Chapter: Not far from this time Nat Turner's insurrection broke out; and the news
threw our town into great commotion. Strange that they should be alarmed,
when their slaves were so "contented and happy"! But so it was.

It was always the custom to have a muster every year. On that occasion
every white man shouldered his musket. The citizens and the so-called
country gentlemen wore military uniforms. The poor whites took their places
in the ranks in every-day dress, some without shoes, some without hats.
This grand occasion had already passed; and when the slaves were told there
was to be another muster, they were surprised and rejoiced. Poor creatures!
They thought it was going to be a holiday. I was informed of the true state
of affairs, and imparted it to the few I could trust. Most gladly would I
have proclaimed it to every slave; but I dared not. All could not be relied
on. Mighty is the power of the torturing lash.

By sunrise, people were pouring in from every quarter within twenty miles
of the town. I knew the houses were to be searched; and I expected it would
be done by country bullies and the poor whites. I knew nothing annoyed them
so much as to see colored people living in comfort and respectability; so I
made arrangements for them with especial care. I arranged every thing in my
grandmother's house as neatly as possible. I put white quilts on the beds,
and decorated some of the rooms with flowers. When all was arranged, I sat
down at the window to watch. Far as my eye could reach, it rested on a
motley crowd of soldiers. Drums and fifes were discoursing martial music.
The men were divided into companies of sixteen, each headed by a captain.
Orders were given, and the wild scouts rushed in every direction, wherever
a colored face was to be found.

It was a grand opportunity for the low whites, who had no negroes of their
own to scourge. They exulted in such a chance to exercise a little brief
authority, and show their subserviency to the slaveholders; not reflecting
that the power which trampled on the colored people also kept themselves in
poverty, ignorance, and moral degradation. Those who never witnessed such
scenes can hardly believe what I know was inflicted at this time on
innocent men, women, and children, against whom there was not the slightest
ground for suspicion. Colored people and slaves who lived in remote parts
of the town suffered in an especial manner. In some cases the searchers
scattered powder and shot among their clothes, and then sent other parties
to find them, and bring them forward as proof that they were plotting
insurrection. Every where men, women, and children were whipped till the
blood stood in puddles at their feet. Some received five hundred lashes;
others were tied hands and feet, and tortured with a bucking paddle, which
blisters the skin terribly. The dwellings of the colored people, unless
they happened to be protected by some influential white person, who was
nigh at hand, were robbed of clothing and every thing else the marauders
thought worth carrying away. All day long these unfeeling wretches went
round, like a troop of demons, terrifying and tormenting the helpless. At
night, they formed themselves into patrol bands, and went wherever they
chose among the colored people, acting out their brutal will. Many women
hid themselves in woods and swamps, to keep out of their way. If any of the
husbands or fathers told of these outrages, they were tied up to the public
whipping post, and cruelly scourged for telling lies about white men. The
consternation was universal. No two people that had the slightest tinge of
color in their faces dared to be seen talking together.

I entertained no positive fears about our household, because we were in the
midst of white families who would protect us. We were ready to receive the
soldiers whenever they came. It was not long before we heard the tramp of
feet and the sound of voices. The door was rudely pushed open; and in they
tumbled, like a pack of hungry wolves. They snatched at every thing within
their reach. Every box, trunk, closet, and corner underwent a thorough
examination. A box in one of the drawers containing some silver change was
eagerly pounced upon. When I stepped forward to take it from them, one of
the soldiers turned and said angrily, "What d'ye foller us fur? D'ye s'pose
white folks is come to steal?"

I replied, "You have come to search; but you have searched that box, and I
will take it, if you please."

At that moment I saw a white gentleman who was friendly to us; and I called
to him, and asked him to have the goodness to come in and stay till the
search was over. He readily complied. His entrance into the house brought
in the captain of the company, whose business it was to guard the outside
of the house, and see that none of the inmates left it. This officer was
Mr. Litch, the wealthy slaveholder whom I mentioned, in the account of
neighboring planters, as being notorious for his cruelty. He felt above
soiling his hands with the search. He merely gave orders; and, if a bit of
writing was discovered, it was carried to him by his ignorant followers,
who were unable to read.

My grandmother had a large trunk of bedding and table cloths. When that was
opened, there was a great shout of surprise; and one exclaimed, "Where'd
the damned niggers git all dis sheet an' table clarf?"

My grandmother, emboldened by the presence of our white protector said,
"You may be sure we didn't pilfer 'em from _your_ houses."

"Look here, mammy," said a grim-looking fellow without any coat, "you seem
to feel mighty gran' 'cause you got all them 'ere fixens. White folks
oughter have 'em all."

His remarks were interrupted by a chorus of voices shouting, "We's got 'em!
We's got 'em! Dis 'ere yaller gal's got letters!"

There was a general rush for the supposed letter, which, upon examination,
proved to be some verses written to me by a friend. In packing away my
things, I had overlooked them. When their captain informed them of their
contents, they seemed much disappointed. He inquired of me who wrote them.
I told him it was one of my friends. "Can you read them?" he asked. When I
told him I could, he swore, and raved, and tore the paper into bits. "Bring
me all your letters!" said he, in commanding tone. I told him I had none.
"Don't be afraid," he continued, in an insinuating way. "Bring them all to
me. Nobody shall do you any harm." Seeing I did not move to obey him, his
pleasant tone changed to oaths and threats. "Who writes to you? half free
niggers?" inquired he. I replied, "O, no; most of my letters are from white
people. Some request me to burn them after they are read, and some I
destroy without reading."

An exclamation of surprise from some of the company put a stop to our
conversation. Some silver spoons which ornamented an old-fashioned buffet
had just been discovered. My grandmother was in the habit of preserving
fruit for many ladies in the town, and of preparing suppers for parties;
consequently she had many jars of preserves. The closet that contained
these was next invaded, and the contents tasted. One of them, who was
helping himself freely, tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, and said, "Wal
done! Don't wonder de niggers want to kill all de white folks, when dey
live on 'sarves" [meaning preserves]. I stretched out my hand to take the
jar, saying, "You were not sent here to search for sweetmeats."

"And what _were_ we sent for?" said the captain, bristling up to me. I
evaded the question.

The search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn us.
They next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush and vine,
with no better success. The captain called his men together, and, after a
short consultation, the order to march was given. As they passed out of the
gate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a malediction on the house.
He said it ought to be burned to the ground, and each of its inmates
receive thirty-nine lashes. We came out of this affair very fortunately;
not losing any thing except some wearing apparel.

Towards evening the turbulence increased. The soldiers, stimulated by
drink, committed still greater cruelties. Shrieks and shouts continually
rent the air. Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under the window
curtain. I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored people, each white
man, with his musket upraised, threatening instant death if they did not
stop their shrieks. Among the prisoners was a respectable old colored
minister. They had found a few parcels of shot in his house, which his wife
had for years used to balance her scales. For this they were going to shoot
him on Court House Green. What a spectacle was that for a civilized
country! A rabble, staggering under intoxication, assuming to be the
administrators of justice!

The better class of the community exerted their influence to save the
innocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded, by
keeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated. At last the white
citizens found that their own property was not safe from the lawless rabble
they had summoned to protect them. They rallied the drunken swarm, drove
them back into the country, and set a guard over the town.

The next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored people
that lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were committed
with perfect impunity. Every day for a fortnight, if I looked out, I saw
horsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles, and compelled
by the lash to keep up with their speed, till they arrived at the jail
yard. Those who had been whipped too unmercifully to walk were washed with
brine, tossed into a cart, and carried to jail. One black man, who had not
fortitude to endure scourging, promised to give information about the
conspiracy. But it turned out that he knew nothing at all. He had not even
heard the name of Nat Turner. The poor fellow had, however, made up a
story, which augmented his own sufferings and those of the colored people.

The day patrol continued for some weeks, and at sundown a night guard was
substituted. Nothing at all was proved against the colored people, bond or
free. The wrath of the slaveholders was somewhat appeased by the capture of
Nat Turner. The imprisoned were released. The slaves were sent to their
masters, and the free were permitted to return to their ravaged homes.
Visiting was strictly forbidden on the plantations. The slaves begged the
privilege of again meeting at their little church in the woods, with their
burying ground around it. It was built by the colored people, and they had
no higher happiness than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour
out their hearts in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the
church was demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a
certain portion of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There,
when every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction had
been pronounced, the minister said, "Come down, now, my colored friends."
They obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine, in
commemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, "God is your Father,
and all ye are brethren."




After the alarm caused by Nat Turner's insurrection had subsided, the
slaveholders came to the conclusion that it would be well to give the
slaves enough of religious instruction to keep them from murdering their
masters. The Episcopal clergyman offered to hold a separate service on
Sundays for their benefit. His colored members were very few, and also very
respectable--a fact which I presume had some weight with him. The
difficulty was to decide on a suitable place for them to worship. The
Methodist and Baptist churches admitted them in the afternoon; but their
carpets and cushions were not so costly as those at the Episcopal church.
It was at last decided that they should meet at the house of a free colored
man, who was a member.

I was invited to attend, because I could read. Sunday evening came, and,
trusting to the cover of night, I ventured out. I rarely ventured out by
daylight, for I always went with fear, expecting at every turn to encounter
Dr. Flint, who was sure to turn me back, or order me to his office to
inquire where I got my bonnet, or some other article of dress. When the
Rev. Mr. Pike came, there were some twenty persons present. The reverend
gentleman knelt in prayer, then seated himself, and requested all present,
who could read, to open their books, while he gave out the portions he
wished them to repeat or respond to.

His text was, "Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters
according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your
heart, as unto Christ."

Pious Mr. Pike brushed up his hair till it stood upright, and, in deep,
solemn tones, began: "Hearken, ye servants! Give strict heed unto my words.
You are rebellious sinners. Your hearts are filled with all manner of evil.
'Tis the devil who tempts you. God is angry with you, and will surely
punish you, if you don't forsake your wicked ways. You that live in town
are eyeservants behind your master's back. Instead of serving your masters
faithfully, which is pleasing in the sight of your heavenly Master, you are
idle, and shirk your work. God sees you. You tell lies. God hears you.
Instead of being engaged in worshipping him, you are hidden away somewhere,
feasting on your master's substance; tossing coffee-grounds with some
wicked fortuneteller, or cutting cards with another old hag. Your masters
may not find you out, but God sees you, and will punish you. O, the
depravity of your hearts! When your master's work is done, are you quietly
together, thinking of the goodness of God to such sinful creatures? No; you
are quarrelling, and tying up little bags of roots to bury under the
doorsteps to poison each other with. God sees you. You men steal away to
every grog shop to sell your master's corn, that you may buy rum to drink.
God sees you. You sneak into the back streets, or among the bushes, to
pitch coppers. Although your masters may not find you out, God sees you;
and he will punish you. You must forsake your sinful ways, and be faithful
servants. Obey your old master and your young master--your old mistress and
your young mistress. If you disobey your earthly master, you offend your
heavenly Master. You must obey God's commandments. When you go from here,
don't stop at the corners of the streets to talk, but go directly home, and
let your master and mistress see that you have come."

The benediction was pronounced. We went home, highly amused at brother
Pike's gospel teaching, and we determined to hear him again. I went the
next Sabbath evening, and heard pretty much a repetition of the last
discourse. At the close of the meeting, Mr. Pike informed us that he found
it very inconvenient to meet at the friend's house, and he should be glad
to see us, every Sunday evening, at his own kitchen.

I went home with the feeling that I had heard the Reverend Mr. Pike for the
last time. Some of his members repaired to his house, and found that the
kitchen sported two tallow candles; the first time, I am sure, since its
present occupant owned it, for the servants never had any thing but pine
knots. It was so long before the reverend gentleman descended from his
comfortable parlor that the slaves left, and went to enjoy a Methodist
shout. They never seem so happy as when shouting and singing at religious
meetings. Many of them are sincere, and nearer to the gate of heaven than
sanctimonious Mr. Pike, and other long-faced Christians, who see wounded
Samaritans, and pass by on the other side.

The slaves generally compose their own songs and hymns; and they do not
trouble their heads much about the measure. They often sing the following
verses:

   Old Satan is one busy ole man;
   He rolls dem blocks all in my way;
   But Jesus is my bosom friend;
   He rolls dem blocks away.

   If I had died when I was young,
   Den how my stam'ring tongue would have sung;
   But I am ole, and now I stand
   A narrow chance for to tread dat heavenly land.

I well remember one occasion when I attended a Methodist class meeting. I
went with a burdened spirit, and happened to sit next a poor, bereaved
mother, whose heart was still heavier than mine. The class leader was the
town constable--a man who bought and sold slaves, who whipped his brethren
and sisters of the church at the public whipping post, in jail or out of
jail. He was ready to perform that Christian office any where for fifty
cents. This white-faced, black-hearted brother came near us, and said to
the stricken woman, "Sister, can't you tell us how the Lord deals with your
soul? Do you love him as you did formerly?"

She rose to her feet, and said, in piteous tones, "My Lord and Master, help
me! My load is more than I can bear. God has hid himself from me, and I am
left in darkness and misery." Then, striking her breast, she continued, "I
can't tell you what is in here! They've got all my children. Last week they
took the last one. God only knows where they've sold her. They let me have
her sixteen years, and then--O! O! Pray for her brothers and sisters! I've
got nothing to live for now. God make my time short!"

She sat down, quivering in every limb. I saw that constable class leader
become crimson in the face with suppressed laughter, while he held up his
handkerchief, that those who were weeping for the poor woman's calamity
might not see his merriment. Then, with assumed gravity, he said to the
bereaved mother, "Sister, pray to the Lord that every dispensation of his
divine will may be sanctified to the good of your poor needy soul!"

The congregation struck up a hymn, and sung as though they were as free as
the birds that warbled round us,--

   Ole Satan thought he had a mighty aim;
   He missed my soul, and caught my sins.
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

   He took my sins upon his back;
   Went muttering and grumbling down to hell.
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

   Ole Satan's church is here below.
   Up to God's free church I hope to go.
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

Precious are such moments to the poor slaves. If you were to hear them at
such times, you might think they were happy. But can that hour of singing
and shouting sustain them through the dreary week, toiling without wages,
under constant dread of the lash?

The Episcopal clergyman, who, ever since my earliest recollection, had been
a sort of god among the slaveholders, concluded, as his family was large,
that he must go where money was more abundant. A very different clergyman
took his place. The change was very agreeable to the colored people, who
said, "God has sent us a good man this time." They loved him, and their
children followed him for a smile or a kind word. Even the slaveholders
felt his influence. He brought to the rectory five slaves. His wife taught
them to read and write, and to be useful to her and themselves. As soon as
he was settled, he turned his attention to the needy slaves around him. He
urged upon his parishioners the duty of having a meeting expressly for them
every Sunday, with a sermon adapted to their comprehension. After much
argument and importunity, it was finally agreed that they might occupy the
gallery of the church on Sunday evenings. Many colored people, hitherto
unaccustomed to attend church, now gladly went to hear the gospel preached.
The sermons were simple, and they understood them. Moreover, it was the
first time they had ever been addressed as human beings. It was not long
before his white parishioners began to be dissatisfied. He was accused of
preaching better sermons to the negroes than he did to them. He honestly
confessed that he bestowed more pains upon those sermons than upon any
others; for the slaves were reared in such ignorance that it was a
difficult task to adapt himself to their comprehension. Dissensions arose
in the parish. Some wanted he should preach to them in the evening, and to
the slaves in the afternoon. In the midst of these disputings his wife
died, after a very short illness. Her slaves gathered round her dying bed
in great sorrow. She said, "I have tried to do you good and promote your
happiness; and if I have failed, it has not been for want of interest in
your welfare. Do not weep for me; but prepare for the new duties that lie
before you. I leave you all free. May we meet in a better world." Her
liberated slaves were sent away, with funds to establish them comfortably.
The colored people will long bless the memory of that truly Christian
woman. Soon after her death her husband preached his farewell sermon, and
many tears were shed at his departure.

Several years after, he passed through our town and preached to his former
congregation. In his afternoon sermon he addressed the colored people. "My
friends," said he, "it affords me great happiness to have an opportunity of
speaking to you again. For two years I have been striving to do something
for the colored people of my own parish; but nothing is yet accomplished. I
have not even preached a sermon to them. Try to live according to the word
of God, my friends. Your skin is darker than mine; but God judges men by
their hearts, not by the color of their skins." This was strange doctrine
from a southern pulpit. It was very offensive to slaveholders. They said he
and his wife had made fools of their slaves, and that he preached like a
fool to the negroes.

I knew an old black man, whose piety and childlike trust in God were
beautiful to witness. At fifty-three years old he joined the Baptist
church. He had a most earnest desire to learn to read. He thought he should
know how to serve God better if he could only read the Bible. He came to
me, and begged me to teach him. He said he could not pay me, for he had no
money; but he would bring me nice fruit when the season for it came. I
asked him if he didn't know it was contrary to law; and that slaves were
whipped and imprisoned for teaching each other to read. This brought the
tears into his eyes. "Don't be troubled, uncle Fred," said I. "I have no
thoughts of refusing to teach you. I only told you of the law, that you
might know the danger, and be on your guard." He thought he could plan to
come three times a week without its being suspected. I selected a quiet
nook, where no intruder was likely to penetrate, and there I taught him his
A, B, C. Considering his age, his progress was astonishing. As soon as he
could spell in two syllables he wanted to spell out words in the Bible. The
happy smile that illuminated his face put joy into my heart. After spelling
out a few words, he paused, and said, "Honey, it 'pears when I can read dis
good book I shall be nearer to God. White man is got all de sense. He can
larn easy. It ain't easy for ole black man like me. I only wants to read
dis book, dat I may know how to live; den I hab no fear 'bout dying."

I tried to encourage him by speaking of the rapid progress he had made.
"Hab patience, child," he replied. "I larns slow."

