Dr. Flint had not given me up. Every now and then he would say to my
grandmother that I would yet come back, and voluntarily surrender
myself; and that when I did, I could be purchased by my relatives, or
any one who wished to buy me. I knew his cunning nature too well not
to perceive that this was a trap laid for me; and so all my friends
understood it. I resolved to match my cunning against his cunning.
In order to make him believe that I was in New York, I resolved to
write him a letter dated from that place. I sent for my friend Peter,
and asked him if he knew any trustworthy seafaring person, who would
carry such a letter to New York, and put it in the post office there.
He said he knew one that he would trust with his own life to the ends
of the world. I reminded him that it was a hazardous thing for him to
undertake. He said he knew it, but he was willing to do any thing to
help me. I expressed a wish for a New York paper, to ascertain the
names of some of the streets. He run his hand into his pocket, and
said, “Here is half a one, that was round a cap I bought of a pedler
yesterday.” I told him the letter would be ready the next evening. He
bade me good by, adding, “Keep up your spirits, Linda; brighter days
will come by and by.”
My uncle Phillip kept watch over the gate until our brief interview was
over. Early the next morning, I seated myself near the little aperture
to examine the newspaper. It was a piece of the New York Herald; and,
for once, the paper that systematically abuses the colored people,
was made to render them a service. Having obtained what information
I wanted concerning streets and numbers, I wrote two letters, one
to my grandmother, the other to Dr. Flint. I reminded him how he, a
gray-headed man, had treated a helpless child, who had been placed in
his power, and what years of misery he had brought upon her. To my
grandmother, I expressed a wish to have my children sent to me at the
north, where I could teach them to respect themselves, and set them a
virtuous example; which a slave mother was not allowed to do at the
south. I asked her to direct her answer to a certain street in Boston,
as I did not live in New York, though I went there sometimes. I dated
these letters ahead, to allow for the time it would take to carry them,
and sent a memorandum of the date to the messenger. When my friend came
for the letters, I said, “God bless and reward you, Peter, for this
disinterested kindness. Pray be careful. If you are detected, both you
and I will have to suffer dreadfully. I have not a relative who would
dare to do it for me.” He replied, “You may trust to me, Linda. I don’t
forget that your father was my best friend, and I will be a friend to
his children so long as God lets me live.”
It was necessary to tell my grandmother what I had done, in order that
she might be ready for the letter, and prepared to hear what Dr. Flint
might say about my being at the north. She was sadly troubled. She felt
sure mischief would come of it. I also told my plan to aunt Nancy, in
order that she might report to us what was said at Dr. Flint’s house. I
whispered it to her through a crack, and she whispered back, “I hope it
will succeed. I shan’t mind being a slave all _my_ life, if I can only
see you and the children free.”
I had directed that my letters should be put into the New York post
office on the 20th of the month. On the evening of the 24th my aunt
came to say that Dr. Flint and his wife had been talking in a low voice
about a letter he had received, and that when he went to his office he
promised to bring it when he came to tea. So I concluded I should hear
my letter read the next morning. I told my grandmother Dr. Flint would
be sure to come, and asked her to have him sit near a certain door,
and leave it open, that I might hear what he said. The next morning
I took my station within sound of that door, and remained motionless
as a statue. It was not long before I heard the gate slam, and the
well-known footsteps enter the house. He seated himself in the chair
that was placed for him, and said, “Well, Martha, I’ve brought you a
letter from Linda. She has sent me a letter, also. I know exactly where
to find her; but I don’t choose to go to Boston for her. I had rather
she would come back of her own accord, in a respectable manner. Her
uncle Phillip is the best person to go for her. With _him_, she would
feel perfectly free to act. I am willing to pay his expenses going and
returning. She shall be sold to her friends. Her children are free; at
least I suppose they are; and when you obtain her freedom, you’ll make
a happy family. I suppose, Martha, you have no objection to my reading
to you the letter Linda has written to you.”
He broke the seal, and I heard him read it. The old villain! He had
suppressed the letter I wrote to grandmother, and prepared a substitute
of his own, the purport of which was as follows:—
“Dear Grandmother: I have long wanted to write to you; but the
disgraceful manner in which I left you and my children made me
ashamed to do it. If you knew how much I have suffered since I ran
away, you would pity and forgive me. I have purchased freedom at
a dear rate. If any arrangement could be made for me to return to
the south without being a slave, I would gladly come. If not, I beg
of you to send my children to the north. I cannot live any longer
without them. Let me know in time, and I will meet them in New York
or Philadelphia, whichever place best suits my uncle’s convenience.
