 CHAPTER 41. 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 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 earning 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 toward 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 suppose 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 wilt his heirs, except such property as he was unable to grasp. I was well aware what I had to expect from the family of Flint's, 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 Cortland 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 everyone in distress, and she always warmly sympathized with mine. It was impossible to tell how near the enemy was. He might have passed and repast 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 she 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 peddler in the south. Then he became a merchant, and finally a slave-holder. 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 a 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 to 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 suppose 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 clue 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, and 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 in the opening of prison doors to them that are bound? Or will they preach from the text, do unto others as you would have them 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. Dodd and 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 anything 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 the 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 seemed 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 unwearyed 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. The next day, baby and I set out on a heavy snowstorm, bound for New England again. I received letters from the city of Iniquity, addressed to me under an assumed name. In a few days one came from Mrs. Bruce, informing me that my new master was still searching for me, and that she intended to put an end to this persecution by buying my freedom. I felt grateful for the kindness that prompted this offer, but the idea was not so pleasant to me as might have been expected. The more my mind had become enlightened, the more difficult it was for me to consider myself an article of property, and to pay money to those who had so grievously oppressed me seemed like taking from my sufferings the glory of triumph. I wrote to Mrs. Bruce, thanking her, but saying that being sold from one owner to another seemed too much like slavery, that such a great obligation could not be easily cancelled, and that I preferred to go to my brother in California. Without my knowledge, Mrs. Bruce employed a gentleman in New York to enter into negotiations with Mr. Dodge. He proposed to pay three hundred dollars down if Mr. Dodge would sell me, and enter into obligations to relinquish all claim to me or my children forever after. He who called himself my master said he scorned so small an offer for such a valuable servant. The gentleman replied, You can do as you choose, sir. If you reject this offer you will never get anything, for the woman has friends who will convey her and her children out of this country. Mr. Dodge concluded that, half a loaf was better than no bread, and he agreed to the proffered terms. By the next mail I received this brief letter from Mrs. Bruce. I am rejoiced to tell you that the money for your freedom has been paid to Mr. Dodge. Come home to-morrow. I long to see you and my sweet babe. My brain reeled as I read these lines. A gentleman near me said, It's true, I have seen the Bill of Sale. The Bill of Sale. Those words struck me like a blow. So I was sold at last. A human being sold in the free city of New York. The Bill of Sale is on record, and future generations will learn from it that women were articles of traffic in New York late in the nineteenth century of the Christian religion. It may, hereafter, approve a useful document to antiquaries, who are seeking to measure the progress of civilization in the United States. I well know the value of that bit of paper, but much as I love freedom, I do not like to look upon it. I am deeply grateful to the generous friend who procured it, but I despise the miscreant who demanded payment for what never rightfully belonged to him or his. I had objected to having my freedom bought, yet I must confess that when it was done I felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from my weary shoulders. When I rode home in the cars I was no longer afraid to unveil my face and look at people as they passed. I should have been glad to have met Daniel Dodge himself, to have had him seen me and know me, that he might have mourned over the untoward circumstances which compelled him to sell me for three hundred dollars. When I reached home the arms of my benefactress were thrown round me and our tears mingled. As soon as she could speak she said, Oh Linda, I am so glad it's all over. You wrote to me as if you thought you were going to be transferred from one owner to another, but I did not buy you for your services. I should have done just the same if you had been going to sail for California to-morrow. I should at least have the satisfaction of knowing that you left me a free woman. My heart was exceedingly full. I remembered how my poor father had tried to buy me when I was a small child, and how he had been disappointed. I hoped his spirit was rejoicing over me now. I remember how my good old grandmother had laid up her earnings to purchase me in later years, and how often her plans had been frustrated. How that faithful, loving old harp would leap for joy if she could look on me and my children now that we were free. My relatives had been foiled in all their efforts, but God had raised me up a friend among strangers, who had bestowed on me the precious, long-desired boon. Friend. It is a common word, often lightly used, like other good and beautiful things it may be tarnished by careless handling, but when I speak of Mrs. Bruce as my friend, the word is sacred. My grandmother lived to rejoice in my freedom, but not long after a letter came with a black seal. She had gone where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. Time passed on, and a