Chapter: I missed the company and kind attentions of my brother William, who had
gone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. We received several letters
from him, written without any allusion to me, but expressed in such a
manner that I knew he did not forget me. I disguised my hand, and wrote to
him in the same manner. It was a long session; and when it closed, William
wrote to inform us that Mr. Sands was going to the north, to be gone some
time, and that he was to accompany him. I knew that his master had promised
to give him his freedom, but no time had been specified. Would William
trust to a slave's chances? I remembered how we used to talk together, in
our young days, about obtaining our freedom, and I thought it very doubtful
whether he would come back to us.

Grandmother received a letter from Mr. Sands, saying that William had
proved a most faithful servant, and he would also say a valued friend; that
no mother had ever trained a better boy. He said he had travelled through
the Northern States and Canada; and though the abolitionists had tried to
decoy him away, they had never succeeded. He ended by saying they should be
at home shortly.

We expected letters from William, describing the novelties of his journey,
but none came. In time, it was reported that Mr. Sands would return late in
the autumn, accompanied by a bride. Still no letters from William. I felt
almost sure I should never see him again on southern soil; but had he no
word of comfort to send to his friends at home? to the poor captive in her
dungeon? My thoughts wandered through the dark past, and over the uncertain
future. Alone in my cell, where no eye but God's could see me, I wept
bitter tears. How earnestly I prayed to him to restore me to my children,
and enable me to be a useful woman and a good mother!

At last the day arrived for the return of the travellers. Grandmother had
made loving preparations to welcome her absent boy back to the old
hearthstone. When the dinner table was laid, William's place occupied its
old place. The stage coach went by empty. My grandmother waited dinner. She
thought perhaps he was necessarily detained by his master. In my prison I
listened anxiously, expecting every moment to hear my dear brother's voice
and step. In the course of the afternoon a lad was sent by Mr. Sands to
tell grandmother that William did not return with him; that the
abolitionists had decoyed him away. But he begged her not to feel troubled
about it, for he felt confident she would see William in a few days. As
soon as he had time to reflect he would come back, for he could never
expect to be so well off at the north as he had been with him.

If you had seen the tears, and heard the sobs, you would have thought the
messenger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old
grandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I was
selfish. I thought more of what I had lost, than of what my brother had
gained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended a good
deal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss he had
incurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of my children,
who were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have their
emancipation made certain. The more so, because their master and father was
now married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know that promises made
to slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere at the time, depend
upon many contingencies for their fulfillment.

Much as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad and
anxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear; so beautiful that it
seemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother brought the
children out on the piazza, that I might hear their voices. She thought it
would comfort me in my despondency; and it did. They chatted merrily, as
only children can. Benny said, "Grandmother, do you think uncle Will has
gone for good? Won't he ever come back again? May be he'll find mother. If
he does, _won't_ she be glad to see him! Why don't you and uncle Phillip,
and all of us, go and live where mother is? I should like it; wouldn't you,
Ellen?"

"Yes, I should like it," replied Ellen; "but how could we find her? Do you
know the place, grandmother? I don't remember how mother looked--do you,
Benny?"

Benny was just beginning to describe me when they were interrupted by an
old slave woman, a near neighbor, named Aggie. This poor creature had
witnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to parts
unknown, without any hopes of ever hearing from them again. She saw that my
grandmother had been weeping, and she said, in a sympathizing tone, "What's
the matter, aunt Marthy?"

"O Aggie," she replied, "it seems as if I shouldn't have any of my children
or grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I'm dying, and lay my old
body in the ground. My boy didn't come back with Mr. Sands. He staid at the
north."

Poor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. "Is _dat_ what you's crying fur?"
she exclaimed. "Git down on your knees and bress de Lord! I don't know whar
my poor chillern is, and I nebber 'spect to know. You don't know whar poor
Linda's gone to; but you _do_ know whar her brudder is. He's in free parts;
and dat's de right place. Don't murmur at de Lord's doings but git down on
your knees and tank him for his goodness."

My selfishness was rebuked by what poor Aggie said. She rejoiced over the
escape of one who was merely her fellow-bondman, while his own sister was
only thinking what his good fortune might cost her children. I knelt and
prayed God to forgive me; and I thanked him from my heart, that one of my
family was saved from the grasp of slavery.

It was not long before we received a letter from William. He wrote that Mr.
Sands had always treated him kindly, and that he had tried to do his duty
to him faithfully. But ever since he was a boy, he had longed to be free;
and he had already gone through enough to convince him he had better not
lose the chance that offered. He concluded by saying, "Don't worry about
me, dear grandmother. I shall think of you always; and it will spur me on
to work hard and try to do right. When I have earned money enough to give
you a home, perhaps you will come to the north, and we can all live happy
together."

Mr. Sands told my uncle Phillip the particulars about William's leaving
him. He said, "I trusted him as if he were my own brother, and treated him
as kindly. The abolitionists talked to him in several places; but I had no
idea they could tempt him. However, I don't blame William. He's young and
inconsiderate, and those Northern rascals decoyed him. I must confess the
scamp was very bold about it. I met him coming down the steps of the Astor
House with his trunk on his shoulder, and I asked him where he was going.
He said he was going to change his old trunk. I told him it was rather
shabby, and asked if he didn't need some money. He said, No, thanked me,
and went off. He did not return so soon as I expected; but I waited
patiently. At last I went to see if our trunks were packed, ready for our
journey. I found them locked, and a sealed note on the table informed me
where I could find the keys. The fellow even tried to be religious. He
wrote that he hoped God would always bless me, and reward me for my
kindness; that he was not unwilling to serve me; but he wanted to be a free
man; and that if I thought he did wrong, he hoped I would forgive him. I
intended to give him his freedom in five years. He might have trusted me.
He has shown himself ungrateful; but I shall not go for him, or send for
him. I feel confident that he will soon return to me."