Write as soon as possible to your unhappy daughter,
Linda.”
“It is very much as I expected it would be,” said the old hypocrite,
rising to go. “You see the foolish girl has repented of her rashness,
and wants to return. We must help her to do it, Martha. Talk with
Phillip about it. If he will go for her, she will trust to him, and
come back. I should like an answer to-morrow. Good morning, Martha.”
As he stepped out on the piazza, he stumbled over my little girl. “Ah,
Ellen, is that you?” he said, in his most gracious manner. “I didn’t
see you. How do you do?”
“Pretty well, sir,” she replied. “I heard you tell grandmother that my
mother is coming home. I want to see her.”
“Yes, Ellen, I am going to bring her home very soon,” rejoined he; “and
you shall see her as much as you like, you little curly-headed nigger.”
This was as good as a comedy to me, who had heard it all; but
grandmother was frightened and distressed, because the doctor wanted my
uncle to go for me.
The next evening Dr. Flint called to talk the matter over. My uncle
told him that from what he had heard of Massachusetts, he judged he
should be mobbed if he went there after a runaway slave. “All stuff and
nonsense, Phillip!” replied the doctor. “Do you suppose I want you to
kick up a row in Boston? The business can all be done quietly. Linda
writes that she wants to come back. You are her relative, and she would
trust _you_. The case would be different if I went. She might object to
coming with _me_; and the damned abolitionists, if they knew I was her
master, would not believe me, if I told them she had begged to go back.
They would get up a row; and I should not like to see Linda dragged
through the streets like a common negro. She has been very ungrateful
to me for all my kindness; but I forgive her, and want to act the part
of a friend towards her. I have no wish to hold her as my slave. Her
friends can buy her as soon as she arrives here.”
Finding that his arguments failed to convince my uncle, the doctor “let
the cat out of the bag,” by saying that he had written to the mayor of
Boston, to ascertain whether there was a person of my description at
the street and number from which my letter was dated. He had omitted
this date in the letter he had made up to read to my grandmother. If I
had dated from New York, the old man would probably have made another
journey to that city. But even in that dark region, where knowledge
is so carefully excluded from the slave, I had heard enough about
Massachusetts to come to the conclusion that slaveholders did not
consider it a comfortable place to go to in search of a runaway. That
was before the Fugitive Slave Law was passed; before Massachusetts had
consented to become a “nigger hunter” for the south.
My grandmother, who had become skittish by seeing her family always in
danger, came to me with a very distressed countenance, and said, “What
will you do if the mayor of Boston sends him word that you haven’t
been there? Then he will suspect the letter was a trick; and maybe
he’ll find out something about it, and we shall all get into trouble. O
Linda, I wish you had never sent the letters.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Grandmother,” said I. “The mayor of Boston won’t
trouble himself to hunt niggers for Dr. Flint. The letters will do good
in the end. I shall get out of this dark hole some time or other.”
“I hope you will, child,” replied the good, patient old friend. “You
have been here a long time; almost five years; but whenever you do go,
it will break your old grandmother’s heart. I should be expecting every
day to hear that you were brought back in irons and put in jail. God
help you, poor child! Let us be thankful that some time or other we
shall go ‘where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at
rest.’” My heart responded, Amen.
The fact that Dr. Flint had written to the mayor of Boston convinced me
that he believed my letter to be genuine, and of course that he had no
suspicion of my being any where in the vicinity. It was a great object
to keep up this delusion, for it made me and my friends feel less
anxious, and it would be very convenient whenever there was a chance to
escape. I resolved, therefore, to continue to write letters from the
north from time to time.
Two or three weeks passed, and as no news came from the mayor of
Boston, grandmother began to listen to my entreaty to be allowed to
leave my cell, sometimes, and exercise my limbs to prevent my becoming
a cripple. I was allowed to slip down into the small storeroom, early
in the morning, and remain there a little while. The room was all
filled up with barrels, except a small open space under my trap-door.
This faced the door, the upper part of which was of glass, and
purposely left uncurtained, that the curious might look in. The air of
this place was close; but it was so much better than the atmosphere of
my cell, that I dreaded to return. I came down as soon as it was light,
and remained till eight o’clock, when people began to be about, and
there was danger that some one might come on the piazza. I had tried
various applications to bring warmth and feeling into my limbs, but
without avail. They were so numb and stiff that it was a painful effort
to move; and had my enemies come upon me during the first mornings I
tried to exercise them a little in the small unoccupied space of the
storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped.