalling. Even if I should kneel before him, and implore him to spare
me, for the sake of my children, I knew he would spurn me with his foot,
and my weakness would be his triumph.

Before the week expired, I heard that young Mr. Flint was about to be
married to a lady of his own stamp. I foresaw the position I should occupy
in his establishment. I had once been sent to the plantation for
punishment, and fear of the son had induced the father to recall me very
soon. My mind was made up; I was resolved that I would foil my master and
save my children, or I would perish in the attempt. I kept my plans to
myself; I knew that friends would try to dissuade me from them, and I would
not wound their feelings by rejecting their advice.

On the decisive day the doctor came, and said he hoped I had made a wise
choice.

“I am ready to go to the plantation, sir,” I replied.

“Have you thought how important your decision is to your children?” said
he.

I told him I had.

“Very well. Go to the plantation, and my curse go with you,” he replied.
“Your boy shall be put to work, and he shall soon be sold; and your girl
shall be raised for the purpose of selling well. Go your own ways!” He left
the room with curses, not to be repeated.

As I stood rooted to the spot, my grandmother came and said, “Linda, child,
what did you tell him?”

I answered that I was going to the plantation.

“_Must_ you go?” said she. “Can’t something be done to stop it?”

I told her it was useless to try; but she begged me not to give up. She
said she would go to the doctor, and remind him how long and how faithfully
she had served in the family, and how she had taken her own baby from her
breast to nourish his wife. She would tell him I had been out of the family
so long they would not miss me; that she would pay them for my time, and
the money would procure a woman who had more strength for the situation
than I had. I begged her not to go; but she persisted in saying, “He will
listen to _me_, Linda.” She went, and was treated as I expected. He coolly
listened to what she said, but denied her request. He told her that what he
did was for my good, that my feelings were entirely above my situation, and
that on the plantation I would receive treatment that was suitable to my
behavior.

My grandmother was much cast down. I had my secret hopes; but I must fight
my battle alone. I had a woman’s pride, and a mother’s love for my
children; and I resolved that out of the darkness of this hour a brighter
dawn should rise for them. My master had power and law on his side; I had a
determined will. There is might in each.




XVI. Scenes At The Plantation.


Early the next morning I left my grandmother’s with my youngest child. My
boy was ill, and I left him behind. I had many sad thoughts as the old
wagon jolted on. Hitherto, I had suffered alone; now, my little one was to
be treated as a slave. As we drew near the great house, I thought of the
time when I was formerly sent there out of revenge. I wondered for what
purpose I was now sent. I could not tell. I resolved to obey orders so far
as duty required; but within myself, I determined to make my stay as short
as possible. Mr. Flint was waiting to receive us, and told me to follow him
up stairs to receive orders for the day. My little Ellen was left below in
the kitchen. It was a change for her, who had always been so carefully
tended. My young master said she might amuse herself in the yard. This was
kind of him, since the child was hateful to his sight. My task was to fit
up the house for the reception of the bride. In the midst of sheets,
tablecloths, towels, drapery, and carpeting, my head was as busy planning,
as were my fingers with the needle. At noon I was allowed to go to Ellen.
She had sobbed herself to sleep. I heard Mr. Flint say to a neighbor, “I’ve
got her down here, and I’ll soon take the town notions out of her head. My
father is partly to blame for her nonsense. He ought to have broke her in
long ago.” The remark was made within my hearing, and it would have been
quite as manly to have made it to my face. He _had_ said things to my face
which might, or might not, have surprised his neighbor if he had known of
them. He was “a chip of the old block.”

I resolved to give him no cause to accuse me of being too much of a lady,
so far as work was concerned. I worked day and night, with wretchedness
before me. When I lay down beside my child, I felt how much easier it would
be to see her die than to see her master beat her about, as I daily saw him
beat other little ones. The spirit of the mothers was so crushed by the
lash, that they stood by, without courage to remonstrate. How much more
must I suffer, before I should be “broke in” to that degree?

I wished to appear as contented as possible. Sometimes I had an opportunity
to send a few lines home; and this brought up recollections that made it
difficult, for a time, to seem calm and indifferent to my lot.
Notwithstanding my efforts, I saw that Mr. Flint regarded me with a
suspicious eye. Ellen broke down under the trials of her new life.
Separated from me, with no one to look after her, she wandered about, and
in a few days cried herself sick. One day, she sat under the window where I
was at work, crying that weary cry which makes a mother’s heart bleed. I
was obliged to steel myself to bear it. After a while it ceased. I looked
out, and she was gone. As it was near noon, I ventured to go down in search
of her. The great house was raised two feet above the ground. I looked
under it, and saw her about midway, fast asleep. I crept under and drew her
out. As I held her in my arms, I thought how well it would be for her if
she never waked up; and I uttered my thought aloud. I was startled to hear
some one say, “Did you speak to me?” I looked up, and saw Mr. Flint
standing beside me. He said nothing further, but turned, frowning, away.
That night he sent Ellen a biscuit and a cup of sweetened milk. This
generosity surprised me. I learned afterwards, that in the afternoon he had
killed a large snake, which crept from under the house; and I supposed that
incident had prompted his unusual kindness.

The next morning the old cart was loaded with shingles for town. I put
Ellen into it, and sent her to her grandmother. Mr. Flint said I ought to
have asked his permission. I told him the child was sick, and required
attention which I had no time to give. He let it pass; for he was aware
that I had accomplished much work in a little time.

I had been three weeks on the plantation, when I planned a visit home. It
must be at night, after every body was in bed. I was six miles from town,
and the road was very dreary. I was to go with a young man, who, I knew,
often stole to town to see his mother. One night, when all was quiet, we
started. Fear gave speed to our steps, and we were not long in performing
the journey. I arrived at my grandmother’s. Her bed room was on the first
floor, and the window was open, the weather being warm. I spoke to her and
she awoke. She let me in and closed the window, lest some late passer-by
should see me. A light was brought, and the whole household gathered round
me, some smiling and some crying. I went to look at my children, and
thanked God for their happy sleep. The tears fell as I leaned over them. As
I moved to leave, Benny stirred. I turned back, and whispered, “Mother is
here.” After digging at his eyes with his little fist, they opened, and he
sat up in bed, looking at me curiously. Having satisfied himself that it
was I, he exclaimed, “O mother! you ain’t dad, are you? They didn’t cut off
your head at the plantation, did they?”

My time was up too soon, and my guide was waiting for me. I laid Benny back
in his bed, and dried his tears by a promise to come again soon. Rapidly we
retraced our steps back to the plantation. About half way we were met by a
company of four patrols. Luckily we heard their horse’s hoofs before they
came in sight, and we had time to hide behind a large tree. They passed,
hallooing and shouting in a manner that indicated a recent carousal. How
thankful we were that they had not their dogs with them! We hastened our
footsteps, and when we arrived on the plantation we heard the sound of the
hand-mill. The slaves were grinding their corn. We were safely in the house
before the horn summoned them to their labor. I divided my little parcel of
food with my guide, knowing that he had lost the chance of grinding his
corn, and must toil all day in the field.

Mr. Flint often took an inspection of the house, to see that no one was
idle. The entire management of the work was trusted to me, because he knew
nothing about it; and rather than hire a superintendent he contented
himself with my arrangements. He had often urged upon his father the
necessity of having me at the plantation to take charge of his affairs, and
make clothes for the slaves; but the old man knew him too well to consent
to that arrangement.

When I had been working a month at the plantation, the great aunt of Mr.
Flint came to make him a visit. This was the good old lady who paid fifty
dollars for my grandmother, for the purpose of making her free, when she
stood on the auction block. My grandmother loved this old lady, whom we all
called Miss Fanny. She often came to take tea with us. On such occasions
the table was spread with a snow-white cloth, and the china cups and silver
spoons were taken from the old-fashioned buffet. There were hot muffins,
tea rusks, and delicious sweetmeats. My grandmother kept two cows, and the
fresh cream was Miss Fanny’s delight. She invariably declared that it was
the best in town. The old ladies had cosey times together. They would work
and chat, and sometimes, while talking over old times, their spectacles
would get dim with tears, and would have to be taken off and wiped. When
Miss Fanny bade us good by, her bag was filled with grandmother’s best
cakes, and she was urged to come again soon.

There had been a time when Dr. Flint’s wife came to take tea with us, and
when her children were also sent to have a feast of “Aunt Marthy’s” nice
cooking. But after I became an object of her jealousy and spite, she was
angry with grandmother for giving a shelter to me and my children. She
would not even speak to her in the street. This wounded my grandmother’s
feelings, for she could not retain ill will against the woman whom she had
nourished with her milk when a babe. The doctor’s wife would gladly have
prevented our intercourse with Miss Fanny if she could have done it, but
fortunately she was not dependent on the bounty of the Flints. She had
enough to be independent; and that is more than can ever be gained from
charity, however lavish it may be.

Miss Fanny was endeared to me by many recollections, and I was rejoiced to
see her at the plantation. The warmth of her large, loyal heart made the
house seem pleasanter while she was in it. She staid a week, and I had many
talks with her. She said her principal object in coming was to see how I
was treated, and whether any thing could be done for me. She inquired
whether she could help me in any way. I told her I believed not. She
condoled with me in her own peculiar way; saying she wished that I and all
my grandmother’s family were at rest in our graves, for not until then
should she feel any peace about us. The good old soul did not dream that I
was planning to bestow peace upon her, with regard to myself and my
children; not by death, but by securing our freedom.

Again and again I had traversed those dreary twelve miles, to and from the
town; and all the way, I was meditating upon some means of escape for
myself and my children. My friends had made every effort that ingenuity
could devise to effect our purchase, but all their plans had proved
abortive. Dr. Flint was suspicious, and determined not to loosen his grasp
upon us. I could have made my escape alone; but it was more for my helpless
children than for myself that I longed for freedom. Though the boon would
have been precious to me, above all price, I would not have taken it at the
expense of leaving them in slavery. Every trial I endured, every sacrifice
I made for their sakes, drew them closer to my heart, and gave me fresh
courage to beat back the dark waves that rolled and rolled over me in a
seemingly endless night of storms.

The six weeks were nearly completed, when Mr. Flint’s bride was expected to
take possession of her new home. The arrangements were all completed, and
Mr. Flint said I had done well. He expected to leave home on Saturday, and
return with his bride the following Wednesday. After receiving various
orders from him, I ventured to ask permission to spend Sunday in town. It
was granted; for which favor I was thankful. It was the first I had ever
asked of him, and I intended it should be the last. I needed more than one
night to accomplish the project I had in view; but the whole of Sunday
would give me an opportunity. I spent the Sabbath with my grandmother. A
calmer, more beautiful day never came down out of heaven. To me it was a
day of conflicting emotions. Perhaps it was the last day I should ever
spend under that dear, old sheltering roof! Perhaps these were the last
talks I should ever have with the faithful old friend of my whole life!
Perhaps it was the last time I and my children should be together! Well,
better so, I thought, than that they should be slaves. I knew the doom that
awaited my fair baby in slavery, and I determined to save her from it, or
perish in the attempt. I went to make this vow at the graves of my poor
parents, in the burying-ground of the slaves. “There the wicked cease from
troubling, and there the weary be at rest. There the prisoners rest
together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor; the servant is free
from his master.” I knelt by the graves of my parents, and thanked God, as
I had often done before, that they had not lived to witness my trials, or
to mourn over my sins. I had received my mother’s blessing when she died;
and in many an hour of tribulation I had seemed to hear her voice,
sometimes chiding me, sometimes whispering loving words into my wounded
heart. I have shed many and bitter tears, to think that when I am gone from
my children they cannot remember me with such entire satisfaction as I
remembered my mother.

The graveyard was in the woods, and twilight was coming on. Nothing broke
the death-like stillness except the occasional twitter of a bird. My spirit
was overawed by the solemnity of the scene. For more than ten years I had
frequented this spot, but never had it seemed to me so sacred as now. A
black stump, at the head of my mother’s grave, was all that remained of a
tree my father had planted. His grave was marked by a small wooden board,
bearing his name, the letters of which were nearly obliterated. I knelt
down and kissed them, and poured forth a prayer to God for guidance and
support in the perilous step I was about to take. As I passed the wreck of
the old meeting house, where, before Nat Turner’s time, the slaves had been
allowed to meet for worship, I seemed to hear my father’s voice come from
it, bidding me not to tarry till I reached freedom or the grave. I rushed
on with renovated hopes. My trust in God had been strengthened by that
prayer among the graves.

My plan was to conceal myself at the house of a friend, and remain there a
few weeks till the search was over. My hope was that the doctor would get
discouraged, and, for fear of losing my value, and also of subsequently
finding my children among the missing, he would consent to sell us; and I
knew somebody would buy us. I had done all in my power to make my children
comfortable during the time I expected to be separated from them. I was
packing my things, when grandmother came into the room, and asked what I
was doing. “I am putting my things in order,” I replied. I tried to look
and speak cheerfully; but her watchful eye detected something beneath the
surface. She drew me towards her, and asked me to sit down. She looked
earnestly at me, and said, “Linda, do you want to kill your old
grandmother? Do you mean to leave your little, helpless children? I am old
now, and cannot do for your babies as I once did for you.”

I replied, that if I went away, perhaps their father would be able to
secure their freedom.

“Ah, my child,” said she, “don’t trust too much to him. Stand by your own
children, and suffer with them till death. Nobody respects a mother who
forsakes her children; and if you leave them, you will never have a happy
moment. If you go, you will make me miserable the short time I have to
live. You would be taken and brought back, and your sufferings would be
dreadful. Remember poor Benjamin. Do give it up, Linda. Try to bear a
little longer. Things may turn out better than we expect.”

My courage failed me, in view of the sorrow I should bring on that
faithful, loving old heart. I promised that I would try longer, and that I
would take nothing out of her house without her knowledge.

Whenever the children climbed on my knee, or laid their heads on my lap,
she would say, “Poor little souls! what would you do without a mother? She
don’t love you as I do.” And she would hug them to her own bosom, as if to
reproach me for my want of affection; but she knew all the while that I
loved them better than my life. I slept with her that night, and it was the
last time. The memory of it haunted me for many a year.

On Monday I returned to the plantation, and busied myself with preparations
for the important day. Wednesday came. It was a beautiful day, and the
faces of the slaves were as bright as the sunshine. The poor creatures were
merry. They were expecting little presents from the bride, and hoping for
better times under her administration. I had no such hopes for them. I knew
that the young wives of slaveholders often thought their authority and
importance would be best established and maintained by cruelty; and what I
had heard of young Mrs. Flint gave me no reason to expect that her rule
over them would be less severe than that of the master and overseer. Truly,
the colored race are the most cheerful and forgiving people on the face of
the earth. That their masters sleep in safety is owing to their
superabundance of heart; and yet they look upon their sufferings with less
pity than they would bestow on those of a horse or a dog.

I stood at the door with others to receive the bridegroom and bride. She
was a handsome, delicate-looking girl, and her face flushed with emotion at
sight of her new home. I thought it likely that visions of a happy future
were rising before her. It made me sad; for I knew how soon clouds would
come over her sunshine. She examined every part of the house, and told me
she was delighted with the arrangements I had made. I was afraid old Mrs.
Flint had tried to prejudice her against me, and I did my best to please
her.

All passed off smoothly for me until dinner time arrived. I did not mind
the embarrassment of waiting on a dinner party, for the first time in my
life, half so much as I did the meeting with Dr. Flint and his wife, who
would be among the guests. It was a mystery to me why Mrs. Flint had not
made her appearance at the plantation during all the time I was putting the
house in order. I had not met her, face to face, for five years, and I had
no wish to see her now. She was a praying woman, and, doubtless, considered
my present position a special answer to her prayers. Nothing could please
her better than to see me humbled and trampled upon. I was just where she
would have me—in the power of a hard, unprincipled master. She did not
speak to me when she took her seat at table; but her satisfied, triumphant
smile, when I handed her plate, was more eloquent than words. The old
doctor was not so quiet in his demonstrations. He ordered me here and
there, and spoke with peculiar emphasis when he said “your _mistress_.” I
was drilled like a disgraced soldier. When all was over, and the last key
turned, I sought my pillow, thankful that God had appointed a season of
rest for the weary.

The next day my new mistress began her housekeeping. I was not exactly
appointed maid of all work; but I was to do whatever I was told. Monday
evening came. It was always a busy time. On that night the slaves received
their weekly allowance of food. Three pounds of meat, a peck of corn, and
perhaps a dozen herring were allowed to each man. Women received a pound
and a half of meat, a peck of corn, and the same number of herring.
Children over twelve years old had half the allowance of the women. The
meat was cut and weighed by the foreman of the field hands, and piled on
planks before the meat house. Then the second foreman went behind the
building, and when the first foreman called out, “Who takes this piece of
meat?” he answered by calling somebody’s name. This method was resorted to
as a means of preventing partiality in distributing the meat. The young
mistress came out to see how things were done on her plantation, and she
soon gave a specimen of her character. Among those in waiting for their
allowance was a very old slave, who had faithfully served the Flint family
through three generations. When he hobbled up to get his bit of meat, the
mistress said he was too old to have any allowance; that when niggers were
too old to work, they ought to be fed on grass. Poor old man! He suffered
much before he found rest in the grave.

My mistress and I got along very well together. At the end of a week, old
Mrs. Flint made us another visit, and was closeted a long time with her
daughter-in-law. I had my suspicions what was the subject of the
conference. The old doctor’s wife had been informed that I could leave the
plantation on one condition, and she was very desirous to keep me there. If
she had trusted me, as I deserved to be trusted by her, she would have had
no fears of my accepting that condition. When she entered her carriage to
return home, she said to young Mrs. Flint, “Don’t neglect to send for them
as quick as possible.” My heart was on the watch all the time, and I at
once concluded that she spoke of my children. The doctor came the next day,
and as I entered the room to spread the tea table, I heard him say, “Don’t
wait any longer. Send for them to-morrow.” I saw through the plan. They
thought my children’s being there would fetter me to the spot, and that it
was a good place to break us all in to abject submission to our lot as
slaves. After the doctor left, a gentleman called, who had always
manifested friendly feelings towards my grandmother and her family. Mr.
Flint carried him over the plantation to show him the results of labor
performed by men and women who were unpaid, miserably clothed, and half
famished. The cotton crop was all they thought of. It was duly admired, and
the gentleman returned with specimens to show his friends. I was ordered to
carry water to wash his hands. As I did so, he said, “Linda, how do you
like your new home?” I told him I liked it as well as I expected. He
replied, “They don’t think you are contented, and to-morrow they are going
to bring your children to be with you. I am sorry for you, Linda. I hope
they will treat you kindly.” I hurried from the room, unable to thank him.
My suspicions were correct. My children were to be brought to the
plantation to be “broke in.”

To this day I feel grateful to the gentleman who gave me this timely
information. It nerved me to immediate action.




XVII. The Flight.


Mr. Flint was hard pushed for house servants, and rather than lose me he
had restrained his malice. I did my work faithfully, though not, of course,
with a willing mind. They were evidently afraid I should leave them. Mr.
Flint wished that I should sleep in the great house instead of the
servants’ quarters. His wife agreed to the proposition, but said I mustn’t
bring my bed into the house, because it would scatter feathers on her
carpet. I knew when I went there that they would never think of such a
thing as furnishing a bed of any kind for me and my little ones. I
therefore carried my own bed, and now I was forbidden to use it. I did as I
was ordered. But now that I was certain my children were to be put in their
power, in order to give them a stronger hold on me, I resolved to leave
them that night. I remembered the grief this step would bring upon my dear
old grandmother, and nothing less than the freedom of my children would
have induced me to disregard her advice. I went about my evening work with
trembling steps. Mr. Flint twice called from his chamber door to inquire
why the house was not locked up. I replied that I had not done my work.
“You have had time enough to do it,” said he. “Take care how you answer
me!”

I shut all the windows, locked all the doors, and went up to the third
story, to wait till midnight. How long those hours seemed, and how
fervently I prayed that God would not forsake me in this hour of utmost
need! I was about to risk every thing on the throw of a die; and if I
failed, O what would become of me and my poor children? They would be made
to suffer for my fault.

At half past twelve I stole softly down stairs. I stopped on the second
floor, thinking I heard a noise. I felt my way down into the parlor, and
looked out of the window. The night was so intensely dark that I could see
nothing. I raised the window very softly and jumped out. Large drops of
rain were falling, and the darkness bewildered me. I dropped on my knees,
and breathed a short prayer to God for guidance and protection. I groped my
way to the road, and rushed towards the town with almost lightning speed. I
arrived at my grandmother’s house, but dared not see her. She would say,
“Linda, you are killing me;” and I knew that would unnerve me. I tapped
softly at the window of a room, occupied by a woman, who had lived in the
house several years. I knew she was a faithful friend, and could be trusted
with my secret. I tapped several times before she heard me. At last she
raised the window, and I whispered, “Sally, I have run away. Let me in,
quick.” She opened the door softly, and said in low tones, “For God’s sake,
don’t. Your grandmother is trying to buy you and de chillern. Mr. Sands was
here last week. He tole her he was going away on business, but he wanted
her to go ahead about buying you and de chillern, and he would help her all
he could. Don’t run away, Linda. Your grandmother is all bowed down wid
trouble now.”

I replied, “Sally, they are going to carry my children to the plantation
to-morrow; and they will never sell them to any body so long as they have
me in their power. Now, would you advise me to go back?”

“No, chile, no,” answered she. “When dey finds you is gone, dey won’t want
de plague ob de chillern; but where is you going to hide? Dey knows ebery
inch ob dis house.”

I told her I had a hiding-place, and that was all it was best for her to
know. I asked her to go into my room as soon as it was light, and take all
my clothes out of my trunk, and pack them in hers; for I knew Mr. Flint and
the constable would be there early to search my room. I feared the sight of
my children would be too much for my full heart; but I could not go into
the uncertain future without one last look. I bent over the bed where lay
my little Benny and baby Ellen. Poor little ones! fatherless and
motherless! Memories of their father came over me. He wanted to be kind to
them; but they were not all to him, as they were to my womanly heart. I
knelt and prayed for the innocent little sleepers. I kissed them lightly,
and turned away.

As I was about to open the street door, Sally laid her hand on my shoulder,
and said, “Linda, is you gwine all alone? Let me call your uncle.”

“No, Sally,” I replied, “I want no one to be brought into trouble on my
account.”

I went forth into the darkness and rain. I ran on till I came to the house
of the friend who was to conceal me.

Early the next morning Mr. Flint was at my grandmother’s inquiring for me.
She told him she had not seen me, and supposed I was at the plantation. He
watched her face narrowly, and said, “Don’t you know any thing about her
running off?” She assured him that she did not. He went on to say, “Last
night she ran off without the least provocation. We had treated her very
kindly. My wife liked her. She will soon be found and brought back. Are her
children with you?” When told that they were, he said, “I am very glad to
hear that. If they are here, she cannot be far off. If I find out that any
of my niggers have had any thing to do with this damned business, I’ll give
’em five hundred lashes.” As he started to go to his father’s, he turned
round and added, persuasively, “Let her be brought back, and she shall have
her children to live with her.”

