Chapter: Early the next morning I left my grandmother's with my youngest child. My
boy was ill, and I left him behind. I had many sad thoughts as the old
wagon jolted on. Hitherto, I had suffered alone; now, my little one was to
be treated as a slave. As we drew near the great house, I thought of the
time when I was formerly sent there out of revenge. I wondered for what
purpose I was now sent. I could not tell. I resolved to obey orders so far
as duty required; but within myself, I determined to make my stay as short
as possible. Mr. Flint was waiting to receive us, and told me to follow him
up stairs to receive orders for the day. My little Ellen was left below in
the kitchen. It was a change for her, who had always been so carefully
tended. My young master said she might amuse herself in the yard. This was
kind of him, since the child was hateful to his sight. My task was to fit
up the house for the reception of the bride. In the midst of sheets,
tablecloths, towels, drapery, and carpeting, my head was as busy planning,
as were my fingers with the needle. At noon I was allowed to go to Ellen.
She had sobbed herself to sleep. I heard Mr. Flint say to a neighbor, "I've
got her down here, and I'll soon take the town notions out of her head. My
father is partly to blame for her nonsense. He ought to have broke her in
long ago." The remark was made within my hearing, and it would have been
quite as manly to have made it to my face. He _had_ said things to my face
which might, or might not, have surprised his neighbor if he had known of
them. He was "a chip of the old block."

I resolved to give him no cause to accuse me of being too much of a lady,
so far as work was concerned. I worked day and night, with wretchedness
before me. When I lay down beside my child, I felt how much easier it would
be to see her die than to see her master beat her about, as I daily saw him
beat other little ones. The spirit of the mothers was so crushed by the
lash, that they stood by, without courage to remonstrate. How much more
must I suffer, before I should be "broke in" to that degree?

I wished to appear as contented as possible. Sometimes I had an opportunity
to send a few lines home; and this brought up recollections that made it
difficult, for a time, to seem calm and indifferent to my lot.
Notwithstanding my efforts, I saw that Mr. Flint regarded me with a
suspicious eye. Ellen broke down under the trials of her new life.
Separated from me, with no one to look after her, she wandered about, and
in a few days cried herself sick. One day, she sat under the window where I
was at work, crying that weary cry which makes a mother's heart bleed. I
was obliged to steel myself to bear it. After a while it ceased. I looked
out, and she was gone. As it was near noon, I ventured to go down in search
of her. The great house was raised two feet above the ground. I looked
under it, and saw her about midway, fast asleep. I crept under and drew her
out. As I held her in my arms, I thought how well it would be for her if
she never waked up; and I uttered my thought aloud. I was startled to hear
some one say, "Did you speak to me?" I looked up, and saw Mr. Flint
standing beside me. He said nothing further, but turned, frowning, away.
That night he sent Ellen a biscuit and a cup of sweetened milk. This
generosity surprised me. I learned afterwards, that in the afternoon he had
killed a large snake, which crept from under the house; and I supposed that
incident had prompted his unusual kindness.

The next morning the old cart was loaded with shingles for town. I put
Ellen into it, and sent her to her grandmother. Mr. Flint said I ought to
have asked his permission. I told him the child was sick, and required
attention which I had no time to give. He let it pass; for he was aware
that I had accomplished much work in a little time.

I had been three weeks on the plantation, when I planned a visit home. It
must be at night, after every body was in bed. I was six miles from town,
and the road was very dreary. I was to go with a young man, who, I knew,
often stole to town to see his mother. One night, when all was quiet, we
started. Fear gave speed to our steps, and we were not long in performing
the journey. I arrived at my grandmother's. Her bed room was on the first
floor, and the window was open, the weather being warm. I spoke to her and
she awoke. She let me in and closed the window, lest some late passer-by
should see me. A light was brought, and the whole household gathered round
me, some smiling and some crying. I went to look at my children, and
thanked God for their happy sleep. The tears fell as I leaned over them. As
I moved to leave, Benny stirred. I turned back, and whispered, "Mother is
here." After digging at his eyes with his little fist, they opened, and he
sat up in bed, looking at me curiously. Having satisfied himself that it
was I, he exclaimed, "O mother! you ain't dad, are you? They didn't cut off
your head at the plantation, did they?"

My time was up too soon, and my guide was waiting for me. I laid Benny back
in his bed, and dried his tears by a promise to come again soon. Rapidly we
retraced our steps back to the plantation. About half way we were met by a
company of four patrols. Luckily we heard their horse's hoofs before they
came in sight, and we had time to hide behind a large tree. They passed,
hallooing and shouting in a manner that indicated a recent carousal. How
thankful we were that they had not their dogs with them! We hastened our
footsteps, and when we arrived on the plantation we heard the sound of the
hand-mill. The slaves were grinding their corn. We were safely in the house
before the horn summoned them to their labor. I divided my little parcel of
food with my guide, knowing that he had lost the chance of grinding his
corn, and must toil all day in the field.

