I hardly expect that the reader will credit me, when I affirm that I
lived in that little dismal hole, almost deprived of light and air, and
with no space to move my limbs, for nearly seven years. But it is a
fact; and to me a sad one, even now; for my body still suffers from the
effects of that long imprisonment, to say nothing of my soul. Members
of my family, now living in New York and Boston, can testify to the
truth of what I say.
Countless were the nights that I sat late at the little loophole
scarcely large enough to give me a glimpse of one twinkling star.
There, I heard the patrols and slave-hunters conferring together about
the capture of runaways, well knowing how rejoiced they would be to
catch me.
Season after season, year after year, I peeped at my children’s faces,
and heard their sweet voices, with a heart yearning all the while to
say, “Your mother is here.” Sometimes it appeared to me as if ages had
rolled away since I entered upon that gloomy, monotonous existence.
At times, I was stupefied and listless; at other times I became very
impatient to know when these dark years would end, and I should again
be allowed to feel the sunshine, and breathe the pure air.
After Ellen left us, this feeling increased. Mr. Sands had agreed that
Benny might go to the north whenever his uncle Phillip could go with
him; and I was anxious to be there also, to watch over my children,
and protect them so far as I was able. Moreover, I was likely to be
drowned out of my den, if I remained much longer; for the slight roof
was getting badly out of repair, and uncle Phillip was afraid to remove
the shingles, lest some one should get a glimpse of me. When storms
occurred in the night, they spread mats and bits of carpet, which in
the morning appeared to have been laid out to dry; but to cover the
roof in the daytime might have attracted attention. Consequently, my
clothes and bedding were often drenched; a process by which the pains
and aches in my cramped and stiffened limbs were greatly increased. I
revolved various plans of escape in my mind, which I sometimes imparted
to my grandmother, when she came to whisper with me at the trap-door.
The kind-hearted old woman had an intense sympathy for runaways.
She had known too much of the cruelties inflicted on those who were
captured. Her memory always flew back at once to the sufferings of her
bright and handsome son, Benjamin, the youngest and dearest of her
flock. So, whenever I alluded to the subject, she would groan out, “O,
don’t think of it, child. You’ll break my heart.” I had no good old
aunt Nancy now to encourage me; but my brother William and my children
were continually beckoning me to the north.
And now I must go back a few months in my story. I have stated that
the first of January was the time for selling slaves, or leasing them
out to new masters. If time were counted by heart-throbs, the poor
slaves might reckon years of suffering during that festival so joyous
to the free. On the New Year’s day preceding my aunt’s death, one of my
friends, named Fanny, was to be sold at auction, to pay her master’s
debts. My thoughts were with her during all the day, and at night I
anxiously inquired what had been her fate. I was told that she had been
sold to one master, and her four little girls to another master, far
distant; that she had escaped from her purchaser, and was not to be
found. Her mother was the old Aggie I have spoken of. She lived in a
small tenement belonging to my grandmother, and built on the same lot
with her own house. Her dwelling was searched and watched, and that
brought the patrols so near me that I was obliged to keep very close
in my den. The hunters were somehow eluded; and not long afterwards
Benny accidentally caught sight of Fanny in her mother’s hut. He told
his grandmother, who charged him never to speak of it, explaining
to him the frightful consequences; and he never betrayed the trust.
Aggie little dreamed that my grandmother knew where her daughter was
concealed, and that the stooping form of her old neighbor was bending
under a similar burden of anxiety and fear; but these dangerous secrets
deepened the sympathy between the two old persecuted mothers.