The tidings made the old doctor rave and storm at a furious rate. It was a
busy day for them. My grandmother’s house was searched from top to bottom.
As my trunk was empty, they concluded I had taken my clothes with me.
Before ten o’clock every vessel northward bound was thoroughly examined,
and the law against harboring fugitives was read to all on board. At night
a watch was set over the town. Knowing how distressed my grandmother would
be, I wanted to send her a message; but it could not be done. Every one who
went in or out of her house was closely watched. The doctor said he would
take my children, unless she became responsible for them; which of course
she willingly did. The next day was spent in searching. Before night, the
following advertisement was posted at every corner, and in every public
place for miles round:—

$300 REWARD! Ran away from the subscriber, an intelligent, bright, mulatto
girl, named Linda, 21 years of age. Five feet four inches high. Dark eyes,
and black hair inclined to curl; but it can be made straight. Has a decayed
spot on a front tooth. She can read and write, and in all probability will
try to get to the Free States. All persons are forbidden, under penalty of
law, to harbor or employ said slave. $150 will be given to whoever takes
her in the state, and $300 if taken out of the state and delivered to me,
or lodged in jail.

Dr. Flint.




XVIII. Months Of Peril.


The search for me was kept up with more perseverance than I had
anticipated. I began to think that escape was impossible. I was in great
anxiety lest I should implicate the friend who harbored me. I knew the
consequences would be frightful; and much as I dreaded being caught, even
that seemed better than causing an innocent person to suffer for kindness
to me. A week had passed in terrible suspense, when my pursuers came into
such close vicinity that I concluded they had tracked me to my
hiding-place. I flew out of the house, and concealed myself in a thicket of
bushes. There I remained in an agony of fear for two hours. Suddenly, a
reptile of some kind seized my leg. In my fright, I struck a blow which
loosened its hold, but I could not tell whether I had killed it; it was so
dark, I could not see what it was; I only knew it was something cold and
slimy. The pain I felt soon indicated that the bite was poisonous. I was
compelled to leave my place of concealment, and I groped my way back into
the house. The pain had become intense, and my friend was startled by my
look of anguish. I asked her to prepare a poultice of warm ashes and
vinegar, and I applied it to my leg, which was already much swollen. The
application gave me some relief, but the swelling did not abate. The dread
of being disabled was greater than the physical pain I endured. My friend
asked an old woman, who doctored among the slaves, what was good for the
bite of a snake or a lizard. She told her to steep a dozen coppers in
vinegar, over night, and apply the cankered vinegar to the inflamed
part.[1]

[Footnote 1: The poison of a snake is a powerful acid, and is counteracted
by powerful alkalies, such as potash, ammonia, &c. The Indians are
accustomed to apply wet ashes, or plunge the limb into strong lie. White
men, employed to lay out railroads in snaky places, often carry ammonia
with them as an antidote.—EDITOR.]

I had succeeded in cautiously conveying some messages to my relatives. They
were harshly threatened, and despairing of my having a chance to escape,
they advised me to return to my master, ask his forgiveness, and let him
make an example of me. But such counsel had no influence with me. When I
started upon this hazardous undertaking, I had resolved that, come what
would, there should be no turning back. “Give me liberty, or give me
death,” was my motto. When my friend contrived to make known to my
relatives the painful situation I had been in for twenty-four hours, they
said no more about my going back to my master. Something must be done, and
that speedily; but where to return for help, they knew not. God in his
mercy raised up “a friend in need.”

Among the ladies who were acquainted with my grandmother, was one who had
known her from childhood, and always been very friendly to her. She had
also known my mother and her children, and felt interested for them. At
this crisis of affairs she called to see my grandmother, as she not
unfrequently did. She observed the sad and troubled expression of her face,
and asked if she knew where Linda was, and whether she was safe. My
grandmother shook her head, without answering. “Come, Aunt Martha,”
said the kind lady, “tell me all about it. Perhaps I can do something
to help you.” The husband of this lady held many slaves, and bought and
sold slaves. She also held a number in her own name; but she treated
them kindly, and would never allow any of them to be sold. She was
unlike the majority of slaveholders’ wives. My grandmother looked
earnestly at her. Something in the expression of her face said
“Trust me!” and she did trust her. She listened attentively to
the details of my story, and sat thinking for a while. At last she said,
“Aunt Martha, I pity you both. If you think there is any chance of Linda’s
getting to the Free States, I will conceal her for a time. But first you
must solemnly promise that my name shall never be mentioned. If such a
thing should become known, it would ruin me and my family. No one in my
house must know of it, except the cook. She is so faithful that I would
trust my own life with her; and I know she likes Linda. It is a great risk;
but I trust no harm will come of it. Get word to Linda to be ready as soon
as it is dark, before the patrols are out. I will send the housemaids on
errands, and Betty shall go to meet Linda.” The place where we were to meet
was designated and agreed upon. My grandmother was unable to thank the lady
for this noble deed; overcome by her emotions, she sank on her knees and
sobbed like a child.

I received a message to leave my friend’s house at such an hour, and go to
a certain place where a friend would be waiting for me. As a matter of
prudence no names were mentioned. I had no means of conjecturing who I was
to meet, or where I was going. I did not like to move thus blindfolded, but
I had no choice. It would not do for me to remain where I was. I disguised
myself, summoned up courage to meet the worst, and went to the appointed
place. My friend Betty was there; she was the last person I expected to
see. We hurried along in silence. The pain in my leg was so intense that it
seemed as if I should drop but fear gave me strength. We reached the house
and entered unobserved. Her first words were: “Honey, now you is safe. Dem
devils ain’t coming to search _dis_ house. When I get you into missis’ safe
place, I will bring some nice hot supper. I specs you need it after all dis
skeering.” Betty’s vocation led her to think eating the most important
thing in life. She did not realize that my heart was too full for me to
care much about supper.

The mistress came to meet us, and led me up stairs to a small room over her
own sleeping apartment. “You will be safe here, Linda,” said she; “I keep
this room to store away things that are out of use. The girls are not
accustomed to be sent to it, and they will not suspect any thing unless
they hear some noise. I always keep it locked, and Betty shall take care of
the key. But you must be very careful, for my sake as well as your own; and
you must never tell my secret; for it would ruin me and my family. I will
keep the girls busy in the morning, that Betty may have a chance to bring
your breakfast; but it will not do for her to come to you again till night.
I will come to see you sometimes. Keep up your courage. I hope this state
of things will not last long.” Betty came with the “nice hot supper,” and
the mistress hastened down stairs to keep things straight till she
returned. How my heart overflowed with gratitude! Words choked in my
throat; but I could have kissed the feet of my benefactress. For that deed
of Christian womanhood, may God forever bless her!

I went to sleep that night with the feeling that I was for the present the
most fortunate slave in town. Morning came and filled my little cell with
light. I thanked the heavenly Father for this safe retreat. Opposite my
window was a pile of feather beds. On the top of these I could lie
perfectly concealed, and command a view of the street through which Dr.
Flint passed to his office. Anxious as I was, I felt a gleam of
satisfaction when I saw him. Thus far I had outwitted him, and I triumphed
over it. Who can blame slaves for being cunning? They are constantly
compelled to resort to it. It is the only weapon of the weak and oppressed
against the strength of their tyrants.

I was daily hoping to hear that my master had sold my children; for I knew
who was on the watch to buy them. But Dr. Flint cared even more for revenge
than he did for money. My brother William and the good aunt who had served
in his family twenty years, and my little Benny, and Ellen, who was a
little over two years old, were thrust into jail, as a means of compelling
my relatives to give some information about me. He swore my grandmother
should never see one of them again till I was brought back. They kept these
facts from me for several days. When I heard that my little ones were in a
loathsome jail, my first impulse was to go to them. I was encountering
dangers for the sake of freeing them, and must I be the cause of their
death? The thought was agonizing. My benefactress tried to soothe me by
telling me that my aunt would take good care of the children while they
remained in jail. But it added to my pain to think that the good old aunt,
who had always been so kind to her sister’s orphan children, should be shut
up in prison for no other crime than loving them. I suppose my friends
feared a reckless movement on my part, knowing, as they did, that my life
was bound up in my children. I received a note from my brother William. It
was scarcely legible, and ran thus: “Wherever you are, dear sister, I beg
of you not to come here. We are all much better off than you are. If you
come, you will ruin us all. They would force you to tell where you had
been, or they would kill you. Take the advice of your friends; if not for
the sake of me and your children, at least for the sake of those you would
ruin.”

Poor William! He also must suffer for being my brother. I took his advice
and kept quiet. My aunt was taken out of jail at the end of a month,
because Mrs. Flint could not spare her any longer. She was tired of being
her own housekeeper. It was quite too fatiguing to order her dinner and eat
it too. My children remained in jail, where brother William did all he
could for their comfort. Betty went to see them sometimes, and brought me
tidings. She was not permitted to enter the jail; but William would hold
them up to the grated window while she chatted with them. When she repeated
their prattle, and told me how they wanted to see their ma, my tears would
flow. Old Betty would exclaim, “Lors, chile! what’s you crying ’bout? Dem
young uns vil kill you dead. Don’t be so chick’n hearted! If you does, you
vil nebber git thro’ dis world.”

Good old soul! She had gone through the world childless. She had never had
little ones to clasp their arms round her neck; she had never seen their
soft eyes looking into hers; no sweet little voices had called her mother;
she had never pressed her own infants to her heart, with the feeling that
even in fetters there was something to live for. How could she realize my
feelings? Betty’s husband loved children dearly, and wondered why God had
denied them to him. He expressed great sorrow when he came to Betty with
the tidings that Ellen had been taken out of jail and carried to Dr.
Flint’s. She had the measles a short time before they carried her to jail,
and the disease had left her eyes affected. The doctor had taken her home
to attend to them. My children had always been afraid of the doctor and his
wife. They had never been inside of their house. Poor little Ellen cried
all day to be carried back to prison. The instincts of childhood are true.
She knew she was loved in the jail. Her screams and sobs annoyed Mrs.
Flint. Before night she called one of the slaves, and said, “Here, Bill,
carry this brat back to the jail. I can’t stand her noise. If she would be
quiet I should like to keep the little minx. She would make a handy
waiting-maid for my daughter by and by. But if she staid here, with her
white face, I suppose I should either kill her or spoil her. I hope the
doctor will sell them as far as wind and water can carry them. As for their
mother, her ladyship will find out yet what she gets by running away. She
hasn’t so much feeling for her children as a cow has for its calf. If she
had, she would have come back long ago, to get them out of jail, and save
all this expense and trouble. The good-for-nothing hussy! When she is
caught, she shall stay in jail, in irons, for one six months, and then be
sold to a sugar plantation. I shall see her broke in yet. What do you stand
there for, Bill? Why don’t you go off with the brat? Mind, now, that you
don’t let any of the niggers speak to her in the street!”

When these remarks were reported to me, I smiled at Mrs. Flint’s saying
that she should either kill my child or spoil her. I thought to myself
there was very little danger of the latter. I have always considered it as
one of God’s special providences that Ellen screamed till she was carried
back to jail.

That same night Dr. Flint was called to a patient, and did not return till
near morning. Passing my grandmother’s, he saw a light in the house, and
thought to himself, “Perhaps this has something to do with Linda.” He
knocked, and the door was opened. “What calls you up so early?” said he. “I
saw your light, and I thought I would just stop and tell you that I have
found out where Linda is. I know where to put my hands on her, and I shall
have her before twelve o’clock.” When he had turned away, my grandmother
and my uncle looked anxiously at each other. They did not know whether or
not it was merely one of the doctor’s tricks to frighten them. In their
uncertainty, they thought it was best to have a message conveyed to my
friend Betty. Unwilling to alarm her mistress, Betty resolved to dispose of
me herself. She came to me, and told me to rise and dress quickly. We
hurried down stairs, and across the yard, into the kitchen. She locked the
door, and lifted up a plank in the floor. A buffalo skin and a bit of
carpet were spread for me to lie on, and a quilt thrown over me. “Stay
dar,” said she, “till I sees if dey know ’bout you. Dey say dey vil put
thar hans on you afore twelve o’clock. If dey _did_ know whar you are, dey
won’t know _now_. Dey’ll be disapinted dis time. Dat’s all I got to say. If
dey comes rummagin ’mong _my_ tings, de’ll get one bressed sarssin from dis
’ere nigger.” In my shallow bed I had but just room enough to bring my
hands to my face to keep the dust out of my eyes; for Betty walked over me
twenty times in an hour, passing from the dresser to the fireplace. When
she was alone, I could hear her pronouncing anathemas over Dr. Flint and
all his tribe, every now and then saying, with a chuckling laugh, “Dis
nigger’s too cute for ’em dis time.” When the housemaids were about, she
had sly ways of drawing them out, that I might hear what they would say.
She would repeat stories she had heard about my being in this, or that, or
the other place. To which they would answer, that I was not fool enough to
be staying round there; that I was in Philadelphia or New York before this
time. When all were abed and asleep, Betty raised the plank, and said,
“Come out, chile; come out. Dey don’t know nottin ’bout you. Twas only
white folks’ lies, to skeer de niggers.”

Some days after this adventure I had a much worse fright. As I sat very
still in my retreat above stairs, cheerful visions floated through my mind.
I thought Dr. Flint would soon get discouraged, and would be willing to
sell my children, when he lost all hopes of making them the means of my
discovery. I knew who was ready to buy them. Suddenly I heard a voice that
chilled my blood. The sound was too familiar to me, it had been too
dreadful, for me not to recognize at once my old master. He was in the
house, and I at once concluded he had come to seize me. I looked round in
terror. There was no way of escape. The voice receded. I supposed the
constable was with him, and they were searching the house. In my alarm I
did not forget the trouble I was bringing on my generous benefactress. It
seemed as if I were born to bring sorrow on all who befriended me, and that
was the bitterest drop in the bitter cup of my life. After a while I heard
approaching footsteps; the key was turned in my door. I braced myself
against the wall to keep from falling. I ventured to look up, and there
stood my kind benefactress alone. I was too much overcome to speak, and
sunk down upon the floor.

“I thought you would hear your master’s voice,” she said; “and knowing you
would be terrified, I came to tell you there is nothing to fear. You may
even indulge in a laugh at the old gentleman’s expense. He is so sure you
are in New York, that he came to borrow five hundred dollars to go in
pursuit of you. My sister had some money to loan on interest. He has
obtained it, and proposes to start for New York to-night. So, for the
present, you see you are safe. The doctor will merely lighten his pocket
hunting after the bird he has left behind.”




XIX. The Children Sold.


The Doctor came back from New York, of course without accomplishing his
purpose. He had expended considerable money, and was rather disheartened.
My brother and the children had now been in jail two months, and that also
was some expense. My friends thought it was a favorable time to work on his
discouraged feelings. Mr. Sands sent a speculator to offer him nine hundred
dollars for my brother William, and eight hundred for the two children.
These were high prices, as slaves were then selling; but the offer was
rejected. If it had been merely a question of money, the doctor would have
sold any boy of Benny’s age for two hundred dollars; but he could not bear
to give up the power of revenge. But he was hard pressed for money, and he
revolved the matter in his mind. He knew that if he could keep Ellen till
she was fifteen, he could sell her for a high price; but I presume he
reflected that she might die, or might be stolen away. At all events, he
came to the conclusion that he had better accept the slave-trader’s offer.
Meeting him in the street, he inquired when he would leave town. “To-day,
at ten o’clock,” he replied. “Ah, do you go so soon?” said the doctor. “I
have been reflecting upon your proposition, and I have concluded to let you
have the three negroes if you will say nineteen hundred dollars.” After
some parley, the trader agreed to his terms. He wanted the bill of sale
drawn up and signed immediately, as he had a great deal to attend to during
the short time he remained in town. The doctor went to the jail and told
William he would take him back into his service if he would promise to
behave himself but he replied that he would rather be sold. “And you
_shall_ be sold, you ungrateful rascal!” exclaimed the doctor. In less than
an hour the money was paid, the papers were signed, sealed, and delivered,
and my brother and children were in the hands of the trader.

It was a hurried transaction; and after it was over, the doctor’s
characteristic caution returned. He went back to the speculator, and said,
“Sir, I have come to lay you under obligations of a thousand dollars not to
sell any of those negroes in this state.” “You come too late,” replied the
trader; “our bargain is closed.” He had, in fact, already sold them to Mr.
Sands, but he did not mention it. The doctor required him to put irons on
“that rascal, Bill,” and to pass through the back streets when he took his
gang out of town. The trader was privately instructed to concede to his
wishes. My good old aunt went to the jail to bid the children good by,
supposing them to be the speculator’s property, and that she should never
see them again. As she held Benny in her lap, he said, “Aunt Nancy, I want
to show you something.” He led her to the door and showed her a long row of
marks, saying, “Uncle Will taught me to count. I have made a mark for every
day I have been here, and it is sixty days. It is a long time; and the
speculator is going to take me and Ellen away. He’s a bad man. It’s wrong
for him to take grandmother’s children. I want to go to my mother.”

My grandmother was told that the children would be restored to her, but she
was requested to act as if they were really to be sent away. Accordingly,
she made up a bundle of clothes and went to the jail. When she arrived, she
found William handcuffed among the gang, and the children in the trader’s
cart. The scene seemed too much like reality. She was afraid there might
have been some deception or mistake. She fainted, and was carried home.

When the wagon stopped at the hotel, several gentlemen came out and
proposed to purchase William, but the trader refused their offers, without
stating that he was already sold. And now came the trying hour for that
drove of human beings, driven away like cattle, to be sold they knew not
where. Husbands were torn from wives, parents from children, never to look
upon each other again this side the grave. There was wringing of hands and
cries of despair.

Dr. Flint had the supreme satisfaction of seeing the wagon leave town, and
Mrs. Flint had the gratification of supposing that my children were going
“as far as wind and water would carry them.” According to agreement, my
uncle followed the wagon some miles, until they came to an old farm house.
There the trader took the irons from William, and as he did so, he said,
“You are a damned clever fellow. I should like to own you myself. Them
gentlemen that wanted to buy you said you was a bright, honest chap, and I
must git you a good home. I guess your old master will swear to-morrow, and
call himself an old fool for selling the children. I reckon he’ll never git
their mammy back again. I expect she’s made tracks for the north. Good by,
old boy. Remember, I have done you a good turn. You must thank me by
coaxing all the pretty gals to go with me next fall. That’s going to be my
last trip. This trading in niggers is a bad business for a fellow that’s
got any heart. Move on, you fellows!” And the gang went on, God alone knows
where.

Much as I despise and detest the class of slave-traders, whom I regard as
the vilest wretches on earth, I must do this man the justice to say that he
seemed to have some feeling. He took a fancy to William in the jail, and
wanted to buy him. When he heard the story of my children, he was willing
to aid them in getting out of Dr. Flint’s power, even without charging the
customary fee.

My uncle procured a wagon and carried William and the children back to
town. Great was the joy in my grandmother’s house! The curtains were
closed, and the candles lighted. The happy grandmother cuddled the little
ones to her bosom. They hugged her, and kissed her, and clapped their
hands, and shouted. She knelt down and poured forth one of her heartfelt
prayers of thanksgiving to God. The father was present for a while; and
though such a “parental relation” as existed between him and my children
takes slight hold on the hearts or consciences of slaveholders, it must be
that he experienced some moments of pure joy in witnessing the happiness he
had imparted.

I had no share in the rejoicings of that evening. The events of the day had
not come to my knowledge. And now I will tell you something that happened
to me; though you will, perhaps, think it illustrates the superstition of
slaves. I sat in my usual place on the floor near the window, where I could
hear much that was said in the street without being seen. The family had
retired for the night, and all was still. I sat there thinking of my
children, when I heard a low strain of music. A band of serenaders were
under the window, playing “Home, sweet home.” I listened till the sounds
did not seem like music, but like the moaning of children. It seemed as if
my heart would burst. I rose from my sitting posture, and knelt. A streak
of moonlight was on the floor before me, and in the midst of it appeared
the forms of my two children. They vanished; but I had seen them
distinctly. Some will call it a dream, others a vision. I know not how to
account for it, but it made a strong impression on my mind, and I felt
certain something had happened to my little ones.

I had not seen Betty since morning. Now I heard her softly turning the key.
As soon as she entered, I clung to her, and begged her to let me know
whether my children were dead, or whether they were sold; for I had seen
their spirits in my room, and I was sure something had happened to them.
“Lor, chile,” said she, putting her arms round me, “you’s got de
high-sterics. I’ll sleep wid you to-night, ’cause you’ll make a noise, and
ruin missis. Something has stirred you up mightily. When you is done cryin,
I’ll talk wid you. De chillern is well, and mighty happy. I seed ’em
myself. Does dat satisfy you? Dar, chile, be still! Somebody vill hear
you.” I tried to obey her. She lay down, and was soon sound asleep; but no
sleep would come to my eyelids.

At dawn, Betty was up and off to the kitchen. The hours passed on, and the
vision of the night kept constantly recurring to my thoughts. After a while
I heard the voices of two women in the entry. In one of them I recognized
the housemaid. The other said to her, “Did you know Linda Brent’s children
was sold to the speculator yesterday. They say ole massa Flint was mighty
glad to see ’em drove out of town; but they say they’ve come back agin. I
’spect it’s all their daddy’s doings. They say he’s bought William too.
Lor! how it will take hold of ole massa Flint! I’m going roun’ to aunt
Marthy’s to see ’bout it.”

I bit my lips till the blood came to keep from crying out. Were my children
with their grandmother, or had the speculator carried them off? The
suspense was dreadful. Would Betty _never_ come, and tell me the truth
about it? At last she came, and I eagerly repeated what I had overheard.
Her face was one broad, bright smile. “Lor, you foolish ting!” said she.
“I’se gwine to tell you all ’bout it. De gals is eating thar breakfast, and
missus tole me to let her tell you; but, poor creeter! t’aint right to keep
you waitin’, and I’se gwine to tell you. Brudder, chillern, all is bought
by de daddy! I’se laugh more dan nuff, tinking ’bout ole massa Flint. Lor,
how he _vill_ swar! He’s got ketched dis time, any how; but I must be
getting out o’ dis, or dem gals vill come and ketch _me_.”

Betty went off laughing; and I said to myself, “Can it be true that my
children are free? I have not suffered for them in vain. Thank God!”

Great surprise was expressed when it was known that my children had
returned to their grandmother’s. The news spread through the town, and many
a kind word was bestowed on the little ones.

Dr. Flint went to my grandmother’s to ascertain who was the owner of my
children, and she informed him. “I expected as much,” said he. “I am glad
to hear it. I have had news from Linda lately, and I shall soon have her.
You need never expect to see _her_ free. She shall be my slave as long as I
live, and when I am dead she shall be the slave of my children. If I ever
find out that you or Phillip had anything to do with her running off I’ll
kill him. And if I meet William in the street, and he presumes to look at
me, I’ll flog him within an inch of his life. Keep those brats out of my
sight!”

As he turned to leave, my grandmother said something to remind him of his
own doings. He looked back upon her, as if he would have been glad to
strike her to the ground.

I had my season of joy and thanksgiving. It was the first time since my
childhood that I had experienced any real happiness. I heard of the old
doctor’s threats, but they no longer had the same power to trouble me. The
darkest cloud that hung over my life had rolled away. Whatever slavery
might do to me, it could not shackle my children. If I fell a sacrifice, my
little ones were saved. It was well for me that my simple heart believed
all that had been promised for their welfare. It is always better to trust
than to doubt.




