 CHAPTER XVIII. The search for me was kept up with more perseverance than I had anticipated. I began to think that escape was impossible. I was in great anxiety lest I should implicate the friend who harbored me. I knew the consequences would be frightful, and much as I dreaded being caught, even that seemed better than causing an innocent person to suffer for kindness to me. A week had passed in terrible suspense, when my pursuers came into such close vicinity that I concluded they had tracked me to my hiding-place. I flew out of the house and concealed myself in a thicket of bushes. There I remained in an agony of fear for two hours. Suddenly a reptile of some kind seized my leg. In my fright I struck a blow which loosened its hold, but I could not tell whether I had killed it. It was so dark I could not see what it was. I only knew it was something cold and slimy. The pain I felt soon indicated that the bite was poisonous. I was compelled to leave my place of concealment, and I groped my way back into the house. The pain had become intense, and my friend was startled by my look of anguish. I asked her to prepare a poultice of warm ashes and vinegar, and I applied it to my leg, which was already much swollen. The application gave me some relief, but the swelling did not abate. The dread of being disabled was greater than the physical pain I endured. My friend asked an old woman, who doctored among the slaves, what was good for the bite of a snake or lizard. She told her to steep a dozen coppers in vinegar overnight, and apply the cankered vinegar to the inflamed part. Footnote 1. The poison of a snake is a powerful acid, and is counteracted by powerful alkalis, such as potash, ammonia, etc. The Indians are accustomed to apply wet ashes, or plunge the limb into a strong lie. White men employ to lay out railroads and sneaky places, often carry ammonia with them as an antidote. I had succeeded in cautiously conveying some messages to my relatives. They were harshly threatened, and despairing of my having a chance to escape. They advised me to return to my master, ask his forgiveness, and let him make an example of me. But such counsel had no influence with me. When I started upon this hazardous undertaking, I had resolved that, come what would, there should be no turning back. Give me liberty, or give me death, was my motto. When my friend contrived to make known to my relatives the painful situation I had been in for twenty-four hours, they said no more about my going back to my master. Something must be done, and that speedily. But where to return for help they knew not? God in His mercy raised up a friend in need. Among the ladies who were acquainted with my grandmother was one who had known her from childhood, and always been very friendly to her. She had also known my mother and her children, and felt interested for them. At this crisis of affairs she called to see my grandmother, as she not unfrequently did. She observed the sad and troubled expression of her face, and asked if she knew where Linda was, and whether she was safe. My grandmother shook her head without answering. Come on, Martha," said the kind lady, tell me all about it. Perhaps I can do something to help you. The husband of this lady held many slaves, and bought and sold slaves. She also held a number in her own name, but she treated them kindly and would never allow any of them to be sold. She was unlike the majority of slaveholders' wives. My grandmother looked earnestly at her. Something in the expression of her face said, Trust me, and she did trust her. She listened attentively to the details of my story and sat thinking for a while. At last she said, Aunt Martha, I pity you both. If you think there is any chance of Linda's getting to the Free States, I will conceal her for a time. But first you must solemnly promise that my name shall never be mentioned. If such a thing should become known it would ruin me and my family. No one in my house must know of it except a cook. She is so faithful that I would trust my own life with her, and I know she likes Linda. It is a great risk. But I trust no harm will come of it. Get word to Linda to be ready as soon as it is dark, before the patrols are out. I will send the housemaids on errands, and Betty shall go to meet Linda. The place where we were to meet was designated and agreed on. My grandmother was unable to thank the lady for this noble deed, and overcome by her emotions she sank on her knees and sobbed like a child. I received a message to leave my friend's house at such an hour, and go to a certain place where a friend would be waiting for me. As a matter of prudence no names were mentioned. I had no means of conjecturing who I was to meet or where I was going. I did not like to move, thus blindfolded, but I had no choice. It would not do for me to remain where I was. I disguised myself, summoned up courage to meet the worst, and went to the appointed place. My friend Betty was there. She was the last person I expected to see. We hurried along in silence. The pain in my leg was so intense that it seemed as if I should drop, but fear gave me strength. We reached the house and entered out of served. Her first words were, Honey, now you is safe. Damn devils ain't coming to search this house. When I get you into Mrs. Safe Place, I'll bring some nice hot supper. Aspects you needed after all the scaring. Betty's vocation led her to think eating the most important thing in life. She did not realize that my heart was too full for me to care much about supper. The mistress came to meet us, and led me upstairs to a small room over her own sleeping apartment. You will be safe here, Linda, said she. I keep this room to store away things that are out of use. The girls are not accustomed to be sent to it, and they will not suspect anything unless they hear some noise. I always keep it locked, and Betty shall take care of the key. But you must be very careful, for my sake, as well as your own, and you must never tell my secret, for it would ruin me and my family. I will keep the girls busy in the morning, that Betty may have a chance to bring your breakfast, but it will not do for her to come again to you until night. I will come to see you sometimes. Keep up your courage. I hope this state of things will not last long. Betty came with the nice hot supper, and the mistress hastened downstairs to keep things straight till she returned. How my heart overflowed with gratitude! Words choked in my throat, but I could have kissed the feet of my benefactress. For that deed of Christian womanhood may God for ever bless her. I went to sleep that night with the feeling that I was, for the present, the most fortunate slave in town. Morning came and filled my little cell with light. I thanked the Heavenly Father for this safe retreat. Opposite my window was a pile of feather beds. On top of these I could lie perfectly concealed, and command a view of the street through which Dr. Flint passed to his office. Anxious as I was, I felt a gleam of satisfaction when I saw him. Thus far I had outwitted him, and I triumphed over it. Who can blame slaves for being cunning? They are constantly compelled to resort to it. It is the only weapon of the weak and oppressed against the strength of their tyrants. I was daily hoping to hear that my master had sold my children, for I knew who was on the watch to buy them. But Dr. Flint cared even more for revenge than he did for money. My brother William and the good aunt who had served in his family twenty years, and my little Benny and Ellen, who was a little over two years old, were thrust into jail, as a means of compelling my relatives to give some information about me. He swore my grandmother should never see one of them again till I was brought back. They kept these facts from me for several days. When I heard that my little ones were in a loathsome jail, my first impulse was to go to them. I was encountering dangers for the sake of freeing them, and must I be the cause of their death? The thought was agonizing. My benefactress tried to soothe me by telling me that my aunt would take good care of the children while they remained in jail. But it added to my pain to think that the good old aunt, who had always been so kind to her sister's orphan children, should be shut up in prison for no other crime than loving them. I suppose my friends feared a reckless movement on my part, knowing as they did that my life was bound up in my children. I received a note from my brother William. It was scarcely legible, and ran thus. Wherever you are, dear sister, I beg of you not to come here. We are all much better off than you are. If you come, you will ruin us all. They would force you to tell where you had been, or they would kill you. Take the advice of your friends. If not for the sake of me and your children, at least for the sake of those you would ruin. Poor William. He also must suffer for being my brother. I took his advice and kept quiet. My aunt was taken out of jail at the end of a month, because Mrs. Flint could not spare her any longer. She was tired of being her own housekeeper. It was quite too fatiguing to order her dinner and eat it, too. My children remained in jail, where brother William did all he could for their comfort. Betty went to see them sometimes, and brought me tidings. She was not permitted to enter the jail, but William would hold them up to the grated window while she chatted with them. When she repeated their prattle, and told me how they wanted to see their ma, my tears would flow. Old Betty would exclaim, Lord's child, what's you crying about? Dem youngens will kill you dead. Don't be so chicken-hearted. If you does, you will never get through this world. Good old soul! She had gone through the world childless. She had never had little ones to clasp their arms round her neck. She had never seen their soft eyes looking into hers. No sweet little voices had called her mother. She had never pressed her own infants to her heart with the feeling that even in fetters there was something to live for. How could she realize my feelings? Betty's husband loved children dearly and wondered why God had denied them to him. He expressed great sorrow when he came to Betty with the tidings that Ellen had been taken out of jail and carried to Dr. Flint's. She had the measles a short time before they carried her to jail, and the disease had left her eyes affected. The doctor had taken her home to attend to them. My children had always been afraid of the doctor and his wife. They had never been inside of their house. Poor little Ellen cried all day to be carried back to prison. The instincts of childhood are true. She knew she was loved in the jail. Her screams and sobs annoyed Mrs. Flint. Before night she called one of the slaves and said, Here, Bill, carry this brat back to the jail. I can't stand her noise. If she would be quiet I should like to keep the little minx. She would make a handy waiting-mate for my daughter by and by. But if she stayed here with her white face, I suppose I should either kill her or spoil her. I hope the doctor will sell them as far as wind and water can carry them. As for their mother, her ladyship will find out yet what she gets by running away. She hasn't so much feeling for her children as a cow has for its calf. If she had she would have come back long ago to get them out of jail and save all this expense and trouble—the good for nothing hussy. When she is caught she shall stay in jail, in irons, for one, six months, and then be sold with sugar plantation. I shall see her broken yet. What do you stand there for, Bill? Why don't you go off with the brat? Mind now that you don't let any of the niggers speak to her in the street. When these remarks were reported to me, I smiled at Mrs. Flint saying that she should either kill my child or spoil her. I thought to myself there was very little danger of the latter. I have always considered it as one of God's special providences that Ellen screamed till she was carried back to jail. That same night Dr. Flint was called to a patient and did not return till near morning. Passing my grandmother's he saw a light in the house, and thought to himself, perhaps this has something to do with Linda. He knocked and the door was opened. What calls you up so early, said he? I saw your light, and I thought I would just stop and tell you that I have found out where Linda is. I know where to put my hands on her, and I shall have her before twelve o'clock. When he had turned away my grandmother and my uncle looked anxiously at each other, they did not know whether or not it was merely one of the doctor's tricks to frighten them. In their uncertainty they thought it was best to have a message conveyed to my friend Betty. Unwilling to alarm her mistress, Betty resolved to dispose of me herself. She came to me and told me to rise and