Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
away, you would pity and forgive me. I have purchased freedom at
a dear rate. If any arrangement could be made for me to return to
the south without being a slave, I would gladly come. If not, I beg
of you to send my children to the north. I cannot live any longer
without them. Let me know in time, and I will meet them in New York
or Philadelphia, whichever place best suits my uncle’s convenience.
Write as soon as possible to your unhappy daughter,
Linda.”
“It is very much as I expected it would be,” said the old hypocrite,
rising to go. “You see the foolish girl has repented of her rashness,
and wants to return. We must help her to do it, Martha. Talk with
Phillip about it. If he will go for her, she will trust to him, and
come back. I should like an answer to-morrow. Good morning, Martha.”
As he stepped out on the piazza, he stumbled over my little girl. “Ah,
Ellen, is that you?” he said, in his most gracious manner. “I didn’t
see you. How do you do?”
“Pretty well, sir,” she replied. “I heard you tell grandmother that my
mother is coming home. I want to see her.”
“Yes, Ellen, I am going to bring her home very soon,” rejoined he; “and
you shall see her as much as you like, you little curly-headed nigger.”
This was as good as a comedy to me, who had heard it all; but
grandmother was frightened and distressed, because the doctor wanted my
uncle to go for me.
The next evening Dr. Flint called to talk the matter over. My uncle
told him that from what he had heard of Massachusetts, he judged he
should be mobbed if he went there after a runaway slave. “All stuff and
nonsense, Phillip!” replied the doctor. “Do you suppose I want you to
kick up a row in Boston? The business can all be done quietly. Linda
writes that she wants to come back. You are her relative, and she would
trust _you_. The case would be different if I went. She might object to
coming with _me_; and the damned abolitionists, if they knew I was her
master, would not believe me, if I told them she had begged to go back.
They would get up a row; and I should not like to see Linda dragged
through the streets like a common negro. She has been very ungrateful
to me for all my kindness; but I forgive her, and want to act the part
of a friend towards her. I have no wish to hold her as my slave. Her
friends can buy her as soon as she arrives here.”
Finding that his arguments failed to convince my uncle, the doctor “let
the cat out of the bag,” by saying that he had written to the mayor of
Boston, to ascertain whether there was a person of my description at
the street and number from which my letter was dated. He had omitted
this date in the letter he had made up to read to my grandmother. If I
had dated from New York, the old man would probably have made another
journey to that city. But even in that dark region, where knowledge
is so carefully excluded from the slave, I had heard enough about
Massachusetts to come to the conclusion that slaveholders did not
consider it a comfortable place to go to in search of a runaway. That
was before the Fugitive Slave Law was passed; before Massachusetts had
consented to become a “nigger hunter” for the south.
My grandmother, who had become skittish by seeing her family always in
danger, came to me with a very distressed countenance, and said, “What
will you do if the mayor of Boston sends him word that you haven’t
been there? Then he will suspect the letter was a trick; and maybe
he’ll find out something about it, and we shall all get into trouble. O
Linda, I wish you had never sent the letters.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Grandmother,” said I. “The mayor of Boston won’t
trouble himself to hunt niggers for Dr. Flint. The letters will do good
in the end. I shall get out of this dark hole some time or other.”
“I hope you will, child,” replied the good, patient old friend. “You
have been here a long time; almost five years; but whenever you do go,
it will break your old grandmother’s heart. I should be expecting every
day to hear that you were brought back in irons and put in jail. God
help you, poor child! Let us be thankful that some time or other we
shall go ‘where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at
rest.’” My heart responded, Amen.
The fact that Dr. Flint had written to the mayor of Boston convinced me
that he believed my letter to be genuine, and of course that he had no
suspicion of my being any where in the vicinity. It was a great object
to keep up this delusion, for it made me and my friends feel less
anxious, and it would be very convenient whenever there was a chance to
escape. I resolved, therefore, to continue to write letters from the
north from time to time.
Two or three weeks passed, and as no news came from the mayor of
Boston, grandmother began to listen to my entreaty to be allowed to
leave my cell, sometimes, and exercise my limbs to prevent my becoming
a cripple. I was allowed to slip down into the small storeroom, early
in the morning, and remain there a little while. The room was all
filled up with barrels, except a small open space under my trap-door.
This faced the door, the upper part of which was of glass, and
purposely left uncurtained, that the curious might look in. The air of
this place was close; but it was so much better than the atmosphere of
my cell, that I dreaded to return. I came down as soon as it was light,
and remained till eight o’clock, when people began to be about, and
there was danger that some one might come on the piazza. I had tried
various applications to bring warmth and feeling into my limbs, but
without avail. They were so numb and stiff that it was a painful effort
to move; and had my enemies come upon me during the first mornings I
tried to exercise them a little in the small unoccupied space of the
storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped.
