Chapter: 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 draught 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 mosquitos 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 thunder
storms 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 season,
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 lineaments 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 benumbed 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 Phillip 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 trust it 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. O,
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. O,
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, who were her
customers, called to bring her some little comforts, and to inquire whether
she had every thing 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
neighborhood 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 Phillip 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 if 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 he 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 Phillip, with feelings of unspeakable joy and
gratitude, that the crisis was passed 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."




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 Whig candidate. The
doctor had hitherto been a stanch Whig; 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,
screened 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 some one 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 you would come to bid grandmother good by, 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 over night.
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 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
Phillip 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 any thing 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.




Dr. Flint had not given me up. Every now and then he would say to my
grandmother that I would yet come back, and voluntarily surrender myself;
and that when I did, I could be purchased by my relatives, or any one who
wished to buy me. I knew his cunning nature too well not to perceive that
this was a trap laid for me; and so all my friends understood it. I
resolved to match my cunning against his 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 any thing to help me. I expressed a wish for a New York
paper, to ascertain the names of some of the streets. He run his hand into
his pocket, and said, "Here is half a one, that was round a cap I bought of
a pedler yesterday." I told him the letter would be ready the next evening.
He bade me good by, adding, "Keep up your spirits, Linda; brighter days
will come by and by."

My uncle Phillip 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 gray-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 are 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 20th of the month. On the evening of the 24th 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 tea. 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 Phillip 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 purport 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 Phillip 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,
Phillip!" 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, if 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 dragged 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. O 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, and the weary are at 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 any where 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 some one 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 unoccupied space of
the storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped.

 Linda continues to hide in the garret, but when she learns that Mr. Sands has been elected to Congress and will leave for Washington shortly, she risks revealing her hiding place to beg him to free her children before he leaves. He agrees to do what he can. After Mr. Sands leaves, Linda writes numerous letters to Dr. Flint and -- with the help of her friends -- has them postmarked from New York to trick Dr. Flint into thinking she has left the state.