XX. New Perils.


The doctor, more exasperated than ever, again tried to revenge himself on
my relatives. He arrested uncle Phillip on the charge of having aided my
flight. He was carried before a court, and swore truly that he knew nothing
of my intention to escape, and that he had not seen me since I left my
master’s plantation. The doctor then demanded that he should give bail for
five hundred dollars that he would have nothing to do with me. Several
gentlemen offered to be security for him; but Mr. Sands told him he had
better go back to jail, and he would see that he came out without giving
bail.

The news of his arrest was carried to my grandmother, who conveyed it to
Betty. In the kindness of her heart, she again stowed me away under the
floor; and as she walked back and forth, in the performance of her culinary
duties, she talked apparently to herself, but with the intention that I
should hear what was going on. I hoped that my uncle’s imprisonment would
last but few days; still I was anxious. I thought it likely Dr. Flint would
do his utmost to taunt and insult him, and I was afraid my uncle might lose
control of himself, and retort in some way that would be construed into a
punishable offence; and I was well aware that in court his word would not
be taken against any white man’s. The search for me was renewed. Something
had excited suspicions that I was in the vicinity. They searched the house
I was in. I heard their steps and their voices. At night, when all were
asleep, Betty came to release me from my place of confinement. The fright I
had undergone, the constrained posture, and the dampness of the ground,
made me ill for several days. My uncle was soon after taken out of prison;
but the movements of all my relatives, and of all our friends, were very
closely watched.

We all saw that I could not remain where I was much longer. I had already
staid longer than was intended, and I knew my presence must be a source of
perpetual anxiety to my kind benefactress. During this time, my friends had
laid many plans for my escape, but the extreme vigilance of my persecutors
made it impossible to carry them into effect.

One morning I was much startled by hearing somebody trying to get into my
room. Several keys were tried, but none fitted. I instantly conjectured it
was one of the housemaids; and I concluded she must either have heard some
noise in the room, or have noticed the entrance of Betty. When my friend
came, at her usual time, I told her what had happened. “I knows who it
was,” said she. “Tend upon it, ’twas dat Jenny. Dat nigger allers got de
debble in her.” I suggested that she might have seen or heard something
that excited her curiosity.

“Tut! tut! chile!” exclaimed Betty, “she ain’t seen notin’, nor hearn
notin’. She only ’spects something. Dat’s all. She wants to fine out who
hab cut and make my gownd. But she won’t nebber know. Dat’s sartin. I’ll
git missis to fix her.”

I reflected a moment, and said, “Betty, I must leave here to-night.”

“Do as you tink best, poor chile,” she replied. “I’se mighty ’fraid dat
’ere nigger vill pop on you some time.”

She reported the incident to her mistress, and received orders to keep
Jenny busy in the kitchen till she could see my uncle Phillip. He told her
he would send a friend for me that very evening. She told him she hoped I
was going to the north, for it was very dangerous for me to remain any
where in the vicinity. Alas, it was not an easy thing, for one in my
situation, to go to the north. In order to leave the coast quite clear for
me, she went into the country to spend the day with her brother, and took
Jenny with her. She was afraid to come and bid me good by, but she left a
kind message with Betty. I heard her carriage roll from the door, and I
never again saw her who had so generously befriended the poor, trembling
fugitive! Though she was a slaveholder, to this day my heart blesses her!

I had not the slightest idea where I was going. Betty brought me a suit of
sailor’s clothes,—jacket, trowsers, and tarpaulin hat. She gave me a small
bundle, saying I might need it where I was going. In cheery tones, she
exclaimed, “I’se _so_ glad you is gwine to free parts! Don’t forget ole
Betty. P’raps I’ll come ’long by and by.”

I tried to tell her how grateful I felt for all her kindness. But she
interrupted me. “I don’t want no tanks, honey. I’se glad I could help you,
and I hope de good Lord vill open de path for you. I’se gwine wid you to de
lower gate. Put your hands in your pockets, and walk ricketty, like de
sailors.”

I performed to her satisfaction. At the gate I found Peter, a young colored
man, waiting for me. I had known him for years. He had been an apprentice
to my father, and had always borne a good character. I was not afraid to
trust to him. Betty bade me a hurried good by, and we walked off. “Take
courage, Linda,” said my friend Peter. “I’ve got a dagger, and no man shall
take you from me, unless he passes over my dead body.”

It was a long time since I had taken a walk out of doors, and the fresh air
revived me. It was also pleasant to hear a human voice speaking to me above
a whisper. I passed several people whom I knew, but they did not recognize
me in my disguise. I prayed internally that, for Peter’s sake, as well as
my own, nothing might occur to bring out his dagger. We walked on till we
came to the wharf. My aunt Nancy’s husband was a seafaring man, and it had
been deemed necessary to let him into our secret. He took me into his boat,
rowed out to a vessel not far distant, and hoisted me on board. We three
were the only occupants of the vessel. I now ventured to ask what they
proposed to do with me. They said I was to remain on board till near dawn,
and then they would hide me in Snaky Swamp, till my uncle Phillip had
prepared a place of concealment for me. If the vessel had been bound north,
it would have been of no avail to me, for it would certainly have been
searched. About four o’clock, we were again seated in the boat, and rowed
three miles to the swamp. My fear of snakes had been increased by the
venomous bite I had received, and I dreaded to enter this hiding-place. But
I was in no situation to choose, and I gratefully accepted the best that my
poor, persecuted friends could do for me.

Peter landed first, and with a large knife cut a path through bamboos and
briers of all descriptions. He came back, took me in his arms, and carried
me to a seat made among the bamboos. Before we reached it, we were covered
with hundreds of mosquitos. In an hour’s time they had so poisoned my flesh
that I was a pitiful sight to behold. As the light increased, I saw snake
after snake crawling round us. I had been accustomed to the sight of snakes
all my life, but these were larger than any I had ever seen. To this day I
shudder when I remember that morning. As evening approached, the number of
snakes increased so much that we were continually obliged to thrash them
with sticks to keep them from crawling over us. The bamboos were so high
and so thick that it was impossible to see beyond a very short distance.
Just before it became dark we procured a seat nearer to the entrance of the
swamp, being fearful of losing our way back to the boat. It was not long
before we heard the paddle of oars, and the low whistle, which had been
agreed upon as a signal. We made haste to enter the boat, and were rowed
back to the vessel. I passed a wretched night; for the heat of the swamp,
the mosquitos, and the constant terror of snakes, had brought on a burning
fever. I had just dropped asleep, when they came and told me it was time to
go back to that horrid swamp. I could scarcely summon courage to rise. But
even those large, venomous snakes were less dreadful to my imagination than
the white men in that community called civilized. This time Peter took a
quantity of tobacco to burn, to keep off the mosquitos. It produced the
desired effect on them, but gave me nausea and severe headache. At dark we
returned to the vessel. I had been so sick during the day, that Peter
declared I should go home that night, if the devil himself was on patrol.
They told me a place of concealment had been provided for me at my
grandmother’s. I could not imagine how it was possible to hide me in her
house, every nook and corner of which was known to the Flint family. They
told me to wait and see. We were rowed ashore, and went boldly through the
streets, to my grandmother’s. I wore my sailor’s clothes, and had blackened
my face with charcoal. I passed several people whom I knew. The father of
my children came so near that I brushed against his arm; but he had no idea
who it was.

“You must make the most of this walk,” said my friend Peter, “for you may
not have another very soon.”

I thought his voice sounded sad. It was kind of him to conceal from me what
a dismal hole was to be my home for a long, long time.




XXI. The Loophole Of Retreat.


A small shed had been added to my grandmother’s house years ago. Some
boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between these boards and
the roof was a very small garret, never occupied by any thing but rats and
mice. It was a pent roof, covered with nothing but shingles, according to
the southern custom for such buildings. The garret was only nine feet long
and seven wide. The highest part was three feet high, and sloped down
abruptly to the loose board floor. There was no admission for either light
or air. My uncle Phillip, who was a carpenter, had very skilfully made a
concealed trap-door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had been
doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom opened upon a
piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I entered the house. The air
was stifling; the darkness total. A bed had been spread on the floor. I
could sleep quite comfortably on one side; but the slope was so sudden that
I could not turn on my other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice
ran over my bed; but I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched
may, when a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by
the noises I heard; for in my small den day and night were all the same. I
suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not comfortless. I
heard the voices of my children. There was joy and there was sadness in the
sound. It made my tears flow. How I longed to speak to them! I was eager to
look on their faces; but there was no hole, no crack, through which I could
peep. This continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or
lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of light. Yet I
would have chosen this, rather than my lot as a slave, though white people
considered it an easy one; and it was so compared with the fate of others.
I was never cruelly overworked; I was never lacerated with the whip from
head to foot; I was never so beaten and bruised that I could not turn from
one side to the other; I never had my heel-strings cut to prevent my
running away; I was never chained to a log and forced to drag it about,
while I toiled in the fields from morning till night; I was never branded
with hot iron, or torn by bloodhounds. On the contrary, I had always been
kindly treated, and tenderly cared for, until I came into the hands of Dr.
Flint. I had never wished for freedom till then. But though my life in
slavery was comparatively devoid of hardships, God pity the woman who is
compelled to lead such a life!

My food was passed up to me through the trap-door my uncle had contrived;
and my grandmother, my uncle Phillip, and aunt Nancy would seize such
opportunities as they could, to mount up there and chat with me at the
opening. But of course this was not safe in the daytime. It must all be
done in darkness. It was impossible for me to move in an erect position,
but I crawled about my den for exercise. One day I hit my head against
something, and found it was a gimlet. My uncle had left it sticking there
when he made the trap-door. I was as rejoiced as Robinson Crusoe could have
been at finding such a treasure. It put a lucky thought into my head. I
said to myself, “Now I will have some light. Now I will see my children.” I
did not dare to begin my work during the daytime, for fear of attracting
attention. But I groped round; and having found the side next the street,
where I could frequently see my children, I stuck the gimlet in and waited
for evening. I bored three rows of holes, one above another; then I bored
out the interstices between. I thus succeeded in making one hole about an
inch long and an inch broad. I sat by it till late into the night, to enjoy
the little whiff of air that floated in. In the morning I watched for my
children. The first person I saw in the street was Dr. Flint. I had a
shuddering, superstitious feeling that it was a bad omen. Several familiar
faces passed by. At last I heard the merry laugh of children, and presently
two sweet little faces were looking up at me, as though they knew I was
there, and were conscious of the joy they imparted. How I longed to _tell_
them I was there!

My condition was now a little improved. But for weeks I was tormented by
hundreds of little red insects, fine as a needle’s point, that pierced
through my skin, and produced an intolerable burning. The good grandmother
gave me herb teas and cooling medicines, and finally I got rid of them. The
heat of my den was intense, for nothing but thin shingles protected me from
the scorching summer’s sun. But I had my consolations. Through my
peeping-hole I could watch the children, and when they were near enough, I
could hear their talk. Aunt Nancy brought me all the news she could hear at
Dr. Flint’s. From her I learned that the doctor had written to New York to
a colored woman, who had been born and raised in our neighborhood, and had
breathed his contaminating atmosphere. He offered her a reward if she could
find out any thing about me. I know not what was the nature of her reply;
but he soon after started for New York in haste, saying to his family that
he had business of importance to transact. I peeped at him as he passed on
his way to the steamboat. It was a satisfaction to have miles of land and
water between us, even for a little while; and it was a still greater
satisfaction to know that he believed me to be in the Free States. My
little den seemed less dreary than it had done. He returned, as he did from
his former journey to New York, without obtaining any satisfactory
information. When he passed our house next morning, Benny was standing at
the gate. He had heard them say that he had gone to find me, and he called
out, “Dr. Flint, did you bring my mother home? I want to see her.” The
doctor stamped his foot at him in a rage, and exclaimed, “Get out of the
way, you little damned rascal! If you don’t, I’ll cut off your head.”

Benny ran terrified into the house, saying, “You can’t put me in jail
again. I don’t belong to you now.” It was well that the wind carried the
words away from the doctor’s ear. I told my grandmother of it, when we had
our next conference at the trap-door, and begged of her not to allow the
children to be impertinent to the irascible old man.

Autumn came, with a pleasant abatement of heat. My eyes had become
accustomed to the dim light, and by holding my book or work in a certain
position near the aperture I contrived to read and sew. That was a great
relief to the tedious monotony of my life. But when winter came, the cold
penetrated through the thin shingle roof, and I was dreadfully chilled. The
winters there are not so long, or so severe, as in northern latitudes; but
the houses are not built to shelter from cold, and my little den was
peculiarly comfortless. The kind grandmother brought me bedclothes and warm
drinks. Often I was obliged to lie in bed all day to keep comfortable; but
with all my precautions, my shoulders and feet were frostbitten. O, those
long, gloomy days, with no object for my eye to rest upon, and no thoughts
to occupy my mind, except the dreary past and the uncertain future! I was
thankful when there came a day sufficiently mild for me to wrap myself up
and sit at the loophole to watch the passers by. Southerners have the habit
of stopping and talking in the streets, and I heard many conversations not
intended to meet my ears. I heard slave-hunters planning how to catch some
poor fugitive. Several times I heard allusions to Dr. Flint, myself, and
the history of my children, who, perhaps, were playing near the gate. One
would say, “I wouldn’t move my little finger to catch her, as old Flint’s
property.” Another would say, “I’ll catch _any_ nigger for the reward. A
man ought to have what belongs to him, if he _is_ a damned brute.” The
opinion was often expressed that I was in the Free States. Very rarely did
any one suggest that I might be in the vicinity. Had the least suspicion
rested on my grandmother’s house, it would have been burned to the ground.
But it was the last place they thought of. Yet there was no place, where
slavery existed, that could have afforded me so good a place of
concealment.

Dr. Flint and his family repeatedly tried to coax and bribe my children to
tell something they had heard said about me. One day the doctor took them
into a shop, and offered them some bright little silver pieces and gay
handkerchiefs if they would tell where their mother was. Ellen shrank away
from him, and would not speak; but Benny spoke up, and said, “Dr. Flint, I
don’t know where my mother is. I guess she’s in New York; and when you go
there again, I wish you’d ask her to come home, for I want to see her; but
if you put her in jail, or tell her you’ll cut her head off, I’ll tell her
to go right back.”




XXII. Christmas Festivities.


Christmas was approaching. Grandmother brought me materials, and I busied
myself making some new garments and little playthings for my children. Were
it not that hiring day is near at hand, and many families are fearfully
looking forward to the probability of separation in a few days, Christmas
might be a happy season for the poor slaves. Even slave mothers try to
gladden the hearts of their little ones on that occasion. Benny and Ellen
had their Christmas stockings filled. Their imprisoned mother could not
have the privilege of witnessing their surprise and joy. But I had the
pleasure of peeping at them as they went into the street with their new
suits on. I heard Benny ask a little playmate whether Santa Claus brought
him any thing. “Yes,” replied the boy; “but Santa Claus ain’t a real man.
It’s the children’s mothers that put things into the stockings.” “No, that
can’t be,” replied Benny, “for Santa Claus brought Ellen and me these new
clothes, and my mother has been gone this long time.”

How I longed to tell him that his mother made those garments, and that many
a tear fell on them while she worked!

Every child rises early on Christmas morning to see the Johnkannaus.
Without them, Christmas would be shorn of its greatest attraction. They
consist of companies of slaves from the plantations, generally of the lower
class. Two athletic men, in calico wrappers, have a net thrown over them,
covered with all manner of bright-colored stripes. Cows’ tails are fastened
to their backs, and their heads are decorated with horns. A box, covered
with sheepskin, is called the gumbo box. A dozen beat on this, while other
strike triangles and jawbones, to which bands of dancers keep time. For a
month previous they are composing songs, which are sung on this occasion.
These companies, of a hundred each, turn out early in the morning, and are
allowed to go round till twelve o’clock, begging for contributions. Not a
door is left unvisited where there is the least chance of obtaining a penny
or a glass of rum. They do not drink while they are out, but carry the rum
home in jugs, to have a carousal. These Christmas donations frequently
amount to twenty or thirty dollars. It is seldom that any white man or
child refuses to give them a trifle. If he does, they regale his ears with
the following song:—

   Poor massa, so dey say;
   Down in de heel, so dey say;
   Got no money, so dey say;
   Not one shillin, so dey say;
   God A’mighty bress you, so dey say.

Christmas is a day of feasting, both with white and colored people. Slaves,
who are lucky enough to have a few shillings, are sure to spend them for
good eating; and many a turkey and pig is captured, without saying, “By
your leave, sir.” Those who cannot obtain these, cook a ’possum, or a
raccoon, from which savory dishes can be made. My grandmother raised
poultry and pigs for sale and it was her established custom to have both a
turkey and a pig roasted for Christmas dinner.

On this occasion, I was warned to keep extremely quiet, because two guests
had been invited. One was the town constable, and the other was a free
colored man, who tried to pass himself off for white, and who was always
ready to do any mean work for the sake of currying favor with white people.
My grandmother had a motive for inviting them. She managed to take them all
over the house. All the rooms on the lower floor were thrown open for them
to pass in and out; and after dinner, they were invited up stairs to look
at a fine mocking bird my uncle had just brought home. There, too, the
rooms were all thrown open that they might look in. When I heard them
talking on the piazza, my heart almost stood still. I knew this colored man
had spent many nights hunting for me. Every body knew he had the blood of a
slave father in his veins; but for the sake of passing himself off for
white, he was ready to kiss the slaveholders’ feet. How I despised him! As
for the constable, he wore no false colors. The duties of his office were
despicable, but he was superior to his companion, inasmuch as he did not
pretend to be what he was not. Any white man, who could raise money enough
to buy a slave, would have considered himself degraded by being a
constable; but the office enabled its possessor to exercise authority. If
he found any slave out after nine o’clock, he could whip him as much as he
liked; and that was a privilege to be coveted. When the guests were ready
to depart, my grandmother gave each of them some of her nice pudding, as a
present for their wives. Through my peep-hole I saw them go out of the
gate, and I was glad when it closed after them. So passed the first
Christmas in my den.




XXIII. Still In Prison.


When spring returned, and I took in the little patch of green the aperture
commanded, I asked myself how many more summers and winters I must be
condemned to spend thus. I longed to draw in a plentiful draught of fresh
air, to stretch my cramped limbs, to have room to stand erect, to feel the
earth under my feet again. My relatives were constantly on the lookout for
a chance of escape; but none offered that seemed practicable, and even
tolerably safe. The hot summer came again, and made the turpentine drop
from the thin roof over my head.

During the long nights I was restless for want of air, and I had no room to
toss and turn. There was but one compensation; the atmosphere was so
stifled that even mosquitos would not condescend to buzz in it. With all my
detestation of Dr. Flint, I could hardly wish him a worse punishment,
either in this world or that which is to come, than to suffer what I
suffered in one single summer. Yet the laws allowed _him_ to be out in the
free air, while I, guiltless of crime, was pent up here, as the only means
of avoiding the cruelties the laws allowed him to inflict upon me! I don’t
know what kept life within me. Again and again, I thought I should die
before long; but I saw the leaves of another autumn whirl through the air,
and felt the touch of another winter. In summer the most terrible thunder
storms were acceptable, for the rain came through the roof, and I rolled up
my bed that it might cool the hot boards under it. Later in the season,
storms sometimes wet my clothes through and through, and that was not
comfortable when the air grew chilly. Moderate storms I could keep out by
filling the chinks with oakum.

But uncomfortable as my situation was, I had glimpses of things out of
doors, which made me thankful for my wretched hiding-place. One day I saw a
slave pass our gate, muttering, “It’s his own, and he can kill it if he
will.” My grandmother told me that woman’s history. Her mistress had that
day seen her baby for the first time, and in the lineaments of its fair
face she saw a likeness to her husband. She turned the bondwoman and her
child out of doors, and forbade her ever to return. The slave went to her
master, and told him what had happened. He promised to talk with her
mistress, and make it all right. The next day she and her baby were sold to
a Georgia trader.

Another time I saw a woman rush wildly by, pursued by two men. She was a
slave, the wet nurse of her mistress’s children. For some trifling offence
her mistress ordered her to be stripped and whipped. To escape the
degradation and the torture, she rushed to the river, jumped in, and ended
her wrongs in death.

Senator Brown, of Mississippi, could not be ignorant of many such facts as
these, for they are of frequent occurrence in every Southern State. Yet he
stood up in the Congress of the United States, and declared that slavery
was “a great moral, social, and political blessing; a blessing to the
master, and a blessing to the slave!”

I suffered much more during the second winter than I did during the first.
My limbs were benumbed by inaction, and the cold filled them with cramp. I
had a very painful sensation of coldness in my head; even my face and
tongue stiffened, and I lost the power of speech. Of course it was
impossible, under the circumstances, to summon any physician. My brother
William came and did all he could for me. Uncle Phillip also watched
tenderly over me; and poor grandmother crept up and down to inquire whether
there were any signs of returning life. I was restored to consciousness by
the dashing of cold water in my face, and found myself leaning against my
brother’s arm, while he bent over me with streaming eyes. He afterwards
told me he thought I was dying, for I had been in an unconscious state
sixteen hours. I next became delirious, and was in great danger of
betraying myself and my friends. To prevent this, they stupefied me with
drugs. I remained in bed six weeks, weary in body and sick at heart. How to
get medical advice was the question. William finally went to a Thompsonian
doctor, and described himself as having all my pains and aches. He returned
with herbs, roots, and ointment. He was especially charged to rub on the
ointment by a fire; but how could a fire be made in my little den? Charcoal
in a furnace was tried, but there was no outlet for the gas, and it nearly
cost me my life. Afterwards coals, already kindled, were brought up in an
iron pan, and placed on bricks. I was so weak, and it was so long since I
had enjoyed the warmth of a fire, that those few coals actually made me
weep. I think the medicines did me some good; but my recovery was very
slow. Dark thoughts passed through my mind as I lay there day after day. I
tried to be thankful for my little cell, dismal as it was, and even to love
it, as part of the price I had paid for the redemption of my children.
Sometimes I thought God was a compassionate Father, who would forgive my
sins for the sake of my sufferings. At other times, it seemed to me there
was no justice or mercy in the divine government. I asked why the curse of
slavery was permitted to exist, and why I had been so persecuted and
wronged from youth upward. These things took the shape of mystery, which is
to this day not so clear to my soul as I trust it will be hereafter.

In the midst of my illness, grandmother broke down under the weight and
anxiety and toil. The idea of losing her, who had always been my best
friend and a mother to my children, was the sorest trial I had yet had. O,
how earnestly I prayed that she might recover! How hard it seemed, that I
could not tend upon her, who had so long and so tenderly watched over me!

One day the screams of a child nerved me with strength to crawl to my
peeping-hole, and I saw my son covered with blood. A fierce dog, usually
kept chained, had seized and bitten him. A doctor was sent for, and I heard
the groans and screams of my child while the wounds were being sewed up. O,
what torture to a mother’s heart, to listen to this and be unable to go to
him!

But childhood is like a day in spring, alternately shower and sunshine.
Before night Benny was bright and lively, threatening the destruction of
the dog; and great was his delight when the doctor told him the next day
that the dog had bitten another boy and been shot. Benny recovered from his
wounds; but it was long before he could walk.