I afterwards heard an account of the affair from William himself. He had
not been urged away by abolitionists. He needed no information they could
give him about slavery to stimulate his desire for freedom. He looked at
his hands, and remembered that they were once in irons. What security had
he that they would not be so again? Mr. Sands was kind to him; but he might
indefinitely postpone the promise he had made to give him his freedom. He
might come under pecuniary embarrassments, and his property be seized by
creditors; or he might die, without making any arrangements in his favor.
He had too often known such accidents to happen to slaves who had kind
masters, and he wisely resolved to make sure of the present opportunity to
own himself. He was scrupulous about taking any money from his master on
false pretences; so he sold his best clothes to pay for his passage to
Boston. The slaveholders pronounced him a base, ungrateful wretch, for thus
requiting his master's indulgence. What would _they_ have done under
similar circumstances?

When Dr. Flint's family heard that William had deserted Mr. Sands, they
chuckled greatly over the news. Mrs. Flint made her usual manifestations of
Christian feeling, by saying, "I'm glad of it. I hope he'll never get him
again. I like to see people paid back in their own coin. I reckon Linda's
children will have to pay for it. I should be glad to see them in the
speculator's hands again, for I'm tired of seeing those little niggers
march about the streets."




Mrs. Flint proclaimed her intention of informing Mrs. Sands who was the
father of my children. She likewise proposed to tell her what an artful
devil I was; that I had made a great deal of trouble in her family; that
when Mr. Sands was at the north, she didn't doubt I had followed him in
disguise, and persuaded William to run away. She had some reason to
entertain such an idea; for I had written from the north, from time to
time, and I dated my letters from various places. Many of them fell into
Dr. Flint's hands, as I expected they would; and he must have come to the
conclusion that I travelled about a good deal. He kept a close watch over
my children, thinking they would eventually lead to my detection.

A new and unexpected trial was in store for me. One day, when Mr. Sands and
his wife were walking in the street, they met Benny. The lady took a fancy
to him, and exclaimed, "What a pretty little negro! Whom does he belong
to?"

Benny did not hear the answer; but he came home very indignant with the
stranger lady, because she had called him a negro. A few days afterwards,
Mr. Sands called on my grandmother, and told her he wanted her to take the
children to his house. He said he had informed his wife of his relation to
them, and told her they were motherless; and she wanted to see them.

When he had gone, my grandmother came and asked what I would do. The
question seemed a mockery. What _could_ I do? They were Mr. Sands's slaves,
and their mother was a slave, whom he had represented to be dead. Perhaps
he thought I was. I was too much pained and puzzled to come to any
decision; and the children were carried without my knowledge. Mrs. Sands
had a sister from Illinois staying with her. This lady, who had no children
of her own, was so much pleased with Ellen, that she offered to adopt her,
and bring her up as she would a daughter. Mrs. Sands wanted to take
Benjamin. When grandmother reported this to me, I was tried almost beyond
endurance. Was this all I was to gain by what I had suffered for the sake
of having my children free? True, the prospect _seemed_ fair; but I knew
too well how lightly slaveholders held such "parental relations." If
pecuniary troubles should come, or if the new wife required more money than
could conveniently be spared, my children might be thought of as a
convenient means of raising funds. I had no trust in thee, O Slavery! Never
should I know peace till my children were emancipated with all due
formalities of law.

I was too proud to ask Mr. Sands to do any thing for my own benefit; but I
could bring myself to become a supplicant for my children. I resolved to
remind him of the promise he had made me, and to throw myself upon his
honor for the performance of it. I persuaded my grandmother to go to him,
and tell him I was not dead, and that I earnestly entreated him to keep the
promise he had made me; that I had heard of the recent proposals concerning
my children, and did not feel easy to accept them; that he had promised to
emancipate them, and it was time for him to redeem his pledge. I knew there
was some risk in thus betraying that I was in the vicinity; but what will
not a mother do for her children? He received the message with surprise,
and said, "The children are free. I have never intended to claim them as
slaves. Linda may decide their fate. In my opinion, they had better be sent
to the north. I don't think they are quite safe here. Dr. Flint boasts that
they are still in his power. He says they were his daughter's property, and
as she was not of age when they were sold, the contract is not legally
binding."

So, then, after all I had endured for their sakes, my poor children were
between two fires; between my old master and their new master! And I was
powerless. There was no protecting arm of the law for me to invoke. Mr.
Sands proposed that Ellen should go, for the present, to some of his
relatives, who had removed to Brooklyn, Long Island. It was promised that
she should be well taken care of, and sent to school. I consented to it, as
the best arrangement I could make for her. My grandmother, of course,
negotiated it all; and Mrs. Sands knew of no other person in the
transaction. She proposed that they should take Ellen with them to
Washington, and keep her till they had a good chance of sending her, with
friends, to Brooklyn. She had an infant daughter. I had had a glimpse of
it, as the nurse passed with it in her arms. It was not a pleasant thought
to me, that the bondwoman's child should tend her free-born sister; but
there was no alternative. Ellen was made ready for the journey. O, how it
tried my heart to send her away, so young, alone, among strangers! Without
a mother's love to shelter her from the storms of life; almost without
memory of a mother! I doubted whether she and Benny would have for me the
natural affection that children feel for a parent. I thought to myself that
I might perhaps never see my daughter again, and I had a great desire that
she should look upon me, before she went, that she might take my image with
her in her memory. It seemed to me cruel to have her brought to my dungeon.
It was sorrow enough for her young heart to know that her mother was a
victim of slavery, without seeing the wretched hiding-place to which it had
driven her. I begged permission to pass the last night in one of the open
chambers, with my little girl. They thought I was crazy to think of
trusting such a young child with my perilous secret. I told them I had
watched her character, and I felt sure she would not betray me; that I was
determined to have an interview, and if they would not facilitate it, I
would take my own way to obtain it. They remonstrated against the rashness
of such a proceeding; but finding they could not change my purpose, they
yielded. I slipped through the trap-door into the storeroom, and my uncle
kept watch at the gate, while I passed into the piazza and went up stairs,
to the room I used to occupy. It was more than five years since I had seen
it; and how the memories crowded on me! There I had taken shelter when my
mistress drove me from her house; there came my old tyrant, to mock,
insult, and curse me; there my children were first laid in my arms; there I
had watched over them, each day with a deeper and sadder love; there I had
knelt to God, in anguish of heart, to forgive the wrong I had done. How
vividly it all came back! And after this long, gloomy interval, I stood
there such a wreck!

In the midst of these meditations, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The
door opened, and my uncle Phillip came in, leading Ellen by the hand. I put
my arms round her, and said, "Ellen, my dear child, I am your mother." She
drew back a little, and looked at me; then, with sweet confidence, she laid
her cheek against mine, and I folded her to the heart that had been so long
desolated. She was the first to speak. Raising her head, she said,
inquiringly, "You really _are_ my mother?" I told her I really was; that
during all the long time she had not seen me, I had loved her most
tenderly; and that now she was going away, I wanted to see her and talk
with her, that she might remember me. With a sob in her voice, she said,
"I'm glad you've come to see me; but why didn't you ever come before? Benny
and I have wanted so much to see you! He remembers you, and sometimes he
tells me about you. Why didn't you come home when Dr. Flint went to bring
you?"

I answered, "I couldn't come before, dear. But now that I am with you, tell
me whether you like to go away." "I don't know," said she, crying.
"Grandmother says I ought not to cry; that I am going to a good place,
where I can learn to read and write, and that by and by I can write her a
letter. But I shan't have Benny, or grandmother, or uncle Phillip, or any
body to love me. Can't you go with me? O, _do_ go, dear mother!"

I told her I couldn't go now; but sometime I would come to her, and then
she and Benny and I would live together, and have happy times. She wanted
to run and bring Benny to see me now. I told her he was going to the north,
before long, with uncle Phillip, and then I would come to see him before he
went away. I asked if she would like to have me stay all night and sleep
with her. "O, yes," she replied. Then, turning to her uncle, she said,
pleadingly, "_May_ I stay? Please, uncle! She is my own mother." He laid
his hand on her head, and said, solemnly, "Ellen, this is the secret you
have promised grandmother never to tell. If you ever speak of it to any
body, they will never let you see your grandmother again, and your mother
can never come to Brooklyn." "Uncle," she replied, "I will never tell." He
told her she might stay with me; and when he had gone, I took her in my
arms and told her I was a slave, and that was the reason she must never say
she had seen me. I exhorted her to be a good child, to try to please the
people where she was going, and that God would raise her up friends. I told
her to say her prayers, and remember always to pray for her poor mother,
and that God would permit us to meet again. She wept, and I did not check
her tears. Perhaps she would never again have a chance to pour her tears
into a mother's bosom. All night she nestled in my arms, and I had no
inclination to slumber. The moments were too precious to lose any of them.
Once, when I thought she was asleep, I kissed her forehead softly, and she
said, "I am not asleep, dear mother."

Before dawn they came to take me back to my den. I drew aside the window
curtain, to take a last look of my child. The moonlight shone on her face,
and I bent over her, as I had done years before, that wretched night when I
ran away. I hugged her close to my throbbing heart; and tears, too sad for
such young eyes to shed, flowed down her cheeks, as she gave her last kiss,
and whispered in my ear, "Mother, I will never tell." And she never did.

When I got back to my den, I threw myself on the bed and wept there alone
in the darkness. It seemed as if my heart would burst. When the time for
Ellen's departure drew nigh, I could hear neighbors and friends saying to
her, "Good by, Ellen. I hope your poor mother will find you out. _Won't_
you be glad to see her!" She replied, "Yes, ma'am;" and they little dreamed
of the weighty secret that weighed down her young heart. She was an
affectionate child, but naturally very reserved, except with those she
loved, and I felt secure that my secret would be safe with her. I heard the
gate close after her, with such feelings as only a slave mother can
experience. During the day my meditations were very sad. Sometimes I feared
I had been very selfish not to give up all claim to her, and let her go to
Illinois, to be adopted by Mrs. Sands's sister. It was my experience of
slavery that decided me against it. I feared that circumstances might arise
that would cause her to be sent back. I felt confident that I should go to
New York myself; and then I should be able to watch over her, and in some
degree protect her.