dress quickly. We hurried downstairs and across the yard into the kitchen. She locked the door and lifted up a plank in the floor. A buffalo's skin and a bit of carpet were spread for me to lie on, and to quilt thrown over me. Stay there, she said. Till I see that they know about you. They say they will put their hands on you before twelve o'clock. If they did know where you are, they won't know now. They'll be disappointed this time. That's all I got to say. If he comes rummaging among my things, they'll get one breast sarsen from the disier nigger. In my shallow bed I had but just room enough to bring my hands to my face and keep the dust out of my eyes. For Betty walked over me twenty times in an hour, passing from the dresser to the fireplace. When she was alone I could hear her pronouncing anathemas over Dr. Flint and all his tribe, every now and then saying, with a chuckling laugh, disniggers too cute for him this time. When the housemaids were about, she had sly ways of drawing them out, that I might hear what they would say. She would repeat stories she had heard about my being in this or that or the other place, to which they would answer, that I was not fool enough to be staying round there, that I was in Philadelphia or New York before this time. When all were a bed and asleep, Betty raised the plank and said, Come out, child, come out. They don't know nothing about you. It was only white folk's lies to scare the niggers. Some days after this adventure I had a much worse fright. As I sat very still in my retreat above stairs, tearful visions floated through my mind. I thought Dr. Flint would soon get discouraged and would be willing to sell my children, when he lost all hopes of making them the means of my discovery. I knew who was ready to buy them. Suddenly I heard a voice that chilled my blood. The sound was all too familiar to me. It had been too dreadful for me not to recognize at once my old master. He was in the house, and I at once concluded he had come to seize me. I looked round in terror. There was no way of escape. The voice receded. I suppose the constable was with him and they were searching the house. In my alarm I did not forget the trouble I was bringing on my generous benefactress. It seemed as if I were born to bring sorrow and all who befriended me, and that was the bitterest drop in the bitter cup of my life. After a while I heard approaching footsteps. The key was turned in the door. I braced myself against the wall to keep from falling. I ventured to look up, and there stood my kind benefactress, alone. I was too much overcome to speak and sunk down upon the floor. I thought she would hear your master's voice, she said, and knowing you would be terrified, I came to tell you there is nothing to fear. You may even indulge in a laugh at the old gentleman's expense. He is so sure you are in New York that he came to borrow five hundred dollars to go in pursuit of you. My sister had some money to loan on interest. He has obtained it and proposes to start for New York to-night. So for the present you see you are safe. The doctor will merely lighten his pocket hunting after the bird he has left behind. CHAPTER 19. THE CHILDREN SOLD The doctor came back from New York, of course, without accomplishing his purpose. He had expended considerable money and was rather disheartened. My brother and the children had now been in jail two months, and that also was some expense. My friends thought it was a favourable time to work on his discouraged feelings. Mr. Sands sent a speculator to offer him nine hundred dollars for my brother William, and eight hundred for the two children. These were high prices, as slaves were then selling, but the offer was rejected. If it had been merely a question of money, the doctor would have sold any boy of Benny's age for two hundred dollars, but he could not bear to give up the power of revenge. But he was hard-pressed for money, and he revolved the matter in his mind. He knew that if he could keep Ellen till she was fifteen, he could sell her for a high price. But I presume he reflected that she might die or might be stolen away. At all events, he came to the conclusion that he had better accept the slave trader's offer. Meeting him in the street, he inquired when he would leave town. Today at ten o'clock, he replied, Ah! do you go so soon? said the doctor. I've been reflecting upon your proposition, and I've concluded to let you have the three negroes if you will pay nineteen hundred dollars. After some parley, the trader agreed to his terms. He wanted the bill of sale drawn up and signed immediately, as he had a great deal to attend to during the short time he remained in town. The doctor went to the jail and told William he would take him back into his service if he would promise to behave himself, but he replied that he would rather be sold. And you shall be sold, you ungrateful rascal! exclaimed the doctor. In less than an hour the money was paid, the papers were signed, sealed, and delivered, and my brother and children were in the hands of the trader. It was a hurried transaction, and after it was over the doctor's characteristic caution returned. He went back to the speculator and said, Sir, I have come to lay you under obligations of a thousand dollars not to sell any of those negroes in this state. You come too late, replied the trader, our bargain is closed. He had, in fact, already sold them to Mr. Sands, but he did not mention it. The doctor required him to put irons on that rascal bill, and to pass through the back streets when he took his gang out of town. The trader was privately instructed to concede to his wishes. My good old aunt went to the jail to bid the children good-bye, supposing them to be the speculator's property, and that she should never see them again. As she held Benny in her lap, he said, Aunt Nancy, I want to show you something. He led her to the door and showed her a long row of marks, saying, Uncle Will taught me to count. I've made a mark for every day I've been in here, and it is sixty days. It is a long time, and the speculator is going to take me and Ellen away. He's a bad man. It's wrong for him to take grandmother's children. I want to go to my mother. My grandmother was told that the children would be restored to her, but she was requested to act as if they were really to be sent away. Accordingly she made up a bundle of clothes and went to the jail. When she arrived she found William handcuffed among the gang, and the children in the trader's cart. The scene seemed too much like reality. She was afraid there might have been some deception or mistake. She fainted, and was carried home. When the wagon stopped at the hotel, several gentlemen came out and proposed to purchase William, but the trader refused their offers, without stating that he was already sold. And now came the trying hour for that drove of human beings, driven away like cattle, to be sold they knew not where. Husbands were torn from wives, parents from children, never to look upon each other again beside the grave. There was ringing of hands, and cries of despair. Dr. Flint had the supreme satisfaction of seeing the wagon leave town, had Mrs. Flint had the gratification of supposing that my children were going, as far as wind and water would carry them. According to an agreement, my uncle followed the wagon some miles till they came to an old farmhouse. There the trader took the irons from William, and as he did so he said, You are a damned clever fellow. I should like to own you myself. Them gentlemen that wanted to buy you said you was a bright honest chap, and I must get you a good home. I guess your old master will swear to Maro and call himself an old fool for selling the children. I reckon he'll never get their mammy back again. I expect she's made tracks for the North. Goodbye, old boy. Remember I have done you a good turn. You must thank me by coaxing all the pretty gals to go with me next fall. That's going to be my last trip. This trading in niggers is a bad business for a fellow that's got any heart. Move on, you fellows." And the gang went on. God alone knows where. Much as I despise and detest the class of slave traders, whom I regard as the vilest wretches on earth, I must do this man the justice to say that he seemed to have some feeling. He took a fancy to William in the jail, and wanted to buy him. When he heard the story of my children, he was willing to aid them in getting out of Dr. Flint's power, even without charging the customary fee. My uncle procured a wagon and carried William and the children back to town. Great was the joy in my grandmother's house. The curtains were closed and the candles lighted. The happy grandmother cuddled the little ones to her bosom. They hugged her and kissed her, and clapped their hands and shouted. She knelt down and poured forth one of her heartfelt prayers of thanksgiving to God. The father was present for a while, and though such a parental relation as existed between him and my children takes slight hold on the hearts or consciences of slaveholders, it must be that he experienced some moments of pure joy in witnessing the happiness he had imparted. I had no share in the rejoicings of that evening. The events of the day had not come to my knowledge. And now I will tell you something that happened to me, though you will perhaps think it illustrates the superstition of slaves. I sat in my usual place on the floor near the window, where I could hear much that was said in the street without being seen. The family had retired for the night and all was still. I sat there thinking of my children when I heard a low strain of music. A band of serenaders were under the window playing home, sweet home. I listened till the sounds did not seem like music, but like the moaning of children. It seemed as if my heart would burst. I rose from my sitting posture and knelt. A streak of moonlight was on the floor before me, and in the midst of it appeared the forms of my two children. They vanished, but I had seen them distinctly. Some will call it a dream, others a vision. I know not how to account for it, but it made a strong impression on my mind, and I felt certain something had happened to my little ones. I had not seen Betty since morning. Now I heard her softly turning the key. As soon as she entered I clung to her and begged her to let me know whether my children were dead or whether they were sold, for I had seen their spirits in my room and I was sure something had happened to them. Lord Shyle, said she, putting her arms round me, you's got the hysterics. I'll sleep with you tonight, because you'll make a noise and ruin Mrs. Something has stirred you up mightily. When you is done crying I'll talk with you. The children is well and mighty happy. I see to myself. Does that satisfy you? Targe, I'll be still. Somebody'll hear you." I tried to obey her. She lay down and was soon sound asleep, but no sleep would come to my eyelids. At dawn Betty was up and off to the kitchen. The hours passed on, and the vision of the night kept constantly recurring to my thoughts. After a while I heard the voices of two women in the entry. In one of them I recognized the housemaid. The other said to her, Did you know Linda Brent's children were sold to the speculator yesterday? They say Old Massiflint was mighty glad to see him drove out of town, but they say they've come back again. I suspect it's all their daddy's doings. They say he's brought William too. Lord, how it will take hold of Old Massiflint. I'm going round Aunt Martha's to see about it. I bit my lips till the blood came to keep from crying out. Were my children with their grandmother, or had the speculator carried them off? The suspense was dreadful. Would Betty never come and tell me the truth about it? At last she came, and I eagerly repeated right over her. Her face was one broad, bright smile. Lord, you foolish thing, said she. I'm going to tell you all about it. The gals has eaten their breakfast, and Mrs. told me to let her tell you. But poor creedur taint right to keep you waiting, and I was going to tell you. Brother, children, all is bought by the daddy. Eyes laugh more than enough, thinking about Old Massiflint. Lord, how he will swar. He's got catch this time anyhow. But I must be getting out of this, or them gals will come and catch me. Betty went off laughing, and I said to myself, Can it be true that my children are free? I have not suffered for them in vain. Thank God. Great surprise was expressed when it was known that my children had returned to their grandmothers. The news spread through the town, and many a kind word was bestowed on the little ones. Dr. Flint went to my grandmothers to ascertain who was the owner of my children, and she informed him. I expected as much, said he. I'm glad to hear it. I have had news from Linda lately, and I shall soon have her. You