When my grandmother’s illness became known, many ladies, who were her
customers, called to bring her some little comforts, and to inquire whether
she had every thing she wanted. Aunt Nancy one night asked permission to
watch with her sick mother, and Mrs. Flint replied, “I don’t see any need
of your going. I can’t spare you.” But when she found other ladies in the
neighborhood were so attentive, not wishing to be outdone in Christian
charity, she also sallied forth, in magnificent condescension, and stood by
the bedside of her who had loved her in her infancy, and who had been
repaid by such grievous wrongs. She seemed surprised to find her so ill,
and scolded uncle Phillip for not sending for Dr. Flint. She herself sent
for him immediately, and he came. Secure as I was in my retreat, I should
have been terrified if I had known he was so near me. He pronounced my
grandmother in a very critical situation, and said if her attending
physician wished it, he would visit her. Nobody wished to have him coming
to the house at all hours, and we were not disposed to give him a chance to
make out a long bill.

As Mrs. Flint went out, Sally told her the reason Benny was lame was, that
a dog had bitten him. “I’m glad of it,” replied she. “I wish he had killed
him. It would be good news to send to his mother. _Her_ day will come. The
dogs will grab _her_ yet.” With these Christian words she and her husband
departed, and, to my great satisfaction, returned no more.

I learned from uncle Phillip, with feelings of unspeakable joy and
gratitude, that the crisis was passed and grandmother would live. I could
now say from my heart, “God is merciful. He has spared me the anguish of
feeling that I caused her death.”




XXIV. The Candidate For Congress.


The summer had nearly ended, when Dr. Flint made a third visit to New York,
in search of me. Two candidates were running for Congress, and he returned
in season to vote. The father of my children was the Whig candidate. The
doctor had hitherto been a stanch Whig; but now he exerted all his energies
for the defeat of Mr. Sands. He invited large parties of men to dine in the
shade of his trees, and supplied them with plenty of rum and brandy. If any
poor fellow drowned his wits in the bowl, and, in the openness of his
convivial heart, proclaimed that he did not mean to vote the Democratic
ticket, he was shoved into the street without ceremony.

The doctor expended his liquor in vain. Mr. Sands was elected; an event
which occasioned me some anxious thoughts. He had not emancipated my
children, and if he should die they would be at the mercy of his heirs. Two
little voices, that frequently met my ear, seemed to plead with me not to
let their father depart without striving to make their freedom secure.
Years had passed since I had spoken to him. I had not even seen him since
the night I passed him, unrecognized, in my disguise of a sailor. I
supposed he would call before he left, to say something to my grandmother
concerning the children, and I resolved what course to take.

The day before his departure for Washington I made arrangements, toward
evening, to get from my hiding-place into the storeroom below. I found
myself so stiff and clumsy that it was with great difficulty I could hitch
from one resting place to another. When I reached the storeroom my ankles
gave way under me, and I sank exhausted on the floor. It seemed as if I
could never use my limbs again. But the purpose I had in view roused all
the strength I had. I crawled on my hands and knees to the window, and,
screened behind a barrel, I waited for his coming. The clock struck nine,
and I knew the steamboat would leave between ten and eleven. My hopes were
failing. But presently I heard his voice, saying to some one, “Wait for me
a moment. I wish to see aunt Martha.” When he came out, as he passed the
window, I said, “Stop one moment, and let me speak for my children.” He
started, hesitated, and then passed on, and went out of the gate. I closed
the shutter I had partially opened, and sank down behind the barrel. I had
suffered much; but seldom had I experienced a keener pang than I then felt.
Had my children, then, become of so little consequence to him? And had he
so little feeling for their wretched mother that he would not listen a
moment while she pleaded for them? Painful memories were so busy within me,
that I forgot I had not hooked the shutter, till I heard some one opening
it. I looked up. He had come back. “Who called me?” said he, in a low tone.
“I did,” I replied. “Oh, Linda,” said he, “I knew your voice; but I was
afraid to answer, lest my friend should hear me. Why do you come here? Is
it possible you risk yourself in this house? They are mad to allow it. I
shall expect to hear that you are all ruined,” I did not wish to implicate
him, by letting him know my place of concealment; so I merely said, “I
thought you would come to bid grandmother good by, and so I came here to
speak a few words to you about emancipating my children. Many changes may
take place during the six months you are gone to Washington, and it does
not seem right for you to expose them to the risk of such changes. I want
nothing for myself; all I ask is, that you will free my children, or
authorize some friend to do it, before you go.”

He promised he would do it, and also expressed a readiness; to make any
arrangements whereby I could be purchased.

I heard footsteps approaching, and closed the shutter hastily. I wanted to
crawl back to my den, without letting the family know what I had done; for
I knew they would deem it very imprudent. But he stepped back into the
house, to tell my grandmother that he had spoken with me at the storeroom
window, and to beg of her not to allow me to remain in the house over night.
He said it was the height of madness for me to be there; that we should
certainly all be ruined. Luckily, he was in too much of a hurry to wait for
a reply, or the dear old woman would surely have told him all.

I tried to go back to my den, but found it more difficult to go up than I
had to come down. Now that my mission was fulfilled, the little strength
that had supported me through it was gone, and I sank helpless on the
floor. My grandmother, alarmed at the risk I had run, came into the
storeroom in the dark, and locked the door behind her. “Linda,” she
whispered, “where are you?”

“I am here by the window,” I replied. “I _couldn’t_ have him go away
without emancipating the children. Who knows what may happen?”

“Come, come, child,” said she, “it won’t do for you to stay here another
minute. You’ve done wrong; but I can’t blame you, poor thing!” I told her
I could not return without assistance, and she must call my uncle. Uncle
Phillip came, and pity prevented him from scolding me. He carried me back
to my dungeon, laid me tenderly on the bed, gave me some medicine, and
asked me if there was any thing more he could do. Then he went away, and I
was left with my own thoughts—starless as the midnight darkness around me.

My friends feared I should become a cripple for life; and I was so weary of
my long imprisonment that, had it not been for the hope of serving my
children, I should have been thankful to die; but, for their sakes, I was
willing to bear on.




XXV. Competition In Cunning.


Dr. Flint had not given me up. Every now and then he would say to my
grandmother that I would yet come back, and voluntarily surrender myself;
and that when I did, I could be purchased by my relatives, or any one who
wished to buy me. I knew his cunning nature too well not to perceive that
this was a trap laid for me; and so all my friends understood it. I
resolved to match my cunning against his cunning. In order to make him
believe that I was in New York, I resolved to write him a letter dated from
that place. I sent for my friend Peter, and asked him if he knew any
trustworthy seafaring person, who would carry such a letter to New York,
and put it in the post office there. He said he knew one that he would
trust with his own life to the ends of the world. I reminded him that it
was a hazardous thing for him to undertake. He said he knew it, but he was
willing to do any thing to help me. I expressed a wish for a New York
paper, to ascertain the names of some of the streets. He run his hand into
his pocket, and said, “Here is half a one, that was round a cap I bought of
a pedler yesterday.” I told him the letter would be ready the next evening.
He bade me good by, adding, “Keep up your spirits, Linda; brighter days
will come by and by.”

My uncle Phillip kept watch over the gate until our brief interview was
over. Early the next morning, I seated myself near the little aperture to
examine the newspaper. It was a piece of the New York Herald; and, for
once, the paper that systematically abuses the colored people, was made to
render them a service. Having obtained what information I wanted concerning
streets and numbers, I wrote two letters, one to my grandmother, the other
to Dr. Flint. I reminded him how he, a gray-headed man, had treated a
helpless child, who had been placed in his power, and what years of misery
he had brought upon her. To my grandmother, I expressed a wish to have my
children sent to me at the north, where I could teach them to respect
themselves, and set them a virtuous example; which a slave mother was not
allowed to do at the south. I asked her to direct her answer to a certain
street in Boston, as I did not live in New York, though I went there
sometimes. I dated these letters ahead, to allow for the time it would take
to carry them, and sent a memorandum of the date to the messenger. When my
friend came for the letters, I said, “God bless and reward you, Peter, for
this disinterested kindness. Pray be careful. If you are detected, both you
and I will have to suffer dreadfully. I have not a relative who would dare
to do it for me.” He replied, “You may trust to me, Linda. I don’t forget
that your father was my best friend, and I will be a friend to his children
so long as God lets me live.”

It was necessary to tell my grandmother what I had done, in order that she
might be ready for the letter, and prepared to hear what Dr. Flint might
say about my being at the north. She was sadly troubled. She felt sure
mischief would come of it. I also told my plan to aunt Nancy, in order that
she might report to us what was said at Dr. Flint’s house. I whispered it
to her through a crack, and she whispered back, “I hope it will succeed. I
shan’t mind being a slave all _my_ life, if I can only see you and the
children free.”

I had directed that my letters should be put into the New York post office
on the 20th of the month. On the evening of the 24th my aunt came to say
that Dr. Flint and his wife had been talking in a low voice about a letter
he had received, and that when he went to his office he promised to bring
it when he came to tea. So I concluded I should hear my letter read the
next morning. I told my grandmother Dr. Flint would be sure to come, and
asked her to have him sit near a certain door, and leave it open, that I
might hear what he said. The next morning I took my station within sound of
that door, and remained motionless as a statue. It was not long before I
heard the gate slam, and the well known footsteps enter the house. He
seated himself in the chair that was placed for him, and said, “Well,
Martha, I’ve brought you a letter from Linda. She has sent me a letter,
also. I know exactly where to find her; but I don’t choose to go to Boston
for her. I had rather she would come back of her own accord, in a
respectable manner. Her uncle Phillip is the best person to go for her.
With _him_, she would feel perfectly free to act. I am willing to pay his
expenses going and returning. She shall be sold to her friends. Her
children are free; at least I suppose they are; and when you obtain her
freedom, you’ll make a happy family. I suppose, Martha, you have no
objection to my reading to you the letter Linda has written to you.”

He broke the seal, and I heard him read it. The old villain! He had
suppressed the letter I wrote to grandmother, and prepared a substitute of
his own, the purport of which was as follows:—

   Dear Grandmother: I have long wanted to write to you; but the
   disgraceful manner in which I left you and my children made me
   ashamed to do it. If you knew how much I have suffered since I
   ran away, you would pity and forgive me. I have purchased freedom
   at a dear rate. If any arrangement could be made for me to return
   to the south without being a slave, I would gladly come. If not,
   I beg of you to send my children to the north. I cannot live any
   longer without them. Let me know in time, and I will meet them in
   New York or Philadelphia, whichever place best suits my uncle’s
   convenience. Write as soon as possible to your unhappy daughter,

   Linda.

“It is very much as I expected it would be,” said the old hypocrite, rising
to go. “You see the foolish girl has repented of her rashness, and wants to
return. We must help her to do it, Martha. Talk with Phillip about it. If
he will go for her, she will trust to him, and come back. I should like an
answer to-morrow. Good morning, Martha.”

As he stepped out on the piazza, he stumbled over my little girl. “Ah,
Ellen, is that you?” he said, in his most gracious manner. “I didn’t see
you. How do you do?”

“Pretty well, sir,” she replied. “I heard you tell grandmother that my
mother is coming home. I want to see her.”

“Yes, Ellen, I am going to bring her home very soon,” rejoined he; “and you
shall see her as much as you like, you little curly-headed nigger.”

This was as good as a comedy to me, who had heard it all; but grandmother
was frightened and distressed, because the doctor wanted my uncle to go for
me.

The next evening Dr. Flint called to talk the matter over. My uncle told
him that from what he had heard of Massachusetts, he judged he should be
mobbed if he went there after a runaway slave. “All stuff and nonsense,
Phillip!” replied the doctor. “Do you suppose I want you to kick up a row
in Boston? The business can all be done quietly. Linda writes that she
wants to come back. You are her relative, and she would trust _you_. The
case would be different if I went. She might object to coming with _me_;
and the damned abolitionists, if they knew I was her master, would not
believe me, if I told them she had begged to go back. They would get up a
row; and I should not like to see Linda dragged through the streets like a
common negro. She has been very ungrateful to me for all my kindness; but I
forgive her, and want to act the part of a friend towards her. I have no
wish to hold her as my slave. Her friends can buy her as soon as she
arrives here.”

Finding that his arguments failed to convince my uncle, the doctor “let the
cat out of the bag,” by saying that he had written to the mayor of Boston,
to ascertain whether there was a person of my description at the street and
number from which my letter was dated. He had omitted this date in the
letter he had made up to read to my grandmother. If I had dated from New
York, the old man would probably have made another journey to that city.
But even in that dark region, where knowledge is so carefully excluded from
the slave, I had heard enough about Massachusetts to come to the conclusion
that slaveholders did not consider it a comfortable place to go in search
of a runaway. That was before the Fugitive Slave Law was passed; before
Massachusetts had consented to become a “nigger hunter” for the south.

My grandmother, who had become skittish by seeing her family always in
danger, came to me with a very distressed countenance, and said, “What will
you do if the mayor of Boston sends him word that you haven’t been there?
Then he will suspect the letter was a trick; and maybe he’ll find out
something about it, and we shall all get into trouble. O Linda, I wish you
had never sent the letters.”

“Don’t worry yourself, Grandmother,” said I. “The mayor of Boston won’t
trouble himself to hunt niggers for Dr. Flint. The letters will do good in
the end. I shall get out of this dark hole some time or other.”

“I hope you will, child,” replied the good, patient old friend. “You have
been here a long time; almost five years; but whenever you do go, it will
break your old grandmother’s heart. I should be expecting every day to hear
that you were brought back in irons and put in jail. God help you, poor
child! Let us be thankful that some time or other we shall go ‘where the
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.’” My heart
responded, Amen.

The fact that Dr. Flint had written to the mayor of Boston convinced me
that he believed my letter to be genuine, and of course that he had no
suspicion of my being any where in the vicinity. It was a great object to
keep up this delusion, for it made me and my friends feel less anxious, and
it would be very convenient whenever there was a chance to escape. I
resolved, therefore, to continue to write letters from the north from time
to time.

Two or three weeks passed, and as no news came from the mayor of Boston,
grandmother began to listen to my entreaty to be allowed to leave my cell,
sometimes, and exercise my limbs to prevent my becoming a cripple. I was
allowed to slip down into the small storeroom, early in the morning, and
remain there a little while. The room was all filled up with barrels,
except a small open space under my trap-door. This faced the door, the
upper part of which was of glass, and purposely left uncurtained, that the
curious might look in. The air of this place was close; but it was so much
better than the atmosphere of my cell, that I dreaded to return. I came
down as soon as it was light, and remained till eight o’clock, when people
began to be about, and there was danger that some one might come on the
piazza. I had tried various applications to bring warmth and feeling into
my limbs, but without avail. They were so numb and stiff that it was a
painful effort to move; and had my enemies come upon me during the first
mornings I tried to exercise them a little in the small unoccupied space of
the storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped.




XXVI. Important Era In My Brother’s Life.

I missed the company and kind attentions of my brother William, who had
gone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. We received several letters
from him, written without any allusion to me, but expressed in such a
manner that I knew he did not forget me. I disguised my hand, and wrote to
him in the same manner. It was a long session; and when it closed, William
wrote to inform us that Mr. Sands was going to the north, to be gone some
time, and that he was to accompany him. I knew that his master had promised
to give him his freedom, but no time had been specified. Would William
trust to a slave’s chances? I remembered how we used to talk together, in
our young days, about obtaining our freedom, and I thought it very doubtful
whether he would come back to us.

Grandmother received a letter from Mr. Sands, saying that William had
proved a most faithful servant, and he would also say a valued friend; that
no mother had ever trained a better boy. He said he had travelled through
the Northern States and Canada; and though the abolitionists had tried to
decoy him away, they had never succeeded. He ended by saying they should be
at home shortly.

We expected letters from William, describing the novelties of his journey,
but none came. In time, it was reported that Mr. Sands would return late in
the autumn, accompanied by a bride. Still no letters from William. I felt
almost sure I should never see him again on southern soil; but had he no
word of comfort to send to his friends at home? to the poor captive in her
dungeon? My thoughts wandered through the dark past, and over the uncertain
future. Alone in my cell, where no eye but God’s could see me, I wept
bitter tears. How earnestly I prayed to him to restore me to my children,
and enable me to be a useful woman and a good mother!

At last the day arrived for the return of the travellers. Grandmother had
made loving preparations to welcome her absent boy back to the old
hearthstone. When the dinner table was laid, William’s place occupied its
old place. The stage coach went by empty. My grandmother waited dinner. She
thought perhaps he was necessarily detained by his master. In my prison I
listened anxiously, expecting every moment to hear my dear brother’s voice
and step. In the course of the afternoon a lad was sent by Mr. Sands to
tell grandmother that William did not return with him; that the
abolitionists had decoyed him away. But he begged her not to feel troubled
about it, for he felt confident she would see William in a few days. As
soon as he had time to reflect he would come back, for he could never
expect to be so well off at the north as he had been with him.

If you had seen the tears, and heard the sobs, you would have thought the
messenger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old
grandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I was
selfish. I thought more of what I had lost, than of what my brother had
gained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended a good
deal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss he had
incurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of my children,
who were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have their
emancipation made certain. The more so, because their master and father was
now married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know that promises made
to slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere at the time, depend
upon many contingencies for their fulfillment.

Much as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad and
anxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear; so beautiful that it
seemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother brought the
children out on the piazza, that I might hear their voices. She thought it
would comfort me in my despondency; and it did. They chatted merrily, as
only children can. Benny said, “Grandmother, do you think uncle Will has
gone for good? Won’t he ever come back again? May be he’ll find mother. If
he does, _won’t_ she be glad to see him! Why don’t you and uncle Phillip,
and all of us, go and live where mother is? I should like it; wouldn’t you,
Ellen?”

“Yes, I should like it,” replied Ellen; “but how could we find her? Do you
know the place, grandmother? I don’t remember how mother looked—do you,
Benny?”

Benny was just beginning to describe me when they were interrupted by an
old slave woman, a near neighbor, named Aggie. This poor creature had
witnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to parts
unknown, without any hopes of ever hearing from them again. She saw that my
grandmother had been weeping, and she said, in a sympathizing tone, “What’s
the matter, aunt Marthy?”

“O Aggie,” she replied, “it seems as if I shouldn’t have any of my children
or grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I’m dying, and lay my old
body in the ground. My boy didn’t come back with Mr. Sands. He staid at the
north.”

Poor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. “Is _dat_ what you’s crying fur?”
she exclaimed. “Git down on your knees and bress de Lord! I don’t know whar
my poor chillern is, and I nebber ’spect to know. You don’t know whar poor
Linda’s gone to; but you _do_ know whar her brudder is. He’s in free parts;
and dat’s de right place. Don’t murmur at de Lord’s doings but git down on
your knees and tank him for his goodness.”

My selfishness was rebuked by what poor Aggie said. She rejoiced over the
escape of one who was merely her fellow-bondman, while his own sister was
only thinking what his good fortune might cost her children. I knelt and
prayed God to forgive me; and I thanked him from my heart, that one of my
family was saved from the grasp of slavery.

It was not long before we received a letter from William. He wrote that Mr.
Sands had always treated him kindly, and that he had tried to do his duty
to him faithfully. But ever since he was a boy, he had longed to be free;
and he had already gone through enough to convince him he had better not
lose the chance that offered. He concluded by saying, “Don’t worry about
me, dear grandmother. I shall think of you always; and it will spur me on
to work hard and try to do right. When I have earned money enough to give
you a home, perhaps you will come to the north, and we can all live happy
together.”

Mr. Sands told my uncle Phillip the particulars about William’s leaving
him. He said, “I trusted him as if he were my own brother, and treated him
as kindly. The abolitionists talked to him in several places; but I had no
idea they could tempt him. However, I don’t blame William. He’s young and
inconsiderate, and those Northern rascals decoyed him. I must confess the
scamp was very bold about it. I met him coming down the steps of the Astor
House with his trunk on his shoulder, and I asked him where he was going.
He said he was going to change his old trunk. I told him it was rather
shabby, and asked if he didn’t need some money. He said, No, thanked me,
and went off. He did not return so soon as I expected; but I waited
patiently. At last I went to see if our trunks were packed, ready for our
journey. I found them locked, and a sealed note on the table informed me
where I could find the keys. The fellow even tried to be religious. He
wrote that he hoped God would always bless me, and reward me for my
kindness; that he was not unwilling to serve me; but he wanted to be a free
man; and that if I thought he did wrong, he hoped I would forgive him. I
intended to give him his freedom in five years. He might have trusted me.
He has shown himself ungrateful; but I shall not go for him, or send for
him. I feel confident that he will soon return to me.”

I afterwards heard an account of the affair from William himself. He had
not been urged away by abolitionists. He needed no information they could
give him about slavery to stimulate his desire for freedom. He looked at
his hands, and remembered that they were once in irons. What security had
he that they would not be so again? Mr. Sands was kind to him; but he might
indefinitely postpone the promise he had made to give him his freedom. He
might come under pecuniary embarrassments, and his property be seized by
creditors; or he might die, without making any arrangements in his favor.
He had too often known such accidents to happen to slaves who had kind
masters, and he wisely resolved to make sure of the present opportunity to
own himself. He was scrupulous about taking any money from his master on
false pretences; so he sold his best clothes to pay for his passage to
Boston. The slaveholders pronounced him a base, ungrateful wretch, for thus
requiting his master’s indulgence. What would _they_ have done under
similar circumstances?

When Dr. Flint’s family heard that William had deserted Mr. Sands, they
chuckled greatly over the news. Mrs. Flint made her usual manifestations of
Christian feeling, by saying, “I’m glad of it. I hope he’ll never get him
again. I like to see people paid back in their own coin. I reckon Linda’s
children will have to pay for it. I should be glad to see them in the
speculator’s hands again, for I’m tired of seeing those little niggers
march about the streets.”




XXVII. New Destination For The Children.


Mrs. Flint proclaimed her intention of informing Mrs. Sands who was the
father of my children. She likewise proposed to tell her what an artful
devil I was; that I had made a great deal of trouble in her family; that
when Mr. Sands was at the north, she didn’t doubt I had followed him in
disguise, and persuaded William to run away. She had some reason to
entertain such an idea; for I had written from the north, from time to
time, and I dated my letters from various places. Many of them fell into
Dr. Flint’s hands, as I expected they would; and he must have come to the
conclusion that I travelled about a good deal. He kept a close watch over
my children, thinking they would eventually lead to my detection.

A new and unexpected trial was in store for me. One day, when Mr. Sands and
his wife were walking in the street, they met Benny. The lady took a fancy
to him, and exclaimed, “What a pretty little negro! Whom does he belong
to?”

Benny did not hear the answer; but he came home very indignant with the
stranger lady, because she had called him a negro. A few days afterwards,
Mr. Sands called on my grandmother, and told her he wanted her to take the
children to his house. He said he had informed his wife of his relation to
them, and told her they were motherless; and she wanted to see them.