My friend Fanny and I remained many weeks hidden within call of each
other; but she was unconscious of the fact. I longed to have her share
my den, which seemed a more secure retreat than her own; but I had
brought so much trouble on my grandmother, that it seemed wrong to ask
her to incur greater risks. My restlessness increased. I had lived
too long in bodily pain and anguish of spirit. Always I was in dread
that by some accident, or some contrivance, slavery would succeed in
snatching my children from me. This thought drove me nearly frantic,
and I determined to steer for the North Star at all hazards. At this
crisis, Providence opened an unexpected way for me to escape. My friend
Peter came one evening, and asked to speak with me. “Your day has come,
Linda,” said he. “I have found a chance for you to go to the Free
States. You have a fortnight to decide.” The news seemed too good to
be true; but Peter explained his arrangements, and told me all that
was necessary was for me to say I would go. I was going to answer him
with a joyful yes, when the thought of Benny came to my mind. I told
him the temptation was exceedingly strong, but I was terribly afraid of
Dr. Flint’s alleged power over my child, and that I could not go and
leave him behind. Peter remonstrated earnestly. He said such a good
chance might never occur again; that Benny was free, and could be sent
to me; and that for the sake of my children’s welfare I ought not to
hesitate a moment. I told him I would consult with uncle Phillip. My
uncle rejoiced in the plan, and bade me go by all means. He promised,
if his life was spared, that he would either bring or send my son to me
as soon as I reached a place of safety. I resolved to go, but thought
nothing had better be said to my grandmother till very near the time
of departure. But my uncle thought she would feel it more keenly if I
left her so suddenly. “I will reason with her,” said he, “and convince
her how necessary it is, not only for your sake, but for hers also. You
cannot be blind to the fact that she is sinking under her burdens.” I
was not blind to it. I knew that my concealment was an ever-present
source of anxiety, and that the older she grew the more nervously
fearful she was of discovery. My uncle talked with her, and finally
succeeded in persuading her that it was absolutely necessary for me to
seize the chance so unexpectedly offered.
The anticipation of being a free woman proved almost too much for
my weak frame. The excitement stimulated me, and at the same time
bewildered me. I made busy preparations for my journey, and for my son
to follow me. I resolved to have an interview with him before I went,
that I might give him cautions and advice, and tell him how anxiously
I should be waiting for him at the north. Grandmother stole up to me
as often as possible to whisper words of counsel. She insisted upon
my writing to Dr. Flint, as soon as I arrived in the Free States,
and asking him to sell me to her. She said she would sacrifice her
house, and all she had in the world, for the sake of having me safe
with my children in any part of the world. If she could only live to
know _that_ she could die in peace. I promised the dear old faithful
friend that I would write to her as soon as I arrived, and put the
letter in a safe way to reach her; but in my own mind I resolved that
not another cent of her hard earnings should be spent to pay rapacious
slaveholders for what they called their property. And even if I had not
been unwilling to buy what I had already a right to possess, common
humanity would have prevented me from accepting the generous offer, at
the expense of turning my aged relative out of house and home, when she
was trembling on the brink of the grave.
I was to escape in a vessel; but I forbear to mention any further
particulars. I was in readiness, but the vessel was unexpectedly
detained several days. Meantime, news came to town of a most horrible
murder committed on a fugitive slave, named James. Charity, the mother
of this unfortunate young man, had been an old acquaintance of ours. I
have told the shocking particulars of his death, in my description of
some of the neighboring slaveholders. My grandmother, always nervously
sensitive about runaways, was terribly frightened. She felt sure that
a similar fate awaited me, if I did not desist from my enterprise. She
sobbed, and groaned, and entreated me not to go. Her excessive fear was
somewhat contagious, and my heart was not proof against her extreme
agony. I was grievously disappointed, but I promised to relinquish my
project.
When my friend Peter was apprised of this, he was both disappointed
and vexed. He said, that judging from our past experience, it would
be a long time before I had such another chance to throw away. I told
him it need not be thrown away; that I had a friend concealed near by,
who would be glad enough to take the place that had been provided for
me. I told him about poor Fanny, and the kind-hearted, noble fellow,
who never turned his back upon any body in distress, white or black,
expressed his readiness to help her. Aggie was much surprised when
she found that we knew her secret. She was rejoiced to hear of such a
chance for Fanny, and arrangements were made for her to go on board the
vessel the next night. They both supposed that I had long been at the
north, therefore my name was not mentioned in the transaction. Fanny
was carried on board at the appointed time, and stowed away in a very
small cabin. This accommodation had been purchased at a price that
would pay for a voyage to England. But when one proposes to go to fine
old England, they stop to calculate whether they can afford the cost
of the pleasure; while in making a bargain to escape from slavery, the
trembling victim is ready to say, “take all I have, only don’t betray
me!”