need never expect to see her free. She shall be my slave as long as I live, and when I am dead she shall be the slave of my children. If I ever find out that you or Philip had anything to do with her running off, I'll kill him. And if I meet William in the street, and he resumes to look at me, I'll flog him within an inch of his life. Keep those brats out of my sight. As he turned to leave, my grandmother said something to remind him of his own doings. He looked back upon her as if he would have been glad to strike her to the ground. I had my season of joy and thanksgiving. It was the first time since my childhood that I had experienced any real happiness. I heard of the old doctor's threats, but they no longer had the same power to trouble me. The darkest cloud that hung over my life had ruled away. Whatever slavery might do to me, it could not shackle my children. If I fell a sacrifice, my little ones were saved. It was well for me that my simple heart believed all that had been promised for their welfare. It is always better to trust than to doubt. CHAPTER XX New Perils The doctor, more exasperated than ever, again tried to revenge himself on my relatives. He arrested Uncle Philip on the charge of having aided my flight. He was carried before a court, and swore truly that he knew nothing of my intention of to escape, and that he had not seen me since I left my master's plantation. The doctor then demanded that he should give bail for five hundred dollars, that he would have nothing to do with me. Several gentlemen offered to be security for him, but Mr. Sands told him he had better go back to jail, and he would see that he came out without giving bail. The news of his arrest was carried to my grandmother, who conveyed it to Betty. In the kindness of her heart she again stowed me away under the floor, and as she walked back and forth in the performance of her culinary duties, she talked apparently to herself, but with the intention that I should hear what was going on. I hoped that my uncle's imprisonment would last but few days. Still, I was anxious. I thought it likely Dr. Flint would do his utmost to taunt and insult him, and I was afraid my uncle might lose control of himself, and retort in some way that we be construed into a punishable offence. And I was well aware that in court his word would not be taken against any white man's. The search for me was renewed. Something had excited suspicions that I was in the vicinity. They searched the house I was in. I heard their steps and their voices. At night, when all were asleep, Betty came to release me from my place of confinement. The fright I had undergone, the constrained posture, and the dampness of the ground made me ill for several days. My uncle was soon after taken out of prison, but the movements of all my relatives and all of our friends were very closely watched. We all saw that I could not remain where I was much longer. I had already stayed longer than was intended, and I knew my presence must be a source of perpetual anxiety to my kind benefactress. During this time my friends had laid many plans for my escape, but the extreme vigilance of my persecutors made it impossible to carry them into effect. One morning I was much startled by hearing somebody trying to get into my room. Several keys were tried, but none fitted. I instantly conjectured it was one of the housemaids, and I concluded she must either have heard some noise in the room or have noticed the entrance of Betty. When my friend came to her usual time I told her what had happened. I know who it was, said she. Tend upon it was that Jenny. That nigger always got the devil in her. I suggested that she might have seen or heard something that excited her curiosity. Tuh-tuh, child! exclaimed Betty. She ain't seen nothing, nor heard nothing. She only specks something, that's all. She wants to find out who had cut and make my gown. But she won't never know. That's certain. I'll get misses to fix her. I reflected a moment and said, Betty, I must leave here to-night. Do as you think best, poor child, she replied. I was mighty afraid that their nigger will pop on you some time. She reported the incident to her mistress, and received orders to keep Jenny busy in the kitchen till she could see my Uncle Philip. He told her he would send a friend for me that very evening. She told him she hoped I was going to the north, for it was very dangerous for me to remain anywhere in the vicinity. Alas! it was not an easy thing for one in my situation to go to the north. In order to leave the coast quite clear for me, she went into the country to spend the day with her brother, and took Jenny with her. She was afraid to come and bid me good-bye, but she left a kind message with Betty. I heard her carriage roll from the door, and I never again saw her, who had so generously befriended, the poor, trembling fugitive. Though she was a slave-holder, to this day my heart blesses her. I had not the slightest idea where I was going. Betty brought me a suit of sailor's clothes, jacket, trousers, and tarpaulin hat. She gave me a small bundle, saying I might need it where I was going. In cheery tone, she exclaimed, I so glad you was going to free parts. Don't forget old Betty. Perhaps I'll come long by and by. I tried to tell her how grateful I felt for all her kindness, but she interrupted me. I don't want no tanks, honey. I was glad I could help you, and I hoped a good lord will open the path for you. I was going with you to the lower gate. Put your hands in your pockets and walk rickety like the sailors. I performed to her satisfaction. At the gate I found Peter, a young colored man, waiting for me. I had known him for years. He had been an apprentice to my father, and had always borne a good character. I was not afraid to trust him. Betty bad me a hurried goodbye, and we walked off. Take courage, Linda," said my friend Peter. I've got a dagger, and no man shall take you from me unless he passes over my dead body. It was a long time since I had taken a walk out of doors, and the fresh air revived me. It was also pleasant to hear a human voice speaking to me above a whisper. I passed several people whom I knew, but they did not recognize me in my disguise. I prayed internally that, for Peter's sake, as well as my own, nothing might occur to bring out his dagger. We walked on till we came to the wharf. My Aunt Nancy's husband was a seafaring man, and it had been deemed necessary to let him into our secret. He took me into his boat, rode out to a vessel not far distant, and hoisted me on board. We three were the only occupants of the vessel. I now ventured to ask what they proposed to do with me. They said I was to remain on board till near dawn, and then they would hide me in snakey swamp, till my Uncle Philip had prepared a place of concealment for me. If the vessel had been bound north it would have been of no avail to me, for it would certainly have been searched. About four o'clock we were again seated in the boat and rode three miles to the swamp. My fear of snakes had been increased by the venomous bite I had received, and I dreaded to enter this hiding place. But I was in no situation to choose, and I gratefully accepted the best that my poor persecuted friends could do for me. Peter landed first, and with a large knife cut a path through bamboos and briars of all descriptions. He came back, took me at his arms, and carried me to a seat made among the bamboos. Before we reached it we were covered with hundreds of mosquitoes. In an hour's time they had so poisoned my flesh that I was a pitiful sight to behold. As the light increased I saw snake after snake crawling round us. I had been accustomed to the sight of snakes all my life, but these were larger than any I had ever seen. To this day I shudder when I remember that morning. As evening approached the number of snakes increased so much that we were continually obliged to thrash them with sticks to keep them from crawling over us. The bamboos were so high and so thick that it was impossible to see beyond a very short distance. Just before it became dark we procured a seat near to the entrance of the swamp, being fearful of losing our way back to the boat. It was not long before we heard the paddle of oars and the low whistle which had been agreed upon as a signal. We made haste to enter the boat and were rode back to the vessel. I passed a wretched night. For the heat of the swamp, the mosquitoes and the constant terror of snakes had brought on a burning fever. I had just dropped asleep. When they came and told me it was time to go back to that horrid swamp. I could scarcely summon courage to rise, but even those large venomous snakes were less dreadful to my imagination than the white men in that community called civilized. This time Peter took a quantity of tobacco to burn to keep off the mosquitoes. It produced the desired effect on them, but gave me nausea and severe headache. At dark we returned to the vessel. I had been so sick during the day that Peter declared I should go home that night if the devil himself was on patrol. They told me a place of concealment had been provided for me at my grandmother's. I could not imagine how it was possible to hide me in her house, every nook and corner of which was known to the Flint family. They told me to wait and see. We were rode ashore and went boldly through the streets to my grandmother's. I wore my sailor's clothes and had blackened my face with charcoal. I passed several people whom I knew. The father of my children came so near that I brushed against his arm, but he had no idea who it was. You must make the most of this walk," said my friend Peter, for you may not have another very soon. I thought his voice sounded sad. It was kind of him to conceal from me what a dismal hole was to be my home for a long, long time. CHAPTER XXI. Incidents in the life of a slave girl, written by herself, by Harriet Jacobs, written under the pseudonym Linda Brent. CHAPTER XXI. A small shed had been added to my grandmother's house years ago. Some boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between these boards and the roof was a very small garret, never occupied by anything but rats and mice. It was a pentroof, covered with nothing but shingles, according to the Southern custom for such buildings. The garret was only nine feet long and seven wide. The highest part was three feet high, and sloped down abruptly to the loose board floor. There was no admission for either light or air. My uncle Philip, who was a carpenter, had very skillfully made a concealed trap door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had been doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom opened upon a piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I entered the house. The air was stifling, the darkness total. A bed had been spread on the floor. I could sleep quite comfortably on one side, but the slope was so sudden that I could not turn on my other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice ran over my bed. But I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched may, when a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by the noises I heard, for in my small den day and night were all the same. I suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not comfortless. I heard the voices of my children. There was joy and there was sadness in the sound. It made my tears flow. How I longed to speak to them. I was eager to look on their faces. But there was no hole, no crack through which I could peep. This continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of light. Yet I would have chosen this, rather than my lot as a slave, though white people considered it an easy one, and it was so compared with the fate of others. I was never cruelly overworked. I was never lacerated with the whip from head to foot. I was never so beaten and bruised that I could not turn from one side to the other. I never had my heel-strings cut to prevent my running away. I was never chained to a log and forced to drag it about while I toiled in the fields from morning till night. I was never branded with hot iron or torn by bloodhounds. On the contrary, I had always been kindly treated and tenderly cared for, until I came into the hands of Dr. Flint. I had never wished for freedom till then. But though my life in slavery was comparatively devoid of hardships, God pity the woman who was compelled to lead such a life. My food was passed up to me through the trap door my uncle had contrived, and my grandmother, my uncle Philip, and Aunt Nancy would seize such opportunities as they could, to mount up there and chat with me at the opening. But, of course, this was not safe in the daytime. It must all be done in darkness. It was impossible for me to move in an erect position, but I crawled about my den for exercise. One day I hit