Dr. Flint's family knew nothing of the proposed arrangement till after
Ellen was gone, and the news displeased them greatly. Mrs. Flint called on
Mrs. Sands's sister to inquire into the matter. She expressed her opinion
very freely as to the respect Mr. Sands showed for his wife, and for his
own character, in acknowledging those "young niggers." And as for sending
Ellen away, she pronounced it to be just as much stealing as it would be
for him to come and take a piece of furniture out of her parlor. She said
her daughter was not of age to sign the bill of sale, and the children were
her property; and when she became of age, or was married, she could take
them, wherever she could lay hands on them.

Miss Emily Flint, the little girl to whom I had been bequeathed, was now in
her sixteenth year. Her mother considered it all right and honorable for
her, or her future husband, to steal my children; but she did not
understand how any body could hold up their heads in respectable society,
after they had purchased their own children, as Mr. Sands had done. Dr.
Flint said very little. Perhaps he thought that Benny would be less likely
to be sent away if he kept quiet. One of my letters, that fell into his
hands, was dated from Canada; and he seldom spoke of me now. This state of
things enabled me to slip down into the storeroom more frequently, where I
could stand upright, and move my limbs more freely.

Days, weeks, and months passed, and there came no news of Ellen. I sent a
letter to Brooklyn, written in my grandmother's name, to inquire whether
she had arrived there. Answer was returned that she had not. I wrote to her
in Washington; but no notice was taken of it. There was one person there,
who ought to have had some sympathy with the anxiety of the child's friends
at home; but the links of such relations as he had formed with me, are
easily broken and cast away as rubbish. Yet how protectingly and
persuasively he once talked to the poor, helpless slave girl! And how
entirely I trusted him! But now suspicions darkened my mind. Was my child
dead, or had they deceived me, and sold her?

If the secret memoirs of many members of Congress should be published,
curious details would be unfolded. I once saw a letter from a member of
Congress to a slave, who was the mother of six of his children. He wrote to
request that she would send her children away from the great house before
his return, as he expected to be accompanied by friends. The woman could
not read, and was obliged to employ another to read the letter. The
existence of the colored children did not trouble this gentleman, it was
only the fear that friends might recognize in their features a resemblance
to him.

At the end of six months, a letter came to my grandmother, from Brooklyn.
It was written by a young lady in the family, and announced that Ellen had
just arrived. It contained the following message from her: "I do try to do
just as you told me to, and I pray for you every night and morning." I
understood that these words were meant for me; and they were a balsam to my
heart. The writer closed her letter by saying, "Ellen is a nice little
girl, and we shall like to have her with us. My cousin, Mr. Sands, has
given her to me, to be my little waiting maid. I shall send her to school,
and I hope some day she will write to you herself." This letter perplexed
and troubled me. Had my child's father merely placed her there till she was
old enough to support herself? Or had he given her to his cousin, as a
piece of property? If the last idea was correct, his cousin might return to
the south at any time, and hold Ellen as a slave. I tried to put away from
me the painful thought that such a foul wrong could have been done to us. I
said to myself, "Surely there must be _some_ justice in man;" then I
remembered, with a sigh, how slavery perverted all the natural feelings of
the human heart. It gave me a pang to look on my light-hearted boy. He
believed himself free; and to have him brought under the yoke of slavery,
would be more than I could bear. How I longed to have him safely out of the
reach of its power!




I have mentioned my great-aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint's family, and
who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered from
him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is, as far as
slaves _can_ marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress, and a
clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without any legal
value. Her master or mistress could annul it any day they pleased. She had
always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint's chamber door,
that she might be within call. When she was married, she was told she might
have the use of a small room in an outhouse. Her mother and her husband
furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was allowed to sleep there when
he was at home. But on the wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her
old post on the entry floor.

Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to be a
mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what could
she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to lie at
her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give premature
birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume her place on
the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint's babe needed her attentions. She kept
her station there through summer and winter, until she had given premature
birth to six children; and all the while she was employed as night-nurse to
Mrs. Flint's children. Finally, toiling all day, and being deprived of rest
at night, completely broke down her constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it
was impossible she could ever become the mother of a living child. The fear
of losing so valuable a servant by death, now induced them to allow her to
sleep in her little room in the out-house, except when there was sickness
in the family. She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a
few days, and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow
as she held the last dead baby in her arms. "I wish it could have lived,"
she said; "it is not the will of God that any of my children should live.
But I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven."

Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint's family. Indeed,
she was the _factotum_ of the household. Nothing went on well without her.
She was my mother's twin sister, and, as far as was in her power, she
supplied a mother's place to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I
lived in my old master's house, and the bond between us was very strong.
When my friends tried to discourage me from running away; she always
encouraged me. When they thought I had better return and ask my master's
pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never
to yield. She said if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my
children; and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave
them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life.
After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to
bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to
listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack! "I am old,
and have not long to live," she used to say; "and I could die happy if I
could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I
do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness." I would beg her
not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all suffering
sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I should
always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life.
A word from her always strengthened me; and not me only. The whole family
relied upon her judgement, and were guided by her advice. I had been in my
cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her
last remaining daughter. She was very ill, and they said she would die.
Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint's house for several years. They had
treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now. She was grateful
for permission to watch by the death-bed of her child. They had always been
devoted to each other; and now they sat looking into each other's eyes,
longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of
both. My aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and
the last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance,
she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she
would try to hold up her hand; to let her know that all was well with her.
Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying
woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side. His
eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful
servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flint took
to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While my grandmother sat alone
with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who had always
been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to her. "Martha,"
said he, "aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes where you are, I
hope you will be kind to him, for her sake." She replied, "Your wife was my
foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little
know me if you think I can feel any thing but good will for her children."

