Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
a suspicious eye. Ellen broke down under the trials of her new life.
Separated from me, with no one to look after her, she wandered about,
and in a few days cried herself sick. One day, she sat under the window
where I was at work, crying that weary cry which makes a mother’s heart
bleed. I was obliged to steel myself to bear it. After a while it
ceased. I looked out, and she was gone. As it was near noon, I ventured
to go down in search of her. The great house was raised two feet above
the ground. I looked under it, and saw her about midway, fast asleep.
I crept under and drew her out. As I held her in my arms, I thought
how well it would be for her if she never waked up; and I uttered my
thought aloud. I was startled to hear some one say, “Did you speak to
me?” I looked up, and saw Mr. Flint standing beside me. He said nothing
further, but turned, frowning, away. That night he sent Ellen a biscuit
and a cup of sweetened milk. This generosity surprised me. I learned
afterwards, that in the afternoon he had killed a large snake, which
crept from under the house; and I supposed that incident had prompted
his unusual kindness.
The next morning the old cart was loaded with shingles for town. I
put Ellen into it, and sent her to her grandmother. Mr. Flint said I
ought to have asked his permission. I told him the child was sick, and
required attention which I had no time to give. He let it pass; for he
was aware that I had accomplished much work in a little time.
I had been three weeks on the plantation, when I planned a visit home.
It must be at night, after every body was in bed. I was six miles from
town, and the road was very dreary. I was to go with a young man, who,
I knew, often stole to town to see his mother. One night, when all
was quiet, we started. Fear gave speed to our steps, and we were not
long in performing the journey. I arrived at my grandmother’s. Her
bed room was on the first floor, and the window was open, the weather
being warm. I spoke to her and she awoke. She let me in and closed the
window, lest some late passer-by should see me. A light was brought,
and the whole household gathered round me, some smiling and some
crying. I went to look at my children, and thanked God for their happy
sleep. The tears fell as I leaned over them. As I moved to leave, Benny
stirred. I turned back, and whispered, “Mother is here.” After digging
at his eyes with his little fist, they opened, and he sat up in bed,
looking at me curiously. Having satisfied himself that it was I, he
exclaimed, “O mother! you ain’t dead, are you? They didn’t cut off your
head at the plantation, did they?”
My time was up too soon, and my guide was waiting for me. I laid Benny
back in his bed, and dried his tears by a promise to come again soon.
Rapidly we retraced our steps back to the plantation. About half way we
were met by a company of four patrols. Luckily we heard their horse’s
hoofs before they came in sight, and we had time to hide behind a large
tree. They passed, hallooing and shouting in a manner that indicated a
recent carousal. How thankful we were that they had not their dogs with
them! We hastened our footsteps, and when we arrived on the plantation
we heard the sound of the hand-mill. The slaves were grinding their
corn. We were safely in the house before the horn summoned them to
their labor. I divided my little parcel of food with my guide, knowing
that he had lost the chance of grinding his corn, and must toil all day
in the field.
Mr. Flint often took an inspection of the house, to see that no one
was idle. The entire management of the work was trusted to me, because
he knew nothing about it; and rather than hire a superintendent he
contented himself with my arrangements. He had often urged upon his
father the necessity of having me at the plantation to take charge of
his affairs, and make clothes for the slaves; but the old man knew him
too well to consent to that arrangement.
When I had been working a month at the plantation, the great aunt of
Mr. Flint came to make him a visit. This was the good old lady who paid
fifty dollars for my grandmother, for the purpose of making her free,
when she stood on the auction block. My grandmother loved this old
lady, whom we all called Miss Fanny. She often came to take tea with
us. On such occasions the table was spread with a snow-white cloth,
and the china cups and silver spoons were taken from the old-fashioned
buffet. There were hot muffins, tea rusks, and delicious sweetmeats.
My grandmother kept two cows, and the fresh cream was Miss Fanny’s
delight. She invariably declared that it was the best in town. The
old ladies had cosey times together. They would work and chat, and
sometimes, while talking over old times, their spectacles would get dim
with tears, and would have to be taken off and wiped. When Miss Fanny
bade us good by, her bag was filled with grandmother’s best cakes, and
she was urged to come again soon.
There had been a time when Dr. Flint’s wife came to take tea with
us, and when her children were also sent to have a feast of “Aunt
Marthy’s” nice cooking. But after I became an object of her jealousy
and spite, she was angry with grandmother for giving a shelter to me
and my children. She would not even speak to her in the street. This
wounded my grandmother’s feelings, for she could not retain ill will
against the woman whom she had nourished with her milk when a babe. The
doctor’s wife would gladly have prevented our intercourse with Miss
Fanny if she could have done it, but fortunately she was not dependent
on the bounty of the Flints. She had enough to be independent; and that
is more than can ever be gained from charity, however lavish it may be.
Miss Fanny was endeared to me by many recollections, and I was rejoiced
to see her at the plantation. The warmth of her large, loyal heart made
the house seem pleasanter while she was in it. She staid a week, and I
had many talks with her. She said her principal object in coming was to
see how I was treated, and whether any thing could be done for me. She
inquired whether she could help me in any way. I told her I believed
not. She condoled with me in her own peculiar way; saying she wished
that I and all my grandmother’s family were at rest in our graves, for
not until then should she feel any peace about us. The good old soul
did not dream that I was planning to bestow peace upon her, with regard
to myself and my children; not by death, but by securing our freedom.
Again and again I had traversed those dreary twelve miles, to and from
the town; and all the way, I was meditating upon some means of escape
for myself and my children. My friends had made every effort that
ingenuity could devise to effect our purchase, but all their plans had
proved abortive. Dr. Flint was suspicious, and determined not to loosen
his grasp upon us. I could have made my escape alone; but it was more
for my helpless children than for myself that I longed for freedom.
Though the boon would have been precious to me, above all price, I
would not have taken it at the expense of leaving them in slavery.
Every trial I endured, every sacrifice I made for their sakes, drew
them closer to my heart, and gave me fresh courage to beat back the
dark waves that rolled and rolled over me in a seemingly endless night
of storms.
The six weeks were nearly completed, when Mr. Flint’s bride was
expected to take possession of her new home. The arrangements were
all completed, and Mr. Flint said I had done well. He expected to
leave home on Saturday, and return with his bride the following
Wednesday. After receiving various orders from him, I ventured to ask
permission to spend Sunday in town. It was granted; for which favor I
was thankful. It was the first I had ever asked of him, and I intended
it should be the last. It needed more than one night to accomplish
the project I had in view; but the whole of Sunday would give me an
opportunity. I spent the Sabbath with my grandmother. A calmer, more
beautiful day never came down out of heaven. To me it was a day of
conflicting emotions. Perhaps it was the last day I should ever spend
under that dear, old sheltering roof! Perhaps these were the last talks
I should ever have with the faithful old friend of my whole life!
Perhaps it was the last time I and my children should be together!
Well, better so, I thought, than that they should be slaves. I knew the
doom that awaited my fair baby in slavery, and I determined to save
her from it, or perish in the attempt. I went to make this vow at the
graves of my poor parents, in the burying-ground of the slaves. “There
the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest. There
the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor;
the servant is free from his master.” I knelt by the graves of my
parents, and thanked God, as I had often done before, that they had not
lived to witness my trials, or to mourn over my sins. I had received
my mother’s blessing when she died; and in many an hour of tribulation
I had seemed to hear her voice, sometimes chiding me, sometimes
whispering loving words into my wounded heart. I have shed many and
bitter tears, to think that when I am gone from my children they cannot
remember me with such entire satisfaction as I remembered my mother.
The graveyard was in the woods, and twilight was coming on. Nothing
broke the death-like stillness except the occasional twitter of a bird.
My spirit was overawed by the solemnity of the scene. For more than
ten years I had frequented this spot, but never had it seemed to me so
sacred as now. A black stump, at the head of my mother’s grave, was all
that remained of a tree my father had planted. His grave was marked
by a small wooden board, bearing his name, the letters of which were
nearly obliterated. I knelt down and kissed them, and poured forth a
prayer to God for guidance and support in the perilous step I was about
to take. As I passed the wreck of the old meeting house, where, before
Nat Turner’s time, the slaves had been allowed to meet for worship, I
seemed to hear my father’s voice come from it, bidding me not to tarry
till I reached freedom or the grave. I rushed on with renovated hopes.
My trust in God had been strengthened by that prayer among the graves.
My plan was to conceal myself at the house of a friend, and remain
there a few weeks till the search was over. My hope was that the doctor
would get discouraged, and, for fear of losing my value, and also of
subsequently finding my children among the missing, he would consent
to sell us; and I knew somebody would buy us. I had done all in my
power to make my children comfortable during the time I expected to be
separated from them. I was packing my things, when grandmother came
into the room, and asked what I was doing. “I am putting my things
in order,” I replied. I tried to look and speak cheerfully; but her
watchful eye detected something beneath the surface. She drew me
towards her, and asked me to sit down. She looked earnestly at me, and
said, “Linda, do you want to kill your old grandmother? Do you mean to
leave your little, helpless children? I am old now, and cannot do for
your babies as I once did for you.”
I replied, that if I went away, perhaps their father would be able to
secure their freedom.
“Ah, my child,” said she, “don’t trust too much to him. Stand by your
own children, and suffer with them till death. Nobody respects a mother
who forsakes her children; and if you leave them, you will never have
a happy moment. If you go, you will make me miserable the short time I
have to live. You would be taken and brought back, and your sufferings
would be dreadful. Remember poor Benjamin. Do give it up, Linda. Try to