Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
neither saw nor heard the entrance of any one, till the voice of
William sounded close beside me. “Linda,” said he, “what makes you look
so sad? I love you. O, Linda, isn’t this a bad world? Every body seems
so cross and unhappy. I wish I had died when poor father did.”
I told him that every body was _not_ cross, or unhappy; that those who
had pleasant homes, and kind friends, and who were not afraid to love
them, were happy. But we, who were slave-children, without father or
mother, could not expect to be happy. We must be good; perhaps that
would bring us contentment.
“Yes,” he said, “I try to be good; but what’s the use? They are all
the time troubling me.” Then he proceeded to relate his afternoon’s
difficulty with young master Nicholas. It seemed that the brother
of master Nicholas had pleased himself with making up stories about
William. Master Nicholas said he should be flogged, and he would do it.
Whereupon he went to work; but William fought bravely, and the young
master, finding he was getting the better of him, undertook to tie his
hands behind him. He failed in that likewise. By dint of kicking and
fisting, William came out of the skirmish none the worse for a few
scratches.
He continued to discourse, on his young master’s _meanness_; how he
whipped the _little_ boys, but was a perfect coward when a tussle
ensued between him and white boys of his own size. On such occasions he
always took to his legs. William had other charges to make against him.
One was his rubbing up pennies with quicksilver, and passing them off
for quarters of a dollar on an old man who kept a fruit stall. William
was often sent to buy fruit, and he earnestly inquired of me what he
ought to do under such circumstances. I told him it was certainly wrong
to deceive the old man, and that it was his duty to tell him of the
impositions practised by his young master. I assured him the old man
would not be slow to comprehend the whole, and there the matter would
end. William thought it might with the old man, but not with _him_. He
said he did not mind the smart of the whip, but he did not like the
_idea_ of being whipped.
While I advised him to be good and forgiving I was not unconscious
of the beam in my own eye. It was the very knowledge of my own
shortcomings that urged me to retain, if possible, some sparks of
my brother’s God-given nature. I had not lived fourteen years in
slavery for nothing. I had felt, seen, and heard enough, to read the
characters, and question the motives, of those around me. The war of
my life had begun; and though one of God’s most powerless creatures, I
resolved never to be conquered. Alas, for me!
If there was one pure, sunny spot for me, I believed it to be in
Benjamin’s heart, and in another’s, whom I loved with all the ardor of
a girl’s first love. My owner knew of it, and sought in every way to
render me miserable. He did not resort to corporal punishment, but to
all the petty, tyrannical ways that human ingenuity could devise.
I remember the first time I was punished. It was in the month of
February. My grandmother had taken my old shoes, and replaced them with
a new pair. I needed them; for several inches of snow had fallen, and
it still continued to fall. When I walked through Mrs. Flint’s room,
their creaking grated harshly on her refined nerves. She called me to
her, and asked what I had about me that made such a horrid noise. I
told her it was my new shoes. “Take them off,” said she; “and if you
put them on again, I’ll throw them into the fire.”
I took them off, and my stockings also. She then sent me a long
distance, on an errand. As I went through the snow, my bare feet
tingled. That night I was very hoarse; and I went to bed thinking the
next day would find me sick, perhaps dead. What was my grief on waking
to find myself quite well!
I had imagined if I died, or was laid up for some time, that my
mistress would feel a twinge of remorse that she had so hated “the
little imp,” as she styled me. It was my ignorance of that mistress
that gave rise to such extravagant imaginings.
Dr. Flint occasionally had high prices offered for me; but he always
said, “She don’t belong to me. She is my daughter’s property, and I
have no right to sell her.” Good, honest man! My young mistress was
still a child, and I could look for no protection from her. I loved
her, and she returned my affection. I once heard her father allude to
her attachment to me; and his wife promptly replied that it proceeded
from fear. This put unpleasant doubts into my mind. Did the child
feign what she did not feel? or was her mother jealous of the mite of
love she bestowed on me? I concluded it must be the latter. I said to
myself, “Surely, little children are true.”
One afternoon I sat at my sewing, feeling unusual depression of
spirits. My mistress had been accusing me of an offence, of which I
assured her I was perfectly innocent; but I saw, by the contemptuous
curl of her lip, that she believed I was telling a lie.
I wondered for what wise purpose God was leading me through such
thorny paths, and whether still darker days were in store for me. As I
sat musing thus, the door opened softly, and William came in. “Well,
brother,” said I, “what is the matter this time?”
“O Linda, Ben and his master have had a dreadful time!” said he.
My first thought was that Benjamin was killed. “Don’t be frightened,
Linda,” said William; “I will tell you all about it.”
It appeared that Benjamin’s master had sent for him, and he did not
immediately obey the summons. When he did, his master was angry, and
began to whip him. He resisted. Master and slave fought, and finally
the master was thrown. Benjamin had cause to tremble; for he had thrown
to the ground his master—one of the richest men in town. I anxiously
awaited the result.
