I have mentioned my great-aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint’s family,
and who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered
from him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is,
as far as slaves _can_ marry. She had the consent of her master and
mistress, and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere
form, without any legal value. Her master or mistress could annul it
any day they pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry,
near Mrs. Flint’s chamber door, that she might be within call. When she
was married, she was told she might have the use of a small room in an
out-house. Her mother and her husband furnished it. He was a seafaring
man, and was allowed to sleep there when he was at home. But on the
wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her old post on the entry
floor.
Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to be
a mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what
could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to
lie at her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give
premature birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume
her place on the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint’s babe needed her
attentions. She kept her station there through summer and winter, until
she had given premature birth to six children; and all the while she
was employed as night-nurse to Mrs. Flint’s children. Finally, toiling
all day, and being deprived of rest at night, completely broke down her
constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it was impossible she could ever
become the mother of a living child. The fear of losing so valuable a
servant by death, now induced them to allow her to sleep in her little
room in the out-house, except when there was sickness in the family.
She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a few days,
and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow as she
held the last dead baby in her arms. “I wish it could have lived,” she
said; “it is not the will of God that any of my children should live.
But I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven.”
Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint’s family.
Indeed, she was the _factotum_ of the household. Nothing went on well
without her. She was my mother’s twin sister, and, as far as was in her
power, she supplied a mother’s place to us orphans. I slept with her
all the time I lived in my old master’s house, and the bond between us
was very strong. When my friends tried to discourage me from running
away, she always encouraged me. When they thought I had better return
and ask my master’s pardon, because there was no possibility of escape,
she sent me word never to yield. She said if I persevered I might,
perhaps, gain the freedom of my children; and even if I perished in
doing it, that was better than to leave them to groan under the same
persecutions that had blighted my own life. After I was shut up in my
dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to bring me the news and
say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to listen to her
words of consolation, whispered through a crack! “I am old, and have
not long to live,” she used to say; “and I could die happy if I could
only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I
do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness.” I would beg
her not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all
suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in
freedom, I should always remember her as the good friend who had been
the comfort of my life. A word from her always strengthened me; and not
me only. The whole family relied upon her judgment, and were guided by
her advice. I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was
summoned to the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter. She was
very ill, and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr.
Flint’s house for several years. They had treated her cruelly, but she
thought nothing of that now. She was grateful for permission to watch
by the death-bed of her child. They had always been devoted to each
other; and now they sat looking into each other’s eyes, longing to
speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both. My
aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and the
last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance,
she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that
she would try to hold up her hand, to let her know that all was well
with her. Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he
saw the dying woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling
by her side. His eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always
been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her
place. Mrs. Flint took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While
my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his
youngest son, who had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was
much attached to her. “Martha,” said he, “aunt Nancy loved this child,
and when he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for
her sake.” She replied, “Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the
foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little know me if you think I
can feel any thing but good will for her children.”
“I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of
it,” said he; “and that Linda would come to supply her aunt’s place.
She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for
her. I wish it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away
from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age.” He knew he
was touching a tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother
replied, “It was not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are
gone; and of my nine children only one is left. God help me!”
To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I
knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had
helped to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened
constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and
the thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable.
At last, as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one
inquire, “How is she?” and he answered, “She is dead.” My little cell
seemed whirling round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes
and found uncle Phillip bending over me. I had no need to ask any
questions. He whispered, “Linda, she died happy.” I could not weep.
My fixed gaze troubled him. “Don’t look _so_,” he said. “Don’t add to
my poor mother’s trouble. Remember how much she has to bear, and that
we ought to do all we can to comfort her.” Ah, yes, that blessed old
grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms
of a slave-mother’s life. She did indeed need consolation!
Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently
without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her
health by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But
now she became very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a
beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder
and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her
feet. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection
to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor’s family burial-place. No
colored person had ever been allowed interment in the white people’s
burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of our
family reposed together in the old graveyard of the slaves. He
therefore replied, “I have no objection to complying with your wish;
but perhaps aunt Nancy’s _mother_ may have some choice as to where her
remains shall be deposited.”
It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any
feelings. When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she
wanted Nancy to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own
old body would be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish,
though she said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from
_her_. She might have added with touching pathos, “I was so long _used_
to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor.”
My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own
expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors
to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain,
but perfectly respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs.
Flint’s minister read the funeral service. There was a large concourse
of colored people, bond and free, and a few white persons who had
always been friendly to our family. Dr. Flint’s carriage was in the
procession; and when the body was deposited in its humble resting
place, the mistress dropped a tear, and returned to her carriage,
probably thinking she had performed her duty nobly.
It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern
travellers, passing through the place, might have described this
tribute of respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the
“patriarchal institution;” a touching proof of the attachment between
slaveholders and their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would
have confirmed this impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. _We_
could have told them a different story. We could have given them a
chapter of wrongs and sufferings, that would have touched their hearts,
if they _had_ any hearts to feel for the colored people. We could
have told them how the poor old slave-mother had toiled, year after
year, to earn eight hundred dollars to buy her son Phillip’s right to
his own earnings; and how that same Phillip paid the expenses of the
funeral, which they regarded as doing so much credit to the master.
We could also have told them of a poor, blighted young creature, shut
up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures that would be
inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the face of
her departed friend.
All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting
for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes
falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living.
It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had
always been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported
her. But her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble
were leaving deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to
knock for me to come to the trap-door, and each place had a different
meaning. She now came oftener than she had done, and talked to me
of her dead daughter, while tears trickled slowly down her furrowed
cheeks. I said all I could to comfort her; but it was a sad reflection,
that instead of being able to help her, I was a constant source of
anxiety and trouble. The poor old back was fitted to its burden. It
bent under it, but did not break.