Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
it loves. But how few mothers would have consented to have one of their
own babes become a fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on
whom the legislators of the country had let loose the bloodhounds! When
I spoke of the sacrifice she was making, in depriving herself of her
dear baby, she replied, “It is better for you to have baby with you,
Linda; for if they get on your track, they will be obliged to bring the
child to me; and then, if there is a possibility of saving you, you
shall be saved.”
This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many
respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her
for harboring a fugitive slave; told her she was violating the laws
of her country; and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She
replied, “I am very well aware of it. It is imprisonment and one
thousand dollars fine. Shame on my country that it _is_ so! I am ready
to incur the penalty. I will go to the state’s prison, rather than have
any poor victim torn from _my_ house, to be carried back to slavery.”
The noble heart! The brave heart! The tears are in my eyes while I
write of her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy
with my persecuted people!
I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of
a senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This
honorable gentleman would not have voted for the Fugitive Slave Law,
as did the senator in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin;” on the contrary, he was
strongly opposed to it; but he was enough under its influence to be
afraid of having me remain in his house many hours. So I was sent
into the country, where I remained a month with the baby. When it was
supposed that Dr. Flint’s emissaries had lost track of me, and given up
the pursuit for the present, I returned to New York.
XLI. Free At Last.
Mrs. Bruce, and every member of her family, were exceedingly kind
to me. I was thankful for the blessings of my lot, yet I could not
always wear a cheerful countenance. I was doing harm to no one; on the
contrary, I was doing all the good I could in my small way; yet I could
never go out to breathe God’s free air without trepidation at my heart.
This seemed hard; and I could not think it was a right state of things
in any civilized country.
From time to time I received news from my good old grandmother.
She could not write; but she employed others to write for her. The
following is an extract from one of her last letters:—
“Dear Daughter: I cannot hope to see you again on earth; but I
pray to God to unite us above, where pain will no more rack this
feeble body of mine; where sorrow and parting from my children
will be no more. God has promised these things if we are faithful
unto the end. My age and feeble health deprive me of going to
church now; but God is with me here at home. Thank your brother
for his kindness. Give much love to him, and tell him to remember
the Creator in the days of his youth, and strive to meet me in the
Father’s kingdom. Love to Ellen and Benjamin. Don’t neglect him.
Tell him for me, to be a good boy. Strive, my child, to train them
for God’s children. May he protect and provide for you, is the
prayer of your loving old mother.”
These letters both cheered and saddened me. I was always glad to have
tidings from the kind, faithful old friend of my unhappy youth; but
her messages of love made my heart yearn to see her before she died,
and I mourned over the fact that it was impossible. Some months after
I returned from my flight to New England, I received a letter from
her, in which she wrote, “Dr. Flint is dead. He has left a distressed
family. Poor old man! I hope he made his peace with God.”
I remembered how he had defrauded my grandmother of the hard earnings
she had loaned; how he had tried to cheat her out of the freedom her
mistress had promised her, and how he had persecuted her children; and
I thought to myself that she was a better Christian than I was, if she
could entirely forgive him. I cannot say, with truth, that the news
of my old master’s death softened my feelings towards him. There are
wrongs which even the grave does not bury. The man was odious to me
while he lived, and his memory is odious now.
His departure from this world did not diminish my danger. He had
threatened my grandmother that his heirs should hold me in slavery
after he was gone; that I never should be free so long as a child of
his survived. As for Mrs. Flint, I had seen her in deeper afflictions
than I supposed the loss of her husband would be, for she had buried
several children; yet I never saw any signs of softening in her heart.
The doctor had died in embarrassed circumstances, and had little to
will to his heirs, except such property as he was unable to grasp. I
was well aware what I had to expect from the family of Flints; and my
fears were confirmed by a letter from the south, warning me to be on my
guard, because Mrs. Flint openly declared that her daughter could not
afford to lose so valuable a slave as I was.
I kept close watch of the newspapers for arrivals; but one Saturday
night, being much occupied, I forgot to examine the Evening Express as
usual. I went down into the parlor for it, early in the morning, and
found the boy about to kindle a fire with it. I took it from him and
examined the list of arrivals. Reader, if you have never been a slave,
you cannot imagine the acute sensation of suffering at my heart, when I
read the names of Mr. and Mrs. Dodge, at a hotel in Courtland Street.
It was a third-rate hotel, and that circumstance convinced me of the
truth of what I had heard, that they were short of funds and had need
of my value, as _they_ valued me; and that was by dollars and cents. I
hastened with the paper to Mrs. Bruce. Her heart and hand were always
open to every one in distress, and she always warmly sympathized with
mine. It was impossible to tell how near the enemy was. He might have
passed and repassed the house while we were sleeping. He might at that
moment be waiting to pounce upon me if I ventured out of doors. I had
never seen the husband of my young mistress, and therefore I could
not distinguish him from any other stranger. A carriage was hastily
ordered; and, closely veiled, I followed Mrs. Bruce, taking the baby
again with me into exile. After various turnings and crossings, and
returnings, the carriage stopped at the house of one of Mrs. Bruce’s
friends, where I was kindly received. Mrs. Bruce returned immediately,
to instruct the domestics what to say if any one came to inquire for me.