paper came to me from the south, containing an obituary notice of my Uncle Philip. It was the only case I ever knew of such an honour conferred upon a coloured person. It was written by one of his friends, and contained these words. Now that death has laid him low, they call him a good man and a useful citizen. But what are eulogies to the black man, when the world has faded from his vision? It does not require man's praise to obtain rest in God's kingdom. So they called a coloured man a citizen. Strange words to be uttered in that region. Reader, my story ends with freedom. Not in the usual way, with marriage. I and my children are now free. We are as free from the power of slaveholders as are the white people of the north. And though that, according to my ideas, is not saying a great deal, it is a vast improvement in my condition. The dream of my life is not yet realised. I do not sit with my children in a home of my own. I still long for a hearthstone of my own, however humble. I wish it for my children's sake far more than for my own. But God so orders circumstances as to keep me with my friend Mrs. Bruce. Love, duty, gratitude also bind me to her side. It is a privilege to serve her who pities my oppressed people, and who has bestowed the inestimable boon of freedom on me and my children. It has been painful to me in many ways to recall the dreary years I passed in bondage. I would gladly forget them if I could. Yet the retrospection is not altogether without solace, for with those gloomy recollections come tender memories of my good old grandmother, like light, fleecy clouds floating over a dark and troubled sea. The following statement is from Amy Post, a member of the Society of Friends in the State of New York, well known and highly respected by friends of the poor and the oppressed. As has been already stated in the preceding pages, the author of this volume spent some time under her hospitable roof. The author of this book is my highly esteemed friend. If its readers knew her as I know her, they could not fail to be deeply interested in her story. She was a beloved inmate of our family, nearly the whole of the year 1849. She was introduced to us by her affectionate and conscientious brother, who had previously related to us some of the almost incredible events in his sister's life. I immediately became much interested in Linda, for her appearance was prepossessing, and her deportment indicated remarkable delicacy of feeling and purity of thought. As we became acquainted, she related to me from time to time some of the incidents in her bitter experiences as a slave-woman. Though impelled by a natural craving for human sympathy, she passed through a baptism of suffering, even in recounting her trials to me, in private confidential conversations. The burden of these memories lay heavily upon her spirit, naturally virtuous and refined. I repeatedly urged her to consent to the publication of her narrative, for I felt that it would arouse people to a more earnest work for the disenthrallment of millions still remaining in that soul-crushing condition which was so unendurable to her. But her sensitive spirit shrank from publicity. She said, You know a woman can whisper her cruel wrongs in the ear of a dear friend much easier than she can record them for the world to read. Even in talking with me, she wept so much and seemed to suffer such mental agony that I felt her story was too sacred to be drawn from her by inquisitive questions, and I left her free to tell as much or as little as she chose. Still, I urged upon her the duty of publishing her experience, for the sake of the good it might do, and at last she undertook the task. Having been a slave so large a portion of her life, she is unlearned. She is obliged to earn her living by her own labor, and she has worked untiringly to procure education for her children. Several times she has been obliged to leave her employments in order to fly from the man-hunters and woman-hunters of our land, but she pressed through all these obstacles and overcame them. After the labours of the day were over, she traced secretly and weirdly by the midnight lamp a truthful record of her eventful life. This empire-state is a shabby place of refuge for the oppressed. But here, through anxiety, turmoil, and despair, the freedom of Linda and her children was finally secured by the exertions of a generous friend. She was grateful for the boon, but the idea of having been bought was always galling to a spirit that could never acknowledge itself to be a chattel. She wrote to us thus, soon after the event. I thank you for your kind expressions in regard to my freedom, but the freedom I had before the money was paid was dearer to me. God gave me that freedom, but man put God's image in the scales with the paltry sum of three hundred dollars. I served for my liberty as faithfully as Jacob served for Rachel. At the end he had large possessions, but I was robbed of my victory. I was obliged to resign my crown, to rid myself of a tyrant. Her story, as written by herself, cannot fail to interest the reader. It is a sad illustration of the condition of this country which boasts of its civilization while it sanctions laws and customs which make the experiences of the present more strange than any fictions of the past. Amy Post. Rochester, New York. October 30th, 1859 The following testimonial is from a man who is now a highly respectable colored citizen of Boston—L.M.C. This narrative contains some incidents so extraordinary, that doubtless many persons, under whose eyes it may chance to fall, will be ready to believe that it is colored highly to serve a special purpose. But however it may be regarded by the incredulous, I know that it is full of living truths. I have been well acquainted with the author from my boyhood. The circumstances recounted in her history are perfectly familiar to me. I knew of her treatment from her master, of the imprisonment of her children, of their sale and redemption, of her seven years' concealment, and of her subsequent escape to the north. I am now a resident of Boston, and am a living witness to the truth of this interesting narrative. George W. Lauder. End of Appendix. End of Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl.