“You have taken God’s holy word to testify your innocence,” said she.
“If you have deceived me, beware! Now take this stool, sit down, look
me directly in the face, and tell me all that has passed between your
master and you.”
I did as she ordered. As I went on with my account her color changed
frequently, she wept, and sometimes groaned. She spoke in tones so sad,
that I was touched by her grief. The tears came to my eyes; but I was
soon convinced that her emotions arose from anger and wounded pride.
She felt that her marriage vows were desecrated, her dignity insulted;
but she had no compassion for the poor victim of her husband’s perfidy.
She pitied herself as a martyr; but she was incapable of feeling for
the condition of shame and misery in which her unfortunate, helpless
slave was placed. Yet perhaps she had some touch of feeling for me;
for when the conference was ended, she spoke kindly, and promised to
protect me. I should have been much comforted by this assurance if I
could have had confidence in it; but my experiences in slavery had
filled me with distrust. She was not a very refined woman, and had not
much control over her passions. I was an object of her jealousy, and,
consequently, of her hatred; and I knew I could not expect kindness
or confidence from her under the circumstances in which I was placed.
I could not blame her. Slaveholders’ wives feel as other women would
under similar circumstances. The fire of her temper kindled from small
sparks, and now the flame became so intense that the doctor was obliged
to give up his intended arrangement.
I knew I had ignited the torch, and I expected to suffer for it
afterwards; but I felt too thankful to my mistress for the timely aid
she rendered me to care much about that. She now took me to sleep in
a room adjoining her own. There I was an object of her especial care,
though not of her especial comfort, for she spent many a sleepless
night to watch over me. Sometimes I woke up, and found her bending
over me. At other times she whispered in my ear, as though it was
her husband who was speaking to me, and listened to hear what I
would answer. If she startled me, on such occasions, she would glide
stealthily away; and the next morning she would tell me I had been
talking in my sleep, and ask who I was talking to. At last, I began
to be fearful for my life. It had been often threatened; and you can
imagine, better than I can describe, what an unpleasant sensation it
must produce to wake up in the dead of night and find a jealous woman
bending over you. Terrible as this experience was, I had fears that it
would give place to one more terrible.
My mistress grew weary of her vigils; they did not prove satisfactory.
She changed her tactics. She now tried the trick of accusing my master
of crime, in my presence, and gave my name as the author of the
accusation. To my utter astonishment, he replied, “I don’t believe
it; but if she did acknowledge it, you tortured her into exposing
me.” Tortured into exposing him! Truly, Satan had no difficulty in
distinguishing the color of his soul! I understood his object in making
this false representation. It was to show me that I gained nothing by
seeking the protection of my mistress; that the power was still all in
his own hands. I pitied Mrs. Flint. She was a second wife, many years
the junior of her husband; and the hoary-headed miscreant was enough
to try the patience of a wiser and better woman. She was completely
foiled, and knew not how to proceed. She would gladly have had me
flogged for my supposed false oath; but, as I have already stated, the
doctor never allowed any one to whip me. The old sinner was politic.
The application of the lash might have led to remarks that would have
exposed him in the eyes of his children and grandchildren. How often
did I rejoice that I lived in a town where all the inhabitants knew
each other! If I had been on a remote plantation, or lost among the
multitude of a crowded city, I should not be a living woman at this day.
The secrets of slavery are concealed like those of the Inquisition.
My master was, to my knowledge, the father of eleven slaves. But did
the mothers dare to tell who was the father of their children? Did the
other slaves dare to allude to it, except in whispers among themselves?
No, indeed! They knew too well the terrible consequences.
My grandmother could not avoid seeing things which excited her
suspicions. She was uneasy about me, and tried various ways to buy me;
but the never-changing answer was always repeated: “Linda does not
belong to _me_. She is my daughter’s property, and I have no legal
right to sell her.” The conscientious man! He was too scrupulous
to _sell_ me; but he had no scruples whatever about committing a
much greater wrong against the helpless young girl placed under his
guardianship, as his daughter’s property. Sometimes my persecutor would
ask me whether I would like to be sold. I told him I would rather be
sold to any body than to lead such a life as I did. On such occasions
he would assume the air of a very injured individual, and reproach me
for my ingratitude. “Did I not take you into the house, and make you
the companion of my own children?” he would say. “Have I ever treated
you like a negro? I have never allowed you to be punished, not even to
please your mistress. And this is the recompense I get, you ungrateful
girl!” I answered that he had reasons of his own for screening me from
punishment, and that the course he pursued made my mistress hate me and
persecute me. If I wept, he would say, “Poor child! Don’t cry! don’t
cry! I will make peace for you with your mistress. Only let me arrange
matters in my own way. Poor, foolish girl! you don’t know what is for
your own good. I would cherish you. I would make a lady of you. Now go,
and think of all I have promised you.”