Mr. Flint often took an inspection of the house, to see that no one was
idle. The entire management of the work was trusted to me, because he knew
nothing about it; and rather than hire a superintendent he contented
himself with my arrangements. He had often urged upon his father the
necessity of having me at the plantation to take charge of his affairs, and
make clothes for the slaves; but the old man knew him too well to consent
to that arrangement.

When I had been working a month at the plantation, the great aunt of Mr.
Flint came to make him a visit. This was the good old lady who paid fifty
dollars for my grandmother, for the purpose of making her free, when she
stood on the auction block. My grandmother loved this old lady, whom we all
called Miss Fanny. She often came to take tea with us. On such occasions
the table was spread with a snow-white cloth, and the china cups and silver
spoons were taken from the old-fashioned buffet. There were hot muffins,
tea rusks, and delicious sweetmeats. My grandmother kept two cows, and the
fresh cream was Miss Fanny's delight. She invariably declared that it was
the best in town. The old ladies had cosey times together. They would work
and chat, and sometimes, while talking over old times, their spectacles
would get dim with tears, and would have to be taken off and wiped. When
Miss Fanny bade us good by, her bag was filled with grandmother's best
cakes, and she was urged to come again soon.

There had been a time when Dr. Flint's wife came to take tea with us, and
when her children were also sent to have a feast of "Aunt Marthy's" nice
cooking. But after I became an object of her jealousy and spite, she was
angry with grandmother for giving a shelter to me and my children. She
would not even speak to her in the street. This wounded my grandmother's
feelings, for she could not retain ill will against the woman whom she had
nourished with her milk when a babe. The doctor's wife would gladly have
prevented our intercourse with Miss Fanny if she could have done it, but
fortunately she was not dependent on the bounty of the Flints. She had
enough to be independent; and that is more than can ever be gained from
charity, however lavish it may be.

Miss Fanny was endeared to me by many recollections, and I was rejoiced to
see her at the plantation. The warmth of her large, loyal heart made the
house seem pleasanter while she was in it. She staid a week, and I had many
talks with her. She said her principal object in coming was to see how I
was treated, and whether any thing could be done for me. She inquired
whether she could help me in any way. I told her I believed not. She
condoled with me in her own peculiar way; saying she wished that I and all
my grandmother's family were at rest in our graves, for not until then
should she feel any peace about us. The good old soul did not dream that I
was planning to bestow peace upon her, with regard to myself and my
children; not by death, but by securing our freedom.

Again and again I had traversed those dreary twelve miles, to and from the
town; and all the way, I was meditating upon some means of escape for
myself and my children. My friends had made every effort that ingenuity
could devise to effect our purchase, but all their plans had proved
abortive. Dr. Flint was suspicious, and determined not to loosen his grasp
upon us. I could have made my escape alone; but it was more for my helpless
children than for myself that I longed for freedom. Though the boon would
have been precious to me, above all price, I would not have taken it at the
expense of leaving them in slavery. Every trial I endured, every sacrifice
I made for their sakes, drew them closer to my heart, and gave me fresh
courage to beat back the dark waves that rolled and rolled over me in a
seemingly endless night of storms.

The six weeks were nearly completed, when Mr. Flint's bride was expected to
take possession of her new home. The arrangements were all completed, and
Mr. Flint said I had done well. He expected to leave home on Saturday, and
return with his bride the following Wednesday. After receiving various
orders from him, I ventured to ask permission to spend Sunday in town. It
was granted; for which favor I was thankful. It was the first I had ever
asked of him, and I intended it should be the last. I needed more than one
night to accomplish the project I had in view; but the whole of Sunday
would give me an opportunity. I spent the Sabbath with my grandmother. A
calmer, more beautiful day never came down out of heaven. To me it was a
day of conflicting emotions. Perhaps it was the last day I should ever
spend under that dear, old sheltering roof! Perhaps these were the last
talks I should ever have with the faithful old friend of my whole life!
Perhaps it was the last time I and my children should be together! Well,
better so, I thought, than that they should be slaves. I knew the doom that
awaited my fair baby in slavery, and I determined to save her from it, or
perish in the attempt. I went to make this vow at the graves of my poor
parents, in the burying-ground of the slaves. "There the wicked cease from
troubling, and there the weary be at rest. There the prisoners rest
together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor; the servant is free
from his master." I knelt by the graves of my parents, and thanked God, as
I had often done before, that they had not lived to witness my trials, or
to mourn over my sins. I had received my mother's blessing when she died;
and in many an hour of tribulation I had seemed to hear her voice,
sometimes chiding me, sometimes whispering loving words into my wounded
heart. I have shed many and bitter tears, to think that when I am gone from
my children they cannot remember me with such entire satisfaction as I
remembered my mother.