my head against something, and found it was a gimlet. My uncle had left it sticking there when he made the trap door. I was as rejoiced as Robinson Crusoe could have been at finding such a treasure. It put a lucky thought into my head. I said to myself, now I will have some light. Now I will see my children. I did not dare to begin my work during the daytime, for fear of attracting attention. But I groped round, and having found the side next to the street where I could frequently see my children, I stuck the gimlet in and waited for evening. I bored three rows of holes, one above another, then I bored out the interstices between. I thus succeeded in making one hole about an inch long and an inch broad. I sat by it till late into the night, to endure the little whiff of air that floated in. In the morning I watched for my children. The first person I saw on the street was Dr. Flint. I had a shuddering, superstitious feeling that it was a bad omen. Several familiar faces passed by. At last I heard the merry laugh of children, and presently two sweet little faces were looking up at me, as though they knew I was there, and were conscious of the joy they imparted. How I longed to tell them I was there. My condition was now a little improved. But for weeks I was tormented by hundreds of little red insects, fine as a needle's point, that pierced through my skin produced an intolerable burning. The good grandmother gave me herb teas and cooling medicines, and finally I got rid of them. The heat of my den was intense, for nothing but thin shingles protected me from the scorching summer sun. But I had my consolations. Through my peeping hole I could watch the children, and when they were near enough I could hear their talk. Aunt Nancy brought me all the news she could hear at Dr. Flint's. From her I learned that the doctor had written to New York to a colored woman, who had been born and raised in our neighborhood, and had breathed his contaminating atmosphere. He offered her a reward if she could find out anything about me. I know not what was the nature of her reply, but he soon after started from New York in haste, saying to his family that he had business of importance to transact. I peeped at him as he passed on his way to the steamboat. It was a satisfaction to have him miles of land and water between us, even for a little while, and it was a still greater satisfaction to know that he believed me to be in the free states. My little den seemed less dreary than it had done. He returned, as he did from his former journey to New York, without obtaining any satisfactory information. When he passed our house next morning, Benny was standing at the gate. He had heard them say that he had gone to find me, and he called out, Dr. Flint, did you bring my mother home? I want to see her. The doctor stamped his foot at him in a rage, and exclaimed, Get out of the way, you little damned rascal! If you don't, I'll cut off your head. Benny ran terrified into the house, saying, You can't put me in jail again. I don't belong to you now. It was well that the wind carried the words away from the doctor's ear. I told my grandmother of it when we had our next conference at the trapdoor, and begged of her not to allow the children to be impertinent to the irascible old man. Autumn came, with a pleasant abatement of heat. My eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, and by holding my book or work in a certain position near the aperture, I can try to read and so. That was a great relief to the tedious monotony of my life. But when winter came, the cold penetrated through the thin shingle roof, and I was dreadfully chilled. The winters there are not so long or so severe as in northern latitudes, but the houses are not built to shelter from cold, and my little den was peculiarly comfortless. The kind grandmother brought me bed-clothes and warm drinks. Often I was obliged to lie in bed all day to keep comfortable, but with all my precautions my shoulders and feet were frostbitten. Oh! those long, gloomy days, with no object for my eye to rest upon, and no thoughts to occupy my mind except the dreary past and the uncertain future. I was thankful when there came a day sufficiently mild for me to wrap myself up and sit at the loophole to watch the passers-by. Mother-ners have the habit of stopping and talking in the streets, and I heard many conversations not intended to meet my ears. I heard slave-hunters planning how to catch some poor fugitive. Several times I heard allusions to Dr. Flint, myself, and the history of my children, who perhaps were playing near the gate. One would say—I wouldn't move my little finger to catch her as old Flint's property—another would say—I'll catch any nigger for the reward, a man ought to have what belongs to him, if he is a damned brute. The opinion was often expressed that I was in the free states. Very rarely did any one suggest that I might be in the vicinity. Had the least suspicion rested on my grandmother's house, it would have been burned to the ground. But it was the last place they thought of. Yet there was no place, where slavery existed, that could have afforded me so good a place of concealment. Dr. Flint and his family repeatedly tried to coax and bribe my children to tell something they had heard said about me. One day the doctor took them into a shop and offered them some bright little silver pieces and gay handkerchiefs, if they would tell where their mother was. Helen shrank away from him and would not speak. But Benny spoke up, and said— Dr. Flint, I don't know where my mother is. I guess she's in New York, and when you go there again I wish you'd ask her to come home, for I want to see her. But if you put her in jail, or tell her you'll cut her head off, I'll tell her to go right back. End of chapter twenty-one. CHAPTER XXII Christmas Festivities Christmas was approaching. Grandmother brought me materials, and I busied myself making some new garments and little play-things for my children. Were it not that hiring day is near at hand, and many families are fearfully looking forward to the probability of separation in a few days, Christmas might be a happy season for the poor slaves. Even slave mothers try to gladden the hearts of their little ones on that occasion. Benny and Ellen had their Christmas stockings filled. Their imprisoned mother could not have the privilege of witnessing their surprise and joy. But I had the pleasure of peeping at them as they went into the street with their new suits on. I heard Benny ask a little playmate whether Santa Claus brought him anything. Yes, replied the boy, but Santa Claus ain't a real man. It's the children's mothers that put things into the stockings. No, that can't be, replied Benny, for Santa Claus brought Ellen and me these new clothes, and my mother has been gone this long time. How I longed to tell him that his mother made those garments, and that many a tear fell on them while she worked. Every child rises early on Christmas morning to see the John Canos. Without them Christmas would be shorn of its greatest attraction. They consist of companies of slaves from the plantations, generally of the lower class. Two athletic men and calico-wrappers have a net thrown over them, covered with all manner of bright-colored stripes. Cows' tails are fastened to their backs, and their heads are decorated with horns. A box covered with sheepskin is called the gumbo-box. A dozen beat on this, while others strike triangles and jaw-bones to which bands of dancers keep time. For a month previous they are composing songs which are sung on this occasion. These companies of a hundred each turn out early in the morning, and are allowed to go round till twelve o'clock, begging for contributions. Not a door is left unvisited where there is the least chance of obtaining a penny or a glass of rum. They do not drink while they are out, but carry the rum home in jugs to have a carousel. These Christmas donations frequently amount to twenty or thirty dollars. It is seldom that any white man or child refuses to give them a trifle. If he does, they regale his ears with the following song. Christmas is a day of feasting, both with white and colored people. Slaves who are lucky enough to have a few shillings are sure to spend them for good eating, as many a turkey and pig is captured, without saying, buy or leave, sir. Those who cannot obtain these cook a possum or a raccoon, from which savory dishes can be made. My grandmother raised poultry and pigs for sale, and it was her established custom to have both a turkey and a pig roasted for Christmas dinner. On this occasion I was warned to keep extremely quiet, because two guests had been invited. One was the town Constable, and the other was a free colored man who tried to pass himself off for white, and who was always ready to do any mean work for the sake of currying favour with white people. My grandmother had a motive for inviting them. She managed to take them all over the house. All the rooms on the lower floor were thrown open for them to pass in and out, and after dinner they were invited upstairs to look at a fine mockingbird my uncle had just brought home. There, too, the rooms were all thrown open that they might look in. When I heard them talking on the piazza my heart almost stood still. I knew this colored man had spent many nights hunting for me. Everybody knew he had the blood of a slave father in his veins, but for the sake of passing himself off for white he was ready to kiss the slave-holder's feet. How I despised him! As for the Constable he wore no false colors. The duties of his office were despicable, but he was superior to his companion, in as much as he did not pretend to be what he was not. Any white man who could raise money enough to buy a slave would have considered himself degraded by being a Constable, but the office enabled its possessor to exercise authority. If he found any slave out after nine o'clock he could whip him as much as he liked, and that was a privilege to be coveted. When the guests were ready to depart my grandmother gave each of them some of her nice pudding, as a present for their wives. Through my people I saw them go out of the gate, and I was glad when it closed after them. So passed the first Christmas in my den. CHAPTER XXIII STILL IN PRISON When spring returned, and I took in the little patch of green the aperture commanded, I asked myself how many more summers and winters I must be condemned to spend thus. I longed to draw in a plentiful draft of fresh air, to stretch my cramped limbs, to have room to stand erect, to feel the earth under my feet again. My relatives were constantly on the lookout for a chance of escape, but none offered that seemed practicable, and even tolerably safe. The hot summer came again, and made the turpentine drop from the thin roof over my head. During the long nights I was restless for want of air, and I had no room to toss and turn. There was but one compensation. The atmosphere was so stifled that even mosquitoes would not condescend to buzz in it. With all my detestation of Dr. Flint I could hardly wish him a worse punishment, either in this world or that which is to come, than to suffer what I suffered in one single summer. Yet the laws allowed him to be out in the free air, while I, guiltless of crime, was pent up here, as the only means of avoiding the cruelties the laws allowed him to inflict upon me. I don't know what kept life within me. Again and again I thought I should die before long. But I saw the leaves of another autumn whirl through the air, and felt the touch of another winter. In summer the most terrible thunderstorms were acceptable, for the rain came through the roof, and I rolled up my bed that it might cool the hot boards under it. Later in the seasons storms sometimes wet my clothes through and through, and that was not comfortable when the air grew chilly. Moderate storms I could keep out by filling the chinks with oakum. But uncomfortable as my situation was, I had glimpses of things out of doors which made me thankful for my wretched hiding-place. One day I saw a slave pass our gate muttering, it's his own, and he can kill it if he will. My grandmother told me that woman's history. Her mistress had that day seen her baby for the first time, and in the liniments of its fair face she saw a likeness to her husband. She turned the bondwoman and her child out of doors, and forbade her ever to return. The slave went to her master and told him what had happened. He promised to talk with her mistress and make it all right. The next day she and her baby were sold to a Georgia trader. Another time I saw a woman rush wildly by pursued by two men. She was a slave, the wet nurse of her mistress's children. For some trifling offence her mistress ordered her to be stripped and whipped. To escape the degradation and the torture she