When he had gone, my grandmother came and asked what I would do. The
question seemed a mockery. What _could_ I do? They were Mr. Sands’s slaves,
and their mother was a slave, whom he had represented to be dead. Perhaps
he thought I was. I was too much pained and puzzled to come to any
decision; and the children were carried without my knowledge. Mrs. Sands
had a sister from Illinois staying with her. This lady, who had no children
of her own, was so much pleased with Ellen, that she offered to adopt her,
and bring her up as she would a daughter. Mrs. Sands wanted to take
Benjamin. When grandmother reported this to me, I was tried almost beyond
endurance. Was this all I was to gain by what I had suffered for the sake
of having my children free? True, the prospect _seemed_ fair; but I knew
too well how lightly slaveholders held such “parental relations.” If
pecuniary troubles should come, or if the new wife required more money than
could conveniently be spared, my children might be thought of as a
convenient means of raising funds. I had no trust in thee, O Slavery! Never
should I know peace till my children were emancipated with all due
formalities of law.

I was too proud to ask Mr. Sands to do any thing for my own benefit; but I
could bring myself to become a supplicant for my children. I resolved to
remind him of the promise he had made me, and to throw myself upon his
honor for the performance of it. I persuaded my grandmother to go to him,
and tell him I was not dead, and that I earnestly entreated him to keep the
promise he had made me; that I had heard of the recent proposals concerning
my children, and did not feel easy to accept them; that he had promised to
emancipate them, and it was time for him to redeem his pledge. I knew there
was some risk in thus betraying that I was in the vicinity; but what will
not a mother do for her children? He received the message with surprise,
and said, “The children are free. I have never intended to claim them as
slaves. Linda may decide their fate. In my opinion, they had better be sent
to the north. I don’t think they are quite safe here. Dr. Flint boasts that
they are still in his power. He says they were his daughter’s property, and
as she was not of age when they were sold, the contract is not legally
binding.”

So, then, after all I had endured for their sakes, my poor children were
between two fires; between my old master and their new master! And I was
powerless. There was no protecting arm of the law for me to invoke. Mr.
Sands proposed that Ellen should go, for the present, to some of his
relatives, who had removed to Brooklyn, Long Island. It was promised that
she should be well taken care of, and sent to school. I consented to it, as
the best arrangement I could make for her. My grandmother, of course,
negotiated it all; and Mrs. Sands knew of no other person in the
transaction. She proposed that they should take Ellen with them to
Washington, and keep her till they had a good chance of sending her, with
friends, to Brooklyn. She had an infant daughter. I had had a glimpse of
it, as the nurse passed with it in her arms. It was not a pleasant thought
to me, that the bondwoman’s child should tend her free-born sister; but
there was no alternative. Ellen was made ready for the journey. O, how it
tried my heart to send her away, so young, alone, among strangers! Without
a mother’s love to shelter her from the storms of life; almost without
memory of a mother! I doubted whether she and Benny would have for me the
natural affection that children feel for a parent. I thought to myself that
I might perhaps never see my daughter again, and I had a great desire that
she should look upon me, before she went, that she might take my image with
her in her memory. It seemed to me cruel to have her brought to my dungeon.
It was sorrow enough for her young heart to know that her mother was a
victim of slavery, without seeing the wretched hiding-place to which it had
driven her. I begged permission to pass the last night in one of the open
chambers, with my little girl. They thought I was crazy to think of
trusting such a young child with my perilous secret. I told them I had
watched her character, and I felt sure she would not betray me; that I was
determined to have an interview, and if they would not facilitate it, I
would take my own way to obtain it. They remonstrated against the rashness
of such a proceeding; but finding they could not change my purpose, they
yielded. I slipped through the trap-door into the storeroom, and my uncle
kept watch at the gate, while I passed into the piazza and went up stairs,
to the room I used to occupy. It was more than five years since I had seen
it; and how the memories crowded on me! There I had taken shelter when my
mistress drove me from her house; there came my old tyrant, to mock,
insult, and curse me; there my children were first laid in my arms; there I
had watched over them, each day with a deeper and sadder love; there I had
knelt to God, in anguish of heart, to forgive the wrong I had done. How
vividly it all came back! And after this long, gloomy interval, I stood
there such a wreck!

In the midst of these meditations, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The
door opened, and my uncle Phillip came in, leading Ellen by the hand. I put
my arms round her, and said, “Ellen, my dear child, I am your mother.” She
drew back a little, and looked at me; then, with sweet confidence, she laid
her cheek against mine, and I folded her to the heart that had been so long
desolated. She was the first to speak. Raising her head, she said,
inquiringly, “You really _are_ my mother?” I told her I really was; that
during all the long time she had not seen me, I had loved her most
tenderly; and that now she was going away, I wanted to see her and talk
with her, that she might remember me. With a sob in her voice, she said,
“I’m glad you’ve come to see me; but why didn’t you ever come before? Benny
and I have wanted so much to see you! He remembers you, and sometimes he
tells me about you. Why didn’t you come home when Dr. Flint went to bring
you?”

I answered, “I couldn’t come before, dear. But now that I am with you, tell
me whether you like to go away.” “I don’t know,” said she, crying.
“Grandmother says I ought not to cry; that I am going to a good place,
where I can learn to read and write, and that by and by I can write her a
letter. But I shan’t have Benny, or grandmother, or uncle Phillip, or any
body to love me. Can’t you go with me? O, _do_ go, dear mother!”

I told her I couldn’t go now; but sometime I would come to her, and then
she and Benny and I would live together, and have happy times. She wanted
to run and bring Benny to see me now. I told her he was going to the north,
before long, with uncle Phillip, and then I would come to see him before he
went away. I asked if she would like to have me stay all night and sleep
with her. “O, yes,” she replied. Then, turning to her uncle, she said,
pleadingly, “_May_ I stay? Please, uncle! She is my own mother.” He laid
his hand on her head, and said, solemnly, “Ellen, this is the secret you
have promised grandmother never to tell. If you ever speak of it to any
body, they will never let you see your grandmother again, and your mother
can never come to Brooklyn.” “Uncle,” she replied, “I will never tell.” He
told her she might stay with me; and when he had gone, I took her in my
arms and told her I was a slave, and that was the reason she must never say
she had seen me. I exhorted her to be a good child, to try to please the
people where she was going, and that God would raise her up friends. I told
her to say her prayers, and remember always to pray for her poor mother,
and that God would permit us to meet again. She wept, and I did not check
her tears. Perhaps she would never again have a chance to pour her tears
into a mother’s bosom. All night she nestled in my arms, and I had no
inclination to slumber. The moments were too precious to lose any of them.
Once, when I thought she was asleep, I kissed her forehead softly, and she
said, “I am not asleep, dear mother.”

Before dawn they came to take me back to my den. I drew aside the window
curtain, to take a last look of my child. The moonlight shone on her face,
and I bent over her, as I had done years before, that wretched night when I
ran away. I hugged her close to my throbbing heart; and tears, too sad for
such young eyes to shed, flowed down her cheeks, as she gave her last kiss,
and whispered in my ear, “Mother, I will never tell.” And she never did.

When I got back to my den, I threw myself on the bed and wept there alone
in the darkness. It seemed as if my heart would burst. When the time for
Ellen’s departure drew nigh, I could hear neighbors and friends saying to
her, “Good by, Ellen. I hope your poor mother will find you out. _Won’t_
you be glad to see her!” She replied, “Yes, ma’am;” and they little dreamed
of the weighty secret that weighed down her young heart. She was an
affectionate child, but naturally very reserved, except with those she
loved, and I felt secure that my secret would be safe with her. I heard the
gate close after her, with such feelings as only a slave mother can
experience. During the day my meditations were very sad. Sometimes I feared
I had been very selfish not to give up all claim to her, and let her go to
Illinois, to be adopted by Mrs. Sands’s sister. It was my experience of
slavery that decided me against it. I feared that circumstances might arise
that would cause her to be sent back. I felt confident that I should go to
New York myself; and then I should be able to watch over her, and in some
degree protect her.

Dr. Flint’s family knew nothing of the proposed arrangement till after
Ellen was gone, and the news displeased them greatly. Mrs. Flint called on
Mrs. Sands’s sister to inquire into the matter. She expressed her opinion
very freely as to the respect Mr. Sands showed for his wife, and for his
own character, in acknowledging those “young niggers.” And as for sending
Ellen away, she pronounced it to be just as much stealing as it would be
for him to come and take a piece of furniture out of her parlor. She said
her daughter was not of age to sign the bill of sale, and the children were
her property; and when she became of age, or was married, she could take
them, wherever she could lay hands on them.

Miss Emily Flint, the little girl to whom I had been bequeathed, was now in
her sixteenth year. Her mother considered it all right and honorable for
her, or her future husband, to steal my children; but she did not
understand how any body could hold up their heads in respectable society,
after they had purchased their own children, as Mr. Sands had done. Dr.
Flint said very little. Perhaps he thought that Benny would be less likely
to be sent away if he kept quiet. One of my letters, that fell into his
hands, was dated from Canada; and he seldom spoke of me now. This state of
things enabled me to slip down into the storeroom more frequently, where I
could stand upright, and move my limbs more freely.

Days, weeks, and months passed, and there came no news of Ellen. I sent a
letter to Brooklyn, written in my grandmother’s name, to inquire whether
she had arrived there. Answer was returned that she had not. I wrote to her
in Washington; but no notice was taken of it. There was one person there,
who ought to have had some sympathy with the anxiety of the child’s friends
at home; but the links of such relations as he had formed with me, are
easily broken and cast away as rubbish. Yet how protectingly and
persuasively he once talked to the poor, helpless slave girl! And how
entirely I trusted him! But now suspicions darkened my mind. Was my child
dead, or had they deceived me, and sold her?

If the secret memoirs of many members of Congress should be published,
curious details would be unfolded. I once saw a letter from a member of
Congress to a slave, who was the mother of six of his children. He wrote to
request that she would send her children away from the great house before
his return, as he expected to be accompanied by friends. The woman could
not read, and was obliged to employ another to read the letter. The
existence of the colored children did not trouble this gentleman, it was
only the fear that friends might recognize in their features a resemblance
to him.

At the end of six months, a letter came to my grandmother, from Brooklyn.
It was written by a young lady in the family, and announced that Ellen had
just arrived. It contained the following message from her: “I do try to do
just as you told me to, and I pray for you every night and morning.” I
understood that these words were meant for me; and they were a balsam to my
heart. The writer closed her letter by saying, “Ellen is a nice little
girl, and we shall like to have her with us. My cousin, Mr. Sands, has
given her to me, to be my little waiting-maid. I shall send her to school,
and I hope some day she will write to you herself.” This letter perplexed
and troubled me. Had my child’s father merely placed her there till she was
old enough to support herself? Or had he given her to his cousin, as a
piece of property? If the last idea was correct, his cousin might return to
the south at any time, and hold Ellen as a slave. I tried to put away from
me the painful thought that such a foul wrong could have been done to us. I
said to myself, “Surely there must be _some_ justice in man;” then I
remembered, with a sigh, how slavery perverted all the natural feelings of
the human heart. It gave me a pang to look on my light-hearted boy. He
believed himself free; and to have him brought under the yoke of slavery,
would be more than I could bear. How I longed to have him safely out of the
reach of its power!




XXVIII. Aunt Nancy.


I have mentioned my greataunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint’s family, and
who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered from
him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is, as far as
slaves _can_ marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress, and a
clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without any legal
value. Her master or mistress could annul it any day they pleased. She had
always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint’s chamber door,
that she might be within call. When she was married, she was told she might
have the use of a small room in an outhouse. Her mother and her husband
furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was allowed to sleep there when
he was at home. But on the wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her
old post on the entry floor.

Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to be a
mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what could
she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to lie at
her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give premature
birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume her place on
the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint’s babe needed her attentions. She kept
her station there through summer and winter, until she had given premature
birth to six children; and all the while she was employed as night-nurse to
Mrs. Flint’s children. Finally, toiling all day, and being deprived of rest
at night, completely broke down her constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it
was impossible she could ever become the mother of a living child. The fear
of losing so valuable a servant by death, now induced them to allow her to
sleep in her little room in the outhouse, except when there was sickness
in the family. She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a
few days, and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow
as she held the last dead baby in her arms. “I wish it could have lived,”
she said; “it is not the will of God that any of my children should live.
But I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven.”

Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint’s family. Indeed,
she was the _factotum_ of the household. Nothing went on well without her.
She was my mother’s twin sister, and, as far as was in her power, she
supplied a mother’s place to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I
lived in my old master’s house, and the bond between us was very strong.
When my friends tried to discourage me from running away; she always
encouraged me. When they thought I had better return and ask my master’s
pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never
to yield. She said if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my
children; and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave
them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life.
After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to
bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to
listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack! “I am old,
and have not long to live,” she used to say; “and I could die happy if I
could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I
do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness.” I would beg her
not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all suffering
sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I should
always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life.
A word from her always strengthened me; and not me only. The whole family
relied upon her judgement, and were guided by her advice. I had been in my
cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her
last remaining daughter. She was very ill, and they said she would die.
Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint’s house for several years. They had
treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now. She was grateful
for permission to watch by the death-bed of her child. They had always been
devoted to each other; and now they sat looking into each other’s eyes,
longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of
both. My aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and
the last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance,
she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she
would try to hold up her hand; to let her know that all was well with her.
Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying
woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side. His
eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful
servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flint took
to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While my grandmother sat alone
with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who had always
been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to her. “Martha,”
said he, “aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes where you are, I
hope you will be kind to him, for her sake.” She replied, “Your wife was my
foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little
know me if you think I can feel any thing but good will for her children.”

“I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of it,”
said he; “and that Linda would come to supply her aunt’s place. She would
be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for her. I wish
it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away from you, she
would be a great comfort to your old age.” He knew he was touching a
tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, “It was
not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are gone; and of my nine
children only one is left. God help me!”

To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I knew
that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had helped
to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened constantly to
hear what news was brought from the great house; and the thought that I
could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last, as uncle Phillip
came into the house, I heard some one inquire, “How is she?” and he
answered, “She is dead.” My little cell seemed whirling round, and I knew
nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me.
I had no need to ask any questions. He whispered, “Linda, she died happy.”
I could not weep. My fixed gaze troubled him. “Don’t look _so_” he said.
“Don’t add to my poor mother’s trouble. Remember how much she has to bear,
and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her.” Ah, yes, that blessed
old grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms
of a slavemother’s life. She did indeed need consolation!

Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently
without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her health
by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But now she became
very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a beautiful
illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder and slave, if
the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her feet. She sent for
the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to burying aunt Nancy in
the doctor’s family burial-place. No colored person had ever been allowed
interment in the white people’s burying-ground, and the minister knew that
all the deceased of your family reposed together in the old graveyard of
the slaves. He therefore replied, “I have no objection to complying with
your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy’s _mother_ may have some choice as to
where her remains shall be deposited.”

It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings.
When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy to lie
with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would be
buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she said it
was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from _her_. She might have
added with touching pathos, “I was so long _used_ to sleep with her lying
near me, on the entry floor.”

My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense;
and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors to slaves and
their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, but perfectly
respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs. Flint’s minister read
the funeral service. There was a large concourse of colored people, bond
and free, and a few white persons who had always been friendly to our
family. Dr. Flint’s carriage was in the procession; and when the body was
deposited in its humble resting place, the mistress dropped a tear, and
returned to her carriage, probably thinking she had performed her duty
nobly.

It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern
travellers, passing through the place, might have described this tribute of
respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the “patriarchal
institution;” a touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders and
their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed this
impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them a
different story. We could have given them a chapter of wrongs and
sufferings, that would have touched their hearts, if they _had_ any hearts
to feel for the colored people. We could have told them how the poor old
slavemother had toiled, year after year, to earn eight hundred dollars to
buy her son Phillip’s right to his own earnings; and how that same Phillip
paid the expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much
credit to the master. We could also have told them of a poor, blighted
young creature, shut up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures
that would be inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the
face of her departed friend.

All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting
for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes
falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living.

It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had always
been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported her. But
her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving
deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to knock for me to
come to the trap-door, and each place had a different meaning. She now came
oftener than she had done, and talked to me of her dead daughter, while
tears trickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks. I said all I could to
comfort her; but it was a sad reflection, that instead of being able to
help her, I was a constant source of anxiety and trouble. The poor old back
was fitted to its burden. It bent under it, but did not break.




XXIX. Preparations For Escape.


I hardly expect that the reader will credit me, when I affirm that I lived
in that little dismal hole, almost deprived of light and air, and with no
space to move my limbs, for nearly seven years. But it is a fact; and to me
a sad one, even now; for my body still suffers from the effects of that
long imprisonment, to say nothing of my soul. Members of my family, now
living in New York and Boston, can testify to the truth of what I say.

Countless were the nights that I sat late at the little loophole scarcely
large enough to give me a glimpse of one twinkling star. There, heard the
patrols and slave-hunters conferring together about the capture of
runaways, well knowing how rejoiced they would be to catch me.

Season after season, year after year, I peeped at my children’s faces, and
heard their sweet voices, with a heart yearning all the while to say, “Your
mother is here.” Sometimes it appeared to me as if ages had rolled away
since I entered upon that gloomy, monotonous existence. At times, I was
stupefied and listless; at other times I became very impatient to know when
these dark years would end, and I should again be allowed to feel the
sunshine, and breathe the pure air.

After Ellen left us, this feeling increased. Mr. Sands had agreed that
Benny might go to the north whenever his uncle Phillip could go with him;
and I was anxious to be there also, to watch over my children, and protect
them so far as I was able. Moreover, I was likely to be drowned out of my
den, if I remained much longer; for the slight roof was getting badly out
of repair, and uncle Phillip was afraid to remove the shingles, lest some
one should get a glimpse of me. When storms occurred in the night, they
spread mats and bits of carpet, which in the morning appeared to have been
laid out to dry; but to cover the roof in the daytime might have attracted
attention. Consequently, my clothes and bedding were often drenched; a
process by which the pains and aches in my cramped and stiffened limbs were
greatly increased. I revolved various plans of escape in my mind, which I
sometimes imparted to my grandmother, when she came to whisper with me at
the trap-door. The kind-hearted old woman had an intense sympathy for
runaways. She had known too much of the cruelties inflicted on those who
were captured. Her memory always flew back at once to the sufferings of her
bright and handsome son, Benjamin, the youngest and dearest of her flock.
So, whenever I alluded to the subject, she would groan out, “O, don’t think
of it, child. You’ll break my heart.” I had no good old aunt Nancy now to
encourage me; but my brother William and my children were continually
beckoning me to the north.

And now I must go back a few months in my story. I have stated that the
first of January was the time for selling slaves, or leasing them out to
new masters. If time were counted by heart-throbs, the poor slaves might
reckon years of suffering during that festival so joyous to the free. On
the New Year’s day preceding my aunt’s death, one of my friends, named
Fanny, was to be sold at auction, to pay her master’s debts. My thoughts
were with her during all the day, and at night I anxiously inquired what
had been her fate. I was told that she had been sold to one master, and her
four little girls to another master, far distant; that she had escaped from
her purchaser, and was not to be found. Her mother was the old Aggie I have
spoken of. She lived in a small tenement belonging to my grandmother, and
built on the same lot with her own house. Her dwelling was searched and
watched, and that brought the patrols so near me that I was obliged to keep
very close in my den. The hunters were somehow eluded; and not long
afterwards Benny accidentally caught sight of Fanny in her mother’s hut. He
told his grandmother, who charged him never to speak of it, explaining to
him the frightful consequences; and he never betrayed the trust. Aggie
little dreamed that my grandmother knew where her daughter was concealed,
and that the stooping form of her old neighbor was bending under a similar
burden of anxiety and fear; but these dangerous secrets deepened the
sympathy between the two old persecuted mothers.

My friend Fanny and I remained many weeks hidden within call of each other;
but she was unconscious of the fact. I longed to have her share my den,
which seemed a more secure retreat than her own; but I had brought so much
trouble on my grandmother, that it seemed wrong to ask her to incur greater
risks. My restlessness increased. I had lived too long in bodily pain and
anguish of spirit. Always I was in dread that by some accident, or some
contrivance, slavery would succeed in snatching my children from me. This
thought drove me nearly frantic, and I determined to steer for the North
Star at all hazards. At this crisis, Providence opened an unexpected way
for me to escape. My friend Peter came one evening, and asked to speak with
me. “Your day has come, Linda,” said he. “I have found a chance for you to
go to the Free States. You have a fortnight to decide.” The news seemed too
good to be true; but Peter explained his arrangements, and told me all that
was necessary was for me to say I would go. I was going to answer him with
a joyful yes, when the thought of Benny came to my mind. I told him the
temptation was exceedingly strong, but I was terribly afraid of Dr. Flint’s
alleged power over my child, and that I could not go and leave him behind.
Peter remonstrated earnestly. He said such a good chance might never occur
again; that Benny was free, and could be sent to me; and that for the sake
of my children’s welfare I ought not to hesitate a moment. I told him I
would consult with uncle Phillip. My uncle rejoiced in the plan, and bade
me go by all means. He promised, if his life was spared, that he would
either bring or send my son to me as soon as I reached a place of safety. I
resolved to go, but thought nothing had better be said to my grandmother
till very near the time of departure. But my uncle thought she would feel
it more keenly if I left here so suddenly. “I will reason with her,” said
he, “and convince her how necessary it is, not only for your sake, but for
hers also. You cannot be blind to the fact that she is sinking under her
burdens.” I was not blind to it. I knew that my concealment was an
ever-present source of anxiety, and that the older she grew the more
nervously fearful she was of discovery. My uncle talked with her, and
finally succeeded in persuading her that it was absolutely necessary for me
to seize the chance so unexpectedly offered.

The anticipation of being a free woman proved almost too much for my weak
frame. The excitement stimulated me, and at the same time bewildered me. I
made busy preparations for my journey, and for my son to follow me. I
resolved to have an interview with him before I went, that I might give him
cautions and advice, and tell him how anxiously I should be waiting for him
at the north. Grandmother stole up to me as often as possible to whisper
words of counsel. She insisted upon writing to Dr. Flint, as soon as I
arrived in the Free States, and asking him to sell me to her. She said she
would sacrifice her house, and all she had in the world, for the sake of
having me safe with my children in any part of the world. If she could only
live to know _that_ she could die in peace. I promised the dear old
faithful friend that I would write to her as soon as I arrived, and put the
letter in a safe way to reach her; but in my own mind I resolved that not
another cent of her hard earnings should be spent to pay rapacious
slaveholders for what they called their property. And even if I had not
been unwilling to buy what I had already a right to possess, common
humanity would have prevented me from accepting the generous offer, at the
expense of turning my aged relative out of house and home, when she was
trembling on the brink of the grave.

I was to escape in a vessel; but I forbear to mention any further
particulars. I was in readiness, but the vessel was unexpectedly detained
several days. Meantime, news came to town of a most horrible murder
committed on a fugitive slave, named James. Charity, the mother of this
unfortunate young man, had been an old acquaintance of ours. I have told
the shocking particulars of his death, in my description of some of the
neighboring slaveholders. My grandmother, always nervously sensitive about
runaways, was terribly frightened. She felt sure that a similar fate
awaited me, if I did not desist from my enterprise. She sobbed, and
groaned, and entreated me not to go. Her excessive fear was somewhat
contagious, and my heart was not proof against her extreme agony. I was
grievously disappointed, but I promised to relinquish my project.

