Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself
or confidence from her under the circumstances in which I was placed.
I could not blame her. Slaveholders’ wives feel as other women would
under similar circumstances. The fire of her temper kindled from small
sparks, and now the flame became so intense that the doctor was obliged
to give up his intended arrangement.
I knew I had ignited the torch, and I expected to suffer for it
afterwards; but I felt too thankful to my mistress for the timely aid
she rendered me to care much about that. She now took me to sleep in
a room adjoining her own. There I was an object of her especial care,
though not of her especial comfort, for she spent many a sleepless
night to watch over me. Sometimes I woke up, and found her bending
over me. At other times she whispered in my ear, as though it was
her husband who was speaking to me, and listened to hear what I
would answer. If she startled me, on such occasions, she would glide
stealthily away; and the next morning she would tell me I had been
talking in my sleep, and ask who I was talking to. At last, I began
to be fearful for my life. It had been often threatened; and you can
imagine, better than I can describe, what an unpleasant sensation it
must produce to wake up in the dead of night and find a jealous woman
bending over you. Terrible as this experience was, I had fears that it
would give place to one more terrible.
My mistress grew weary of her vigils; they did not prove satisfactory.
She changed her tactics. She now tried the trick of accusing my master
of crime, in my presence, and gave my name as the author of the
accusation. To my utter astonishment, he replied, “I don’t believe
it; but if she did acknowledge it, you tortured her into exposing
me.” Tortured into exposing him! Truly, Satan had no difficulty in
distinguishing the color of his soul! I understood his object in making
this false representation. It was to show me that I gained nothing by
seeking the protection of my mistress; that the power was still all in
his own hands. I pitied Mrs. Flint. She was a second wife, many years
the junior of her husband; and the hoary-headed miscreant was enough
to try the patience of a wiser and better woman. She was completely
foiled, and knew not how to proceed. She would gladly have had me
flogged for my supposed false oath; but, as I have already stated, the
doctor never allowed any one to whip me. The old sinner was politic.
The application of the lash might have led to remarks that would have
exposed him in the eyes of his children and grandchildren. How often
did I rejoice that I lived in a town where all the inhabitants knew
each other! If I had been on a remote plantation, or lost among the
multitude of a crowded city, I should not be a living woman at this day.
The secrets of slavery are concealed like those of the Inquisition.
My master was, to my knowledge, the father of eleven slaves. But did
the mothers dare to tell who was the father of their children? Did the
other slaves dare to allude to it, except in whispers among themselves?
No, indeed! They knew too well the terrible consequences.
My grandmother could not avoid seeing things which excited her
suspicions. She was uneasy about me, and tried various ways to buy me;
but the never-changing answer was always repeated: “Linda does not
belong to _me_. She is my daughter’s property, and I have no legal
right to sell her.” The conscientious man! He was too scrupulous
to _sell_ me; but he had no scruples whatever about committing a
much greater wrong against the helpless young girl placed under his
guardianship, as his daughter’s property. Sometimes my persecutor would
ask me whether I would like to be sold. I told him I would rather be
sold to any body than to lead such a life as I did. On such occasions
he would assume the air of a very injured individual, and reproach me
for my ingratitude. “Did I not take you into the house, and make you
the companion of my own children?” he would say. “Have I ever treated
you like a negro? I have never allowed you to be punished, not even to
please your mistress. And this is the recompense I get, you ungrateful
girl!” I answered that he had reasons of his own for screening me from
punishment, and that the course he pursued made my mistress hate me and
persecute me. If I wept, he would say, “Poor child! Don’t cry! don’t
cry! I will make peace for you with your mistress. Only let me arrange
matters in my own way. Poor, foolish girl! you don’t know what is for
your own good. I would cherish you. I would make a lady of you. Now go,
and think of all I have promised you.”
I did think of it.
Reader, I draw no imaginary pictures of southern homes. I am telling
you the plain truth. Yet when victims make their escape from this wild
beast of Slavery, northerners consent to act the part of bloodhounds,
and hunt the poor fugitive back into his den, “full of dead men’s
bones, and all uncleanness.” Nay, more, they are not only willing,
but proud, to give their daughters in marriage to slaveholders.
The poor girls have romantic notions of a sunny clime, and of the
flowering vines that all the year round shade a happy home. To what
disappointments are they destined! The young wife soon learns that the
husband in whose hands she has placed her happiness pays no regard to
his marriage vows. Children of every shade of complexion play with her
own fair babies, and too well she knows that they are born unto him of
his own household. Jealousy and hatred enter the flowery home, and it
is ravaged of its loveliness.
Southern women often marry a man knowing that he is the father of
many little slaves. They do not trouble themselves about it. They
regard such children as property, as marketable as the pigs on the
plantation; and it is seldom that they do not make them aware of this
by passing them into the slave-trader’s hands as soon as possible, and
thus getting them out of their sight. I am glad to say there are some
honorable exceptions.
I have myself known two southern wives who exhorted their husbands to
free those slaves towards whom they stood in a “parental relation;” and
their request was granted. These husbands blushed before the superior
nobleness of their wives’ natures. Though they had only counselled them
to do that which it was their duty to do, it commanded their respect,
and rendered their conduct more exemplary. Concealment was at an end,
and confidence took the place of distrust.
Though this bad institution deadens the moral sense, even in white
women, to a fearful extent, it is not altogether extinct. I have
heard southern ladies say of Mr. Such a one, “He not only thinks it
no disgrace to be the father of those little niggers, but he is not
ashamed to call himself their master. I declare, such things ought not
to be tolerated in any decent society!”
VII. The Lover.
Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to
twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the
hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the
pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, “Not my will, but thine
be done, O Lord!” But when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow,
regardless of the misery he causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did
not reason thus when I was a young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved,
and I indulged the hope that the dark clouds around me would turn out
a bright lining. I forgot that in the land of my birth the shadows are
too dense for light to penetrate. A land
“Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind;
Nor words a language; nor e’en men mankind.
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell.”
There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free-born
man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met
together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed
to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young girl’s first
love. But when I reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave
no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My
lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr. Flint was too wilful and
arbitrary a man to consent to that arrangement. From him, I was sure of
experiencing all sorts of opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my
mistress. She would have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not
in that way. It would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could
have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home
I should be just as much in her husband’s power as I had previously
been,—for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her. Moreover,
my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves had no right
to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely to wait
upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young slave
girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. “I
will have you peeled and pickled, my lady,” said she, “if I ever hear
you mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you
tending _my_ children with the children of that nigger?” The girl to
whom she said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by
its father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to
acknowledge his helpless offspring.
Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a
loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover
the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my
grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to
tell her the worst. She had long suspected all was not right, and if I
confirmed her suspicions I knew a storm would rise that would prove the
overthrow of all my hopes.
This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could
not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was
a lady in the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint’s, who
often visited the house. I had a great respect for her, and she had
always manifested a friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she
would have great influence with the doctor. I went to this lady, and
told her my story. I told her I was aware that my lover’s being a
free-born man would prove a great objection; but he wanted to buy me;
and if Dr. Flint would consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he
would be willing to pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint
disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress
would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady
listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to promote
my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I believe she
pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose.
How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned
to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him.
The next morning, a message was brought to me: “Master wants you in
his study.” I found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the
hateful man who claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered,
and tried to appear calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was
bleeding. He looked fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to
say, “I have half a mind to kill you on the spot.” At last he broke the
silence, and that was a relief to both of us.
“So you want to be married, do you?” said he, “and to a free nigger.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger
fellow you honor so highly. If you _must_ have a husband, you may take
up with one of my slaves.”
What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of _his_ slaves,