rushed to the river, jumped in, and ended her wrongs in death. Senator Brown of Mississippi could not be ignorant of many such facts as these, for they are of frequent occurrence in every southern state. Yet he stood up in the Congress of the United States and declared that slavery was a great moral, social, and political blessing—a blessing to the master and a blessing to the slave. I suffered much more during the second winter than I did during the first. My limbs were being numbed by inaction, and the cold filled them with cramp. I had a very painful sensation of coldness in my head. Even my face and tongue stiffened, and I lost the power of speech. Of course it was impossible under the circumstances to summon any physician. My brother William came and did all he could for me. Uncle Philip also watched tenderly over me, and poor grandmother crept up and down to inquire whether there were any signs of returning life. I was restored to consciousness by the dashing of cold water in my face, and found myself leaning against my brother's arm while he bent over me with streaming eyes. He afterwards told me he thought I was dying, for I had been in an unconscious state sixteen hours. I next became delirious, and was in great danger of betraying myself and my friends. To prevent this they stupefied me with drugs. I remained in bed six weeks, weary in body and sick at heart. How to get medical advice was the question. William finally went to a Thompsonian doctor and described himself as having all my pains and aches. He returned with herbs, roots, and ointment. He was especially charged to rub on the ointment by a fire. But how could a fire be made in my little den? Charcoal in a furnace was tried, but there was no outlet for the gas, and it nearly cost me my life. Afterwards, coals, already kindled, were brought up in an iron pan, and placed on bricks. I was so weak, and it was so long since I had enjoyed the warmth of a fire, that those few coals actually made me weep. I think the medicines did me some good, but my recovery was very slow. Dark thoughts passed through my mind as I lay there day after day. I tried to be thankful for my little cell, dismal as it was, and even to love it, as part of the price I had paid for the redemption of my children. Sometimes I thought God was a compassionate father, who would forgive my sins for the sake of my sufferings. At other times, it seemed to me there was no justice or mercy in the divine government. I asked why the curse of slavery was permitted to exist, and why I had been so persecuted and wronged from youth upward. These things took the shape of mystery, which is, to this day, not so clear to my soul as I trusted will be hereafter. In the midst of my illness, grandmother broke down under the weight and anxiety and toil. The idea of losing her, who had always been my best friend and a mother to my children, was the sorest trial I had yet had. Oh, how earnestly I prayed that she might recover! How hard it seemed that I could not tend upon her, who had so long and so tenderly watched over me! One day the screams of a child nerved me with strength to crawl to my peeping-hole, and I saw my son covered with blood. A fierce dog, usually kept chained, had seized and bitten him. A doctor was sent for, and I heard the groans and screams of my child while the wounds were being sewed up. What torture to a mother's heart to listen to this and be unable to go to him! But childhood is like a day in spring, alternately shower and sunshine. Before night Benny was bright and lively, threatening the destruction of the dog, and great was his delight when the doctor told him the next day that the dog had bitten another boy, and been shot. Benny recovered from his wounds, but it was long before he could walk. When my grandmother's illness became known, many ladies, her were her customers, called to bring her some little comforts, and to inquire whether she had everything she wanted. Aunt Nancy one night asked permission to watch with her sick mother, and Mrs. Flint replied, I don't see any need of your going. I can't spare you. But when she found other ladies in the neighbourhood were so attentive, not wishing to be outdone in Christian charity, she also sallied forth in magnificent condescension, and stood by the bedside of her who had loved her in her infancy, and who had been repaid by such grievous wrongs. She seemed surprised to find her so ill, and scolded Uncle Philip for not sending for Dr. Flint. She herself sent for him immediately, and he came. Secure as I was in my retreat, I should have been terrified if I had known he was so near me. He pronounced my grandmother in a very critical situation, and said of her attending physician wished it—he would visit her. Nobody wished to have him coming to the house at all hours, and we were not disposed to give him a chance to make out a long bill. As Mrs. Flint went out, Sally told her the reason Benny was lame was that a dog had bitten him. I'm glad of it, replied she. I wish she had killed him. It would be good news to send to his mother. Her day will come. The dogs will grab her yet. With these Christian words she and her husband departed, and to my great satisfaction returned no more. I learned from Uncle Philip, with feelings of unspeakable joy and gratitude, that the crisis was past, and grandmother would live. I could now say from my heart, God is merciful. He has spared me the anguish of feeling that I caused her death. CHAPTER XXIV THE CANDIDATE FOR CONGRESS The summer had nearly ended when Dr. Flint made a third visit to New York in search of me. Two candidates were running for Congress, and he returned in season to vote. The father of my children was the wig candidate. The doctor had hither-tube and a staunch wig, but now he exerted all his energies for the defeat of Mr. Sands. He invited large parties of men to dine in the shade of his trees, and supplied them with plenty of rum and brandy. If any poor fellow drowned his wits in the bowl, and in the openness of his convivial heart, proclaimed that he did not mean to vote the Democratic ticket, he was shoved into the street without ceremony. The doctor expended his liquor in vain. Mr. Sands was elected, an event which occasioned me some anxious thoughts. He had not emancipated my children, and if he should die they would be at the mercy of his heirs. Two little voices that frequently met my ear seemed to plead with me not to let their father depart without striving to make their freedom secure. Years had passed since I had spoken to him. I had not even seen him since the night I passed him, unrecognized in my disguise of a sailor. I supposed he would call before he left to say something to my grandmother concerning the children, and I resolved what course to take. The day before his departure for Washington I made arrangements, toward evening, to get from my hiding-place into the storeroom below. I found myself so stiff and clumsy that it was with great difficulty I could hitch from one resting-place to another. When I reached the storeroom my ankles gave way under me, and I sank exhausted on the floor. It seemed as if I could never use my limbs again. But the purpose I had in view roused all the strength I had. I crawled on my hands and knees to the window and screamed behind a barrel. I waited for his coming. The clock struck nine, and I knew the steamboat would leave between ten and eleven. My hopes were failing. But presently I heard his voice, saying to some one, Wait for me a moment. I wish to see Aunt Martha. When he came out as he passed the window I said, Stop one moment, and let me speak for my children. He started, hesitated, and then passed on and went out of the gate. I closed the shutter I had partially opened, and sank down behind the barrel. I had suffered much, but seldom had I experienced a keener pang than I then felt. Had my children then become of so little consequence to him, and had he so little feeling for their wretched mother that he would not listen a moment while she pleaded for them, painful memories were so busy within me that I forgot I had not hooked the shutter till I heard someone opening it. I looked up. He had come back. Who called me? said he in a low tone. I did, I replied. Oh Linda! said he. I knew your voice, but I was afraid to answer lest my friend should hear me. Why do you come here? Is it possible you risk yourself in this house? They are mad to allow it. I shall expect to hear that you are all ruined. I did not wish to implicate him by letting him know my place of concealment, so I merely said, I thought she would come to bid grandmother good-bye, and so I came here to speak a few words to you about emancipating my children. Many changes may take place during the six months you are gone to Washington, and it does not seem right for you to expose them to the risk of such changes. I want nothing for myself. All I ask is that you will free my children, or authorize some friend to do it before you go. He promised he would do it, and also expressed a readiness, to make any arrangements whereby I could be purchased. I heard footsteps approaching and closed the shutter hastily. I wanted to crawl back to my den without letting the family know what I had done, for I knew they would deem it very imprudent. But he stepped back into the house to tell my grandmother that he had spoken with me at the storeroom window, and to beg of her not to allow me to remain in the house overnight. He said it was the height of madness for me to be there, that we should certainly all be ruined. Luckily he was in too much of a hurry to wait for a reply, or the dear old woman would surely have told him all. I tried to go back to my den, but found it more difficult to go up than I had to come down. Now that my mission was fulfilled the little strength that had supported me through it was gone, and I sank helpless on the floor. My grandmother, alarmed at the risk I had run, came into the storeroom in the dark and locked the door behind her. Linda, she whispered, where are you? I am here by the window, I replied. I couldn't have let him go away without emancipating the children. Who knows what may happen? Come, come, child, said she. It won't do for you to stay here another minute. You've done wrong. But I can't blame you, poor thing. I told her I could not return without assistance, and she must call my uncle. Uncle Philip came, and pity prevented him from scolding me. He carried me back to my dungeon, laid me tenderly on the bed, gave me some medicine, and asked me if there was anything more he could do. Then he went away, and I was left with my own thoughts, starless as the midnight darkness around me. My friends feared I should become a cripple for life, and I was so weary of my long imprisonment, that had it not been for the hope of serving my children, I should have been thankful to die. But for their sakes, I was willing to bear on. END OF CHAPTER XXIV COMPETITION IN CUNNING In order to make him believe that I was in New York, I resolved to write him a letter dated from that place. I sent for my friend Peter, and asked him if he knew any trustworthy seafaring person who would carry such a letter to New York, and put it in the post office there. He said he knew one that he would trust with his own life to the ends of the world. I reminded him that it was a hazardous thing for him to undertake. He said he knew it, but he was willing to do anything to help me. I expressed a wish for a New York paper to ascertain the names of some of the streets. He ran his hand into his pocket and said, Here is half a one, that was round a cap I bought of a peddler yesterday. I told him the letter would be ready the next evening. He bad me good-bye, adding, Keep up your spirits, Linda. Brighter days will come, by and by. My Uncle Philip kept watch over the gate until our brief interview was over. Early the next morning I seated myself near the little aperture to examine the newspaper. It was a piece of the New York herald, and for once the paper that systematically abuses the colored people was made to render them a service. Having obtained what information I wanted concerning streets and numbers, I wrote two letters—one to my grandmother, the other to Dr. Flint. I reminded him how he, a grey-headed man, had treated a helpless child who had been placed in his power, and what years of misery he had brought upon her. To my grandmother I expressed a wish to have my children sent to me at the north, where I could teach them to respect themselves, and set them a virtuous example, which a slave mother was not allowed to do at the south. I asked her to direct her answer to a certain street in Boston, as I did not live in New York, though I went there sometimes. I dated these letters ahead, to allow for the time it would take to carry them, and sent a memorandum of the date to the messenger. When my friend