"I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of it,"
said he; "and that Linda would come to supply her aunt's place. She would
be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for her. I wish
it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away from you, she
would be a great comfort to your old age." He knew he was touching a
tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, "It was
not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are gone; and of my nine
children only one is left. God help me!"

To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I knew
that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had helped
to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened constantly to
hear what news was brought from the great house; and the thought that I
could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last, as uncle Phillip
came into the house, I heard some one inquire, "How is she?" and he
answered, "She is dead." My little cell seemed whirling round, and I knew
nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me.
I had no need to ask any questions. He whispered, "Linda, she died happy."
I could not weep. My fixed gaze troubled him. "Don't look _so_" he said.
"Don't add to my poor mother's trouble. Remember how much she has to bear,
and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her." Ah, yes, that blessed
old grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms
of a slave-mother's life. She did indeed need consolation!

Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently
without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her health
by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But now she became
very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a beautiful
illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder and slave, if
the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her feet. She sent for
the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to burying aunt Nancy in
the doctor's family burial-place. No colored person had ever been allowed
interment in the white people's burying-ground, and the minister knew that
all the deceased of your family reposed together in the old graveyard of
the slaves. He therefore replied, "I have no objection to complying with
your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy's _mother_ may have some choice as to
where her remains shall be deposited."

It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings.
When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy to lie
with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would be
buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she said it
was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from _her_. She might have
added with touching pathos, "I was so long _used_ to sleep with her lying
near me, on the entry floor."

My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense;
and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors to slaves and
their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, but perfectly
respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs. Flint's minister read
the funeral service. There was a large concourse of colored people, bond
and free, and a few white persons who had always been friendly to our
family. Dr. Flint's carriage was in the procession; and when the body was
deposited in its humble resting place, the mistress dropped a tear, and
returned to her carriage, probably thinking she had performed her duty
nobly.

It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern
travellers, passing through the place, might have described this tribute of
respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the "patriarchal
institution;" a touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders and
their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed this
impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them a
different story. We could have given them a chapter of wrongs and
sufferings, that would have touched their hearts, if they _had_ any hearts
to feel for the colored people. We could have told them how the poor old
slave-mother had toiled, year after year, to earn eight hundred dollars to
buy her son Phillip's right to his own earnings; and how that same Phillip
paid the expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much
credit to the master. We could also have told them of a poor, blighted
young creature, shut up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures
that would be inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the
face of her departed friend.

All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting
for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes
falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living.

It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had always
been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported her. But
her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving
deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to knock for me to
come to the trapdoor, and each place had a different meaning. She now came
oftener than she had done, and talked to me of her dead daughter, while
tears trickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks. I said all I could to
comfort her; but it was a sad reflection, that instead of being able to
help her, I was a constant source of anxiety and trouble. The poor old back
was fitted to its burden. It bent under it, but did not break.




I hardly expect that the reader will credit me, when I affirm that I lived
in that little dismal hole, almost deprived of light and air, and with no
space to move my limbs, for nearly seven years. But it is a fact; and to me
a sad one, even now; for my body still suffers from the effects of that
long imprisonment, to say nothing of my soul. Members of my family, now
living in New York and Boston, can testify to the truth of what I say.

Countless were the nights that I sat late at the little loophole scarcely
large enough to give me a glimpse of one twinkling star. There, heard the
patrols and slave-hunters conferring together about the capture of
runaways, well knowing how rejoiced they would be to catch me.

Season after season, year after year, I peeped at my children's faces, and
heard their sweet voices, with a heart yearning all the while to say, "Your
mother is here." Sometimes it appeared to me as if ages had rolled away
since I entered upon that gloomy, monotonous existence. At times, I was
stupefied and listless; at other times I became very impatient to know when
these dark years would end, and I should again be allowed to feel the
sunshine, and breathe the pure air.

After Ellen left us, this feeling increased. Mr. Sands had agreed that
Benny might go to the north whenever his uncle Phillip could go with him;
and I was anxious to be there also, to watch over my children, and protect
them so far as I was able. Moreover, I was likely to be drowned out of my
den, if I remained much longer; for the slight roof was getting badly out
of repair, and uncle Phillip was afraid to remove the shingles, lest some
one should get a glimpse of me. When storms occurred in the night, they
spread mats and bits of carpet, which in the morning appeared to have been
laid out to dry; but to cover the roof in the daytime might have attracted
attention. Consequently, my clothes and bedding were often drenched; a
process by which the pains and aches in my cramped and stiffened limbs were
greatly increased. I revolved various plans of escape in my mind, which I
sometimes imparted to my grandmother, when she came to whisper with me at
the trap-door. The kind-hearted old woman had an intense sympathy for
runaways. She had known too much of the cruelties inflicted on those who
were captured. Her memory always flew back at once to the sufferings of her
bright and handsome son, Benjamin, the youngest and dearest of her flock.
So, whenever I alluded to the subject, she would groan out, "O, don't think
of it, child. You'll break my heart." I had no good old aunt Nancy now to
encourage me; but my brother William and my children were continually
beckoning me to the north.

