Chapter: 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 has now lived in the crawlspace for seven years, and her mobility is seriously starting to suffer. Linda tells the story of her friend Fanny, who ran away from the auction-block months ago. She has been staying in her mother Aggie's hut. Aggie's hut is owned by Aunt Martha, and is on her land, so Linda and Fanny are both in hiding pretty close to one another. One day, Linda's friend Peter tells her that there's a hiding place in a boat with her name on it. Linda is afraid to leave her son Benny behind where Dr. Flint can get him. But eventually she agrees to go. And then, a fugitive slave is brutally murdered, and Aunt Martha freaks out. She begs Linda not to run away. Linda agrees. She tells Peter to take Fanny, instead. The next day, Aunt Martha has just let Linda into the storeroom to stretch her legs, when a black maid named Jenny walks in. Linda quickly hides, but she's convinced that Jenny has seen her and is going to rat her out. She asks Peter if the offer still stands. It does. Before Linda leaves, she meets with Benny and tells him that she loves him.