came for the letters I said, God bless and reward you, Peter, for this disinterested kindness. Pray, be careful! If you were detected both you and I will have to suffer dreadfully. I have not a relative who would dare to do it for me. He replied, You may trust to me, Linda. I don't forget that your father was my best friend, and I will be a friend to his children so long as God lets me live. It was necessary to tell my grandmother what I had done, in order that she might be ready for the letter, and prepared to hear what Dr. Flint might say about my being at the north. She was sadly troubled. She felt sure Mischief would come of it. I also told my plan to Aunt Nancy, in order that she might report to us what was said at Dr. Flint's house. I whispered it to her through a crack, and she whispered back, I hope it will succeed. I shan't mind being a slave all my life, if I can only see you and the children free. I had directed that my letters should be put into the New York Post Office on the twentieth of the month. On the evening of the twenty-fourth my aunt came to say that Dr. Flint and his wife had been talking in a low voice about a letter he had received, and that when he went to his office he promised to bring it, when he came to T. So I concluded I should hear my letter read the next morning. I told my grandmother Dr. Flint would be sure to come, and asked her to have him sit near a certain door and leave it open, that I might hear what he said. The next morning I took my station within sound of that door, and remained motionless as a statue. It was not long before I heard the gate slam, and the well-known footsteps enter the house. He seated himself in the chair that was placed for him, and said, Well, Martha, I've brought you a letter from Linda. She has sent me a letter also. I know exactly where to find her, but I don't choose to go to Boston for her. I had rather she would come back of her own accord in a respectable manner. Her uncle Philip is the best person to go for her. With him she would feel perfectly free to act. I am willing to pay his expenses going and returning. She shall be sold to her friends. Her children are free, at least I suppose they are, and when you obtain her freedom you'll make a happy family. I suppose, Martha, you have no objection to my reading to you the letter Linda has written to you. He broke the seal, and I heard him read it. The old villain. He had suppressed the letter I wrote to grandmother, and prepared a substitute of his own, the report of which was as follows. Dear grandmother, I have long wanted to write to you, but the disgraceful manner in which I left you and my children made me ashamed to do it. If you knew how much I have suffered since I ran away, you would pity and forgive me. I have purchased freedom at a dear rate. If any arrangement could be made for me to return to the south without being a slave, I would gladly come. If not, I beg of you to send my children to the north. I cannot live any longer without them. Let me know in time, and I will meet them in New York or Philadelphia, whichever place best suits my uncle's convenience. Write as soon as possible to your unhappy daughter, Linda. It is very much as I expected it would be," said the old hypocrite, rising to go. You see the foolish girl has repented of her rashness and wants to return. We must help her to do it, Martha. Talk with Philip about it. If he will go for her, she will trust to him and come back. I should like an answer to-morrow. Good morning, Martha." As he stepped out on the piazza, he stumbled over my little girl. Ah! Ellen, is that you? He said in his most gracious manner. I didn't see you. How do you do? Pretty well, sir," she replied. I heard you tell Grandmother that my mother is coming home. I want to see her. Yes, Ellen, I am going to bring her home very soon," rejoined he, and you shall see her as much as you like, you little curly-headed nigger. This was as good as a comedy to me who had heard it all, but Grandmother was frightened and distressed, because the doctor wanted my uncle to go for me. The next evening Dr. Flint called to talk the matter over. My uncle told him that from what he had heard of Massachusetts he judged he should be mobbed if he went there after a runaway slave. All stuff and nonsense, Philip," replied the doctor. Do you suppose I want you to kick up a row in Boston? The business can all be done quietly. Linda writes that she wants to come back. You are her relative, and she would trust you. The case would be different if I went. She might object to coming with me, and the damned abolitionists that they knew I was her master would not believe me if I told them she had begged to go back. They would get up a row, and I should not like to see Linda drag through the streets like a common negro. She has been very ungrateful to me for all my kindness, but I forgive her, and want to act the part of a friend towards her. I have no wish to hold her as my slave. Her friends can buy her as soon as she arrives here, finding that his arguments failed to convince my uncle. The doctor let the cat out of the bag, by saying that he had written to the mayor of Boston to ascertain whether there was a person of my description at the street and number from which my letter was dated. He had omitted this date in the letter he had made up to read to my grandmother. If I had dated from New York, the old man would probably have made another journey to that city. But even in that dark region where knowledge is so carefully excluded from the slave, I had heard enough about Massachusetts to come to the conclusion that slaveholders did not consider it a comfortable place to go in search of a runaway. That was before the fugitive slave law was passed, before Massachusetts had consented to become a nigger-hunter for the South. My grandmother, who had become skittish by seeing her family always in danger, came to me with a very distressed countenance and said, What will you do if the mayor of Boston sends him word that you haven't been there? Then he will suspect the letter was a trick, and maybe he'll find out something about it and we shall all get into trouble. Oh, Linda, I wish you had never sent the letters. Don't worry yourself, grandmother," said I. The mayor of Boston won't trouble himself to hunt niggers for Dr. Flint. The letters will do good in the end. I shall get out of this dark hole some time or other. I hope you will, child, replied the good, patient old friend. You have been here a long time, almost five years, but whenever you do go it will break your old grandmother's heart. I should be expecting every day to hear that you were brought back in irons and put in jail. God help you, poor child. Let us be thankful that some time or other we shall go where the wicked cease from troubling in the weary art rest. My heart responded. Amen. The fact that Dr. Flint had written to the mayor of Boston convinced me that he believed my letter to be genuine, and, of course, that he had no suspicion of my being anywhere in the vicinity. It was a great object to keep up this delusion, for it made me and my friends feel less anxious, and it would be very convenient whenever there was a chance to escape. I resolved therefore to continue to write letters from the north from time to time. Two or three weeks passed, and as no news came from the mayor of Boston, grandmother began to listen to my entreaty to be allowed to leave my cell, sometimes, and exercise my limbs to prevent my becoming a cripple. I was allowed to slip down into the small storeroom early in the morning, and remain there a little while. The room was all filled up with barrels except a small open space under my trap door. This faced the door, the upper part of which was of glass, and purposely left uncurtained, that the curious might look in. The air of this place was close, but it was so much better than the atmosphere of my cell that I dreaded to return. I came down as soon as it was light, and remained till eight o'clock when people began to be about, and there was danger that someone might come on the piazza. I had tried various applications to bring warmth and feeling into my limbs, but without avail. They were so numb and stiff that it was a painful effort to move. And had my enemies come upon me during the first mornings I tried to exercise them a little in the small and occupied space of the storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Elizabeth Clutt. Houston, Texas. June 2008. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Written by herself. By Harriet Jacobs. Written under the pseudonym Linda Brent. Chapter 26. Important Era in My Brother's Life. I missed the company and kind attentions of my brother William, who had gone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. We received several letters from him, written without any allusion to me, but expressed in such a manner that I knew he did not forget me. I disguised my hand and wrote to him in the same manner. It was a long session, and when it closed, William wrote to inform us that Mr. Sands was going to the north to be gone some time, and that he was to accompany him. I knew that his master had promised to give him his freedom, but no time had been specified. Would William trust with slaves' chances? I remembered how we used to talk together in our young days about obtaining our freedom, and I thought it very doubtful whether he would come back to us. Grandmother received a letter from Mr. Sands, saying that William had proved a most faithful servant, and he would also say a valued friend, that no mother had ever trained a better boy. He said he had travelled through the northern states and Canada, and though the abolitionists had tried to decoy him away, they had never succeeded. He ended by saying they should be home shortly. We expected letters from William describing the novelties of his journey, but none came. In time it was reported that Mr. Sands would return late in the autumn, accompanied by a bride. Still no letters from William. I felt almost sure I should never see him again on southern soil, but had he no word of comfort to send to his friends at home, to the poor captive in her dungeon? My thoughts wander through the dark past and over the uncertain future. Alone in my cell where no eye but gods could see me, I wept bitter tears. How earnestly I prayed to him to restore me to my children, and enable me to be a useful woman and a good mother. At last the day arrived for the return of the travellers. Grandmother had made loving preparations to welcome her absent boy back to the old hearthstone. When the dinner-table was laid, William's place occupied its old place. The stage-coach went by empty. My grandmother waited dinner. She thought perhaps he was necessarily detained by his master. In my prison I listened anxiously, expecting every moment to hear my dear brother's voice and step. In the course of the afternoon a lad was sent by Mr. Sands to tell grandmother that William did not return with him, that the abolitionists had decoyed him away. But he begged her not to feel troubled about it, for he felt confident she would see William in a few days, as soon as he had time to reflect he would come back, for he could never expect to be so well off at the north as he had been with him. If you had seen the tears and heard the sobs, you would have thought the messenger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old grandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I was selfish. I thought more of what I had lost than of what my brother had gained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended a good deal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss he had incurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of my children, who were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have their emancipation made certain, the more so because their master and father was now married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know that promises made to slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere at the time, depend upon many contingencies for their fulfilment. Much as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad and anxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear—so beautiful that it seemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother brought the children out on the piazza that I might hear their voices. She thought it would comfort me in my despondency. And it did. They chatted merrily as only children can. Benny said, Grandmother, do you think Uncle Will is gone for good? Won't he ever come back again? Maybe he'll find mother. If he does, won't she be glad to see him? Why don't you and Uncle Phillip and all of us go and live where mother is? I should like it, wouldn't you, Ellen? Yes, I should like it, replied Ellen. But how could we find her? Do