XXVI. Important Era In My Brother’s Life.
I missed the company and kind attentions of my brother William, who
had gone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. We received several
letters from him, written without any allusion to me, but expressed in
such a manner that I knew he did not forget me. I disguised my hand,
and wrote to him in the same manner. It was a long session; and when
it closed, William wrote to inform us that Mr. Sands was going to the
north, to be gone some time, and that he was to accompany him. I knew
that his master had promised to give him his freedom, but no time had
been specified. Would William trust to a slave’s chances? I remembered
how we used to talk together, in our young days, about obtaining our
freedom, and I thought it very doubtful whether he would come back to
us.
Grandmother received a letter from Mr. Sands, saying that William had
proved a most faithful servant, and he would also say a valued friend;
that no mother had ever trained a better boy. He said he had travelled
through the Northern States and Canada; and though the abolitionists
had tried to decoy him away, they had never succeeded. He ended by
saying they should be at home shortly.
We expected letters from William, describing the novelties of his
journey, but none came. In time, it was reported that Mr. Sands would
return late in the autumn, accompanied by a bride. Still no letters
from William. I felt almost sure I should never see him again on
southern soil; but had he no word of comfort to send to his friends at
home? to the poor captive in her dungeon? My thoughts wandered through
the dark past, and over the uncertain future. Alone in my cell, where
no eye but God’s could see me, I wept bitter tears. How earnestly I
prayed to him to restore me to my children, and enable me to be a
useful woman and a good mother!
At last the day arrived for the return of the travellers. Grandmother
had made loving preparations to welcome her absent boy back to the old
hearthstone. When the dinner table was laid, William’s plate occupied
its old place. The stage coach went by empty. My grandmother waited
dinner. She thought perhaps he was necessarily detained by his master.
In my prison I listened anxiously, expecting every moment to hear my
dear brother’s voice and step. In the course of the afternoon a lad was
sent by Mr. Sands to tell grandmother that William did not return with
him; that the abolitionists had decoyed him away. But he begged her not
to feel troubled about it, for he felt confident she would see William
in a few days. As soon as he had time to reflect he would come back,
for he could never expect to be so well off at the north as he had been
with him.
If you had seen the tears, and heard the sobs, you would have thought
the messenger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old
grandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I
was selfish. I thought more of what I had lost, than of what my brother
had gained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended
a good deal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss
he had incurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of
my children, who were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have
their emancipation made certain. The more so, because their master and
father was now married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know
that promises made to slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere
at the time, depend upon many contingencies for their fulfilment.
Much as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad
and anxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear; so beautiful
that it seemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother
brought the children out on the piazza, that I might hear their voices.
She thought it would comfort me in my despondency; and it did. They
chatted merrily, as only children can. Benny said, “Grandmother, do you
think uncle Will has gone for good? Won’t he ever come back again? May
be he’ll find mother. If he does, _won’t_ she be glad to see him! Why
don’t you and uncle Phillip, and all of us, go and live where mother
is? I should like it; wouldn’t you, Ellen?”
“Yes, I should like it,” replied Ellen; “but how could we find her? Do
you know the place, grandmother? I don’t remember how mother looked—do
you, Benny?”
Benny was just beginning to describe me when they were interrupted by
an old slave woman, a near neighbor, named Aggie. This poor creature
had witnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to
parts unknown, without any hopes of ever hearing from them again.
She saw that my grandmother had been weeping, and she said, in a
sympathizing tone, “What’s the matter, aunt Marthy?”
“O Aggie,” she replied, “it seems as if I shouldn’t have any of my
children or grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I’m dying, and
lay my old body in the ground. My boy didn’t come back with Mr. Sands.
He staid at the north.”
Poor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. “Is _dat_ what you’s crying
fur?” she exclaimed. “Git down on your knees and bress de Lord! I don’t
know whar my poor chillern is, and I nebber ’spect to know. You don’t
know whar poor Linda’s gone to; but you _do_ know whar her brudder is.
He’s in free parts; and dat’s de right place. Don’t murmur at de Lord’s
doings, but git down on your knees and tank him for his goodness.”
My selfishness was rebuked by what poor Aggie said. She rejoiced over
the escape of one who was merely her fellow-bondman, while his own
sister was only thinking what his good fortune might cost her children.
I knelt and prayed God to forgive me; and I thanked him from my heart,
that one of my family was saved from the grasp of slavery.
It was not long before we received a letter from William. He wrote that