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