Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl
by
Harriet Jacobs (AKA Linda Brent)
Part 4 out of 4
he, "they could not be had for any money. They don't allow colored people
to go in the first-class cars."
This was the first chill to my enthusiasm about the Free States. Colored
people were allowed to ride in a filthy box, behind white people, at the
south, but there they were not required to pay for the privilege. It made
me sad to find how the north aped the customs of slavery.
We were stowed away in a large, rough car, with windows on each side, too
high for us to look out without standing up. It was crowded with people,
apparently of all nations. There were plenty of beds and cradles,
containing screaming and kicking babies. Every other man had a cigar or
pipe in his mouth, and jugs of whiskey were handed round freely. The fumes
of the whiskey and the dense tobacco smoke were sickening to my senses, and
my mind was equally nauseated by the coarse jokes and ribald songs around
me. It was a very disagreeable ride. Since that time there has been some
improvement in these matters.
XXXII. The Meeting Of Mother And Daughter.
When we arrived in New York, I was half crazed by the crowd of coachmen
calling out, "Carriage, ma'am?" We bargained with one to take us to
Sullivan Street for twelve shillings. A burly Irishman stepped up and said,
"I'll tak' ye for sax shillings." The reduction of half the price was an
object to us, and we asked if he could take us right away. "Troth an I
will, ladies," he replied. I noticed that the hackmen smiled at each other,
and I inquired whether his conveyance was decent. "Yes, it's dacent it is,
marm. Devil a bit would I be after takin' ladies in a cab that was not
dacent." We gave him our checks. He went for the baggage, and soon
reappeared, saying, "This way, if you plase, ladies." We followed, and
found our trunks on a truck, and we were invited to take our seats on them.
We told him that was not what we bargained for, and he must take the trunks
off. He swore they should not be touched till we had paid him six
shillings. In our situation it was not prudent to attract attention, and I
was about to pay him what he required, when a man near by shook his head
for me not to do it. After a great ado we got rid of the Irishman, and had
our trunks fastened on a hack. We had been recommended to a boarding-house
in Sullivan Street, and thither we drove. There Fanny and I separated. The
Anti-Slavery Society provided a home for her, and I afterwards heard of her
in prosperous circumstances. I sent for an old friend from my part of the
country, who had for some time been doing business in New York. He came
immediately. I told him I wanted to go to my daughter, and asked him to aid
me in procuring an interview.
I cautioned him not to let it be known to the family that I had just
arrived from the south, because they supposed I had been at the north seven
years. He told me there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the
same town I did, and I had better go to her house, and have my daughter
meet me there. I accepted the proposition thankfully, and he agreed to
escort me to Brooklyn. We crossed Fulton ferry, went up Myrtle Avenue, and
stopped at the house he designated. I was just about to enter, when two
girls passed. My friend called my attention to them. I turned, and
recognized in the eldest, Sarah, the daughter of a woman who used to live
with my grandmother, but who had left the south years ago. Surprised and
rejoiced at this unexpected meeting, I threw my arms round her, and
inquired concerning her mother.
"You take no notice of the other girl," said my friend. I turned, and there
stood my Ellen! I pressed her to my heart, then held her away from me to
take a look at her. She had changed a good deal in the two years since I
parted from her. Signs of neglect could be discerned by eyes less observing
than a mother's. My friend invited us all to go into the house; but Ellen
said she had been sent of an errand, which she would do as quickly as
possible, and go home and ask Mrs. Hobbs to let her come and see me. It was
agreed that I should send for her the next day. Her companion, Sarah,
hastened to tell her mother of my arrival. When I entered the house, I
found the mistress of it absent, and I waited for her return. Before I saw
her, I heard her saying, "Where is Linda Brent? I used to know her father
and mother." Soon Sarah came with her mother. So there was quite a company
of us, all from my grandmother's neighborhood. These friends gathered round
me and questioned me eagerly. They laughed, they cried, and they shouted.
They thanked God that I had got away from my persecutors and was safe on
Long Island. It was a day of great excitement. How different from the
silent days I had passed in my dreary den!
The next morning was Sunday. My first waking thoughts were occupied with
the note I was to send to Mrs. Hobbs, the lady with whom Ellen lived. That
I had recently come into that vicinity was evident; otherwise I should have
sooner inquired for my daughter. It would not do to let them know I had
just arrived from the south, for that would involve the suspicion of my
having been harbored there, and might bring trouble, if not ruin, on
several people.
I like a straightforward course, and am always reluctant to resort to
subterfuges. So far as my ways have been crooked, I charge them all upon
slavery. It was that system of violence and wrong which now left me no
alternative but to enact a falsehood. I began my note by stating that I had
recently arrived from Canada, and was very desirous to have my daughter
come to see me. She came and brought a message from Mrs. Hobbs, inviting me
to her house, and assuring me that I need not have any fears. The
conversation I had with my child did not leave my mind at ease. When I
asked if she was well treated, she answered yes; but there was no
heartiness in the tone, and it seemed to me that she said it from an
unwillingness to have me troubled on her account. Before she left me, she
asked very earnestly, "Mother, will you take me to live with you?" It made
me sad to think that I could not give her a home till I went to work and
earned the means; and that might take me a long time. When she was placed
with Mrs. Hobbs, the agreement was that she should be sent to school She
had been there two years, and was now nine years old, and she scarcely knew
her letters. There was no excuse for this, for there were good public
schools in Brooklyn, to which she could have been sent without expense.
She staid with me till dark, and I went home with her. I was received in a
friendly manner by the family, and all agreed in saying that Ellen was a
useful, good girl. Mrs. Hobbs looked me coolly in the face, and said, "I
suppose you know that my cousin, Mr. Sands, has _given_ her to my eldest
daughter. She will make a nice waiting-maid for her when she grows up." I
did not answer a word. How _could_ she, who knew by experience the strength
of a mother's love, and who was perfectly aware of the relation Mr. Sands
bore to my children,--how _could_ she look me in the face, while she thrust
such a dagger into my heart?
I was no longer surprised that they had kept her in such a state of
ignorance. Mr. Hobbs had formerly been wealthy, but he had failed, and
afterwards obtained a subordinate situation in the Custom House. Perhaps
they expected to return to the south some day; and Ellen's knowledge was
quite sufficient for a slave's condition. I was impatient to go to work and
earn money, that I might change the uncertain position of my children. Mr.
Sands had not kept his promise to emancipate them. I had also been deceived
about Ellen. What security had I with regard to Benjamin? I felt that I had
none.
I returned to my friend's house in an uneasy state of mind. In order to
protect my children, it was necessary that I should own myself. I called
myself free, and sometimes felt so; but I knew I was insecure. I sat down
that night and wrote a civil letter to Dr. Flint, asking him to state the
lowest terms on which he would sell me; and as I belonged by law to his
daughter, I wrote to her also, making a similar request.
Since my arrival at the north I had not been unmindful of my dear brother
William. I had made diligent inquiries for him, and having heard of him in
Boston, I went thither. When I arrived there, I found he had gone to New
Bedford. I wrote to that place, and was informed he had gone on a whaling
voyage, and would not return for some months. I went back to New York to
get employment near Ellen. I received an answer from Dr. Flint, which gave
me no encouragement. He advised me to return and submit myself to my
rightful owners, and then any request I might make would be granted. I lent
this letter to a friend, who lost it; otherwise I would present a copy to
my readers.
XXXIII. A Home Found.
My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly
improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I
walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed
strangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could,
of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully
served.
One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe,
and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred
to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I
told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions,
but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former
employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant
circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against
color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each
other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was
engaged for a month.
The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this
place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and
sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of
passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so
painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would
have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save
me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told
her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and
kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and
from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant
feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to
confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all
confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for
some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful
feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had
passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of
her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to
expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the
opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had
leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more
cheerful.
The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often
threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for
Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for
fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious
situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me
to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I
could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with
Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New
York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that
I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was
accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs's salary at the Custom
House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many
dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed.
That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their
pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young
daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and
had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put
Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes,
occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce
proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care
of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was
any thing improper in a mother's making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was
very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not
politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely
free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over
to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had
employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had
refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New
York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my
child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was
a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her
injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel
otherwise.
Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that
it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it
laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms
confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and
Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as
I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted
by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as
he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It
_must_ be he--and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down
stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a
minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each
other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other's adventures! I
took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he
had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den.
He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen
were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are
formed by suffering together.
XXXIV. The Old Enemy Again.
My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter
requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a
reply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order
rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind
that the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had
no idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search
of me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred
dollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the
steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy's
death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept
the letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:--
Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from
it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among
your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the
contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any
members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards
you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your
unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to
make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return
home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother,
it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although
it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be
allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from
her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect.
From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and
uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be
reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms
and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as
we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you.
Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my
sister was always attached to you, and that you were never
treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed
to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house,
and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least,
felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away.
Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced
me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see
you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to
have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age
she needs the consolation of having her children round her.
Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a
faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church.
In her Christian life she taught us how to live--and, O, too high
the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have
seen us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our
tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same
heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as
between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful
to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are
contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and
the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never
trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come
home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not
wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our
persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person
you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as
soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends
much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend
and well wisher.
This letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I
knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and
though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in
former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the
hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go
into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on "the stupidity of the
African race." I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their
cordial invitation--a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with
base ingratitude.
Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the
south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter
had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce
did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me
to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a
friend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my
journey immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother
that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting
for a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal
power to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and
when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of
sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money,
but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored
children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with
the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to
their "peculiar institution," and he becomes unpopular.
There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to
New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested
to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my
door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. "O mother!" he exclaimed,
"here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d'you do?"
O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a
slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go.
"Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see
her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, 'O Ben, I wish
I was going too.' I thought she'd know ever so much; but she don't know so
much as I do; for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my
clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I 'spose free boys can get
along here at the north as well as white boys."
I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was
mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The
rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with
the wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and
frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to
tell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston.
Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon
me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where
I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate
family, who were waiting for me with "open arms," were doomed to
disappointment.
As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of
my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through
the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and
finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the
considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews
with my darling daughter.
But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was
necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air,
and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize
me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of
the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is,
to be free to _say_ so!
XXXV. Prejudice Against Color.
It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We
went to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded for
tea, Mrs. Bruce said, "Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come
to the table with me." I replied, "I know it is time baby had her supper,
but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being
insulted." "O no, not if you are with _me_," she said. I saw several white
nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the
extreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated, than a gruff voice said,
"Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here." I looked up, and, to my
astonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a colored man. If
his office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at
least, have done it politely. I replied, "I shall not get up, unless the
captain comes and takes me up." No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs.
Bruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the
other nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly
waited on.
Next morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was making
a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, "Take my arm, Linda, and we'll go in
together." The landlord heard her, and said, "Madam, will you allow your
nurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?" I knew this was to be
attributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did
not mind it.
At Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took
one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with gladness,
of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people, but
here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round
me with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who would recognize
me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time.
We soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the
remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the
clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see
Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said,
were, "O, mother, don't go to Mrs. Hobbs's. Her brother, Mr. Thorne, has
come from the south, and may be he'll tell where you are." I accepted the
warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and
would try to see her when I came back.
Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a "Jim Crow
car," on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride through the
streets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where I found the same
manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings,
and represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway
before dark, and put up at the Pavilion--a large hotel, beautifully
situated by the sea-side--a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty
or forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the
ladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse
tinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary
and followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young
man, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or
three times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As
there was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon
the young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, "Will
you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and
feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you
will have a good supper."
This was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I
looked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one shade
lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my presence
were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in
my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce
ordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered
for a few days; but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they
soon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The
landlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his
servants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of
other boarders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike.
My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with
_themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such
treatment; that there was no difference in the price of board for colored
and white servants, and there was no justification for difference of
treatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand
up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man
and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled under foot
by our oppressors.
XXXVI. The Hairbreadth Escape.
After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and
see Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed Mrs.
Hobbs's southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid
seeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen, and insisted
on my going up stairs. "My brother wants to see you," said she, "and he is
sorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me
to say to you that he owes thanks to good old aunt Martha for too many
little acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her
grandchild."
This Mr. Thorne had become poor and reckless long before he left the south,
and such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to
borrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider
an equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to
feel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as
he was here, and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be
gained by trying to avoid him; on the contrary, it might be the means of
exciting his ill will. I followed his sister up stairs. He met me in a very
friendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I
had a good place, where I felt happy.
I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good thoughtful child,
never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for
my safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and
troubles; but a mother's observing eye easily perceived that she was not
happy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious.
When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But
I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally, I
ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was
continually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for
rum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs
and Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they
had to call her to pour out the liquor for them. "But for all that," said
she, "Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can't help liking him. I feel sorry
for him." I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a
hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and
Benjamin a home, and send them to school. She was always desirous not to
add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till
years afterwards that Mr. Thorne's intemperance was not the only annoyance
she suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my
grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language
into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild.
I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday, I found
Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house. "O, mother," said she, "I've
been waiting for you this long time. I'm afraid Mr. Thorne has written to
tell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell
you all about it!"
The story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grape-vine
arbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which
he tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time,
and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and
carried them to the children, saying, "I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been
writing to."
"I'm sure I don't know, and don't care," replied the oldest of the
children; "and I don't see how it concerns you."
"But it does concern me," replied Ellen; "for I'm afraid he's been
writing to the south about my mother."
They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put
the fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her. They were
no sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, "I declare, Ellen, I
believe you are right."
The contents of Mr. Thorne's letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as
follows: "I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be
taken very easily, if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to
swear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my
country, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws." He concluded by
informing the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children
carried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother's
room for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw
him go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the
post office. The natural inference was, that he had sent to Dr. Flint a
copy of those fragments. When he returned, his sister accused him of it,
and he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the
next morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York, before any of
the family were astir.
It was evident that I had no time to lose; and I hastened back to the city
with a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all
my plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon
Slavery! I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not
concealed it merely on account of being a fugitive; that would have made
her anxious, but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued
her good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the
particulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her
to know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly, without
explaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went
home resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face
attracted her attention, and, in answer to her kind inquiries, I poured out
my full heart to her, before bed time. She listened with true womanly
sympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my
heart blessed her!
Early the next morning, Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted.
They said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great
if the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of
one of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother
could arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts
were much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine
by Southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her
so. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs,
who felt badly about her brother's treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on
condition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise.
She came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school
satchel on her arm, containing a few articles. It was late in October, and
I knew the child must suffer; and not daring to go out in the streets to
purchase any thing, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into
one for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good by, and when she saw that
I had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She
said, "Wait for me, Linda," and went out. She soon returned with a nice
warm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom
of heaven.
My brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to
Boston by the Stonington route, as there was less Southern travel in that
direction. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I
formerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat
Rhode Island in safety. That boat employed colored hands, but I knew that
colored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for
the seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night
air, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for
us. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favor, that she
would treat us well. He said to me, "Go and speak to the captain yourself
by and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure that he will not
let her sleep on deck." With these kind words and a shake of the hand he
departed.
The boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home
where I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to
purchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he
would. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave
me three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner I
said, "You have made a mistake; I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot
possibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter." She assured me
there was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were
allowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much
travelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain's office,
and she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the
hand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our
tickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was
contrary to their custom, but he would see that we had berths below; he
would also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars; of that he
was not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the
boat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the ladies' cabin. He came
afterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he
had spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much
surprised at receiving so much kindness. I don't know whether the pleasing
face of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess
inferred from Lawyer Hopper's manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded
with him in my behalf.
When the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and
showed us to seats in the first car, nearest the engine. He asked us to
take seats next the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on
toward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we
reached Boston in safety.
The day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I
was beyond the reach of the bloodhounds; and, for the first time during
many years, I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed
their reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a
swelling heart. Their every motion delighted me.
I could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend,
that we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to
Mrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for
that purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age,
so instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself
till she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed
pleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their
books.
XXXVII. A Visit To England
In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again, in
this world, should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I
had lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr.
Bruce wished the child to visit some of her mother's relatives in England,
and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless
one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be
happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in
this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left
Ellen to remain in the house with my friend and go to school.
We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage
of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the
Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had
seen in American hotels; but my situation was indescribably more pleasant.
For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated
according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as
if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. Ensconced in a
pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow, for
the first time, with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated
freedom.
As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the
wonders of that great city; but I watched the tide of life that flowed
through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in
our Southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days
with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to
accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English
education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight
in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates
and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good
management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did
not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all
children--sometimes docile and sometimes wayward.
We next went to Steventon, in Berkshire. It was a small town, said to be
the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six
shillings, and seven shillings, a week, and women for sixpence, and
sevenpence, a day, out of which they boarded themselves. Of course they
lived in the most primitive manner; it could not be otherwise, where a
woman's wages for an entire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat.
They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest
fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United
States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the
poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the
poorest poor. But when I visited them in their little thatched cottages, I
felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them
was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America.
They labored hard; but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars
were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer, through heat and
cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble; but
they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come, in the dead of
night, and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his
cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer
could come and take from him his wife, or his daughter. They must separate
to earn their living; but the parents knew where their children were going,
and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and
wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land
to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor
people. Schools were established among them, and benevolent societies were
active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law
forbidding them to learn to read and write; and if they helped each other
in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as
was the case with myself and poor, pious, old uncle Fred. I repeat that the
most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousand fold
better off than the most pampered American slave.
I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to
paint their condition so rose-colored as the Hon. Miss Murray paints the
condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of _my_
experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If
she were to lay aside her title, and, instead of visiting among the
fashionable, become domesticated, as a poor governess, on some plantation
in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her
tell quite a different story.
My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my
having there received strong religious impressions. The contemptuous manner
in which the communion had been administered to colored people, in my
native place; the church membership of Dr. Flint, and others like him; and
the buying and selling of slaves, by professed ministers of the gospel, had
given me a prejudice against the Episcopal church. The whole service seemed
to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a
clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life
inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace
entered my heart, and I knelt at the communion table, I trust, in true
humility of soul.