you know the place, Grandmother? I don't remember how mother looked. Do you, Benny? Benny was just beginning to describe me, when they were interrupted by an old slave woman, a near-neighbour, named Aggie. This poor creature had witnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to parts unknown without any hopes of ever hearing from them again. She saw that my grandmother had been weeping, and said in a sympathizing tone, What's the matter, Aunt Marthy? Oh, Aggie, she replied. It seems as if I shouldn't have any of my children or grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I'm dying, and lay my old body in the ground. My boy didn't come back with Mr. Sands. He stayed at the north. Poor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. Is that what you're crying for? She exclaimed. Get down on your knees and bless the Lord. I don't know where my poor children is, and I never expect to know. You don't know where poor Linda's gone to, but you do know where her brother is. He's in free parts, and that's the right place. Don't murmur at the Lord's doings, but get down on your knees and thank him for his goodness. My selfishness was rebuked by what poor Aggie said. She rejoiced over the escape of one who was merely her fellow-bondman, while his own sister was only thinking what his good fortune might cost her children. I knelt and prayed God to forgive me, and I thanked him from my heart that one of my family was saved from the grasp of slavery. It was not long before we received a letter from William. He wrote that Mr. Sands had always treated him kindly, and that he had tried to do his duty to him faithfully. But ever since he was a boy he had longed to be free, and he had already gone through enough to convince him that he had better not lose the chance that offered. He concluded by saying, Don't worry about me, dear grandmother. I shall think of you always, and it will spur me on to work hard and try to do right. When I have earned enough money to give you a home, perhaps you will come to the North, and we can all live happy together. Mr. Sands told my Uncle Philip the particulars about Williams leaving him. He said, I trusted him as if he were my own brother, and treated him as kindly. The abolitionists talked to him in several places, but I had no idea they could tempt him. However, I don't blame William. He's young and inconsiderate, and those northern rascals decoyed him. I must confess the scamp was very bold about it, and met him coming down the steps of the Aster House with his trunk on his shoulder, and I asked him where he was going. He said he was going to change his old trunk. I told him it was rather shabby, and asked if he didn't need some money. He said no, thanked me, and went off. He did not return so soon as I expected, but I waited patiently. At last I went to see if our trunks were packed ready for our journey. I found them locked, and a sealed note on the table informed me where I could find the keys. The fellow even tried to be religious. He wrote that he hoped God would always bless me, and reward me for my kindness, that he was not unwilling to serve me, but he wanted to be a free man, and that if I thought he did wrong he hoped I would forgive him. I intended to give him his freedom in five years. He might have trusted me. He has shown himself ungrateful. But I shall not go for him, or send for him. I feel confident that he will soon return to me. I afterwards heard an account of the affair from William himself. He had not been urged away by abolitionists. He needed no information they could give him about slavery to stimulate his desire for freedom. He looked at his hands and remember that they were once in irons. What security had he that they would not be so again? Mr. Sands was kind to him, but he might indefinitely postpone the promise he had made to give him his freedom. He might come under pecuniary embarrassments, and his property be seized by creditors. Or he might die without making any arrangements in his favour. He had too often known such accidents to happen to slaves who had kind masters, and he wisely resolved to make sure of the present opportunity to own himself. He was scrupulous about taking any money from his master on false pretenses. So he sold his best clothes to pay for his passage to Boston. The slave-holders pronounced him a base ungrateful wretch, for thus requiting his master's indulgence. What would they have done under similar circumstances? When Dr. Flint's family heard that William had deserted Mr. Sands, they chuckled greatly over the news. Mrs. Flint made her usual manifestations of Christian feeling by saying, I am glad of it. I hope he'll never get him again. I like to see people paid back from their own coin. I reckon Linda's children will have to pay for it. I should be glad to see them in the speculator's hands again, for I'm tired of seeing those little niggers march about the streets. CHAPTER 27 New Destination for the Children Mrs. Flint proclaimed her intention of informing Mrs. Sands who was the father of my children. She likewise proposed to tell her what an artful devil I was, that I had made a great deal of trouble in her family. That, when Mr. Sands was at the North, she didn't doubt I had followed him in disguise and persuaded William to run away. She had some reason to entertain such an idea, for I had written from the North from time to time, and I dated my letters from various places. Many of them fell into Dr. Flint's hands as I had expected they would, and he must have come to the conclusion that I travelled about a good deal. He kept a close watch over my children, thinking they would eventually lead to my detection. A new and unexpected trial was in store for me. One day when Mr. Sands and his wife were walking in the street, they met Benny. The lady took a fancy to him and exclaimed, What a pretty little negro! Whom does he belong to? Benny did not hear the answer, but he came home very indignant with the stranger lady, because she had called him a negro. A few days afterwards, Mr. Sands called on my grandmother, and told her he wanted her to take the children to his house. He said he had informed his wife of his relation to them, and told her that they were motherless, and she wanted to see them. When he had gone, my grandmother came and asked what I would do. The question seemed immocory. What could I do? They were Mr. Sands' slaves, and their mother was a slave, whom he had represented to be dead. Perhaps he thought I was. I was too much pained and puzzled to come to any decision, and the children were carried without my knowledge. Mrs. Sands had a sister from Illinois staying with her. This lady, who had no children of her own, was so much pleased with Ellen, that she offered to adopt her, and bring her up as she would adopt her. Mrs. Sands wanted to take Benjamin. When grandmother reported this to me, I was tried almost beyond endurance. Was this all I was to gain by what I had suffered for the sake of having my children free? True, the prospect seemed fair, but I knew too well how lightly slaveholders held such parental relations. If pecuniary trouble should come, or if the new wife required more money than could conveniently be spared, my children might be thought of as a convenient means of raising funds. I had no trust in thee, o slavery. Never should I know peace till my children were emancipated with all due formalities of law. I was too proud to ask Mr. Sands to do anything for my own benefit, but I could bring myself to become a supplicant for my children. I resolved to remind him of the promise he had made me, and to throw myself upon his honour for the performance of it. I persuaded my grandmother to go to him, and tell him I was not dead, and that I earnestly entreated him to keep the promise he had made me, that I had heard of the recent proposals concerning my children, and did not feel it easy to accept them, that he had promised to emancipate them, and it was time for him to redeem his pledge. I knew there was some risk in thus betraying that I was in the vicinity, but what will not a mother do for her children? He received the message with surprise, and said, The children are free. I have never intended to claim them as slaves. Linda may decide their fate. In my opinion they had better be sent to the north. I don't think they are quite safe here. Dr. Flint boasts that they are still in his power. He says they were his daughter's property, and as she was not of age when they were sold, the contract is not legally binding. So then, after all I had endured for their sakes, my poor children were between two fires, between my old master and their new master, and I was powerless. There was no protecting arm of the law for me to invoke. Mr. Sands proposed that Ellen should go for the present to some of his relatives, who had removed to Brooklyn, Long Island. It was promised that she should be well taken care of and sent to school. I consented to it, as the best arrangement I could make for her. My grandmother of course negotiated it all, and Mrs. Sands knew of no other person in the transaction. She proposed that they should take Ellen with them to Washington, and keep her till they had good chance of sending her with friends to Brooklyn. She had an infant daughter. I had had a glimpse of it as the nurse passed within her arms. It was not a pleasant thought to me, that the bond woman's child should tend her free-born sister. But there was no alternative. Ellen was made ready for the journey. How it tried my heart to send her away, so young, alone, among strangers, without a mother's love to shelter her from the storms of life, almost without memory of a mother. I doubted whether she and Benny would have for me the natural affection that children feel for a parent. I thought to myself that I might perhaps never see my daughter again, and I had a great desire that she might look upon me before she went, that she might take my image with her in her memory. It seemed to me cruel to have her brought to my dungeon. It was sorrow enough for her young heart to know that her mother was a victim of slavery, without seeing the wretched hiding-place to which it had driven her. I begged permission to pass the last night in one of the open chambers with my little girl. They thought I was crazy to think of trusting such a young child with my perilous secret. I told them I had watched her character, and I felt sure she would not betray me. That I was determined to have an interview, and if they would not facilitate it, I would take my own way to obtain it. They were monstrated against the rashness of such a proceeding, but finding they could not change my purpose, they yielded. I slipped through the trapped door into the storeroom, and my uncle kept watch at the gate while I passed into the piazza and went upstairs to the room I used to occupy. It was more than five years since I had seen it, and how the memories crowded on me. There I had taken shelter when my mistress drove me from her house. There came my old tyrant to mock, insult, and curse me. There my children were first laid in my arms. There I had watched over them, each day with a deeper and sadder love. There I had knelt to God in anguish of heart to forgive the wrong I had done. How vividly it all came back. And after this long gloomy interval I stood there such a wreck. In the midst of these meditations I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened, and my uncle Philip came in, leading Ellen by the hand. I put my arms round her and said, Ellen, my dear child, I am your mother. She drew back a little and looked at me. And then, with sweet confidence, she laid her cheek against mine, and I folded her to the heart that had been so long desolated. She was the first to speak. Raising her head she said inquiringly, You really are my mother. I told her I really was, that during all the long time she had not seen me, I had loved her most tenderly, and that now she was going away I wanted to see her and talk with her that she might remember me. With a sob in her voice she said, I'm glad you've come to see me, but why didn't you ever come before? Benny and I have wanted so much to see you. He remembers you, and sometimes he tells me about you. Why didn't you come home when Dr. Flint went to bring you? I answered, I couldn't come before, dear. But now that I am with you tell me whether you like to go away. I don't know, said she, crying. Grandmother says I ought not to cry, that I am going to a good place where I can learn to read and write, and that by and by I can write her a letter. But I shan't have Benny, or grandmother, or Uncle Philip, or anybody to love me. Can't you go with me? How do go, dear mother? I told her I couldn't go now, but some time I would come to her, and then she and Benny and I would live together and have happy times. She wanted to run and