I had no need of patience. His gratitude, and the happiness imparted, were
more than a recompense for all my trouble.

At the end of six months he had read through the New Testament, and could
find any text in it. One day, when he had recited unusually well, I said,
"Uncle Fred, how do you manage to get your lessons so well?"

"Lord bress you, chile," he replied. "You nebber gibs me a lesson dat I
don't pray to God to help me to understan' what I spells and what I reads.
And he _does_ help me, chile. Bress his holy name!"

There are thousands, who, like good uncle Fred, are thirsting for the water
of life; but the law forbids it, and the churches withhold it. They send
the Bible to heathen abroad, and neglect the heathen at home. I am glad
that missionaries go out to the dark corners of the earth; but I ask them
not to overlook the dark corners at home. Talk to American slaveholders as
you talk to savages in Africa. Tell _them_ it was wrong to traffic in men.
Tell them it is sinful to sell their own children, and atrocious to violate
their own daughters. Tell them that all men are brethren, and that man has
no right to shut out the light of knowledge from his brother. Tell them
they are answerable to God for sealing up the Fountain of Life from souls
that are thirsting for it.

There are men who would gladly undertake such missionary work as this; but,
alas! their number is small. They are hated by the south, and would be
driven from its soil, or dragged to prison to die, as others have been
before them. The field is ripe for the harvest, and awaits the reapers.
Perhaps the great grandchildren of uncle Fred may have freely imparted to
them the divine treasures, which he sought by stealth, at the risk of the
prison and the scourge.

Are doctors of divinity blind, or are they hypocrites? I suppose some are
the one, and some the other; but I think if they felt the interest in the
poor and the lowly, that they ought to feel, they would not be so _easily_
blinded. A clergyman who goes to the south, for the first time, has usually
some feeling, however vague, that slavery is wrong. The slaveholder
suspects this, and plays his game accordingly. He makes himself as
agreeable as possible; talks on theology, and other kindred topics. The
reverend gentleman is asked to invoke a blessing on a table loaded with
luxuries. After dinner he walks round the premises, and sees the beautiful
groves and flowering vines, and the comfortable huts of favored household
slaves. The southerner invites him to talk with those slaves. He asks them
if they want to be free, and they say, "O, no, massa." This is sufficient
to satisfy him. He comes home to publish a "South Side View of Slavery,"
and to complain of the exaggerations of abolitionists. He assures people
that he has been to the south, and seen slavery for himself; that it is a
beautiful "patriarchal institution;" that the slaves don't want their
freedom; that they have hallelujah meetings and other religious privileges.

What does _he_ know of the half-starved wretches toiling from dawn till
dark on the plantations? of mothers shrieking for their children, torn from
their arms by slave traders? of young girls dragged down into moral filth?
of pools of blood around the whipping post? of hounds trained to tear human
flesh? of men screwed into cotton gins to die? The slaveholder showed him
none of these things, and the slaves dared not tell of them if he had asked
them.

There is a great difference between Christianity and religion at the south.
If a man goes to the communion table, and pays money into the treasury of
the church, no matter if it be the price of blood, he is called religious.
If a pastor has offspring by a woman not his wife, the church dismiss him,
if she is a white woman; but if she is colored, it does not hinder his
continuing to be their good shepherd.

When I was told that Dr. Flint had joined the Episcopal church, I was much
surprised. I supposed that religion had a purifying effect on the character
of men; but the worst persecutions I endured from him were after he was a
communicant. The conversation of the doctor, the day after he had been
confirmed, certainly gave _me_ no indication that he had "renounced the
devil and all his works." In answer to some of his usual talk, I reminded
him that he had just joined the church. "Yes, Linda," said he. "It was
proper for me to do so. I am getting in years, and my position in society
requires it, and it puts an end to all the damned slang. You would do well
to join the church, too, Linda."

"There are sinners enough in it already," rejoined I. "If I could be
allowed to live like a Christian, I should be glad."

"You can do what I require; and if you are faithful to me, you will be as
virtuous as my wife," he replied.

I answered that the Bible didn't say so.

His voice became hoarse with rage. "How dare you preach to me about your
infernal Bible!" he exclaimed. "What right have you, who are my negro, to
talk to me about what you would like and what you wouldn't like? I am your
master, and you shall obey me."

No wonder the slaves sing,--

   Ole Satan's church is here below;
   Up to God's free church I hope to go.

 Linda describes the aftermath of the Nat Turner rebellion and denounces the moral conflict between the doctrine of the Christian church, which teaches love and brotherhood, and the brutal and amoral behavior of men and women who profess to be Christians.