I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated.
During all that time, I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice
against color. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to
return to America.
XXXVIII. Renewed Invitations To Go South.
We had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance spectres seemed to
rise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be
afraid of one's native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I
hastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and
improving at her school; but Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been
left at a good place to learn a trade, and for several months every thing
worked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favorite with his
fellow-apprentices; but one day they accidentally discovered a fact they
had never before suspected--that he was colored! This at once transformed
him into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans, others
American-born Irish; and it was offensive to their dignity to have a
"nigger" among them, after they had been told that he _was_ a "nigger."
They began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned
the same, they resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to
stand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support
himself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a whaling voyage.
When I received these tidings I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached
myself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now
all I could do was to pray to the heavenly Father to guide and protect him.
Not long after my return, I received the following letter from Miss Emily
Flint, now Mrs. Dodge:--
In this you will recognize the hand of your friend and mistress.
Having heard that you had gone with a family to Europe, I have
waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have
answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could
not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be
nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who
were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this
I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and
would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind
treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband
expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of
settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with
me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself;
but I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you
may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and
friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Think this over,
and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion.
Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and
mistress.
Of course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I
felt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions.
"Come up into my parlor," said the spider to the fly;
"Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy."
It was plain that Dr. Flint's family were apprised of my movements, since
they knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from
them; but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in
future. The money I had earned, I was desirous to devote to the education
of my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but
unjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of
property. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that
time had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts in food
and clothing. My children certainly belonged to me; but though Dr. Flint
had incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of
money for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and
would probably still give his daughter a claim to my children; but I
regarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I
was bound to respect.
The Fugitive Slave Law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had
not then stooped under chains to enter her courts of justice, so called. I
knew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her
love of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honored
the old Commonwealth beyond her deserts.
XXXIX. The Confession.
For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably in Boston.
At the end of that time, my brother William offered to send Ellen to a
boarding school. It required a great effort for me to consent to part with
her, for I had few near ties, and it was her presence that made my two
little rooms seem home-like. But my judgment prevailed over my selfish
feelings. I made preparations for her departure. During the two years we
had lived together I had often resolved to tell her something about her
father; but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage. I had a
shrinking dread of diminishing my child's love. I knew she must have
curiosity on the subject, but she had never asked a question. She was
always very careful not to say any thing to remind me of my troubles. Now
that she was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned,
she might hear my story from some one who did not understand the palliating
circumstances; and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject, her
sensitive nature might receive a rude shock.
When we retired for the night, she said, "Mother, it is very hard to leave
you alone. I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to improve
myself. But you will write to me often; won't you, mother?"
I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer her. But in a calm,
solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, "Listen to me, Ellen; I
have something to tell you!" I recounted my early sufferings in slavery,
and told her how nearly they had crushed me. I began to tell her how they
had driven me into a great sin, when she clasped me in her arms, and
exclaimed, "O, don't, mother! Please don't tell me any more."
I said, "But, my child, I want you to know about your father."
"I know all about it, mother," she replied; "I am nothing to my father, and
he is nothing to me. All my love is for you. I was with him five months in
Washington, and he never cared for me. He never spoke to me as he did to
his little Fanny. I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny's nurse
told me so, but she said I must never tell any body, and I never did. I
used to wish he would take me in his arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or
that he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought if he was
my own father, he ought to love me. I was a little girl then, and didn't
know any better. But now I never think any thing about my father. All my
love is for you." She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that
the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the
affection of my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion
of my history. If I had, I should have spoken to her long before; for my
pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to some one I
could trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had
manifested towards her unfortunate mother.
The next morning, she and her uncle started on their journey to the village
in New York, where she was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the
sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully lonely. I was
thankful when a message came from a lady, accustomed to employ me,
requesting me to come and sew in her family for several weeks. On my
return, I found a letter from brother William. He thought of opening an
anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, and combining with it the sale of
some books and stationery; and he wanted me to unite with him. We tried it,
but it was not successful. We found warm anti-slavery friends there, but
the feeling was not general enough to support such an establishment. I
passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac and Amy Post, practical
believers in the Christian doctrine of human brotherhood. They measure a
man's worth by his character, not by his complexion. The memory of those
beloved and honored friends will remain with me to my latest hour.
XL. The Fugitive Slave Law.
My brother, being disappointed in his project, concluded to go to
California; and it was agreed that Benjamin should go with him. Ellen liked
her school, and was a great favorite there. They did not know her history,
and she did not tell it, because she had no desire to make capital out of
their sympathy. But when it was accidentally discovered that her mother was
a fugitive slave, every method was used to increase her advantages and
diminish her expenses.
I was alone again. It was necessary for me to be earning money, and I
preferred that it should be among those who knew me. On my return from
Rochester, I called at the house of Mr. Bruce, to see Mary, the darling
little babe that had thawed my heart, when it was freezing into a cheerless
distrust of all my fellow-beings. She was growing a tall girl now, but I
loved her always. Mr. Bruce had married again, and it was proposed that I
should become nurse to a new infant. I had but one hesitation, and that was
feeling of insecurity in New York, now greatly increased by the passage of
the Fugitive Slave Law. However, I resolved to try the experiment. I was
again fortunate in my employer. The new Mrs. Bruce was an American, brought
up under aristocratic influences, and still living in the midst of them;
but if she had any prejudice against color, I was never made aware of it;
and as for the system of slavery, she had a most hearty dislike of it. No
sophistry of Southerners could blind her to its enormity. She was a person
of excellent principles and a noble heart. To me, from that hour to the
present, she has been a true and sympathizing friend. Blessings be with her
and hers!
About the time that I reentered the Bruce family, an event occurred of
disastrous import to the colored people. The slave Hamlin, the first
fugitive that came under the new law, was given up by the bloodhounds of
the north to the bloodhounds of the south. It was the beginning of a reign
of terror to the colored population. The great city rushed on in its whirl
of excitement, taking no note of the "short and simple annals of the poor."
But while fashionables were listening to the thrilling voice of Jenny Lind
in Metropolitan Hall, the thrilling voices of poor hunted colored people
went up, in an agony of supplication, to the Lord, from Zion's church. Many
families, who had lived in the city for twenty years, fled from it now.
Many a poor washerwoman, who, by hard labor, had made herself a comfortable
home, was obliged to sacrifice her furniture, bid a hurried farewell to
friends, and seek her fortune among strangers in Canada. Many a wife
discovered a secret she had never known before--that her husband was a
fugitive, and must leave her to insure his own safety. Worse still, many a
husband discovered that his wife had fled from slavery years ago, and as
"the child follows the condition of its mother," the children of his love
were liable to be seized and carried into slavery. Every where, in those
humble homes, there was consternation and anguish. But what cared the
legislators of the "dominant race" for the blood they were crushing out of
trampled hearts?
When my brother William spent his last evening with me, before he went to
California, we talked nearly all the time of the distress brought on our
oppressed people by the passage of this iniquitous law; and never had I
seen him manifest such bitterness of spirit, such stern hostility to our
oppressors. He was himself free from the operation of the law; for he did
not run from any Slaveholding State, being brought into the Free States by
his master. But I was subject to it; and so were hundreds of intelligent
and industrious people all around us. I seldom ventured into the streets;
and when it was necessary to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, or any of the
family, I went as much as possible through back streets and by-ways. What a
disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants, guiltless of
offence, and seeking to perform their duties conscientiously, should be
condemned to live in such incessant fear, and have nowhere to turn for
protection! This state of things, of course, gave rise to many impromptu
vigilance committees. Every colored person, and every friend of their
persecuted race, kept their eyes wide open. Every evening I examined the
newspapers carefully, to see what Southerners had put up at the hotels. I
did this for my own sake, thinking my young mistress and her husband might
be among the list; I wished also to give information to others, if
necessary; for if many were "running to and fro," I resolved that
"knowledge should be increased."
This brings up one of my Southern reminiscences, which I will here briefly
relate. I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to
a wealthy man in our vicinity. His master died, leaving a son and daughter
heirs to his large fortune. In the division of the slaves, Luke was
included in the son's portion. This young man became a prey to the vices he
went to the north, to complete his education, he carried his vices with
him. He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs, by excessive
dissipation. Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose
despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own
helplessness. He kept a cowhide beside him, and, for the most trivial
occurrence, he would order his attendant to bare his back, and kneel beside
the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted. Some days
he was not allowed to wear any thing but his shirt, in order to be in
readiness to be flogged. A day seldom passed without his receiving more or
less blows. If the slightest resistance was offered, the town constable was
sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how
much more the constable's strong arm was to be dreaded than the
comparatively feeble one of his master. The arm of his tyrant grew weaker,
and was finally palsied; and then the constable's services were in constant
requisition. The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke's care, and
was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude
or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his
irritability and cruelty. As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck
of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism; and if
Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the constable was immediately sent
for. Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated. When
I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the
bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch.
One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was
hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man
approaching, whose face was familiar to me. As he came nearer, I recognized
Luke. I always rejoiced to see or hear of any one who had escaped from the
black pit; I was peculiarly glad to see him on Northern soil, though I no
longer called it _free_ soil. I well remembered what a desolate feeling it
was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him
cordially. At first, he did not know me; but when I mentioned my name, he
remembered all about me. I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked
him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers.
He replied, "De risk ain't so bad for me, as 'tis fur you. 'Cause I runned
away from de speculator, and you runned away from de massa. Dem speculators
vont spen dar money to come here fur a runaway, if dey ain't sartin sure to
put dar hans right on him. An I tell you I's tuk good car 'bout dat. I had
too hard times down dar, to let 'em ketch dis nigger."
He then told me of the advice he had received, and the plans he had laid. I
asked if he had money enough to take him to Canada. "'Pend upon it, I hab,"
he replied. "I tuk car fur dat. I'd bin workin all my days fur dem cussed
whites, an got no pay but kicks and cuffs. So I tought dis nigger had a
right to money nuff to bring him to de Free States. Massa Henry he lib till
ebery body vish him dead; an ven he did die, I knowed de debbil would hab
him, an vouldn't vant him to bring his money 'long too. So I tuk some of
his bills, and put 'em in de pocket of his ole trousers. An ven he was
buried, dis nigger ask fur dem ole trousers, an dey gub 'em to me." With a
low, chuckling laugh, he added, "You see I didn't _steal_ it; dey _gub_ it
to me. I tell you, I had mighty hard time to keep de speculator from findin
it; but he didn't git it."
This is a fair specimen of how the moral sense is educated by slavery. When
a man has his wages stolen from him, year after year, and the laws sanction
and enforce the theft, how can he be expected to have more regard to
honesty than has the man who robs him? I have become somewhat enlightened,
but I confess that I agree with poor, ignorant, much-abused Luke, in
thinking he had a _right_ to that money, as a portion of his unpaid wages.
He went to Canada forthwith, and I have not since heard from him.
All that winter I lived in a state of anxiety. When I took the children out
to breathe the air, I closely observed the countenances of all I met. I
dreaded the approach of summer, when snakes and slaveholders make their
appearance. I was, in fact, a slave in New York, as subject to slave laws
as I had been in a Slave State. Strange incongruity in a State called free!
Spring returned, and I received warning from the south that Dr. Flint knew
of my return to my old place, and was making preparations to have me
caught. I learned afterwards that my dress, and that of Mrs. Bruce's
children, had been described to him by some of the Northern tools, which
slaveholders employ for their base purposes, and then indulge in sneers at
their cupidity and mean servility.
I immediately informed Mrs. Bruce of my danger, and she took prompt
measures for my safety. My place as nurse could not be supplied
immediately, and this generous, sympathizing lady proposed that I should
carry her baby away. It was a comfort to me to have the child with me; for
the heart is reluctant to be torn away from every object it loves. But how
few mothers would have consented to have one of their own babes become a
fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on whom the legislators of
the country had let loose the bloodhounds! When I spoke of the sacrifice
she was making, in depriving herself of her dear baby, she replied, "It is
better for you to have baby with you, Linda; for if they get on your track,
they will be obliged to bring the child to me; and then, if there is a
possibility of saving you, you shall be saved."
This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many
respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her for
harboring a fugitive slave; told her she was violating the laws of her
country; and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She replied, "I am
very well aware of it. It is imprisonment and one thousand dollars fine.
Shame on my country that it _is_ so! I am ready to incur the penalty. I
will go to the state's prison, rather than have any poor victim torn from
_my_ house, to be carried back to slavery."
The noble heart! The brave heart! The tears are in my eyes while I write of
her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy with my
persecuted people!
I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of a
senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This honorable
gentleman would not have voted for the Fugitive Slave Law, as did the
senator in "Uncle Tom's Cabin;" on the contrary, he was strongly opposed to
it; but he was enough under its influence to be afraid of having me remain
in his house many hours. So I was sent into the country, where I remained a
month with the baby. When it was supposed that Dr. Flint's emissaries had
lost track of me, and given up the pursuit for the present, I returned to
New York.
XLI. Free At Last.
Mrs. Bruce, and every member of her family, were exceedingly kind to me. I
was thankful for the blessings of my lot, yet I could not always wear a
cheerful countenance. I was doing harm to no one; on the contrary, I was
doing all the good I could in my small way; yet I could never go out to
breathe God's free air without trepidation at my heart. This seemed hard;
and I could not think it was a right state of things in any civilized
country.
From time to time I received news from my good old grandmother. She could
not write; but she employed others to write for her. The following is an
extract from one of her last letters:--
Dear Daughter: I cannot hope to see you again on earth; but I
pray to God to unite us above, where pain will no more rack this
feeble body of mine; where sorrow and parting from my children
will be no more. God has promised these things if we are faithful
unto the end. My age and feeble health deprive me of going to
church now; but God is with me here at home. Thank your brother
for his kindness. Give much love to him, and tell him to remember
the Creator in the days of his youth, and strive to meet me in
the Father's kingdom. Love to Ellen and Benjamin. Don't neglect
him. Tell him for me, to be a good boy. Strive, my child, to
train them for God's children. May he protect and provide for
you, is the prayer of your loving old mother.
These letters both cheered and saddened me. I was always glad to have
tidings from the kind, faithful old friend of my unhappy youth; but her
messages of love made my heart yearn to see her before she died, and I
mourned over the fact that it was impossible. Some months after I returned
from my flight to New England, I received a letter from her, in which she
wrote, "Dr. Flint is dead. He has left a distressed family. Poor old man! I
hope he made his peace with God."
I remembered how he had defrauded my grandmother of the hard earnings she
had loaned; how he had tried to cheat her out of the freedom her mistress
had promised her, and how he had persecuted her children; and I thought to
myself that she was a better Christian than I was, if she could entirely
forgive him. I cannot say, with truth, that the news of my old master's
death softened my feelings towards him. There are wrongs which even the
grave does not bury. The man was odious to me while he lived, and his
memory is odious now.
His departure from this world did not diminish my danger. He had threatened
my grandmother that his heirs should hold me in slavery after he was gone;
that I never should be free so long as a child of his survived. As for Mrs.
Flint, I had seen her in deeper afflictions than I supposed the loss of her
husband would be, for she had buried several children; yet I never saw any
signs of softening in her heart. The doctor had died in embarrassed
circumstances, and had little to will to his heirs, except such property as
he was unable to grasp. I was well aware what I had to expect from the
family of Flints; and my fears were confirmed by a letter from the south,
warning me to be on my guard, because Mrs. Flint openly declared that her
daughter could not afford to lose so valuable a slave as I was.
I kept close watch of the newspapers for arrivals; but one Saturday night,
being much occupied, I forgot to examine the Evening Express as usual. I
went down into the parlor for it, early in the morning, and found the boy
about to kindle a fire with it. I took it from him and examined the list of
arrivals. Reader, if you have never been a slave, you cannot imagine the
acute sensation of suffering at my heart, when I read the names of Mr. and
Mrs. Dodge, at a hotel in Courtland Street. It was a third-rate hotel, and
that circumstance convinced me of the truth of what I had heard, that they
were short of funds and had need of my value, as _they_ valued me; and that
was by dollars and cents. I hastened with the paper to Mrs. Bruce. Her
heart and hand were always open to every one in distress, and she always
warmly sympathized with mine. It was impossible to tell how near the enemy
was. He might have passed and repassed the house while we were sleeping. He
might at that moment be waiting to pounce upon me if I ventured out of
doors. I had never seen the husband of my young mistress, and therefore I
could not distinguish him from any other stranger. A carriage was hastily
ordered; and, closely veiled, I followed Mrs. Bruce, taking the baby again
with me into exile. After various turnings and crossings, and returnings,
the carriage stopped at the house of one of Mrs. Bruce's friends, where I
was kindly received. Mrs. Bruce returned immediately, to instruct the
domestics what to say if any one came to inquire for me.
It was lucky for me that the evening paper was not burned up before I had a
chance to examine the list of arrivals. It was not long after Mrs. Bruce's
return to her house, before several people came to inquire for me. One
inquired for me, another asked for my daughter Ellen, and another said he
had a letter from my grandmother, which he was requested to deliver in
person.
They were told, "She _has_ lived here, but she has left."
"How long ago?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Do you know where she went?"
"I do not, sir." And the door was closed.
This Mr. Dodge, who claimed me as his property, was originally a Yankee
pedler in the south; then he became a merchant, and finally a slaveholder.
He managed to get introduced into what was called the first society, and
married Miss Emily Flint. A quarrel arose between him and her brother, and
the brother cowhided him. This led to a family feud, and he proposed to
remove to Virginia. Dr. Flint left him no property, and his own means had
become circumscribed, while a wife and children depended upon him for
support. Under these circumstances, it was very natural that he should make
an effort to put me into his pocket.
