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Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself

by Harriet A. Jacobs · English · Gutenberg #11030 · 466,033 chars · public domain (US)

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

Author: Harriet A. Jacobs

Editor: Lydia Maria Child


        
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11030]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL, WRITTEN BY HERSELF ***
[Transcriber’s note: The spelling irregularities of the original have been
retained in this etext.]


                               INCIDENTS
                                IN THE
                         LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL.

                          WRITTEN BY HERSELF.

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

                                             A Woman of North Carolina.


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

                                                       Isaiah xxxii. 9.


                       Edited By L. Maria Child.

                                Boston:
                       Published For The Author.
                                 1861.




                         Preface by the Author


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

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

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

                                                           Linda Brent.




                      Introduction by the Editor


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

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

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

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

                                                        L. Maria Child.




                               Contents


    Childhood

    The New Master And Mistress

    The Slaves’ New Year’s Day

    The Slave Who Dared To Feel Like A Man

    The Trials Of Girlhood

    The Jealous Mistress

    The Lover

    What Slaves Are Taught To Think Of The North

    Sketches Of Neighboring Slaveholders

    A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl’s Life

    The New Tie To Life

    Fear Of Insurrection

    The Church And Slavery

    Another Link To Life

    Continued Persecutions

    Scenes At The Plantation

    The Flight

    Months Of Peril

    The Children Sold

    New Perils

    The Loophole Of Retreat

    Christmas Festivities

    Still In Prison

    The Candidate For Congress

    Competition In Cunning

    Important Era In My Brother’s Life

    New Destination For The Children

    Aunt Nancy

    Preparations For Escape

    Northward Bound

    Incidents In Philadelphia

    The Meeting Of Mother And Daughter

    A Home Found

    The Old Enemy Again

    Prejudice Against Color

    The Hairbreadth Escape

    A Visit To England

    Renewed Invitations To Go South

    The Confession

    The Fugitive Slave Law

    Free At Last

    Appendix




                               INCIDENTS
                                IN THE
                         LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL,
                        SEVEN YEARS CONCEALED.


                   *       *       *       *       *




                             I. Childhood


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                   II. The New Master And Mistress.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                   III. The Slaves’ New Year’s Day.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I inquired where.

“To the north,” he replied.

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

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

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

I repented of my words ere they were out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those chains were mournful to hear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                      V. The Trials Of Girlhood.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                       VI. The Jealous Mistress.


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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who told you?”

“My master.”

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did think of it.

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

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

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

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




                            VII. The Lover.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




               IX. Sketches Of Neighboring Slaveholders.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                       XI. The New Tie To Life.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                      XII. Fear Of Insurrection.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                     XIII. The Church And Slavery.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I answered that the Bible didn’t say so.

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

No wonder the slaves sing,—

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




                      XIV. Another Link To Life.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                      XV. Continued Persecutions.


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

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

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

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

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

I answered, “I do say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing, sir.”

“Then you accept my offer?”

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told him I had.

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

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

I answered that I was going to the plantation.

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

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

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




                    XVI. Scenes At The Plantation.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My plan was to conceal myself at the house of a friend, and remain
there a few weeks till the search was over. My hope was that the doctor
would get discouraged, and, for fear of losing my value, and also of
subsequently finding my children among the missing, he would consent
to sell us; and I knew somebody would buy us. I had done all in my
power to make my children comfortable during the time I expected to be
separated from them. I was packing my things, when grandmother came
into the room, and asked what I was doing. “I am putting my things
in order,” I replied. I tried to look and

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