*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11030 ***
[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.

“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 upon 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 skilful 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 early
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 bond-woman! 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 villany
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 forbearing. 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 of 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 this 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 wilful and
arbitrary a man to consent to that arrangement. From him, I was sure of
experiencing all sorts 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 runaway, 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 were 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 nights,
the slave informed his master that the water had not been used for
four mornings, and that a 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 women 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 the 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 his 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 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
had you 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. This
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 a 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 eye-servants 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 door-steps 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 I 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
is 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
these 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 wilfulness
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 of 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 dead, 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. It 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 one. 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 out 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 the 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 turn 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, dey’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 agin. 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 of 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. “’Pend 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 someting. 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 the 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 over-worked; 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 bed-clothes 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 others 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 of
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 heard 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,
towards 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 to 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 plate 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 fulfilment.

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 great-aunt, 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
out-house. 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 out-house, 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 judgment, 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 slave-mother’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 our
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 slave-mother 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, I 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 her 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
my 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 sufferings 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
retraced 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 straight-forward 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 me 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, when 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 in; 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 my 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 reëntered 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 growing out of the “patriarchal institution,”
and when 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; but, remembering this poor fellow’s
extreme hardships, 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 disinthralment 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.”



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11030 ***