That night I stole to my grandmother’s house, and Benjamin also stole
thither from his master’s. My grandmother had gone to spend a day or
two with an old friend living in the country.
“I have come,” said Benjamin, “to tell you good by. I am going away.”
I inquired where.
“To the north,” he replied.
I looked at him to see whether he was in earnest. I saw it all in his
firm, set mouth. I implored him not to go, but he paid no heed to my
words. He said he was no longer a boy, and every day made his yoke
more galling. He had raised his hand against his master, and was to be
publicly whipped for the offence. I reminded him of the poverty and
hardships he must encounter among strangers. I told him he might be
caught and brought back; and that was terrible to think of.
He grew vexed, and asked if poverty and hardships with freedom, were
not preferable to our treatment in slavery. “Linda,” he continued, “we
are dogs here; foot-balls, cattle, every thing that’s mean. No, I will
not stay. Let them bring me back. We don’t die but once.”
He was right; but it was hard to give him up. “Go,” said I, “and break
your mother’s heart.”
I repented of my words ere they were out.
“Linda,” said he, speaking as I had not heard him speak that evening,
“how _could_ you say that? Poor mother! be kind to her, Linda; and you,
too, cousin Fanny.”
Cousin Fanny was a friend who had lived some years with us.
Farewells were exchanged, and the bright, kind boy, endeared to us by
so many acts of love, vanished from our sight.
It is not necessary to state how he made his escape. Suffice it to say,
he was on his way to New York when a violent storm overtook the vessel.
The captain said he must put into the nearest port. This alarmed
Benjamin, who was aware that he would be advertised in every port near
his own town. His embarrassment was noticed by the captain. To port
they went. There the advertisement met the captain’s eye. Benjamin so
exactly answered its description, that the captain laid hold on him,
and bound him in chains. The storm passed, and they proceeded to New
York. Before reaching that port Benjamin managed to get off his chains
and throw them overboard. He escaped from the vessel, but was pursued,
captured, and carried back to his master.
When my grandmother returned home and found her youngest child had
fled, great was her sorrow; but, with characteristic piety, she said,
“God’s will be done.” Each morning, she inquired if any news had been
heard from her boy. Yes, news _was_ heard. The master was rejoicing
over a letter, announcing the capture of his human chattel.
That day seems but as yesterday, so well do I remember it. I saw him
led through the streets in chains, to jail. His face was ghastly pale,
yet full of determination. He had begged one of the sailors to go to
his mother’s house and ask her not to meet him. He said the sight of
her distress would take from him all self-control. She yearned to see
him, and she went; but she screened herself in the crowd, that it might
be as her child had said.
We were not allowed to visit him; but we had known the jailer for
years, and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the jail
door for my grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we
entered the cell not a sound broke the stillness. “Benjamin, Benjamin!”
whispered my grandmother. No answer. “Benjamin!” she again faltered.
There was a jingle of chains. The moon had just risen, and cast an
uncertain light through the bars of the window. We knelt down and took
Benjamin’s cold hands in ours. We did not speak. Sobs were heard, and
Benjamin’s lips were unsealed; for his mother was weeping on his neck.
How vividly does memory bring back that sad night! Mother and son
talked together. He asked her pardon for the suffering he had caused
her. She said she had nothing to forgive; she could not blame his
desire for freedom. He told her that when he was captured, he broke
away, and was about casting himself into the river, when thoughts of
_her_ came over him, and he desisted. She asked if he did not also
think of God. I fancied I saw his face grow fierce in the moonlight. He
answered, “No, I did not think of him. When a man is hunted like a wild
beast he forgets there is a God, a heaven. He forgets every thing in
his struggle to get beyond the reach of the bloodhounds.”
“Don’t talk so, Benjamin,” said she. “Put your trust in God. Be humble,
my child, and your master will forgive you.”
“Forgive me for _what_, mother? For not letting him treat me like a
dog? No! I will never humble myself to him. I have worked for him for
nothing all my life, and I am repaid with stripes and imprisonment.
Here I will stay till I die, or till he sells me.”
The poor mother shuddered at his words. I think he felt it; for when he
next spoke, his voice was calmer. “Don’t fret about me, mother. I ain’t
worth it,” said he. “I wish I had some of your goodness. You bear every
thing patiently, just as though you thought it was all right. I wish I
could.”
She told him she had not always been so; once, she was like him; but
when sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm to lean upon, she
learned to call on God, and he lightened her burdens. She besought him
to do likewise.
We overstaid our time, and were obliged to hurry from the jail.
Benjamin had been imprisoned three weeks, when my grandmother went to
intercede for him with his master. He was immovable. He said Benjamin
should serve as an example to the rest of his slaves; he should be kept
in jail till he was subdued, or be sold if he got but one dollar for
him. However, he afterwards relented in some degree. The chains were
taken off, and we were allowed to visit him.
As his food was of the coarsest kind, we carried him as often as
possible a warm supper, accompanied with some little luxury for the
jailer.
Three months elapsed, and there was no prospect of release or of a