And now I must go back a few months in my story. I have stated that the
first of January was the time for selling slaves, or leasing them out to
new masters. If time were counted by heart-throbs, the poor slaves might
reckon years of suffering during that festival so joyous to the free. On
the New Year's day preceding my aunt's death, one of my friends, named
Fanny, was to be sold at auction, to pay her master's debts. My thoughts
were with her during all the day, and at night I anxiously inquired what
had been her fate. I was told that she had been sold to one master, and her
four little girls to another master, far distant; that she had escaped from
her purchaser, and was not to be found. Her mother was the old Aggie I have
spoken of. She lived in a small tenement belonging to my grandmother, and
built on the same lot with her own house. Her dwelling was searched and
watched, and that brought the patrols so near me that I was obliged to keep
very close in my den. The hunters were somehow eluded; and not long
afterwards Benny accidentally caught sight of Fanny in her mother's hut. He
told his grandmother, who charged him never to speak of it, explaining to
him the frightful consequences; and he never betrayed the trust. Aggie
little dreamed that my grandmother knew where her daughter was concealed,
and that the stooping form of her old neighbor was bending under a similar
burden of anxiety and fear; but these dangerous secrets deepened the
sympathy between the two old persecuted mothers.

My friend Fanny and I remained many weeks hidden within call of each other;
but she was unconscious of the fact. I longed to have her share my den,
which seemed a more secure retreat than her own; but I had brought so much
trouble on my grandmother, that it seemed wrong to ask her to incur greater
risks. My restlessness increased. I had lived too long in bodily pain and
anguish of spirit. Always I was in dread that by some accident, or some
contrivance, slavery would succeed in snatching my children from me. This
thought drove me nearly frantic, and I determined to steer for the North
Star at all hazards. At this crisis, Providence opened an unexpected way
for me to escape. My friend Peter came one evening, and asked to speak with
me. "Your day has come, Linda," said he. "I have found a chance for you to
go to the Free States. You have a fortnight to decide." The news seemed too
good to be true; but Peter explained his arrangements, and told me all that
was necessary was for me to say I would go. I was going to answer him with
a joyful yes, when the thought of Benny came to my mind. I told him the
temptation was exceedingly strong, but I was terribly afraid of Dr. Flint's
alleged power over my child, and that I could not go and leave him behind.
Peter remonstrated earnestly. He said such a good chance might never occur
again; that Benny was free, and could be sent to me; and that for the sake
of my children's welfare I ought not to hesitate a moment. I told him I
would consult with uncle Phillip. My uncle rejoiced in the plan, and bade
me go by all means. He promised, if his life was spared, that he would
either bring or send my son to me as soon as I reached a place of safety. I
resolved to go, but thought nothing had better be said to my grandmother
till very near the time of departure. But my uncle thought she would feel
it more keenly if I left here so suddenly. "I will reason with her," said
he, "and convince her how necessary it is, not only for your sake, but for
hers also. You cannot be blind to the fact that she is sinking under her
burdens." I was not blind to it. I knew that my concealment was an
ever-present source of anxiety, and that the older she grew the more
nervously fearful she was of discovery. My uncle talked with her, and
finally succeeded in persuading her that it was absolutely necessary for me
to seize the chance so unexpectedly offered.

The anticipation of being a free woman proved almost too much for my weak
frame. The excitement stimulated me, and at the same time bewildered me. I
made busy preparations for my journey, and for my son to follow me. I
resolved to have an interview with him before I went, that I might give him
cautions and advice, and tell him how anxiously I should be waiting for him
at the north. Grandmother stole up to me as often as possible to whisper
words of counsel. She insisted upon writing to Dr. Flint, as soon as I
arrived in the Free States, and asking him to sell me to her. She said she
would sacrifice her house, and all she had in the world, for the sake of
having me safe with my children in any part of the world. If she could only
live to know _that_ she could die in peace. I promised the dear old
faithful friend that I would write to her as soon as I arrived, and put the
letter in a safe way to reach her; but in my own mind I resolved that not
another cent of her hard earnings should be spent to pay rapacious
slaveholders for what they called their property. And even if I had not
been unwilling to buy what I had already a right to possess, common
humanity would have prevented me from accepting the generous offer, at the
expense of turning my aged relative out of house and home, when she was
trembling on the brink of the grave.

I was to escape in a vessel; but I forbear to mention any further
particulars. I was in readiness, but the vessel was unexpectedly detained
several days. Meantime, news came to town of a most horrible murder
committed on a fugitive slave, named James. Charity, the mother of this
unfortunate young man, had been an old acquaintance of ours. I have told
the shocking particulars of his death, in my description of some of the
neighboring slaveholders. My grandmother, always nervously sensitive about
runaways, was terribly frightened. She felt sure that a similar fate
awaited me, if I did not desist from my enterprise. She sobbed, and
groaned, and entreated me not to go. Her excessive fear was somewhat
contagious, and my heart was not proof against her extreme agony. I was
grievously disappointed, but I promised to relinquish my project.

When my friend Peter was apprised of this, he was both disappointed and
vexed. He said, that judging from our past experience, it would be a long
time before I had such another chance to throw away. I told him it need not
be thrown away; that I had a friend concealed near by, who would be glad
enough to take the place that had been provided for me. I told him about
poor Fanny, and the kind-hearted, noble fellow, who never turned his back
upon any body in distress, white or black, expressed his readiness to help
her. Aggie was much surprised when she found that we knew her secret. She
was rejoiced to hear of such a chance for Fanny, and arrangements were made
for her to go on board the vessel the next night. They both supposed that I
had long been at the north, therefore my name was not mentioned in the
transaction. Fanny was carried on board at the appointed time, and stowed
away in a very small cabin. This accommodation had been purchased at a
price that would pay for a voyage to England. But when one proposes to go
to fine old England, they stop to calculate whether they can afford the
cost of the pleasure; while in making a bargain to escape from slavery, the
trembling victim is ready to say, "take all I have, only don't betray me!"

The next morning I peeped through my loophole, and saw that it was dark and
cloudy. At night I received news that the wind was ahead, and the vessel
had not sailed. I was exceedingly anxious about Fanny, and Peter too, who
was running a tremendous risk at my instigation. Next day the wind and
weather remained the same. Poor Fanny had been half dead with fright when
they carried her on board, and I could readily imagine how she must be
suffering now. Grandmother came often to my den, to say how thankful she
was I did not go. On the third morning she rapped for me to come down to
the storeroom. The poor old sufferer was breaking down under her weight of
trouble. She was easily flurried now. I found her in a nervous, excited
state, but I was not aware that she had forgotten to lock the door behind
her, as usual. She was exceedingly worried about the detention of the
vessel. She was afraid all would be discovered, and then Fanny, and Peter,
and I, would all be tortured to death, and Phillip would be utterly ruined,
and her house would be torn down. Poor Peter! If he should die such a
horrible death as the poor slave James had lately done, and all for his
kindness in trying to help me, how dreadful it would be for us all! Alas,
the thought was familiar to me, and had sent many a sharp pang through my
heart. I tried to suppress my own anxiety, and speak soothingly to her. She
brought in some allusion to aunt Nancy, the dear daughter she had recently
buried, and then she lost all control of herself. As she stood there,
trembling and sobbing, a voice from the piazza called out, "Whar is you,
aunt Marthy?" Grandmother was startled, and in her agitation opened the
door, without thinking of me. In stepped Jenny, the mischievous housemaid,
who had tried to enter my room, when I was concealed in the house of my
white benefactress. "I's bin huntin ebery whar for you, aunt Marthy," said
she. "My missis wants you to send her some crackers." I had slunk down
behind a barrel, which entirely screened me, but I imagined that Jenny was
looking directly at the spot, and my heart beat violently. My grandmother
immediately thought what she had done, and went out quickly with Jenny to
count the crackers locking the door after her. She returned to me, in a few
minutes, the perfect picture of despair. "Poor child!" she exclaimed, "my
carelessness has ruined you. The boat ain't gone yet. Get ready
immediately, and go with Fanny. I ain't got another word to say against it
now; for there's no telling what may happen this day."

Uncle Phillip was sent for, and he agreed with his mother in thinking that
Jenny would inform Dr. Flint in less than twenty-four hours. He advised
getting me on board the boat, if possible; if not, I had better keep very
still in my den, where they could not find me without tearing the house
down. He said it would not do for him to move in the matter, because
suspicion would be immediately excited; but he promised to communicate with
Peter. I felt reluctant to apply to him again, having implicated him too
much already; but there seemed to be no alternative. Vexed as Peter had
been by my indecision, he was true to his generous nature, and said at once
that he would do his best to help me, trusting I should show myself a
stronger woman this time.

He immediately proceeded to the wharf, and found that the wind had shifted,
and the vessel was slowly beating down stream. On some pretext of urgent
necessity, he offered two boatmen a dollar apiece to catch up with her. He
was of lighter complexion than the boatmen he hired, and when the captain
saw them coming so rapidly, he thought officers were pursuing his vessel in
search of the runaway slave he had on board. They hoisted sails, but the
boat gained upon them, and the indefatigable Peter sprang on board.

The captain at once recognized him. Peter asked him to go below, to speak
about a bad bill he had given him. When he told his errand, the captain
replied, "Why, the woman's here already; and I've put her where you or the
devil would have a tough job to find her."

"But it is another woman I want to bring," said Peter. "_She_ is in great
distress, too, and you shall be paid any thing within reason, if you'll
stop and take her."

"What's her name?" inquired the captain. "Linda," he replied.

"That's the name of the woman already here," rejoined the captain. "By
George! I believe you mean to betray me."

"O!" exclaimed Peter, "God knows I wouldn't harm a hair of your head. I am
too grateful to you. But there really _is_ another woman in great danger.
Do have the humanity to stop and take her!"

After a while they came to an understanding. Fanny, not dreaming I was any
where about in that region, had assumed my name, though she called herself
Johnson. "Linda is a common name," said Peter, "and the woman I want to
bring is Linda Brent."

The captain agreed to wait at a certain place till evening, being
handsomely paid for his detention.