I had a colored friend, a man from my native place, in whom I had the most
implicit confidence. I sent for him, and told him that Mr. and Mrs. Dodge
had arrived in New York. I proposed that he should call upon them to make
inquiries about his friends at the south, with whom Dr. Flint's family were
well acquainted. He thought there was no impropriety in his doing so, and
he consented. He went to the hotel, and knocked at the door of Mr. Dodge's
room, which was opened by the gentleman himself, who gruffly inquired,
"What brought you here? How came you to know I was in the city?"
"Your arrival was published in the evening papers, sir; and I called to ask
Mrs. Dodge about my friends at home. I didn't suppose it would give any
offence."
"Where's that negro girl, that belongs to my wife?"
"What girl, sir?"
"You know well enough. I mean Linda, that ran away from Dr. Flint's
plantation, some years ago. I dare say you've seen her, and know where she
is."
"Yes, sir, I've seen her, and know where she is. She is out of your reach,
sir."
"Tell me where she is, or bring her to me, and I will give her a chance to
buy her freedom."
"I don't think it would be of any use, sir. I have heard her say she would
go to the ends of the earth, rather than pay any man or woman for her
freedom, because she thinks she has a right to it. Besides, she couldn't do
it, if she would, for she has spent her earnings to educate her children."
This made Mr. Dodge very angry, and some high words passed between them. My
friend was afraid to come where I was; but in the course of the day I
received a note from him. I supposed they had not come from the south, in
the winter, for a pleasure excursion; and now the nature of their business
was very plain.
Mrs. Bruce came to me and entreated me to leave the city the next morning.
She said her house was watched, and it was possible that some clew to me
might be obtained. I refused to take her advice. She pleaded with an
earnest tenderness, that ought to have moved me; but I was in a bitter,
disheartened mood. I was weary of flying from pillar to post. I had been
chased during half my life, and it seemed as if the chase was never to end.
There I sat, in that great city, guiltless of crime, yet not daring to
worship God in any of the churches. I heard the bells ringing for afternoon
service, and, with contemptuous sarcasm, I said, "Will the preachers take
for their text, 'Proclaim liberty to the captive, and the opening of prison
doors to them that are bound'? or will they preach from the text, 'Do unto
others as ye would they should do unto you'?" Oppressed Poles and
Hungarians could find a safe refuge in that city; John Mitchell was free to
proclaim in the City Hall his desire for "a plantation well stocked with
slaves;" but there I sat, an oppressed American, not daring to show my
face. God forgive the black and bitter thoughts I indulged on that Sabbath
day! The Scripture says, "Oppression makes even a wise man mad;" and I was
not wise.
I had been told that Mr. Dodge said his wife had never signed away her
right to my children, and if he could not get me, he would take them. This
it was, more than any thing else, that roused such a tempest in my soul.
Benjamin was with his uncle William in California, but my innocent young
daughter had come to spend a vacation with me. I thought of what I had
suffered in slavery at her age, and my heart was like a tiger's when a
hunter tries to seize her young.
Dear Mrs. Bruce! I seem to see the expression of her face, as she turned
away discouraged by my obstinate mood. Finding her expostulations
unavailing, she sent Ellen to entreat me. When ten o'clock in the evening
arrived and Ellen had not returned, this watchful and unwearied friend
became anxious. She came to us in a carriage, bringing a well-filled trunk
for my journey--trusting that by this time I would listen to reason. I
yielded to her, as I ought to have done before.
The next day, baby and I set out in a heavy snow storm, bound for New
England again. I received letters from the City of Iniquity, addressed to
me under an assumed name. In a few days one came from Mrs. Bruce, informing
me that my new master was still searching for me, and that she intended to
put an end to this persecution by buying my freedom. I felt grateful for
the kindness that prompted this offer, but the idea was not so pleasant to
me as might have been expected. The more my mind had become enlightened,
the more difficult it was for me to consider myself an article of property;
and to pay money to those who had so grievously oppressed me seemed like
taking from my sufferings the glory of triumph. I wrote to Mrs. Bruce,
thanking her, but saying that being sold from one owner to another seemed
too much like slavery; that such a great obligation could not be easily
cancelled; and that I preferred to go to my brother in California.
Without my knowledge, Mrs. Bruce employed a gentleman in New York to enter
into negotiations with Mr. Dodge. He proposed to pay three hundred dollars
down, if Mr. Dodge would sell me, and enter into obligations to relinquish
all claim to me or my children forever after. He who called himself my
master said he scorned so small an offer for such a valuable servant. The
gentleman replied, "You can do as you choose, sir. If you reject this offer
you will never get any thing; for the woman has friends who will convey her
and her children out of the country."
Mr. Dodge concluded that "half a loaf was better than no bread," and he
agreed to the proffered terms. By the next mail I received this brief
letter from Mrs. Bruce: "I am rejoiced to tell you that the money for your
freedom has been paid to Mr. Dodge. Come home to-morrow. I long to see you
and my sweet babe."
My brain reeled as I read these lines. A gentleman near me said, "It's
true; I have seen the bill of sale." "The bill of sale!" Those words struck
me like a blow. So I was _sold_ at last! A human being _sold_ in the free
city of New York! The bill of sale is on record, and future generations
will learn from it that women were articles of traffic in New York, late in
the nineteenth century of the Christian religion. It may hereafter prove a
useful document to antiquaries, who are seeking to measure the progress of
civilization in the United States. I well know the value of that bit of
paper; but much as I love freedom, I do not like to look upon it. I am
deeply grateful to the generous friend who procured it, but I despise the
miscreant who demanded payment for what never rightfully belonged to him or
his.
I had objected to having my freedom bought, yet I must confess that when it
was done I felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from my weary shoulders.
When I rode home in the cars I was no longer afraid to unveil my face and
look at people as they passed. I should have been glad to have met Daniel
Dodge himself; to have had him seen me and known me, that he might have
mourned over the untoward circumstances which compelled him to sell me for
three hundred dollars.
When I reached home, the arms of my benefactress were thrown round me, and
our tears mingled. As soon as she could speak, she said, "O Linda, I'm _so_
glad it's all over! You wrote to me as if you thought you were going to be
transferred from one owner to another. But I did not buy you for your
services. I should have done just the same, if you had been going to sail
for California to-morrow. I should, at least, have the satisfaction of
knowing that you left me a free woman."