When my friend Peter was apprised of this, he was both disappointed and
vexed. He said, that judging from our past experience, it would be a long
time before I had such another chance to throw away. I told him it need not
be thrown away; that I had a friend concealed near by, who would be glad
enough to take the place that had been provided for me. I told him about
poor Fanny, and the kind-hearted, noble fellow, who never turned his back
upon any body in distress, white or black, expressed his readiness to help
her. Aggie was much surprised when she found that we knew her secret. She
was rejoiced to hear of such a chance for Fanny, and arrangements were made
for her to go on board the vessel the next night. They both supposed that I
had long been at the north, therefore my name was not mentioned in the
transaction. Fanny was carried on board at the appointed time, and stowed
away in a very small cabin. This accommodation had been purchased at a
price that would pay for a voyage to England. But when one proposes to go
to fine old England, they stop to calculate whether they can afford the
cost of the pleasure; while in making a bargain to escape from slavery, the
trembling victim is ready to say, “take all I have, only don’t betray me!”

The next morning I peeped through my loophole, and saw that it was dark and
cloudy. At night I received news that the wind was ahead, and the vessel
had not sailed. I was exceedingly anxious about Fanny, and Peter too, who
was running a tremendous risk at my instigation. Next day the wind and
weather remained the same. Poor Fanny had been half dead with fright when
they carried her on board, and I could readily imagine how she must be
suffering now. Grandmother came often to my den, to say how thankful she
was I did not go. On the third morning she rapped for me to come down to
the storeroom. The poor old sufferer was breaking down under her weight of
trouble. She was easily flurried now. I found her in a nervous, excited
state, but I was not aware that she had forgotten to lock the door behind
her, as usual. She was exceedingly worried about the detention of the
vessel. She was afraid all would be discovered, and then Fanny, and Peter,
and I, would all be tortured to death, and Phillip would be utterly ruined,
and her house would be torn down. Poor Peter! If he should die such a
horrible death as the poor slave James had lately done, and all for his
kindness in trying to help me, how dreadful it would be for us all! Alas,
the thought was familiar to me, and had sent many a sharp pang through my
heart. I tried to suppress my own anxiety, and speak soothingly to her. She
brought in some allusion to aunt Nancy, the dear daughter she had recently
buried, and then she lost all control of herself. As she stood there,
trembling and sobbing, a voice from the piazza called out, “Whar is you,
aunt Marthy?” Grandmother was startled, and in her agitation opened the
door, without thinking of me. In stepped Jenny, the mischievous housemaid,
who had tried to enter my room, when I was concealed in the house of my
white benefactress. “I’s bin huntin ebery whar for you, aunt Marthy,” said
she. “My missis wants you to send her some crackers.” I had slunk down
behind a barrel, which entirely screened me, but I imagined that Jenny was
looking directly at the spot, and my heart beat violently. My grandmother
immediately thought what she had done, and went out quickly with Jenny to
count the crackers locking the door after her. She returned to me, in a few
minutes, the perfect picture of despair. “Poor child!” she exclaimed, “my
carelessness has ruined you. The boat ain’t gone yet. Get ready
immediately, and go with Fanny. I ain’t got another word to say against it
now; for there’s no telling what may happen this day.”

Uncle Phillip was sent for, and he agreed with his mother in thinking that
Jenny would inform Dr. Flint in less than twenty-four hours. He advised
getting me on board the boat, if possible; if not, I had better keep very
still in my den, where they could not find me without tearing the house
down. He said it would not do for him to move in the matter, because
suspicion would be immediately excited; but he promised to communicate with
Peter. I felt reluctant to apply to him again, having implicated him too
much already; but there seemed to be no alternative. Vexed as Peter had
been by my indecision, he was true to his generous nature, and said at once
that he would do his best to help me, trusting I should show myself a
stronger woman this time.

He immediately proceeded to the wharf, and found that the wind had shifted,
and the vessel was slowly beating down stream. On some pretext of urgent
necessity, he offered two boatmen a dollar apiece to catch up with her. He
was of lighter complexion than the boatmen he hired, and when the captain
saw them coming so rapidly, he thought officers were pursuing his vessel in
search of the runaway slave he had on board. They hoisted sails, but the
boat gained upon them, and the indefatigable Peter sprang on board.

The captain at once recognized him. Peter asked him to go below, to speak
about a bad bill he had given him. When he told his errand, the captain
replied, “Why, the woman’s here already; and I’ve put her where you or the
devil would have a tough job to find her.”

“But it is another woman I want to bring,” said Peter. “_She_ is in great
distress, too, and you shall be paid any thing within reason, if you’ll
stop and take her.”

“What’s her name?” inquired the captain. “Linda,” he replied.

“That’s the name of the woman already here,” rejoined the captain. “By
George! I believe you mean to betray me.”

“O!” exclaimed Peter, “God knows I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head. I am
too grateful to you. But there really _is_ another woman in great danger.
Do have the humanity to stop and take her!”

After a while they came to an understanding. Fanny, not dreaming I was any
where about in that region, had assumed my name, though she called herself
Johnson. “Linda is a common name,” said Peter, “and the woman I want to
bring is Linda Brent.”

The captain agreed to wait at a certain place till evening, being
handsomely paid for his detention.

Of course, the day was an anxious one for us all. But we concluded that if
Jenny had seen me, she would be too wise to let her mistress know of it;
and that she probably would not get a chance to see Dr. Flint’s family till
evening, for I knew very well what were the rules in that household. I
afterwards believed that she did not see me; for nothing ever came of it,
and she was one of those base characters that would have jumped to betray a
suffering fellow being for the sake of thirty pieces of silver.

I made all my arrangements to go on board as soon as it was dusk. The
intervening time I resolved to spend with my son. I had not spoken to him
for seven years, though I had been under the same roof, and seen him every
day, when I was well enough to sit at the loophole. I did not dare to
venture beyond the storeroom; so they brought him there, and locked us up
together, in a place concealed from the piazza door. It was an agitating
interview for both of us. After we had talked and wept together for a
little while, he said, “Mother, I’m glad you’re going away. I wish I could
go with you. I knew you was here; and I have been _so_ afraid they would
come and catch you!” I was greatly surprised, and asked him how he had
found it out.

He replied, “I was standing under the eaves, one day, before Ellen went
away, and I heard somebody cough up over the wood shed. I don’t know what
made me think it was you, but I did think so. I missed Ellen, the night
before she went away; and grandmother brought her back into the room in the
night; and I thought maybe she’d been to see _you_, before she went, for I
heard grandmother whisper to her, ‘Now go to sleep; and remember never to
tell.’”

I asked him if he ever mentioned his suspicions to his sister. He said he
never did; but after he heard the cough, if he saw her playing with other
children on that side of the house, he always tried to coax her round to
the other side, for fear they would hear me cough, too. He said he had kept
a close lookout for Dr. Flint, and if he saw him speak to a constable, or a
patrol, he always told grandmother. I now recollected that I had seen him
manifest uneasiness, when people were on that side of the house, and I had
at the time been puzzled to conjecture a motive for his actions. Such
prudence may seem extraordinary in a boy of twelve years, but slaves, being
surrounded by mysteries, deceptions, and dangers, early learn to be
suspicious and watchful, and prematurely cautious and cunning. He had never
asked a question of grandmother, or uncle Phillip, and I had often heard
him chime in with other children, when they spoke of my being at the north.

I told him I was now really going to the Free States, and if he was a good,
honest boy, and a loving child to his dear old grandmother, the Lord would
bless him, and bring him to me, and we and Ellen would live together. He
began to tell me that grandmother had not eaten any thing all day. While he
was speaking, the door was unlocked, and she came in with a small bag of
money, which she wanted me to take. I begged her to keep a part of it, at
least, to pay for Benny’s being sent to the north; but she insisted, while
her tears were falling fast, that I should take the whole. “You may be sick
among strangers,” she said, “and they would send you to the poorhouse to
die.” Ah, that good grandmother!

For the last time I went up to my nook. Its desolate appearance no longer
chilled me, for the light of hope had risen in my soul. Yet, even with the
blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt very sad at leaving forever
that old homestead, where I had been sheltered so long by the dear old
grandmother; where I had dreamed my first young dream of love; and where,
after that had faded away, my children came to twine themselves so closely
round my desolate heart. As the hour approached for me to leave, I again
descended to the storeroom. My grandmother and Benny were there. She took
me by the hand, and said, “Linda, let us pray.” We knelt down together,
with my child pressed to my heart, and my other arm round the faithful,
loving old friend I was about to leave forever. On no other occasion has it
ever been my lot to listen to so fervent a supplication for mercy and
protection. It thrilled through my heart, and inspired me with trust in
God.

Peter was waiting for me in the street. I was soon by his side, faint in
body, but strong of purpose. I did not look back upon the old place, though
I felt that I should never see it again.




XXX. Northward Bound.


I never could tell how we reached the wharf. My brain was all of a whirl,
and my limbs tottered under me. At an appointed place we met my uncle
Phillip, who had started before us on a different route, that he might
reach the wharf first, and give us timely warning if there was any danger.
A row-boat was in readiness. As I was about to step in, I felt something
pull me gently, and turning round I saw Benny, looking pale and anxious. He
whispered in my ear, “I’ve been peeping into the doctor’s window, and he’s
at home. Good by, mother. Don’t cry; I’ll come.” He hastened away. I
clasped the hand of my good uncle, to whom I owed so much, and of Peter,
the brave, generous friend who had volunteered to run such terrible risks
to secure my safety. To this day I remember how his bright face beamed with
joy, when he told me he had discovered a safe method for me to escape. Yet
that intelligent, enterprising, noble-hearted man was a chattel! Liable, by
the laws of a country that calls itself civilized, to be sold with horses
and pigs! We parted in silence. Our hearts were all too full for words!

Swiftly the boat glided over the water. After a while, one of the sailors
said, “Don’t be down-hearted, madam. We will take you safely to your
husband, in ——.” At first I could not imagine what he meant; but I had
presence of mind to think that it probably referred to something the
captain had told him; so I thanked him, and said I hoped we should have
pleasant weather.

When I entered the vessel the captain came forward to meet me. He was an
elderly man, with a pleasant countenance. He showed me to a little box of a
cabin, where sat my friend Fanny. She started as if she had seen a spectre.
She gazed on me in utter astonishment, and exclaimed, “Linda, can this be
_you_? or is it your ghost?” When we were locked in each other’s arms, my
overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained. My sobs reached the
ears of the captain, who came and very kindly reminded us, that for his
safety, as well as our own, it would be prudent for us not to attract any
attention. He said that when there was a sail in sight he wished us to keep
below; but at other times, he had no objection to our being on deck. He
assured us that he would keep a good lookout, and if we acted prudently, he
thought we should be in no danger. He had represented us as women going to
meet our husbands in ——. We thanked him, and promised to observe
carefully all the directions he gave us.

Fanny and I now talked by ourselves, low and quietly, in our little cabin.
She told me of the suffering she had gone through in making her escape, and
of her terrors while she was concealed in her mother’s house. Above all,
she dwelt on the agony of separation from all her children on that dreadful
auction day. She could scarcely credit me, when I told her of the place
where I had passed nearly seven years. “We have the same sorrows,” said I.
“No,” replied she, “you are going to see your children soon, and there is
no hope that I shall ever even hear from mine.”

The vessel was soon under way, but we made slow progress. The wind was
against us, I should not have cared for this, if we had been out of sight
of the town; but until there were miles of water between us and our
enemies, we were filled with constant apprehensions that the constables
would come on board. Neither could I feel quite at ease with the captain
and his men. I was an entire stranger to that class of people, and I had
heard that sailors were rough, and sometimes cruel. We were so completely
in their power, that if they were bad men, our situation would be dreadful.
Now that the captain was paid for our passage, might he not be tempted to
make more money by giving us up to those who claimed us as property? I was
naturally of a confiding disposition, but slavery had made me suspicious of
every body. Fanny did not share my distrust of the captain or his men. She
said she was afraid at first, but she had been on board three days while
the vessel lay in the dock, and nobody had betrayed her, or treated her
otherwise than kindly.

The captain soon came to advise us to go on deck for fresh air. His
friendly and respectful manner, combined with Fanny’s testimony, reassured
me, and we went with him. He placed us in a comfortable seat, and
occasionally entered into conversation. He told us he was a Southerner by
birth, and had spent the greater part of his life in the Slave States, and
that he had recently lost a brother who traded in slaves. “But,” said he,
“it is a pitiable and degrading business, and I always felt ashamed to
acknowledge my brother in connection with it.” As we passed Snaky Swamp, he
pointed to it, and said, “There is a slave territory that defies all the
laws.” I thought of the terrible days I had spent there, and though it was
not called Dismal Swamp, it made me feel very dismal as I looked at it.

I shall never forget that night. The balmy air of spring was so refreshing!
And how shall I describe my sensations when we were fairly sailing on
Chesapeake Bay? O, the beautiful sunshine! the exhilarating breeze! And I
could enjoy them without fear or restraint. I had never realized what grand
things air and sunlight are till I had been deprived of them.

Ten days after we left land we were approaching Philadelphia. The captain
said we should arrive there in the night, but he thought we had better wait
till morning, and go on shore in broad daylight, as the best way to avoid
suspicion.

I replied, “You know best. But will you stay on board and protect us?”

He saw that I was suspicious, and he said he was sorry, now that he had
brought us to the end of our voyage, to find I had so little confidence in
him. Ah, if he had ever been a slave he would have known how difficult it
was to trust a white man. He assured us that we might sleep through the
night without fear; that he would take care we were not left unprotected.
Be it said to the honor of this captain, Southerner as he was, that if
Fanny and I had been white ladies, and our passage lawfully engaged, he
could not have treated us more respectfully. My intelligent friend, Peter,
had rightly estimated the character of the man to whose honor he had
intrusted us. The next morning I was on deck as soon as the day dawned. I
called Fanny to see the sun rise, for the first time in our lives, on free
soil; for such I _then_ believed it to be. We watched the reddening sky,
and saw the great orb come up slowly out of the water, as it seemed. Soon
the waves began to sparkle, and every thing caught the beautiful glow.
Before us lay the city of strangers. We looked at each other, and the eyes
of both were moistened with tears. We had escaped from slavery, and we
supposed ourselves to be safe from the hunters. But we were alone in the
world, and we had left dear ties behind us; ties cruelly sundered by the
demon Slavery.




XXXI. Incidents In Philadelphia.


I had heard that the poor slave had many friends at the north. I trusted we
should find some of them. Meantime, we would take it for granted that all
were friends, till they proved to the contrary. I sought out the kind
captain, thanked him for his attentions, and told him I should never cease
to be grateful for the service he had rendered us. I gave him a message to
the friends I had left at home, and he promised to deliver it. We were
placed in a row-boat, and in about fifteen minutes were landed on a wood
wharf in Philadelphia. As I stood looking round, the friendly captain
touched me on the shoulder, and said, “There is a respectable-looking
colored man behind you. I will speak to him about the New York trains, and
tell him you wish to go directly on.” I thanked him, and asked him to
direct me to some shops where I could buy gloves and veils. He did so, and
said he would talk with the colored man till I returned. I made what haste
I could. Constant exercise on board the vessel, and frequent rubbing with
salt water, had nearly restored the use of my limbs. The noise of the great
city confused me, but I found the shops, and bought some double veils and
gloves for Fanny and myself. The shopman told me they were so many levies.
I had never heard the word before, but I did not tell him so. I thought if
he knew I was a stranger he might ask me where I came from. I gave him a
gold piece, and when he returned the change, I counted it, and found out
how much a levy was. I made my way back to the wharf, where the captain
introduced me to the colored man, as the Rev. Jeremiah Durham, minister of
Bethel church. He took me by the hand, as if I had been an old friend. He
told us we were too late for the morning cars to New York, and must wait
until the evening, or the next morning. He invited me to go home with him,
assuring me that his wife would give me a cordial welcome; and for my
friend he would provide a home with one of his neighbors. I thanked him for
so much kindness to strangers, and told him if I must be detained, I should
like to hunt up some people who formerly went from our part of the country.
Mr. Durham insisted that I should dine with him, and then he would assist
me in finding my friends. The sailors came to bid us good by. I shook their
hardy hands, with tears in my eyes. They had all been kind to us, and they
had rendered us a greater service than they could possibly conceive of.

I had never seen so large a city, or been in contact with so many people in
the streets. It seemed as if those who passed looked at us with an
expression of curiosity. My face was so blistered and peeled, by sitting on
deck, in wind and sunshine, that I thought they could not easily decide to
what nation I belonged.

Mrs. Durham met me with a kindly welcome, without asking any questions. I
was tired, and her friendly manner was a sweet refreshment. God bless her!
I was sure that she had comforted other weary hearts, before I received her
sympathy. She was surrounded by her husband and children, in a home made
sacred by protecting laws. I thought of my own children, and sighed.

After dinner Mr. Durham went with me in quest of the friends I had spoken
of. They went from my native town, and I anticipated much pleasure in
looking on familiar faces. They were not at home, and we retracted our
steps through streets delightfully clean. On the way, Mr. Durham observed
that I had spoken to him of a daughter I expected to meet; that he was
surprised, for I looked so young he had taken me for a single woman. He was
approaching a subject on which I was extremely sensitive. He would ask
about my husband next, I thought, and if I answered him truly, what would
he think of me? I told him I had two children, one in New York the other at
the south. He asked some further questions, and I frankly told him some of
the most important events of my life. It was painful for me to do it; but I
would not deceive him. If he was desirous of being my friend, I thought he
ought to know how far I was worthy of it. “Excuse me, if I have tried your
feelings,” said he. “I did not question you from idle curiosity. I wanted
to understand your situation, in order to know whether I could be of any
service to you, or your little girl. Your straightforward answers do you
credit; but don’t answer every body so openly. It might give some heartless
people a pretext for treating you with contempt.”

That word _contempt_ burned me like coals of fire. I replied, “God alone
knows how I have suffered; and He, I trust, will forgive me. If I am
permitted to have my children, I intend to be a good mother, and to live in
such a manner that people cannot treat me with contempt.”

“I respect your sentiments,” said he. “Place your trust in God, and be
governed by good principles, and you will not fail to find friends.”

When we reached home, I went to my room, glad to shut out the world for a
while. The words he had spoken made an indelible impression upon me. They
brought up great shadows from the mournful past. In the midst of my
meditations I was startled by a knock at the door. Mrs. Durham entered, her
face all beaming with kindness, to say that there was an anti-slavery
friend down stairs, who would like to see me. I overcame my dread of
encountering strangers, and went with her. Many questions were asked
concerning my experiences, and my escape from slavery; but I observed how
careful they all were not to say any thing that might wound my feelings.
How gratifying this was, can be fully understood only by those who have
been accustomed to be treated as if they were not included within the pale
of human beings. The anti-slavery friend had come to inquire into my plans,
and to offer assistance, if needed. Fanny was comfortably established, for
the present, with a friend of Mr. Durham. The Anti-Slavery Society agreed
to pay her expenses to New York. The same was offered to me, but I declined
to accept it, telling them that my grandmother had given me sufficient to
pay my expenses to the end of my journey. We were urged to remain in
Philadelphia a few days, until some suitable escort could be found for us.
I gladly accepted the proposition, for I had a dread of meeting
slaveholders, and some dread also of railroads. I had never entered a
railroad car in my life, and it seemed to me quite an important event.

That night I sought my pillow with feelings I had never carried to it
before. I verily believed myself to be a free woman. I was wakeful for a
long time, and I had no sooner fallen asleep, than I was roused by
fire-bells. I jumped up, and hurried on my clothes. Where I came from,
every body hastened to dress themselves on such occasions. The white people
thought a great fire might be used as a good opportunity for insurrection,
and that it was best to be in readiness; and the colored people were
ordered out to labor in extinguishing the flames. There was but one engine
in our town, and colored women and children were often required to drag it
to the river’s edge and fill it. Mrs. Durham’s daughter slept in the same
room with me, and seeing that she slept through all the din, I thought it
was my duty to wake her. “What’s the matter?” said she, rubbing her eyes.

“They’re screaming fire in the streets, and the bells are ringing,” I
replied.

“What of that?” said she, drowsily. “We are used to it. We never get up,
without the fire is very near. What good would it do?”

I was quite surprised that it was not necessary for us to go and help fill
the engine. I was an ignorant child, just beginning to learn how things
went on in great cities.

At daylight, I heard women crying fresh fish, berries, radishes, and
various other things. All this was new to me. I dressed myself at an early
hour, and sat at the window to watch that unknown tide of life.
Philadelphia seemed to me a wonderfully great place. At the breakfast
table, my idea of going out to drag the engine was laughed over, and I
joined in the mirth.

I went to see Fanny, and found her so well contented among her new friends
that she was in no haste to leave. I was also very happy with my kind
hostess. She had had advantages for education, and was vastly my superior.
Every day, almost every hour, I was adding to my little stock of knowledge.
She took me out to see the city as much as she deemed prudent. One day she
took me to an artist’s room, and showed me the portraits of some of her
children. I had never seen any paintings of colored people before, and they
seemed to be beautiful.

At the end of five days, one of Mrs. Durham’s friends offered to accompany
us to New York the following morning. As I held the hand of my good hostess
in a parting clasp, I longed to know whether her husband had repeated to
her what I had told him. I supposed he had, but she never made any allusion
to it. I presume it was the delicate silence of womanly sympathy.

When Mr. Durham handed us our tickets, he said, “I am afraid you will have
a disagreeable ride; but I could not procure tickets for the first-class
cars.”

Supposing I had not given him money enough, I offered more. “O, no,” said
he, “they could not be had for any money. They don’t allow colored people
to go in the first-class cars.”

This was the first chill to my enthusiasm about the Free States. Colored
people were allowed to ride in a filthy box, behind white people, at the
south, but there they were not required to pay for the privilege. It made
me sad to find how the north aped the customs of slavery.

We were stowed away in a large, rough car, with windows on each side, too
high for us to look out without standing up. It was crowded with people,
apparently of all nations. There were plenty of beds and cradles,
containing screaming and kicking babies. Every other man had a cigar or
pipe in his mouth, and jugs of whiskey were handed round freely. The fumes
of the whiskey and the dense tobacco smoke were sickening to my senses, and
my mind was equally nauseated by the coarse jokes and ribald songs around
me. It was a very disagreeable ride. Since that time there has been some
improvement in these matters.




XXXII. The Meeting Of Mother And Daughter.


When we arrived in New York, I was half crazed by the crowd of coachmen
calling out, “Carriage, ma’am?” We bargained with one to take us to
Sullivan Street for twelve shillings. A burly Irishman stepped up and said,
“I’ll tak’ ye for sax shillings.” The reduction of half the price was an
object to us, and we asked if he could take us right away. “Troth an I
will, ladies,” he replied. I noticed that the hackmen smiled at each other,
and I inquired whether his conveyance was decent. “Yes, it’s dacent it is,
marm. Devil a bit would I be after takin’ ladies in a cab that was not
dacent.” We gave him our checks. He went for the baggage, and soon
reappeared, saying, “This way, if you plase, ladies.” We followed, and
found our trunks on a truck, and we were invited to take our seats on them.
We told him that was not what we bargained for, and he must take the trunks
off. He swore they should not be touched till we had paid him six
shillings. In our situation it was not prudent to attract attention, and I
was about to pay him what he required, when a man near by shook his head
for me not to do it. After a great ado we got rid of the Irishman, and had
our trunks fastened on a hack. We had been recommended to a boarding-house
in Sullivan Street, and thither we drove. There Fanny and I separated. The
Anti-Slavery Society provided a home for her, and I afterwards heard of her
in prosperous circumstances. I sent for an old friend from my part of the
country, who had for some time been doing business in New York. He came
immediately. I told him I wanted to go to my daughter, and asked him to aid
me in procuring an interview.