Of course, the day was an anxious one for us all. But we concluded that if
Jenny had seen me, she would be too wise to let her mistress know of it;
and that she probably would not get a chance to see Dr. Flint's family till
evening, for I knew very well what were the rules in that household. I
afterwards believed that she did not see me; for nothing ever came of it,
and she was one of those base characters that would have jumped to betray a
suffering fellow being for the sake of thirty pieces of silver.

I made all my arrangements to go on board as soon as it was dusk. The
intervening time I resolved to spend with my son. I had not spoken to him
for seven years, though I had been under the same roof, and seen him every
day, when I was well enough to sit at the loophole. I did not dare to
venture beyond the storeroom; so they brought him there, and locked us up
together, in a place concealed from the piazza door. It was an agitating
interview for both of us. After we had talked and wept together for a
little while, he said, "Mother, I'm glad you're going away. I wish I could
go with you. I knew you was here; and I have been _so_ afraid they would
come and catch you!" I was greatly surprised, and asked him how he had
found it out.

He replied, "I was standing under the eaves, one day, before Ellen went
away, and I heard somebody cough up over the wood shed. I don't know what
made me think it was you, but I did think so. I missed Ellen, the night
before she went away; and grandmother brought her back into the room in the
night; and I thought maybe she'd been to see _you_, before she went, for I
heard grandmother whisper to her, 'Now go to sleep; and remember never to
tell.'"

I asked him if he ever mentioned his suspicions to his sister. He said he
never did; but after he heard the cough, if he saw her playing with other
children on that side of the house, he always tried to coax her round to
the other side, for fear they would hear me cough, too. He said he had kept
a close lookout for Dr. Flint, and if he saw him speak to a constable, or a
patrol, he always told grandmother. I now recollected that I had seen him
manifest uneasiness, when people were on that side of the house, and I had
at the time been puzzled to conjecture a motive for his actions. Such
prudence may seem extraordinary in a boy of twelve years, but slaves, being
surrounded by mysteries, deceptions, and dangers, early learn to be
suspicious and watchful, and prematurely cautious and cunning. He had never
asked a question of grandmother, or uncle Phillip, and I had often heard
him chime in with other children, when they spoke of my being at the north.

I told him I was now really going to the Free States, and if he was a good,
honest boy, and a loving child to his dear old grandmother, the Lord would
bless him, and bring him to me, and we and Ellen would live together. He
began to tell me that grandmother had not eaten any thing all day. While he
was speaking, the door was unlocked, and she came in with a small bag of
money, which she wanted me to take. I begged her to keep a part of it, at
least, to pay for Benny's being sent to the north; but she insisted, while
her tears were falling fast, that I should take the whole. "You may be sick
among strangers," she said, "and they would send you to the poorhouse to
die." Ah, that good grandmother!

For the last time I went up to my nook. Its desolate appearance no longer
chilled me, for the light of hope had risen in my soul. Yet, even with the
blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt very sad at leaving forever
that old homestead, where I had been sheltered so long by the dear old
grandmother; where I had dreamed my first young dream of love; and where,
after that had faded away, my children came to twine themselves so closely
round my desolate heart. As the hour approached for me to leave, I again
descended to the storeroom. My grandmother and Benny were there. She took
me by the hand, and said, "Linda, let us pray." We knelt down together,
with my child pressed to my heart, and my other arm round the faithful,
loving old friend I was about to leave forever. On no other occasion has it
ever been my lot to listen to so fervent a supplication for mercy and
protection. It thrilled through my heart, and inspired me with trust in
God.

Peter was waiting for me in the street. I was soon by his side, faint in
body, but strong of purpose. I did not look back upon the old place, though
I felt that I should never see it again.

 Linda receives several letters from her brother, William, who has gone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. Suddenly, the letters stop, and Linda learns that William has escaped. Initially, she fears for her children, thinking that Mr. Sands might decide to sell them to make up for his loss. But Mr. Sands -- who feels confident that William will return -- is more surprised and disappointed by William's action than angry. After overhearing her grandmother's conversation with an elderly woman whose children have all been sold, Linda reminds herself of William's resolve to be free and is finally able to rejoice in his freedom, although, like her grandmother, she fears for his safety. Meanwhile, Mr. Sands makes plans to send Ellen to live with his sister in Illinois, while Benjamin is to live with Mr. Sands and his new wife. When Linda learns of the plans, she is devastated at the thought of not being able to see her children any longer, although she realizes that the moves would be in their best interests. Ultimately, Mr. Sands decides to send Ellen to live with some of his relatives in Brooklyn. On the eve of Ellen's departure, Linda comes out of hiding and spends the evening with Ellen. Six months later, Linda's grandmother receives a letter announcing Ellen's safe arrival in Brooklyn. About this same time, Aunt Nancy dies, and Linda's grandmother is devastated by her sister's death. Aunt Nancy's death also forces Linda to reexamine her situation and to renew her resolve to escape before she, too, dies as a slave. She also realizes that the longer she remains, the greater danger she poses for her grandmother, a fact that is brought home to her when she narrowly escapes being discovered by Jenny, the house slave of her former benefactress. With the help of Uncle Phillip and his friend Peter, plans are made for Linda and her friend Fanny to travel north. Before she leaves, Linda introduces herself to her son, Ben, whom she has not spoken to for seven years while she was in hiding. He confesses that he has known of her hiding place all along.

