Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her
place. Mrs. Flint took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While
my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his
youngest son, who had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was
much attached to her. “Martha,” said he, “aunt Nancy loved this child,
and when he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for
her sake.” She replied, “Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the
foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little know me if you think I
can feel any thing but good will for her children.”
“I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of
it,” said he; “and that Linda would come to supply her aunt’s place.
She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for
her. I wish it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away
from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age.” He knew he
was touching a tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother
replied, “It was not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are
gone; and of my nine children only one is left. God help me!”
To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I
knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had
helped to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened
constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and
the thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable.
At last, as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one
inquire, “How is she?” and he answered, “She is dead.” My little cell
seemed whirling round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes
and found uncle Phillip bending over me. I had no need to ask any
questions. He whispered, “Linda, she died happy.” I could not weep.
My fixed gaze troubled him. “Don’t look _so_,” he said. “Don’t add to
my poor mother’s trouble. Remember how much she has to bear, and that
we ought to do all we can to comfort her.” Ah, yes, that blessed old
grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms
of a slave-mother’s life. She did indeed need consolation!
Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently
without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her
health by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But
now she became very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a
beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder
and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her
feet. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection
to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor’s family burial-place. No
colored person had ever been allowed interment in the white people’s
burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of our
family reposed together in the old graveyard of the slaves. He
therefore replied, “I have no objection to complying with your wish;
but perhaps aunt Nancy’s _mother_ may have some choice as to where her
remains shall be deposited.”
It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any
feelings. When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she
wanted Nancy to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own
old body would be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish,
though she said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from
_her_. She might have added with touching pathos, “I was so long _used_
to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor.”
My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own
expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors
to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain,
but perfectly respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs.
Flint’s minister read the funeral service. There was a large concourse
of colored people, bond and free, and a few white persons who had
always been friendly to our family. Dr. Flint’s carriage was in the
procession; and when the body was deposited in its humble resting
place, the mistress dropped a tear, and returned to her carriage,
probably thinking she had performed her duty nobly.
It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern
travellers, passing through the place, might have described this
tribute of respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the
“patriarchal institution;” a touching proof of the attachment between
slaveholders and their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would
have confirmed this impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. _We_
could have told them a different story. We could have given them a
chapter of wrongs and sufferings, that would have touched their hearts,
if they _had_ any hearts to feel for the colored people. We could
have told them how the poor old slave-mother had toiled, year after
year, to earn eight hundred dollars to buy her son Phillip’s right to
his own earnings; and how that same Phillip paid the expenses of the
funeral, which they regarded as doing so much credit to the master.
We could also have told them of a poor, blighted young creature, shut
up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures that would be
inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the face of
her departed friend.
All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting
for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes
falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living.
It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had
always been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported
her. But her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble
were leaving deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to
knock for me to come to the trap-door, and each place had a different
meaning. She now came oftener than she had done, and talked to me
of her dead daughter, while tears trickled slowly down her furrowed
cheeks. I said all I could to comfort her; but it was a sad reflection,
that instead of being able to help her, I was a constant source of
anxiety and trouble. The poor old back was fitted to its burden. It
bent under it, but did not break.
XXIX. Preparations For Escape.
I hardly expect that the reader will credit me, when I affirm that I
lived in that little dismal hole, almost deprived of light and air, and
with no space to move my limbs, for nearly seven years. But it is a
fact; and to me a sad one, even now; for my body still suffers from the
effects of that long imprisonment, to say nothing of my soul. Members
of my family, now living in New York and Boston, can testify to the
truth of what I say.
Countless were the nights that I sat late at the little loophole
scarcely large enough to give me a glimpse of one twinkling star.
There, I heard the patrols and slave-hunters conferring together about
the capture of runaways, well knowing how rejoiced they would be to
catch me.
Season after season, year after year, I peeped at my children’s faces,
and heard their sweet voices, with a heart yearning all the while to
say, “Your mother is here.” Sometimes it appeared to me as if ages had
rolled away since I entered upon that gloomy, monotonous existence.
At times, I was stupefied and listless; at other times I became very
impatient to know when these dark years would end, and I should again
be allowed to feel the sunshine, and breathe the pure air.
After Ellen left us, this feeling increased. Mr. Sands had agreed that
Benny might go to the north whenever his uncle Phillip could go with
him; and I was anxious to be there also, to watch over my children,
and protect them so far as I was able. Moreover, I was likely to be
drowned out of my den, if I remained much longer; for the slight roof
was getting badly out of repair, and uncle Phillip was afraid to remove
the shingles, lest some one should get a glimpse of me. When storms
occurred in the night, they spread mats and bits of carpet, which in
the morning appeared to have been laid out to dry; but to cover the
roof in the daytime might have attracted attention. Consequently, my
clothes and bedding were often drenched; a process by which the pains
and aches in my cramped and stiffened limbs were greatly increased. I
revolved various plans of escape in my mind, which I sometimes imparted
to my grandmother, when she came to whisper with me at the trap-door.
The kind-hearted old woman had an intense sympathy for runaways.
She had known too much of the cruelties inflicted on those who were
captured. Her memory always flew back at once to the sufferings of her
bright and handsome son, Benjamin, the youngest and dearest of her
flock. So, whenever I alluded to the subject, she would groan out, “O,
don’t think of it, child. You’ll break my heart.” I had no good old
aunt Nancy now to encourage me; but my brother William and my children
were continually beckoning me to the north.
And now I must go back a few months in my story. I have stated that
the first of January was the time for selling slaves, or leasing them
out to new masters. If time were counted by heart-throbs, the poor
slaves might reckon years of suffering during that festival so joyous
to the free. On the New Year’s day preceding my aunt’s death, one of my
friends, named Fanny, was to be sold at auction, to pay her master’s
debts. My thoughts were with her during all the day, and at night I
anxiously inquired what had been her fate. I was told that she had been
sold to one master, and her four little girls to another master, far
distant; that she had escaped from her purchaser, and was not to be
found. Her mother was the old Aggie I have spoken of. She lived in a
small tenement belonging to my grandmother, and built on the same lot
with her own house. Her dwelling was searched and watched, and that
brought the patrols so near me that I was obliged to keep very close
in my den. The hunters were somehow eluded; and not long afterwards
Benny accidentally caught sight of Fanny in her mother’s hut. He told
his grandmother, who charged him never to speak of it, explaining
to him the frightful consequences; and he never betrayed the trust.
Aggie little dreamed that my grandmother knew where her daughter was
concealed, and that the stooping form of her old neighbor was bending
under a similar burden of anxiety and fear; but these dangerous secrets
deepened the sympathy between the two old persecuted mothers.
My friend Fanny and I remained many weeks hidden within call of each
other; but she was unconscious of the fact. I longed to have her share
my den, which seemed a more secure retreat than her own; but I had
brought so much trouble on my grandmother, that it seemed wrong to ask
her to incur greater risks. My restlessness increased. I had lived
too long in bodily pain and anguish of spirit. Always I was in dread
that by some accident, or some contrivance, slavery would succeed in
snatching my children from me. This thought drove me nearly frantic,
and I determined to steer for the North Star at all hazards. At this
crisis, Providence opened an unexpected way for me to escape. My friend
Peter came one evening, and asked to speak with me. “Your day has come,
Linda,” said he. “I have found a chance for you to go to the Free
States. You have a fortnight to decide.” The news seemed too good to
be true; but Peter explained his arrangements, and told me all that
was necessary was for me to say I would go. I was going to answer him
with a joyful yes, when the thought of Benny came to my mind. I told
him the temptation was exceedingly strong, but I was terribly afraid of
Dr. Flint’s alleged power over my child, and that I could not go and