I cautioned him not to let it be known to the family that I had just
arrived from the south, because they supposed I had been at the north seven
years. He told me there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the
same town I did, and I had better go to her house, and have my daughter
meet me there. I accepted the proposition thankfully, and he agreed to
escort me to Brooklyn. We crossed Fulton ferry, went up Myrtle Avenue, and
stopped at the house he designated. I was just about to enter, when two
girls passed. My friend called my attention to them. I turned, and
recognized in the eldest, Sarah, the daughter of a woman who used to live
with my grandmother, but who had left the south years ago. Surprised and
rejoiced at this unexpected meeting, I threw my arms round her, and
inquired concerning her mother.

“You take no notice of the other girl,” said my friend. I turned, and there
stood my Ellen! I pressed her to my heart, then held her away from me to
take a look at her. She had changed a good deal in the two years since I
parted from her. Signs of neglect could be discerned by eyes less observing
than a mother’s. My friend invited us all to go into the house; but Ellen
said she had been sent of an errand, which she would do as quickly as
possible, and go home and ask Mrs. Hobbs to let her come and see me. It was
agreed that I should send for her the next day. Her companion, Sarah,
hastened to tell her mother of my arrival. When I entered the house, I
found the mistress of it absent, and I waited for her return. Before I saw
her, I heard her saying, “Where is Linda Brent? I used to know her father
and mother.” Soon Sarah came with her mother. So there was quite a company
of us, all from my grandmother’s neighborhood. These friends gathered round
me and questioned me eagerly. They laughed, they cried, and they shouted.
They thanked God that I had got away from my persecutors and was safe on
Long Island. It was a day of great excitement. How different from the
silent days I had passed in my dreary den!

The next morning was Sunday. My first waking thoughts were occupied with
the note I was to send to Mrs. Hobbs, the lady with whom Ellen lived. That
I had recently come into that vicinity was evident; otherwise I should have
sooner inquired for my daughter. It would not do to let them know I had
just arrived from the south, for that would involve the suspicion of my
having been harbored there, and might bring trouble, if not ruin, on
several people.

I like a straightforward course, and am always reluctant to resort to
subterfuges. So far as my ways have been crooked, I charge them all upon
slavery. It was that system of violence and wrong which now left me no
alternative but to enact a falsehood. I began my note by stating that I had
recently arrived from Canada, and was very desirous to have my daughter
come to see me. She came and brought a message from Mrs. Hobbs, inviting me
to her house, and assuring me that I need not have any fears. The
conversation I had with my child did not leave my mind at ease. When I
asked if she was well treated, she answered yes; but there was no
heartiness in the tone, and it seemed to me that she said it from an
unwillingness to have me troubled on her account. Before she left me, she
asked very earnestly, “Mother, will you take me to live with you?” It made
me sad to think that I could not give her a home till I went to work and
earned the means; and that might take me a long time. When she was placed
with Mrs. Hobbs, the agreement was that she should be sent to school She
had been there two years, and was now nine years old, and she scarcely knew
her letters. There was no excuse for this, for there were good public
schools in Brooklyn, to which she could have been sent without expense.

She staid with me till dark, and I went home with her. I was received in a
friendly manner by the family, and all agreed in saying that Ellen was a
useful, good girl. Mrs. Hobbs looked me coolly in the face, and said, “I
suppose you know that my cousin, Mr. Sands, has _given_ her to my eldest
daughter. She will make a nice waiting-maid for her when she grows up.” I
did not answer a word. How _could_ she, who knew by experience the strength
of a mother’s love, and who was perfectly aware of the relation Mr. Sands
bore to my children,—how _could_ she look me in the face, while she thrust
such a dagger into my heart?

I was no longer surprised that they had kept her in such a state of
ignorance. Mr. Hobbs had formerly been wealthy, but he had failed, and
afterwards obtained a subordinate situation in the Custom House. Perhaps
they expected to return to the south some day; and Ellen’s knowledge was
quite sufficient for a slave’s condition. I was impatient to go to work and
earn money, that I might change the uncertain position of my children. Mr.
Sands had not kept his promise to emancipate them. I had also been deceived
about Ellen. What security had I with regard to Benjamin? I felt that I had
none.

I returned to my friend’s house in an uneasy state of mind. In order to
protect my children, it was necessary that I should own myself. I called
myself free, and sometimes felt so; but I knew I was insecure. I sat down
that night and wrote a civil letter to Dr. Flint, asking him to state the
lowest terms on which he would sell me; and as I belonged by law to his
daughter, I wrote to her also, making a similar request.

Since my arrival at the north I had not been unmindful of my dear brother
William. I had made diligent inquiries for him, and having heard of him in
Boston, I went thither. When I arrived there, I found he had gone to New
Bedford. I wrote to that place, and was informed he had gone on a whaling
voyage, and would not return for some months. I went back to New York to
get employment near Ellen. I received an answer from Dr. Flint, which gave
me no encouragement. He advised me to return and submit myself to my
rightful owners, and then any request I might make would be granted. I lent
this letter to a friend, who lost it; otherwise I would present a copy to
my readers.




XXXIII. A Home Found.


My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly
improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I
walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed
strangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could,
of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully
served.

One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe,
and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred
to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I
told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions,
but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former
employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant
circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against
color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each
other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was
engaged for a month.

The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this
place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and
sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of
passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so
painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would
have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save
me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told
her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and
kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and
from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant
feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to
confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all
confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for
some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful
feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had
passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of
her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to
expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the
opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had
leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more
cheerful.

The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often
threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for
Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for
fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious
situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me
to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I
could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with
Ellen’s situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New
York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that
I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was
accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs’s salary at the Custom
House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many
dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed.
That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their
pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young
daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and
had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put
Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes,
occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce
proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care
of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was
any thing improper in a mother’s making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was
very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not
politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely
free to act a mother’s part towards my children. The next time I went over
to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had
employed her own physician to attend to Ellen’s eyes, and that she had
refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New
York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my
child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was
a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her
injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel
otherwise.

Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that
it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce’s babe. When it
laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms
confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and
Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as
I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted
by a young man in sailor’s dress, who was closely observing every house as
he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It
_must_ be he—and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down
stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a
minute I was clasped in my brother’s arms. How much we had to tell each
other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other’s adventures! I
took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he
had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den.
He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen
were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are
formed by suffering together.




XXXIV. The Old Enemy Again.


My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter
requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a
reply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order
rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind
that the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had
no idea that I knew of the doctor’s three excursions to New York in search
of me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred
dollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the
steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy’s
death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept
the letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:—

   Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from
   it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among
   your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the
   contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any
   members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards
   you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your
   unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to
   make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return
   home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother,
   it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although
   it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be
   allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from
   her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect.
   From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and
   uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be
   reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms
   and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as
   we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you.
   Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my
   sister was always attached to you, and that you were never
   treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed
   to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house,
   and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least,
   felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away.
   Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced
   me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see
   you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to
   have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age
   she needs the consolation of having her children round her.
   Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a
   faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church.
   In her Christian life she taught us how to live—and, O, too high
   the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have
   seen us round her death-bed, with her mother, all mingling our
   tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same
   heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as
   between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful
   to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are
   contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and
   the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never
   trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come
   home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not
   wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our
   persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person
   you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as
   soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends
   much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend
   and well wisher.

This letter was signed by Emily’s brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I
knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and
though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in
former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the
hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go
into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on “the stupidity of the
African race.” I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their
cordial invitation—a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with
base ingratitude.

Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the
south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter
had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce
did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me
to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a
friend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my
journey immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother
that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting
for a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal
power to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and
when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of
sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money,
but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored
children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with
the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to
their “peculiar institution,” and he becomes unpopular.

There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to
New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested
to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my
door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. “O mother!” he exclaimed,
“here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d’you do?”

O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a
slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go.
“Mother, why don’t you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see
her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, ‘O Ben, I wish
I was going too.’ I thought she’d know ever so much; but she don’t know so
much as I do; for I can read, and she can’t. And, mother, I lost all my
clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I ’spose free boys can get
along here at the north as well as white boys.”

I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was
mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The
rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with
the wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and
frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to
tell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston.

Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon
me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where
I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate
family, who were waiting for me with “open arms,” were doomed to
disappointment.

As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of
my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through
the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and
finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the
considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews
with my darling daughter.

But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was
necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air,
and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize
me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of
the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is,
to be free to _say_ so!




XXXV. Prejudice Against Color.


It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We
went to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded for
tea, Mrs. Bruce said, “Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come
to the table with me.” I replied, “I know it is time baby had her supper,
but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being
insulted.” “O no, not if you are with _me_,” she said. I saw several white
nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the
extreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated, than a gruff voice said,
“Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here.” I looked up, and, to my
astonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a colored man. If
his office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at
least, have done it politely. I replied, “I shall not get up, unless the
captain comes and takes me up.” No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs.
Bruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the
other nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly
waited on.

Next morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was making
a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, “Take my arm, Linda, and we’ll go in
together.” The landlord heard her, and said, “Madam, will you allow your
nurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?” I knew this was to be
attributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did
not mind it.

At Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took
one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with gladness,
of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people, but
here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round
me with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who would recognize
me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time.

We soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the
remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the
clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see
Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said,
were, “O, mother, don’t go to Mrs. Hobbs’s. Her brother, Mr. Thorne, has
come from the south, and may be he’ll tell where you are.” I accepted the
warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and
would try to see her when I came back.

Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a “Jim Crow
car,” on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride through the
streets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where I found the same
manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings,
and represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway
before dark, and put up at the Pavilion—a large hotel, beautifully
situated by the sea-side—a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty
or forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the
ladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse
tinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary
and followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young
man, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or
three times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As
there was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon
the young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, “Will
you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and
feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you
will have a good supper.”

This was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I
looked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one shade
lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my presence
were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in
my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce
ordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered
for a few days; but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they
soon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The
landlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his
servants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of
other boarders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike.

My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with
_themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such
treatment; that there was no difference in the price of board for colored
and white servants, and there was no justification for difference of
treatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand
up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man
and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled under foot
by our oppressors.




XXXVI. The Hairbreadth Escape.


After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and
see Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed Mrs.
Hobbs’s southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid
seeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen, and insisted
on my going up stairs. “My brother wants to see you,” said she, “and he is
sorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me
to say to you that he owes thanks to good old aunt Martha for too many
little acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her
grandchild.”

This Mr. Thorne had become poor and reckless long before he left the south,
and such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to
borrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider
an equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to
feel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as
he was here, and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be
gained by trying to avoid him; on the contrary, it might be the means of
exciting his ill will. I followed his sister up stairs. He met me in a very
friendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I
had a good place, where I felt happy.

I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good thoughtful child,
never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for
my safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and
troubles; but a mother’s observing eye easily perceived that she was not
happy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious.
When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But
I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally, I
ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was
continually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for
rum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs
and Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they
had to call her to pour out the liquor for them. “But for all that,” said
she, “Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can’t help liking him. I feel sorry
for him.” I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a
hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and
Benjamin a home, and send them to school. She was always desirous not to
add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till
years afterwards that Mr. Thorne’s intemperance was not the only annoyance
she suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my
grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language
into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild.

I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday, I found
Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house. “O, mother,” said she, “I’ve
been waiting for you this long time. I’m afraid Mr. Thorne has written to
tell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell
you all about it!”

The story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grape-vine
arbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which
he tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time,
and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and
carried them to the children, saying, “I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been
writing to.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, and don’t care,” replied the oldest of the
children; “and I don’t see how it concerns you.”

“But it does concern me,” replied Ellen; “for I’m afraid he’s been
writing to the south about my mother.”

They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put
the fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her. They were
no sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, “I declare, Ellen, I
believe you are right.”

The contents of Mr. Thorne’s letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as
follows: “I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be
taken very easily, if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to
swear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my
country, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws.” He concluded by
informing the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children
carried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother’s
room for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw
him go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the
post office. The natural inference was, that he had sent to Dr. Flint a
copy of those fragments. When he returned, his sister accused him of it,
and he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the
next morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York, before any of
the family were astir.

It was evident that I had no time to lose; and I hastened back to the city
with a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all
my plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon
Slavery! I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not
concealed it merely on account of being a fugitive; that would have made
her anxious, but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued
her good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the
particulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her
to know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly, without
explaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went
home resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face
attracted her attention, and, in answer to her kind inquiries, I poured out
my full heart to her, before bed time. She listened with true womanly
sympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my
heart blessed her!

Early the next morning, Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted.
They said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great
if the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of
one of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother
could arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts
were much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine
by Southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her
so. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs,
who felt badly about her brother’s treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on
condition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise.
She came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school
satchel on her arm, containing a few articles. It was late in October, and
I knew the child must suffer; and not daring to go out in the streets to
purchase any thing, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into
one for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good by, and when she saw that
I had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She
said, “Wait for me, Linda,” and went out. She soon returned with a nice
warm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom
of heaven.

My brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to
Boston by the Stonington route, as there was less Southern travel in that
direction. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I
formerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat
Rhode Island in safety. That boat employed colored hands, but I knew that
colored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for
the seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night
air, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for
us. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favor, that she
would treat us well. He said to me, “Go and speak to the captain yourself
by and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure that he will not
let her sleep on deck.” With these kind words and a shake of the hand he
departed.

The boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home
where I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to
purchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he
would. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave
me three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner I
said, “You have made a mistake; I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot
possibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter.” She assured me
there was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were
allowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much
travelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain’s office,
and she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the
hand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our
tickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was
contrary to their custom, but he would see that we had berths below; he
would also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars; of that he
was not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the
boat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the ladies’ cabin. He came
afterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he
had spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much
surprised at receiving so much kindness. I don’t know whether the pleasing
face of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess
inferred from Lawyer Hopper’s manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded
with him in my behalf.

When the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and
showed us to seats in the first car, nearest the engine. He asked us to
take seats next the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on
toward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we
reached Boston in safety.

The day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I
was beyond the reach of the bloodhounds; and, for the first time during
many years, I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed
their reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a
swelling heart. Their every motion delighted me.

I could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend,
that we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to
Mrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for
that purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age,
so instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself
till she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed
pleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their
books.




XXXVII. A Visit To England


In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again, in
this world, should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I
had lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr.
Bruce wished the child to visit some of her mother’s relatives in England,
and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless
one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be
happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in
this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left
Ellen to remain in the house with my friend and go to school.

We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage
of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the
Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had
seen in American hotels; but my situation was indescribably more pleasant.
For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated
according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as
if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. Ensconced in a
pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow, for
the first time, with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated
freedom.

As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the
wonders of that great city; but I watched the tide of life that flowed
through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in
our Southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days
with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to
accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English
education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight
in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates
and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good
management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did
not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all
children—sometimes docile and sometimes wayward.

We next went to Steventon, in Berkshire. It was a small town, said to be
the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six
shillings, and seven shillings, a week, and women for sixpence, and
sevenpence, a day, out of which they boarded themselves. Of course they
lived in the most primitive manner; it could not be otherwise, where a
woman’s wages for an entire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat.
They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest
fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United
States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the
poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the
poorest poor. But when I visited them in their little thatched cottages, I
felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them
was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America.
They labored hard; but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars
were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer, through heat and
cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble; but
they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come, in the dead of
night, and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his
cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer
could come and take from him his wife, or his daughter. They must separate
to earn their living; but the parents knew where their children were going,
and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and
wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land
to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor
people. Schools were established among them, and benevolent societies were
active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law
forbidding them to learn to read and write; and if they helped each other
in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as
was the case with myself and poor, pious, old uncle Fred. I repeat that the
most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousand fold
better off than the most pampered American slave.

I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to
paint their condition so rose-colored as the Hon. Miss Murray paints the
condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of _my_
experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If
she were to lay aside her title, and, instead of visiting among the
fashionable, become domesticated, as a poor governess, on some plantation
in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her
tell quite a different story.

My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my
having there received strong religious impressions. The contemptuous manner
in which the communion had been administered to colored people, in my
native place; the church membership of Dr. Flint, and others like him; and
the buying and selling of slaves, by professed ministers of the gospel, had
given me a prejudice against the Episcopal church. The whole service seemed
to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a
clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life
inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace
entered my heart, and I knelt at the communion table, I trust, in true
humility of soul.

I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated.
During all that time, I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice
against color. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to
return to America.




XXXVIII. Renewed Invitations To Go South.


We had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance spectres seemed to
rise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be
afraid of one’s native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I
hastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and
improving at her school; but Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been
left at a good place to learn a trade, and for several months every thing
worked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favorite with his
fellow-apprentices; but one day they accidentally discovered a fact they
had never before suspected—that he was colored! This at once transformed
him into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans, others
American-born Irish; and it was offensive to their dignity to have a
“nigger” among them, after they had been told that he _was_ a “nigger.”
They began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned
the same, they resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to
stand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support
himself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a whaling voyage.
When I received these tidings I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached
myself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now
all I could do was to pray to the heavenly Father to guide and protect him.

Not long after my return, I received the following letter from Miss Emily
Flint, now Mrs. Dodge:—

   In this you will recognize the hand of your friend and mistress.
   Having heard that you had gone with a family to Europe, I have
   waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have
   answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could
   not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be
   nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who
   were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this
   I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and
   would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind
   treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband
   expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of
   settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with
   me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself;
   but I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you
   may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and
   friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Think this over,
   and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion.
   Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and
   mistress.

Of course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I
felt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions.

   “Come up into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly;
   “Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.”

It was plain that Dr. Flint’s family were apprised of my movements, since
they knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from
them; but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in
future. The money I had earned, I was desirous to devote to the education
of my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but
unjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of
property. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that
time had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts in food
and clothing. My children certainly belonged to me; but though Dr. Flint
had incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of
money for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and
would probably still give his daughter a claim to my children; but I
regarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I
was bound to respect.

The Fugitive Slave Law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had
not then stooped under chains to enter her courts of justice, so called. I
knew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her
love of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honored
the old Commonwealth beyond her deserts.




XXXIX. The Confession.


For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably in Boston.
At the end of that time, my brother William offered to send Ellen to a
boarding school. It required a great effort for me to consent to part with
her, for I had few near ties, and it was her presence that made my two
little rooms seem home-like. But my judgment prevailed over my selfish
feelings. I made preparations for her departure. During the two years we
had lived together I had often resolved to tell her something about her
father; but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage. I had a
shrinking dread of diminishing my child’s love. I knew she must have
curiosity on the subject, but she had never asked a question. She was
always very careful not to say any thing to remind me of my troubles. Now
that she was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned,
she might hear my story from some one who did not understand the palliating
circumstances; and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject, her
sensitive nature might receive a rude shock.

When we retired for the night, she said, “Mother, it is very hard to leave
you alone. I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to improve
myself. But you will write to me often; won’t you, mother?”

I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer her. But in a calm,
solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, “Listen to me, Ellen; I
have something to tell you!” I recounted my early sufferings in slavery,
and told her how nearly they had crushed me. I began to tell her how they
had driven me into a great sin, when she clasped me in her arms, and
exclaimed, “O, don’t, mother! Please don’t tell me any more.”

I said, “But, my child, I want you to know about your father.”

“I know all about it, mother,” she replied; “I am nothing to my father, and
he is nothing to me. All my love is for you. I was with him five months in
Washington, and he never cared for me. He never spoke to me as he did to
his little Fanny. I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny’s nurse
told me so, but she said I must never tell any body, and I never did. I
used to wish he would take me in his arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or
that he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought if he was
my own father, he ought to love me. I was a little girl then, and didn’t
know any better. But now I never think any thing about my father. All my
love is for you.” She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that
the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the
affection of my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion
of my history. If I had, I should have spoken to her long before; for my
pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to some one I
could trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had
manifested towards her unfortunate mother.

The next morning, she and her uncle started on their journey to the village
in New York, where she was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the
sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully lonely. I was
thankful when a message came from a lady, accustomed to employ me,
requesting me to come and sew in her family for several weeks. On my
return, I found a letter from brother William. He thought of opening an
anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, and combining with it the sale of
some books and stationery; and he wanted me to unite with him. We tried it,
but it was not successful. We found warm anti-slavery friends there, but
the feeling was not general enough to support such an establishment. I
passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac and Amy Post, practical
believers in the Christian doctrine of human brotherhood. They measure a
man’s worth by his character, not by his complexion. The memory of those
beloved and honored friends will remain with me to my latest hour.




XL. The Fugitive Slave Law.


My brother, being disappointed in his project, concluded to go to
California; and it was agreed that Benjamin should go with him. Ellen liked
her school, and was a great favorite there. They did not know her history,
and she did not tell it, because she had no desire to make capital out of
their sympathy. But when it was accidentally discovered that her mother was
a fugitive slave, every method was used to increase her advantages and
diminish her expenses.

I was alone again. It was necessary for me to be earning money, and I
preferred that it should be among those who knew me. On my return from
Rochester, I called at the house of Mr. Bruce, to see Mary, the darling
little babe that had thawed my heart, when it was freezing into a cheerless
distrust of all my fellow-beings. She was growing a tall girl now, but I
loved her always. Mr. Bruce had married again, and it was proposed that I
should become nurse to a new infant. I had but one hesitation, and that was
feeling of insecurity in New York, now greatly increased by the passage of
the Fugitive Slave Law. However, I resolved to try the experiment. I was
again fortunate in my employer. The new Mrs. Bruce was an American, brought
up under aristocratic influences, and still living in the midst of them;
but if she had any prejudice against color, I was never made aware of it;
and as for the system of slavery, she had a most hearty dislike of it. No
sophistry of Southerners could blind her to its enormity. She was a person
of excellent principles and a noble heart. To me, from that hour to the
present, she has been a true and sympathizing friend. Blessings be with her
and hers!

About the time that I reentered the Bruce family, an event occurred of
disastrous import to the colored people. The slave Hamlin, the first
fugitive that came under the new law, was given up by the bloodhounds of
the north to the bloodhounds of the south. It was the beginning of a reign
of terror to the colored population. The great city rushed on in its whirl
of excitement, taking no note of the “short and simple annals of the poor.”
But while fashionables were listening to the thrilling voice of Jenny Lind
in Metropolitan Hall, the thrilling voices of poor hunted colored people
went up, in an agony of supplication, to the Lord, from Zion’s church. Many
families, who had lived in the city for twenty years, fled from it now.
Many a poor washerwoman, who, by hard labor, had made herself a comfortable
home, was obliged to sacrifice her furniture, bid a hurried farewell to
friends, and seek her fortune among strangers in Canada. Many a wife
discovered a secret she had never known before—that her husband was a
fugitive, and must leave her to insure his own safety. Worse still, many a
husband discovered that his wife had fled from slavery years ago, and as
“the child follows the condition of its mother,” the children of his love
were liable to be seized and carried into slavery. Every where, in those
humble homes, there was consternation and anguish. But what cared the
legislators of the “dominant race” for the blood they were crushing out of
trampled hearts?