My heart was exceedingly full. I remembered how my poor father had tried to
buy me, when I was a small child, and how he had been disappointed. I hoped
his spirit was rejoicing over me now. I remembered how my good old
grandmother had laid up her earnings to purchase me in later years, and how
often her plans had been frustrated. How that faithful, loving old heart
would leap for joy, if she could look on me and my children now that we
were free! My relatives had been foiled in all their efforts, but God had
raised me up a friend among strangers, who had bestowed on me the precious,
long-desired boon. Friend! It is a common word, often lightly used. Like
other good and beautiful things, it may be tarnished by careless handling;
but when I speak of Mrs. Bruce as my friend, the word is sacred.
My grandmother lived to rejoice in my freedom; but not long after, a letter
came with a black seal. She had gone "where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest."
Time passed on, and a paper came to me from the south, containing an
obituary notice of my uncle Phillip. It was the only case I ever knew of
such an honor conferred upon a colored person. It was written by one of his
friends, and contained these words: "Now that death has laid him low, they
call him a good man and a useful citizen; but what are eulogies to the
black man, when the world has faded from his vision? It does not require
man's praise to obtain rest in God's kingdom." So they called a colored man
a _citizen_! Strange words to be uttered in that region!
Reader, my story ends with freedom; not in the usual way, with marriage. I
and my children are now free! We are as free from the power of slaveholders
as are the white people of the north; and though that, according to my
ideas, is not saying a great deal, it is a vast improvement in _my_
condition. The dream of my life is not yet realized. I do not sit with my
children in a home of my own, I still long for a hearthstone of my own,
however humble. I wish it for my children's sake far more than for my own.
But God so orders circumstances as to keep me with my friend Mrs. Bruce.
Love, duty, gratitude, also bind me to her side. It is a privilege to serve
her who pities my oppressed people, and who has bestowed the inestimable
boon of freedom on me and my children.
It has been painful to me, in many ways, to recall the dreary years I
passed in bondage. I would gladly forget them if I could. Yet the
retrospection is not altogether without solace; for with those gloomy
recollections come tender memories of my good old grandmother, like light,
fleecy clouds floating over a dark and troubled sea.
APPENDIX.
The following statement is from Amy Post, a member of the Society of
Friends in the State of New York, well known and highly respected by
friends of the poor and the oppressed. As has been already stated, in the
preceding pages, the author of this volume spent some time under her
hospitable roof.
L.M.C.
The author of this book is my highly-esteemed friend. If its
readers knew her as I know her, they could not fail to be deeply
interested in her story. She was a beloved inmate of our family
nearly the whole of the year 1849. She was introduced to us by
her affectionate and conscientious brother, who had previously
related to us some of the almost incredible events in his
sister's life. I immediately became much interested in Linda; for
her appearance was prepossessing, and her deportment indicated
remarkable delicacy of feeling and purity of thought.
As we became acquainted, she related to me, from time to time
some of the incidents in her bitter experiences as a slave-woman.
Though impelled by a natural craving for human sympathy, she
passed through a baptism of suffering, even in recounting her
trials to me, in private confidential conversations. The burden
of these memories lay heavily upon her spirit--naturally virtuous
and refined. I repeatedly urged her to consent to the publication
of her narrative; for I felt that it would arouse people to a
more earnest work for the disinthralment of millions still
remaining in that soul-crushing condition, which was so
unendurable to her. But her sensitive spirit shrank from
publicity. She said, "You know a woman can whisper her cruel
wrongs in the ear of a dear friend much easier than she can
record them for the world to read." Even in talking with me, she
wept so much, and seemed to suffer such mental agony, that I felt
her story was too sacred to be drawn from her by inquisitive
questions, and I left her free to tell as much, or as little, as
she chose. Still, I urged upon her the duty of publishing her
experience, for the sake of the good it might do; and, at last,
she undertook the task.
Having been a slave so large a portion of her life, she is
unlearned; she is obliged to earn her living by her own labor,
and she has worked untiringly to procure education for her
children; several times she has been obliged to leave her
employments, in order to fly from the man-hunters and
woman-hunters of our land; but she pressed through all these
obstacles and overcame them. After the labors of the day were
over, she traced secretly and wearily, by the midnight lamp, a
truthful record of her eventful life.
This Empire State is a shabby place of refuge for the oppressed;
but here, through anxiety, turmoil, and despair, the freedom of
Linda and her children was finally secured, by the exertions of a
generous friend. She was grateful for the boon; but the idea of
having been _bought_ was always galling to a spirit that could
never acknowledge itself to be a chattel. She wrote to us thus,
soon after the event: "I thank you for your kind expressions in
regard to my freedom; but the freedom I had before the money was
paid was dearer to me. God gave me _that_ freedom; but man put
God's image in the scales with the paltry sum of three hundred
dollars. I served for my liberty as faithfully as Jacob served
for Rachel. At the end, he had large possessions; but I was
robbed of my victory; I was obliged to resign my crown, to rid
myself of a tyrant."
Her story, as written by herself, cannot fail to interest the
reader. It is a sad illustration of the condition of this
country, which boasts of its civilization, while it sanctions
laws and customs which make the experiences of the present more
strange than any fictions of the past.
Amy Post. Rochester, N.Y., Oct. 30th, 1859.
The following testimonial is from a man who is now a highly respectable
colored citizen of Boston.
L.M.C.
This narrative contains some incidents so extraordinary, that,
doubtless, many persons, under whose eyes it may chance to fall,
will be ready to believe that it is colored highly, to serve a
special purpose. But, however it may be regarded by the
incredulous, I know that it is full of living truths. I have been
well acquainted with the author from my boyhood. The
circumstances recounted in her history are perfectly familiar to
me. I knew of her treatment from her master; of the imprisonment
of her children; of their sale and redemption; of her seven
years' concealment; and of her subsequent escape to the North. I
am now a resident of Boston, and am a living witness to the truth
of this interesting narrative.
George W. Lowther.
Back to Full Books
|