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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.”