Chapter: 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.

 Free At Last In the final chapter, Harriet wrote of her grandmother, who occasionally dictated letters that were sent to Harriet in New York. One day a letter came which said that Dr. Flint had died, leaving his family in an unhappy financial situation. Harriet was relieved he was dead, but knew that she was not out of danger yet. Mrs. Flint was open in that her daughter could not lose such a valuable slave. Harriet chanced to see the newspaper announcement of the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Dodge in the city one evening, and became frightened. She hurried to tell Mrs. Bruce, who gave her the child again and bade her escape to a friend's house. Several people came to Mrs. Bruce's home to inquire after her, but of course they were told nothing. Mr. Dodge had been a Yankee peddler and was now, through his social-climbing marriage, a slaveholder. He had not gotten along well with Emily Flint's brother, however, and was left no property by Dr. Flint. It was thus important that he procure Harriet. Harriet had a friend, a black man, who agreed to go to Mr. Dodge and pretend to ask about his own family back in town. Mr. Dodge knew what he was up to and threatened him. Mrs. Bruce became nervous and told Harriet she had to leave town, and that her house was being watched. Harriet was frustrated and depressed that she had to keep running; she had been chased for half of her life. However, she and the baby were sent to New England again to keep safe. Mrs. Bruce wrote to Harriet and asked her if she might ask Mr. Dodge if she could buy Harriet. Harriet wrote back that she did not even want to be sold as a piece of property at all anymore; she would rather escape to California to join her brother and son. Mrs. Bruce employed someone to negotiate with Mr. Dodge anyway, however, and he agreed once he realized how much he needed the money. A brief letter from Mrs. Bruce informed Harriet that she was now free, and another man standing near Harriet as she read confirmed that he had seen the bill of sale. Harriet wrote that "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. Although she had not wanted Mrs. Bruce to purchase her freedom, she felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from her shoulders. Harriet writes that she heard of the death of Aunt Marthy not long after that woman rejoiced in her granddaughter's freedom. Uncle Phillip also passed away and was honored with an obituary. Harriet was free but wished she had a home of her own. Duty and love kept her working for Mrs. Bruce, the woman who had risked so much to help a poor bondwoman survive and attain her cherished freedom

