Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of
my mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It
was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what
added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was
purchased by the same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by
the habit of transacting business as a skilful mechanic, had more of
the feelings of a freeman than is common among slaves. My brother was
a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he early
detested the name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and
his mistress both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated
between the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim
upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my
father reproved him for it, he said, “You both called me, and I didn’t
know which I ought to go to first.”
“You are _my_ child,” replied our father, “and when I call you, you
should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water.”
Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a
master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they
found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth.
When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and
cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I
moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone.
I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was
buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her
only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that
I still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said,
“Come with me, Linda;” and from her tone I knew that something sad
had happened. She led me apart from the people, and then said, “My
child, your father is dead.” Dead! How could I believe it? He had died
so suddenly I had not even heard that he was sick. I went home with
my grandmother. My heart rebelled against God, who had taken from me
mother, father, mistress, and friend. The good grandmother tried to
comfort me. “Who knows the ways of God?” said she. “Perhaps they have
been kindly taken from the evil days to come.” Years afterwards I often
thought of this. She promised to be a mother to her grandchildren, so
far as she might be permitted to do so; and strengthened by her love,
I returned to my master’s. I thought I should be allowed to go to my
father’s house the next morning; but I was ordered to go for flowers,
that my mistress’s house might be decorated for an evening party. I
spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons, while
the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared
my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they
thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they
were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach;
presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters.
The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my
dear mother. There were those who knew my father’s worth, and respected
his memory.
My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little
slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about
the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I
tried to comfort him, by saying, “Take courage, Willie; brighter days
will come by and by.”
“You don’t know any thing about it, Linda,” he replied. “We shall have
to stay here all our days; we shall never be free.”
I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we
might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could
earn money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to
say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We
held daily controversies upon this subject.
Little attention was paid to the slaves’ meals in Dr. Flint’s house.
If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good.
I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I
passed my grandmother’s house, where there was always something to
spare for me. I was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped
there; and my grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the
gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to
_her_ for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor
that supplied my scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the
linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated
it! It was one of the badges of slavery.
While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard
earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were
never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was
appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he
said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did
not, however, prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which
had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down
in the family, from generation to generation.
My grandmother’s mistress had always promised her that, at her death,
she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the
promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful
old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she
should be sold.
On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up,
proclaiming that there would be a “public sale of negroes, horses,
&c.” Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to
wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would
prefer to dispose of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through
his hypocrisy; she understood very well that he was ashamed of the job.
She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her,
when her mistress intended she should be free, she was determined the
public should know it. She had for a long time supplied many families
with crackers and preserves; consequently, “Aunt Marthy,” as she was
called, was generally known, and every body who knew her respected
her intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in
the family was also well known, and the intention of her mistress to
leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took her place among
the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auction-block.
Many voices called out, “Shame! Shame! Who is going to sell _you_,
aunt Marthy? Don’t stand there! That is no place for _you_.” Without
saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At
last, a feeble voice said, “Fifty dollars.” It came from a maiden lady,
seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother’s deceased mistress.
She had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she
knew how faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had
been defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The
auctioneer waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no
one bid above her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill
of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence
was that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She
gave the old servant her freedom.
At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years
had passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man
who had defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her
freedom. One of my mother’s sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a
slave in his family. She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the
place of both housekeeper and waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in
fact, at the beginning and end of every thing.
Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy.
She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her
nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a
woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash.
She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord’s supper did
not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not
served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would station
herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in
all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking. She did this
to prevent the cook and her children from eking out their meagre fare
with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could
get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were
weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I can assure you
she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour barrel. She
knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly what
size they ought to be.
Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table
without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to
his liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to
eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature
might not have objected to eating it; but she did object to having her
master cram it down her throat till she choked.
They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was
ordered to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when
his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the
basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said
the mush had not been well cooked, and that was the reason the animal
would not eat it. He sent for the cook, and compelled her to eat it.
He thought that the woman’s stomach was stronger than the dog’s; but
her sufferings afterwards proved that he was mistaken. This poor woman
endured many cruelties from her master and mistress; sometimes she was
locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a whole day and night.
When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation
slaves was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night
when he arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work
house, and tied up to the joist, so that his feet would just escape
the ground. In that situation he was to wait till the doctor had taken
his tea. I shall never forget that night. Never before, in my life,
had I heard hundreds of blows fall, in succession, on a human being.
His piteous groans, and his “O, pray don’t, massa,” rang in my ear for
months afterwards. There were many conjectures as to the cause of this
terrible punishment. Some said master accused him of stealing corn;
others said the slave had quarrelled with his wife, in presence of the
overseer, and had accused his master of being the father of her child.
They were both black, and the child was very fair.
I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet
with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived,
and continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr.
Flint handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their
value into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they
were out of sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the
trader’s hands, she said, “You _promised_ to treat me well.” To which
he replied, “You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!” She had
forgotten that it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the father of
her child.
From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I
once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child
nearly white. In her agony she cried out, “O Lord, come and take me!”
Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. “You
suffer, do you?” she exclaimed. “I am glad of it. You deserve it all,
and more too.”
The girl’s mother said, “The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my
poor child will soon be in heaven, too.”
“Heaven!” retorted the mistress. “There is no such place for the like
of her and her bastard.”
The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her,
feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, “Don’t grieve so,
mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me.”
Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt
unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was
still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black
woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while
she thanked God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life.