The graveyard was in the woods, and twilight was coming on. Nothing broke
the death-like stillness except the occasional twitter of a bird. My spirit
was overawed by the solemnity of the scene. For more than ten years I had
frequented this spot, but never had it seemed to me so sacred as now. A
black stump, at the head of my mother's grave, was all that remained of a
tree my father had planted. His grave was marked by a small wooden board,
bearing his name, the letters of which were nearly obliterated. I knelt
down and kissed them, and poured forth a prayer to God for guidance and
support in the perilous step I was about to take. As I passed the wreck of
the old meeting house, where, before Nat Turner's time, the slaves had been
allowed to meet for worship, I seemed to hear my father's voice come from
it, bidding me not to tarry till I reached freedom or the grave. I rushed
on with renovated hopes. My trust in God had been strengthened by that
prayer among the graves.

My plan was to conceal myself at the house of a friend, and remain there a
few weeks till the search was over. My hope was that the doctor would get
discouraged, and, for fear of losing my value, and also of subsequently
finding my children among the missing, he would consent to sell us; and I
knew somebody would buy us. I had done all in my power to make my children
comfortable during the time I expected to be separated from them. I was
packing my things, when grandmother came into the room, and asked what I
was doing. "I am putting my things in order," I replied. I tried to look
and speak cheerfully; but her watchful eye detected something beneath the
surface. She drew me towards her, and asked me to sit down. She looked
earnestly at me, and said, "Linda, do you want to kill your old
grandmother? Do you mean to leave your little, helpless children? I am old
now, and cannot do for your babies as I once did for you."

I replied, that if I went away, perhaps their father would be able to
secure their freedom.

"Ah, my child," said she, "don't trust too much to him. Stand by your own
children, and suffer with them till death. Nobody respects a mother who
forsakes her children; and if you leave them, you will never have a happy
moment. If you go, you will make me miserable the short time I have to
live. You would be taken and brought back, and your sufferings would be
dreadful. Remember poor Benjamin. Do give it up, Linda. Try to bear a
little longer. Things may turn out better than we expect."

My courage failed me, in view of the sorrow I should bring on that
faithful, loving old heart. I promised that I would try longer, and that I
would take nothing out of her house without her knowledge.

Whenever the children climbed on my knee, or laid their heads on my lap,
she would say, "Poor little souls! what would you do without a mother? She
don't love you as I do." And she would hug them to her own bosom, as if to
reproach me for my want of affection; but she knew all the while that I
loved them better than my life. I slept with her that night, and it was the
last time. The memory of it haunted me for many a year.

On Monday I returned to the plantation, and busied myself with preparations
for the important day. Wednesday came. It was a beautiful day, and the
faces of the slaves were as bright as the sunshine. The poor creatures were
merry. They were expecting little presents from the bride, and hoping for
better times under her administration. I had no such hopes for them. I knew
that the young wives of slaveholders often thought their authority and
importance would be best established and maintained by cruelty; and what I
had heard of young Mrs. Flint gave me no reason to expect that her rule
over them would be less severe than that of the master and overseer. Truly,
the colored race are the most cheerful and forgiving people on the face of
the earth. That their masters sleep in safety is owing to their
superabundance of heart; and yet they look upon their sufferings with less
pity than they would bestow on those of a horse or a dog.

I stood at the door with others to receive the bridegroom and bride. She
was a handsome, delicate-looking girl, and her face flushed with emotion at
sight of her new home. I thought it likely that visions of a happy future
were rising before her. It made me sad; for I knew how soon clouds would
come over her sunshine. She examined every part of the house, and told me
she was delighted with the arrangements I had made. I was afraid old Mrs.
Flint had tried to prejudice her against me, and I did my best to please
her.

All passed off smoothly for me until dinner time arrived. I did not mind
the embarrassment of waiting on a dinner party, for the first time in my
life, half so much as I did the meeting with Dr. Flint and his wife, who
would be among the guests. It was a mystery to me why Mrs. Flint had not
made her appearance at the plantation during all the time I was putting the
house in order. I had not met her, face to face, for five years, and I had
no wish to see her now. She was a praying woman, and, doubtless, considered
my present position a special answer to her prayers. Nothing could please
her better than to see me humbled and trampled upon. I was just where she
would have me--in the power of a hard, unprincipled master. She did not
speak to me when she took her seat at table; but her satisfied, triumphant
smile, when I handed her plate, was more eloquent than words. The old
doctor was not so quiet in his demonstrations. He ordered me here and
there, and spoke with peculiar emphasis when he said "your _mistress_." I
was drilled like a disgraced soldier. When all was over, and the last key
turned, I sought my pillow, thankful that God had appointed a season of
rest for the weary.