It was lucky for me that the evening paper was not burned up before I
had a chance to examine the list of arrivals. It was not long after
Mrs. Bruce’s return to her house, before several people came to inquire
for me. One inquired for me, another asked for my daughter Ellen,
and another said he had a letter from my grandmother, which he was
requested to deliver in person.
They were told, “She _has_ lived here, but she has left.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“I do not, sir.” And the door was closed.
This Mr. Dodge, who claimed me as his property, was originally a
Yankee pedler in the south; then he became a merchant, and finally a
slaveholder. He managed to get introduced into what was called the
first society, and married Miss Emily Flint. A quarrel arose between
him and her brother, and the brother cowhided him. This led to a family
feud, and he proposed to remove to Virginia. Dr. Flint left him no
property, and his own means had become circumscribed, while a wife and
children depended upon him for support. Under these circumstances,
it was very natural that he should make an effort to put me into his
pocket.
I had a colored friend, a man from my native place, in whom I had
the most implicit confidence. I sent for him, and told him that Mr.
and Mrs. Dodge had arrived in New York. I proposed that he should
call upon them to make inquiries about his friends at the south, with
whom Dr. Flint’s family were well acquainted. He thought there was no
impropriety in his doing so, and he consented. He went to the hotel,
and knocked at the door of Mr. Dodge’s room, which was opened by the
gentleman himself, who gruffly inquired, “What brought you here? How
came you to know I was in the city?”
“Your arrival was published in the evening papers, sir; and I called to
ask Mrs. Dodge about my friends at home. I didn’t suppose it would give
any offence.”
“Where’s that negro girl, that belongs to my wife?”
“What girl, sir?”
“You know well enough. I mean Linda, that ran away from Dr. Flint’s
plantation, some years ago. I dare say you’ve seen her, and know where
she is.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve seen her, and know where she is. She is out of your
reach, sir.”
“Tell me where she is, or bring her to me, and I will give her a chance
to buy her freedom.”
“I don’t think it would be of any use, sir. I have heard her say she
would go to the ends of the earth, rather than pay any man or woman for
her freedom, because she thinks she has a right to it. Besides, she
couldn’t do it, if she would, for she has spent her earnings to educate
her children.”
This made Mr. Dodge very angry, and some high words passed between
them. My friend was afraid to come where I was; but in the course of
the day I received a note from him. I supposed they had not come from
the south, in the winter, for a pleasure excursion; and now the nature
of their business was very plain.
Mrs. Bruce came to me and entreated me to leave the city the next
morning. She said her house was watched, and it was possible that some
clew to me might be obtained. I refused to take her advice. She pleaded
with an earnest tenderness, that ought to have moved me; but I was in a
bitter, disheartened mood. I was weary of flying from pillar to post.
I had been chased during half my life, and it seemed as if the chase
was never to end. There I sat, in that great city, guiltless of crime,
yet not daring to worship God in any of the churches. I heard the bells
ringing for afternoon service, and, with contemptuous sarcasm, I said,
“Will the preachers take for their text, ‘Proclaim liberty to the
captive, and the opening of prison doors to them that are bound’? or
will they preach from the text, ‘Do unto others as ye would they should
do unto you’?” Oppressed Poles and Hungarians could find a safe refuge
in that city; John Mitchell was free to proclaim in the City Hall his
desire for “a plantation well stocked with slaves;” but there I sat, an
oppressed American, not daring to show my face. God forgive the black
and bitter thoughts I indulged on that Sabbath day! The Scripture says,
“Oppression makes even a wise man mad;” and I was not wise.
I had been told that Mr. Dodge said his wife had never signed away her
right to my children, and if he could not get me, he would take them.
This it was, more than any thing else, that roused such a tempest in
my soul. Benjamin was with his uncle William in California, but my
innocent young daughter had come to spend a vacation with me. I thought
of what I had suffered in slavery at her age, and my heart was like a
tiger’s when a hunter tries to seize her young.
Dear Mrs. Bruce! I seem to see the expression of her face, as
she turned away discouraged by my obstinate mood. Finding her
expostulations unavailing, she sent Ellen to entreat me. When ten
o’clock in the evening arrived and Ellen had not returned, this
watchful and unwearied friend became anxious. She came to us in a
carriage, bringing a well-filled trunk for my journey—trusting that by
this time I would listen to reason. I yielded to her, as I ought to
have done before.