bring Benny to see me now. I told her he was going to the north before long with Uncle Philip, and then I would come to see him before he went away. I asked if she would like to have me stay all night and sleep with her. Oh yes, she replied. Then turning to her uncle, she said pleadingly, May I stay? Please, Uncle, she is my own mother. He laid his hand on her head and said solemnly, Ellen, this is the secret you have promised grandmother never to tell. If you ever speak of it to anybody, they will never let you see your grandmother again, and your mother can never come to Brooklyn. Uncle, she replied, I will never tell. He told her she might stay with me, and when he had gone I took her in my arms and told her I was a slave, and that was the reason she must never say she had seen me. I exhorted her to be a good child, to try to please the people where she was going, and that God would raise her up friends. I told her to say her prayers and remember always to pray for her poor mother, and that God would permit us to meet again. She wept, and I did not check her tears. Perhaps she would never again have a chance to pour her tears into a mother's bosom. All night she nestled in my arms, and I had no inclination to slumber. The moments were too precious to lose any of them. Once when I thought she was asleep I kissed her forehead softly, and she said, I am not asleep, dear mother. Before dawn they came to take me back to my den. I drew aside the window curtain to take a last look of my child. The moonlight shone on her face, and I bent over her as I had done years before—that wretched night when I ran away. I hugged her close to my throbbing heart, and tears, too sad for such young eyes to shed, flowed down her cheeks as she gave her last kiss and whispered in my ear, Mother, I will never tell. And she never did. When I got back to my den I threw myself on the bed and wept there alone in the darkness. It seemed as if my heart would burst. When the time for Ellen's departure drew nigh I could hear neighbors and friends saying to her, Good-bye, Ellen. I hope your poor mother will find you out. Won't you be glad to see her? She replied, Yes, ma'am. And they little dreamed of the weighty secret that weighed down her young heart. She was an affectionate child, but naturally very reserved, except with those she loved, and I felt secure that my secret would be safe with her. I heard the gate close after her, with such feelings as only a slave mother can experience. During the day my meditations were very sad. Sometimes I feared I had been very selfish not to give up all claim to her and to let her go to Illinois and be adopted by Mrs. Sand's sister. It was my experience of slavery that decided me against it. I feared that circumstances might arise that would cause her to be sent back. I felt confident that I should go to New York myself, and then I should be able to watch over her, and in some degree protect her. Dr. Flynn's family knew nothing of the proposed arrangement till after Ellen was gone, and the news displeased them greatly. Mrs. Flynn called on Mrs. Sand's sister to inquire into the matter. She expressed her opinion very freely as to the respect Mr. Sand showed for his wife and for his own character in acknowledging those young niggers. And as for sending Ellen away, she pronounced it to be just as much stealing as it would be for him to come and take a piece of furniture out of her parlor. She said her daughter was not of age to sign the bill of sale, and that children were her property, and when she became of age or was married, she could take them wherever she could lay hands on them. Miss Emily Flint, the little girl to whom I had been bequeathed, was now in her sixteenth year. Her mother considered it all right and honorable for her or her future husband to steal my children, but she did not understand how anybody could hold up their heads in respectable society after they had purchased their own children, as Mr. Sand's had done. Dr. Flint said very little. Perhaps he thought that Benny would be less likely to be sent away if he kept quiet. One of my letters that fell into his hands was dated from Canada, and he seldom spoke of me now. This state of things enabled me to slip down into the storeroom more frequently, where I could stand upright and move my limbs more freely. Days, weeks and months passed, and there came no news of Ellen. I sent a letter to Brooklyn, written in my grandmother's name, to inquire whether she had arrived there. Answer was returned, that she had not. I wrote to her in Washington, but no notice was taken of it. There was one person there who ought to have had some sympathy with the anxiety of the child's friends at home, but the links of such relations as he had formed with me are easily broken and cast away as rubbish. Yet how protectingly and persuasively he once talked to the poor helpless slave-girl, and how entirely I trusted him, but now suspicions darkened my mind. Was my child dead, or had they deceived me and sold her? If the secret memoirs of many members of Congress should be published, curious details would be unfolded. I once saw a letter from a member of Congress to a slave who was the mother of six of his children. He wrote to request that she would send her children away from the great house before his return, as he expected to be accompanied by friends. The woman could not read and was obliged to employ another to read the letter. The existence of the colored children did not trouble this gentleman. It was only the fear that friends might recognize in their features a resemblance to him. At the end of six months a letter came to my grandmother from Brooklyn. It was written by a young lady in the family, and announced that Ellen had just arrived. It contained the following message from her. I do try to do just as you told me to, and I pray for you every night and morning. I understood that these words were meant for me, and they were a balm to my heart. The writer closed her letter by saying, Ellen is a nice little girl, and we shall like to have her with us. My cousin Mr. Sands has given her to me to be my little waiting-maid. I shall send her to school, and I hope some day she will write to you herself. This letter perplexed and troubled me. Had my child's father merely placed her there till she was old enough to support herself? Or had he given her to his cousin as a piece of property? If the last idea was correct, his cousin might return to the South at any time and hold Ellen as a slave. I tried to put away from me the painful thought that such a foul wrong could have been done to us. I said to myself, Surely there must be some justice in man! And then I remembered with a sigh how slavery perverted all the natural feelings of the human heart. It gave me a pang to look on my light-hearted boy. He believed himself free, and to have him brought under the yoke of slavery would be more than I could bear. How I longed to have him safely out of the reach of its power. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Elizabeth Clatt, Houston, Texas, June 2008. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, written by herself, by Harriet Jacobs, written under the pseudonym Linda Brent. Chapter XXVIII. Aunt Nancy. I have mentioned my great aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint's family, and who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered from him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age—that is, as far as slaves can marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress, and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without any legal value. Her master or mistress could annull it any day they pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint's chamber door, that she might be within call. When she was married, she was told she might have the use of a small room in an outhouse. Her mother and her husband furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was allowed to sleep there when he was at home. But on the wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her old post on the entry floor. Mrs. Flint at that time had no children, but she was expecting to be a mother, and if she should want to drink of water in the night, what could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to lie at her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave to give premature birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume her place on the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint's babe needed her attentions. She kept her station there through summer and winter, until she had given premature birth to six children. And all the while she was employed as night nurse to Mrs. Flint's children. Finally, toiling all day and being deprived of rest at night, completely broke down her constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it was impossible she could ever become the mother of a living child. The fear of losing so valuable a servant by death now induced them to allow her to sleep in her little room in the outhouse, except when there was sickness in the family. She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a few days, and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow as she held the last dead baby in her arms. I wish it could have lived, she said. It is not the will of God that any of my children should live, but I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven. Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint's family. Indeed, she was the factotum of the household. Nothing went on well without her. She was my mother's twin sister, and as far as was in her power she supplied a mother's place to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I lived in my old master's house, and the bond between us was very strong. When my friends tried to discourage me from running away, she always encouraged me. When they thought I had better return and asked my master's pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never to yield. She said, if I persevered, I might perhaps gain the freedom of my children, and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life. After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away whenever she could to bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to listen to her words of consolation whispered through a crack? I am old, and have not long to live, she used to say, and I could die happy if I could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of the darkness. I would beg her not to worry herself on my account, that there was an end of all suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom I should always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life. A word from her always strengthened me, and not me only. The whole family relied upon her judgment, and were guided by her advice. I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter. She was very ill, and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flynn's house for several years. They had treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now. She was grateful for permission to watch by the deathbed of her child. They had always been devoted to each other, and now they sat looking into each other's eyes, longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both. My aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and the last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance, she told her mother not to grieve she could not speak to her, that she would try to hold up her hand to let her know that all was well with her. Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened, when he saw the dying eyes moisten for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flynn 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 anything but goodwill 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 cord. 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 Philip came into the house, I heard someone 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 Philip 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 internment in the white people's burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of your family were posed 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 had 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 Philip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense, and slaveholders are always ready to grant such favours 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 would 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 Philip's right to his own earnings, and how that same Philip 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 upon 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 trapped 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. Then, 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. End of Chapter 28