The next day my new mistress began her housekeeping. I was not exactly
appointed maid of all work; but I was to do whatever I was told. Monday
evening came. It was always a busy time. On that night the slaves received
their weekly allowance of food. Three pounds of meat, a peck of corn, and
perhaps a dozen herring were allowed to each man. Women received a pound
and a half of meat, a peck of corn, and the same number of herring.
Children over twelve years old had half the allowance of the women. The
meat was cut and weighed by the foreman of the field hands, and piled on
planks before the meat house. Then the second foreman went behind the
building, and when the first foreman called out, "Who takes this piece of
meat?" he answered by calling somebody's name. This method was resorted to
as a means of preventing partiality in distributing the meat. The young
mistress came out to see how things were done on her plantation, and she
soon gave a specimen of her character. Among those in waiting for their
allowance was a very old slave, who had faithfully served the Flint family
through three generations. When he hobbled up to get his bit of meat, the
mistress said he was too old to have any allowance; that when niggers were
too old to work, they ought to be fed on grass. Poor old man! He suffered
much before he found rest in the grave.

My mistress and I got along very well together. At the end of a week, old
Mrs. Flint made us another visit, and was closeted a long time with her
daughter-in-law. I had my suspicions what was the subject of the
conference. The old doctor's wife had been informed that I could leave the
plantation on one condition, and she was very desirous to keep me there. If
she had trusted me, as I deserved to be trusted by her, she would have had
no fears of my accepting that condition. When she entered her carriage to
return home, she said to young Mrs. Flint, "Don't neglect to send for them
as quick as possible." My heart was on the watch all the time, and I at
once concluded that she spoke of my children. The doctor came the next day,
and as I entered the room to spread the tea table, I heard him say, "Don't
wait any longer. Send for them to-morrow." I saw through the plan. They
thought my children's being there would fetter me to the spot, and that it
was a good place to break us all in to abject submission to our lot as
slaves. After the doctor left, a gentleman called, who had always
manifested friendly feelings towards my grandmother and her family. Mr.
Flint carried him over the plantation to show him the results of labor
performed by men and women who were unpaid, miserably clothed, and half
famished. The cotton crop was all they thought of. It was duly admired, and
the gentleman returned with specimens to show his friends. I was ordered to
carry water to wash his hands. As I did so, he said, "Linda, how do you
like your new home?" I told him I liked it as well as I expected. He
replied, "They don't think you are contented, and to-morrow they are going
to bring your children to be with you. I am sorry for you, Linda. I hope
they will treat you kindly." I hurried from the room, unable to thank him.
My suspicions were correct. My children were to be brought to the
plantation to be "broke in."

To this day I feel grateful to the gentleman who gave me this timely
information. It nerved me to immediate action.

 Linda heads to the plantation with her daughter Ellen. Benny's sick, so he stays behind. That's a good thing for him, since poor little Ellen is given work and separated from her mother and basically treated like a slave. Eventually, Linda's had enough and sends her back to Aunt Martha's. Mr. Flint is briefly outraged, but Linda is such a good worker that he basically has to let her do whatever she wants. After three weeks, Linda sneaks off to Aunt Martha's for a midnight visit. This is a little suspenseful, since she passes by a patrol on the way back and almost gets caught--but luckily the dudes forgot to bring their dogs, so she and her guide get back to the plantation safely. And then one day, Mr. Flint's great-aunt, Miss Fanny, comes to visit. In case you were wondering how Aunt Martha got away with so much, this is where we learn that Miss Fanny bought her freedom for fifty dollars. Miss Fanny tries to console Linda, but Linda has had about enough. She begins to plan her escape. When Mr. Flint goes to pick up his wife, Linda runs off to Aunt Martha's house to see her children and to pack her things. Aunt Martha catches Linda in the act and guilt-trips her into staying by saying that a mother should suffer along with her children. That is... questionable logic, but Linda says she'll try to stick it out a bit longer. The young Flints throw a dinner party to celebrate their new home, and Dr. Flint and his wife are invited. It goes about as well as you'd expect. The next day, Linda gets a little peek at what her future holds, when the new Mrs. Flint--wife to Mr. Flint--watches the slaves receive their weekly food allowance. She stops one old man from getting his food because, when slaves "were too old to work, they ought to be fed on grass" . Lovely. Things go all right for a while, but then a white friend of the family tells Linda that the Flints are bringing her children down to the plantation to be "broke in," which sounds all kinds of bad. This is the final straw for Linda.