When my brother William spent his last evening with me, before he went to
California, we talked nearly all the time of the distress brought on our
oppressed people by the passage of this iniquitous law; and never had I
seen him manifest such bitterness of spirit, such stern hostility to our
oppressors. He was himself free from the operation of the law; for he did
not run from any Slaveholding State, being brought into the Free States by
his master. But I was subject to it; and so were hundreds of intelligent
and industrious people all around us. I seldom ventured into the streets;
and when it was necessary to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, or any of the
family, I went as much as possible through back streets and by-ways. What a
disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants, guiltless of
offence, and seeking to perform their duties conscientiously, should be
condemned to live in such incessant fear, and have nowhere to turn for
protection! This state of things, of course, gave rise to many impromptu
vigilance committees. Every colored person, and every friend of their
persecuted race, kept their eyes wide open. Every evening I examined the
newspapers carefully, to see what Southerners had put up at the hotels. I
did this for my own sake, thinking my young mistress and her husband might
be among the list; I wished also to give information to others, if
necessary; for if many were “running to and fro,” I resolved that
“knowledge should be increased.”

This brings up one of my Southern reminiscences, which I will here briefly
relate. I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to
a wealthy man in our vicinity. His master died, leaving a son and daughter
heirs to his large fortune. In the division of the slaves, Luke was
included in the son’s portion. This young man became a prey to the vices he
went to the north, to complete his education, he carried his vices with
him. He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs, by excessive
dissipation. Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose
despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own
helplessness. He kept a cowhide beside him, and, for the most trivial
occurrence, he would order his attendant to bare his back, and kneel beside
the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted. Some days
he was not allowed to wear any thing but his shirt, in order to be in
readiness to be flogged. A day seldom passed without his receiving more or
less blows. If the slightest resistance was offered, the town constable was
sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how
much more the constable’s strong arm was to be dreaded than the
comparatively feeble one of his master. The arm of his tyrant grew weaker,
and was finally palsied; and then the constable’s services were in constant
requisition. The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke’s care, and
was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude
or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his
irritability and cruelty. As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck
of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism; and if
Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the constable was immediately sent
for. Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated. When
I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the
bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch.

One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was
hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man
approaching, whose face was familiar to me. As he came nearer, I recognized
Luke. I always rejoiced to see or hear of any one who had escaped from the
black pit; I was peculiarly glad to see him on Northern soil, though I no
longer called it _free_ soil. I well remembered what a desolate feeling it
was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him
cordially. At first, he did not know me; but when I mentioned my name, he
remembered all about me. I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked
him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers.

He replied, “De risk ain’t so bad for me, as ’tis fur you. ’Cause I runned
away from de speculator, and you runned away from de massa. Dem speculators
vont spen dar money to come here fur a runaway, if dey ain’t sartin sure to
put dar hans right on him. An I tell you I’s tuk good car ’bout dat. I had
too hard times down dar, to let ’em ketch dis nigger.”

He then told me of the advice he had received, and the plans he had laid. I
asked if he had money enough to take him to Canada. “’Pend upon it, I hab,”
he replied. “I tuk car fur dat. I’d bin workin all my days fur dem cussed
whites, an got no pay but kicks and cuffs. So I tought dis nigger had a
right to money nuff to bring him to de Free States. Massa Henry he lib till
ebery body vish him dead; an ven he did die, I knowed de debbil would hab
him, an vouldn’t vant him to bring his money ’long too. So I tuk some of
his bills, and put ’em in de pocket of his ole trousers. An ven he was
buried, dis nigger ask fur dem ole trousers, an dey gub ’em to me.” With a
low, chuckling laugh, he added, “You see I didn’t _steal_ it; dey _gub_ it
to me. I tell you, I had mighty hard time to keep de speculator from findin
it; but he didn’t git it.”

This is a fair specimen of how the moral sense is educated by slavery. When
a man has his wages stolen from him, year after year, and the laws sanction
and enforce the theft, how can he be expected to have more regard to
honesty than has the man who robs him? I have become somewhat enlightened,
but I confess that I agree with poor, ignorant, much-abused Luke, in
thinking he had a _right_ to that money, as a portion of his unpaid wages.
He went to Canada forthwith, and I have not since heard from him.

All that winter I lived in a state of anxiety. When I took the children out
to breathe the air, I closely observed the countenances of all I met. I
dreaded the approach of summer, when snakes and slaveholders make their
appearance. I was, in fact, a slave in New York, as subject to slave laws
as I had been in a Slave State. Strange incongruity in a State called free!

Spring returned, and I received warning from the south that Dr. Flint knew
of my return to my old place, and was making preparations to have me
caught. I learned afterwards that my dress, and that of Mrs. Bruce’s
children, had been described to him by some of the Northern tools, which
slaveholders employ for their base purposes, and then indulge in sneers at
their cupidity and mean servility.

I immediately informed Mrs. Bruce of my danger, and she took prompt
measures for my safety. My place as nurse could not be supplied
immediately, and this generous, sympathizing lady proposed that I should
carry her baby away. It was a comfort to me to have the child with me; for
the heart is reluctant to be torn away from every object it loves. But how
few mothers would have consented to have one of their own babes become a
fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on whom the legislators of
the country had let loose the bloodhounds! When I spoke of the sacrifice
she was making, in depriving herself of her dear baby, she replied, “It is
better for you to have baby with you, Linda; for if they get on your track,
they will be obliged to bring the child to me; and then, if there is a
possibility of saving you, you shall be saved.”

This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many
respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her for
harboring a fugitive slave; told her she was violating the laws of her
country; and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She replied, “I am
very well aware of it. It is imprisonment and one thousand dollars fine.
Shame on my country that it _is_ so! I am ready to incur the penalty. I
will go to the state’s prison, rather than have any poor victim torn from
_my_ house, to be carried back to slavery.”

The noble heart! The brave heart! The tears are in my eyes while I write of
her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy with my
persecuted people!

I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of a
senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This honorable
gentleman would not have voted for the Fugitive Slave Law, as did the
senator in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin;” on the contrary, he was strongly opposed to
it; but he was enough under its influence to be afraid of having me remain
in his house many hours. So I was sent into the country, where I remained a
month with the baby. When it was supposed that Dr. Flint’s emissaries had
lost track of me, and given up the pursuit for the present, I returned to
New York.




XLI. Free At Last.


Mrs. Bruce, and every member of her family, were exceedingly kind to me. I
was thankful for the blessings of my lot, yet I could not always wear a
cheerful countenance. I was doing harm to no one; on the contrary, I was
doing all the good I could in my small way; yet I could never go out to
breathe God’s free air without trepidation at my heart. This seemed hard;
and I could not think it was a right state of things in any civilized
country.

From time to time I received news from my good old grandmother. She could
not write; but she employed others to write for her. The following is an
extract from one of her last letters:—

   Dear Daughter: I cannot hope to see you again on earth; but I
   pray to God to unite us above, where pain will no more rack this
   feeble body of mine; where sorrow and parting from my children
   will be no more. God has promised these things if we are faithful
   unto the end. My age and feeble health deprive me of going to
   church now; but God is with me here at home. Thank your brother
   for his kindness. Give much love to him, and tell him to remember
   the Creator in the days of his youth, and strive to meet me in
   the Father’s kingdom. Love to Ellen and Benjamin. Don’t neglect
   him. Tell him for me, to be a good boy. Strive, my child, to
   train them for God’s children. May he protect and provide for
   you, is the prayer of your loving old mother.

These letters both cheered and saddened me. I was always glad to have
tidings from the kind, faithful old friend of my unhappy youth; but her
messages of love made my heart yearn to see her before she died, and I
mourned over the fact that it was impossible. Some months after I returned
from my flight to New England, I received a letter from her, in which she
wrote, “Dr. Flint is dead. He has left a distressed family. Poor old man! I
hope he made his peace with God.”

I remembered how he had defrauded my grandmother of the hard earnings she
had loaned; how he had tried to cheat her out of the freedom her mistress
had promised her, and how he had persecuted her children; and I thought to
myself that she was a better Christian than I was, if she could entirely
forgive him. I cannot say, with truth, that the news of my old master’s
death softened my feelings towards him. There are wrongs which even the
grave does not bury. The man was odious to me while he lived, and his
memory is odious now.

His departure from this world did not diminish my danger. He had threatened
my grandmother that his heirs should hold me in slavery after he was gone;
that I never should be free so long as a child of his survived. As for Mrs.
Flint, I had seen her in deeper afflictions than I supposed the loss of her
husband would be, for she had buried several children; yet I never saw any
signs of softening in her heart. The doctor had died in embarrassed
circumstances, and had little to will to his heirs, except such property as
he was unable to grasp. I was well aware what I had to expect from the
family of Flints; and my fears were confirmed by a letter from the south,
warning me to be on my guard, because Mrs. Flint openly declared that her
daughter could not afford to lose so valuable a slave as I was.

I kept close watch of the newspapers for arrivals; but one Saturday night,
being much occupied, I forgot to examine the Evening Express as usual. I
went down into the parlor for it, early in the morning, and found the boy
about to kindle a fire with it. I took it from him and examined the list of
arrivals. Reader, if you have never been a slave, you cannot imagine the
acute sensation of suffering at my heart, when I read the names of Mr. and
Mrs. Dodge, at a hotel in Courtland Street. It was a third-rate hotel, and
that circumstance convinced me of the truth of what I had heard, that they
were short of funds and had need of my value, as _they_ valued me; and that
was by dollars and cents. I hastened with the paper to Mrs. Bruce. Her
heart and hand were always open to every one in distress, and she always
warmly sympathized with mine. It was impossible to tell how near the enemy
was. He might have passed and repassed the house while we were sleeping. He
might at that moment be waiting to pounce upon me if I ventured out of
doors. I had never seen the husband of my young mistress, and therefore I
could not distinguish him from any other stranger. A carriage was hastily
ordered; and, closely veiled, I followed Mrs. Bruce, taking the baby again
with me into exile. After various turnings and crossings, and returnings,
the carriage stopped at the house of one of Mrs. Bruce’s friends, where I
was kindly received. Mrs. Bruce returned immediately, to instruct the
domestics what to say if any one came to inquire for me.

It was lucky for me that the evening paper was not burned up before I had a
chance to examine the list of arrivals. It was not long after Mrs. Bruce’s
return to her house, before several people came to inquire for me. One
inquired for me, another asked for my daughter Ellen, and another said he
had a letter from my grandmother, which he was requested to deliver in
person.

They were told, “She _has_ lived here, but she has left.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“I do not, sir.” And the door was closed.

This Mr. Dodge, who claimed me as his property, was originally a Yankee
pedler in the south; then he became a merchant, and finally a slaveholder.
He managed to get introduced into what was called the first society, and
married Miss Emily Flint. A quarrel arose between him and her brother, and
the brother cowhided him. This led to a family feud, and he proposed to
remove to Virginia. Dr. Flint left him no property, and his own means had
become circumscribed, while a wife and children depended upon him for
support. Under these circumstances, it was very natural that he should make
an effort to put me into his pocket.

I had a colored friend, a man from my native place, in whom I had the most
implicit confidence. I sent for him, and told him that Mr. and Mrs. Dodge
had arrived in New York. I proposed that he should call upon them to make
inquiries about his friends at the south, with whom Dr. Flint’s family were
well acquainted. He thought there was no impropriety in his doing so, and
he consented. He went to the hotel, and knocked at the door of Mr. Dodge’s
room, which was opened by the gentleman himself, who gruffly inquired,
“What brought you here? How came you to know I was in the city?”

“Your arrival was published in the evening papers, sir; and I called to ask
Mrs. Dodge about my friends at home. I didn’t suppose it would give any
offence.”

“Where’s that negro girl, that belongs to my wife?”

“What girl, sir?”

“You know well enough. I mean Linda, that ran away from Dr. Flint’s
plantation, some years ago. I dare say you’ve seen her, and know where she
is.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve seen her, and know where she is. She is out of your reach,
sir.”

“Tell me where she is, or bring her to me, and I will give her a chance to
buy her freedom.”

“I don’t think it would be of any use, sir. I have heard her say she would
go to the ends of the earth, rather than pay any man or woman for her
freedom, because she thinks she has a right to it. Besides, she couldn’t do
it, if she would, for she has spent her earnings to educate her children.”

This made Mr. Dodge very angry, and some high words passed between them. My
friend was afraid to come where I was; but in the course of the day I
received a note from him. I supposed they had not come from the south, in
the winter, for a pleasure excursion; and now the nature of their business
was very plain.

Mrs. Bruce came to me and entreated me to leave the city the next morning.
She said her house was watched, and it was possible that some clew to me
might be obtained. I refused to take her advice. She pleaded with an
earnest tenderness, that ought to have moved me; but I was in a bitter,
disheartened mood. I was weary of flying from pillar to post. I had been
chased during half my life, and it seemed as if the chase was never to end.
There I sat, in that great city, guiltless of crime, yet not daring to
worship God in any of the churches. I heard the bells ringing for afternoon
service, and, with contemptuous sarcasm, I said, “Will the preachers take
for their text, ‘Proclaim liberty to the captive, and the opening of prison
doors to them that are bound’? or will they preach from the text, ‘Do unto
others as ye would they should do unto you’?” Oppressed Poles and
Hungarians could find a safe refuge in that city; John Mitchell was free to
proclaim in the City Hall his desire for “a plantation well stocked with
slaves;” but there I sat, an oppressed American, not daring to show my
face. God forgive the black and bitter thoughts I indulged on that Sabbath
day! The Scripture says, “Oppression makes even a wise man mad;” and I was
not wise.

I had been told that Mr. Dodge said his wife had never signed away her
right to my children, and if he could not get me, he would take them. This
it was, more than any thing else, that roused such a tempest in my soul.
Benjamin was with his uncle William in California, but my innocent young
daughter had come to spend a vacation with me. I thought of what I had
suffered in slavery at her age, and my heart was like a tiger’s when a
hunter tries to seize her young.

Dear Mrs. Bruce! I seem to see the expression of her face, as she turned
away discouraged by my obstinate mood. Finding her expostulations
unavailing, she sent Ellen to entreat me. When ten o’clock in the evening
arrived and Ellen had not returned, this watchful and unwearied friend
became anxious. She came to us in a carriage, bringing a well-filled trunk
for my journey—trusting that by this time I would listen to reason. I
yielded to her, as I ought to have done before.

The next day, baby and I set out in a heavy snow storm, bound for New
England again. I received letters from the City of Iniquity, addressed to
me under an assumed name. In a few days one came from Mrs. Bruce, informing
me that my new master was still searching for me, and that she intended to
put an end to this persecution by buying my freedom. I felt grateful for
the kindness that prompted this offer, but the idea was not so pleasant to
me as might have been expected. The more my mind had become enlightened,
the more difficult it was for me to consider myself an article of property;
and to pay money to those who had so grievously oppressed me seemed like
taking from my sufferings the glory of triumph. I wrote to Mrs. Bruce,
thanking her, but saying that being sold from one owner to another seemed
too much like slavery; that such a great obligation could not be easily
cancelled; and that I preferred to go to my brother in California.

Without my knowledge, Mrs. Bruce employed a gentleman in New York to enter
into negotiations with Mr. Dodge. He proposed to pay three hundred dollars
down, if Mr. Dodge would sell me, and enter into obligations to relinquish
all claim to me or my children forever after. He who called himself my
master said he scorned so small an offer for such a valuable servant. The
gentleman replied, “You can do as you choose, sir. If you reject this offer
you will never get any thing; for the woman has friends who will convey her
and her children out of the country.”

Mr. Dodge concluded that “half a loaf was better than no bread,” and he
agreed to the proffered terms. By the next mail I received this brief
letter from Mrs. Bruce: “I am rejoiced to tell you that the money for your
freedom has been paid to Mr. Dodge. Come home to-morrow. I long to see you
and my sweet babe.”

My brain reeled as I read these lines. A gentleman near me said, “It’s
true; I have seen the bill of sale.” “The bill of sale!” Those words struck
me like a blow. So I was _sold_ at last! A human being _sold_ in the free
city of New York! The bill of sale is on record, and future generations
will learn from it that women were articles of traffic in New York, late in
the nineteenth century of the Christian religion. It may hereafter prove a
useful document to antiquaries, who are seeking to measure the progress of
civilization in the United States. I well know the value of that bit of
paper; but much as I love freedom, I do not like to look upon it. I am
deeply grateful to the generous friend who procured it, but I despise the
miscreant who demanded payment for what never rightfully belonged to him or
his.

I had objected to having my freedom bought, yet I must confess that when it
was done I felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from my weary shoulders.
When I rode home in the cars I was no longer afraid to unveil my face and
look at people as they passed. I should have been glad to have met Daniel
Dodge himself; to have had him seen me and known me, that he might have
mourned over the untoward circumstances which compelled him to sell me for
three hundred dollars.

When I reached home, the arms of my benefactress were thrown round me, and
our tears mingled. As soon as she could speak, she said, “O Linda, I’m _so_
glad it’s all over! You wrote to me as if you thought you were going to be
transferred from one owner to another. But I did not buy you for your
services. I should have done just the same, if you had been going to sail
for California to-morrow. I should, at least, have the satisfaction of
knowing that you left me a free woman.”

My heart was exceedingly full. I remembered how my poor father had tried to
buy me, when I was a small child, and how he had been disappointed. I hoped
his spirit was rejoicing over me now. I remembered how my good old
grandmother had laid up her earnings to purchase me in later years, and how
often her plans had been frustrated. How that faithful, loving old heart
would leap for joy, if she could look on me and my children now that we
were free! My relatives had been foiled in all their efforts, but God had
raised me up a friend among strangers, who had bestowed on me the precious,
long-desired boon. Friend! It is a common word, often lightly used. Like
other good and beautiful things, it may be tarnished by careless handling;
but when I speak of Mrs. Bruce as my friend, the word is sacred.

My grandmother lived to rejoice in my freedom; but not long after, a letter
came with a black seal. She had gone “where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest.”

Time passed on, and a paper came to me from the south, containing an
obituary notice of my uncle Phillip. It was the only case I ever knew of
such an honor conferred upon a colored person. It was written by one of his
friends, and contained these words: “Now that death has laid him low, they
call him a good man and a useful citizen; but what are eulogies to the
black man, when the world has faded from his vision? It does not require
man’s praise to obtain rest in God’s kingdom.” So they called a colored man
a _citizen_! Strange words to be uttered in that region!

Reader, my story ends with freedom; not in the usual way, with marriage. I
and my children are now free! We are as free from the power of slaveholders
as are the white people of the north; and though that, according to my
ideas, is not saying a great deal, it is a vast improvement in _my_
condition. The dream of my life is not yet realized. I do not sit with my
children in a home of my own, I still long for a hearthstone of my own,
however humble. I wish it for my children’s sake far more than for my own.
But God so orders circumstances as to keep me with my friend Mrs. Bruce.
Love, duty, gratitude, also bind me to her side. It is a privilege to serve
her who pities my oppressed people, and who has bestowed the inestimable
boon of freedom on me and my children.

It has been painful to me, in many ways, to recall the dreary years I
passed in bondage. I would gladly forget them if I could. Yet the
retrospection is not altogether without solace; for with those gloomy
recollections come tender memories of my good old grandmother, like light,
fleecy clouds floating over a dark and troubled sea.




APPENDIX.


The following statement is from Amy Post, a member of the Society of
Friends in the State of New York, well known and highly respected by
friends of the poor and the oppressed. As has been already stated, in the
preceding pages, the author of this volume spent some time under her
hospitable roof.

L.M.C.

   The author of this book is my highly-esteemed friend. If its
   readers knew her as I know her, they could not fail to be deeply
   interested in her story. She was a beloved inmate of our family
   nearly the whole of the year 1849. She was introduced to us by
   her affectionate and conscientious brother, who had previously
   related to us some of the almost incredible events in his
   sister’s life. I immediately became much interested in Linda; for
   her appearance was prepossessing, and her deportment indicated
   remarkable delicacy of feeling and purity of thought.

   As we became acquainted, she related to me, from time to time
   some of the incidents in her bitter experiences as a slave woman.
   Though impelled by a natural craving for human sympathy, she
   passed through a baptism of suffering, even in recounting her
   trials to me, in private confidential conversations. The burden
   of these memories lay heavily upon her spirit—naturally virtuous
   and refined. I repeatedly urged her to consent to the publication
   of her narrative; for I felt that it would arouse people to a
   more earnest work for the disenthrallment of millions still
   remaining in that soul-crushing condition, which was so
   unendurable to her. But her sensitive spirit shrank from
   publicity. She said, “You know a woman can whisper her cruel
   wrongs in the ear of a dear friend much easier than she can
   record them for the world to read.” Even in talking with me, she
   wept so much, and seemed to suffer such mental agony, that I felt
   her story was too sacred to be drawn from her by inquisitive
   questions, and I left her free to tell as much, or as little, as
   she chose. Still, I urged upon her the duty of publishing her
   experience, for the sake of the good it might do; and, at last,
   she undertook the task.

   Having been a slave so large a portion of her life, she is
   unlearned; she is obliged to earn her living by her own labor,
   and she has worked untiringly to procure education for her
   children; several times she has been obliged to leave her
   employments, in order to fly from the man-hunters and
   woman-hunters of our land; but she pressed through all these
   obstacles and overcame them. After the labors of the day were
   over, she traced secretly and wearily, by the midnight lamp, a
   truthful record of her eventful life.

   This Empire State is a shabby place of refuge for the oppressed;
   but here, through anxiety, turmoil, and despair, the freedom of
   Linda and her children was finally secured, by the exertions of a
   generous friend. She was grateful for the boon; but the idea of
   having been _bought_ was always galling to a spirit that could
   never acknowledge itself to be a chattel. She wrote to us thus,
   soon after the event: “I thank you for your kind expressions in
   regard to my freedom; but the freedom I had before the money was
   paid was dearer to me. God gave me _that_ freedom; but man put
   God’s image in the scales with the paltry sum of three hundred
   dollars. I served for my liberty as faithfully as Jacob served
   for Rachel. At the end, he had large possessions; but I was
   robbed of my victory; I was obliged to resign my crown, to rid
   myself of a tyrant.”

   Her story, as written by herself, cannot fail to interest the
   reader. It is a sad illustration of the condition of this
   country, which boasts of its civilization, while it sanctions
   laws and customs which make the experiences of the present more
   strange than any fictions of the past.

   Amy Post. Rochester, N.Y., Oct. 30th, 1859.

The following testimonial is from a man who is now a highly respectable
colored citizen of Boston.

L.M.C.

   This narrative contains some incidents so extraordinary, that,
   doubtless, many persons, under whose eyes it may chance to fall,
   will be ready to believe that it is colored highly, to serve a
   special purpose. But, however it may be regarded by the
   incredulous, I know that it is full of living truths. I have been
   well acquainted with the author from my boyhood. The
   circumstances recounted in her history are perfectly familiar to
   me. I knew of her treatment from her master; of the imprisonment
   of her children; of their sale and redemption; of her seven
   years’ concealment; and of her subsequent escape to the North. I
   am now a resident of Boston, and am a living witness to the truth
   of this interesting narrative.

   George W. Lowther.




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