The next morning I peeped through my loophole, and saw that it was dark
and cloudy. At night I received news that the wind was ahead, and the
vessel had not sailed. I was exceedingly anxious about Fanny, and Peter
too, who was running a tremendous risk at my instigation. Next day the
wind and weather remained the same. Poor Fanny had been half dead with
fright when they carried her on board, and I could readily imagine how
she must be suffering now. Grandmother came often to my den, to say
how thankful she was I did not go. On the third morning she rapped for
me to come down to the storeroom. The poor old sufferer was breaking
down under her weight of trouble. She was easily flurried now. I found
her in a nervous, excited state, but I was not aware that she had
forgotten to lock the door behind her, as usual. She was exceedingly
worried about the detention of the vessel. She was afraid all would be
discovered, and then Fanny, and Peter, and I, would all be tortured to
death, and Phillip would be utterly ruined, and her house would be torn
down. Poor Peter! If he should die such a horrible death as the poor
slave James had lately done, and all for his kindness in trying to help
me, how dreadful it would be for us all! Alas, the thought was familiar
to me, and had sent many a sharp pang through my heart. I tried to
suppress my own anxiety, and speak soothingly to her. She brought in
some allusion to aunt Nancy, the dear daughter she had recently buried,
and then she lost all control of herself. As she stood there, trembling
and sobbing, a voice from the piazza called out, “Whar is you, aunt
Marthy?” Grandmother was startled, and in her agitation opened the
door, without thinking of me. In stepped Jenny, the mischievous
housemaid, who had tried to enter my room, when I was concealed in
the house of my white benefactress. “I’s bin huntin ebery whar for
you, aunt Marthy,” said she. “My missis wants you to send her some
crackers.” I had slunk down behind a barrel, which entirely screened
me, but I imagined that Jenny was looking directly at the spot, and my
heart beat violently. My grandmother immediately thought what she had
done, and went out quickly with Jenny to count the crackers, locking
the door after her. She returned to me, in a few minutes, the perfect
picture of despair. “Poor child!” she exclaimed, “my carelessness has
ruined you. The boat ain’t gone yet. Get ready immediately, and go with
Fanny. I ain’t got another word to say against it now; for there’s no
telling what may happen this day.”
Uncle Phillip was sent for, and he agreed with his mother in thinking
that Jenny would inform Dr. Flint in less than twenty-four hours. He
advised getting me on board the boat, if possible; if not, I had better
keep very still in my den, where they could not find me without tearing
the house down. He said it would not do for him to move in the matter,
because suspicion would be immediately excited; but he promised to
communicate with Peter. I felt reluctant to apply to him again, having
implicated him too much already; but there seemed to be no alternative.
Vexed as Peter had been by my indecision, he was true to his generous
nature, and said at once that he would do his best to help me, trusting
I should show myself a stronger woman this time.
He immediately proceeded to the wharf, and found that the wind had
shifted, and the vessel was slowly beating down stream. On some pretext
of urgent necessity, he offered two boatmen a dollar apiece to catch
up with her. He was of lighter complexion than the boatmen he hired,
and when the captain saw them coming so rapidly, he thought officers
were pursuing his vessel in search of the runaway slave he had on
board. They hoisted sails, but the boat gained upon them, and the
indefatigable Peter sprang on board.
The captain at once recognized him. Peter asked him to go below, to
speak about a bad bill he had given him. When he told his errand, the
captain replied, “Why, the woman’s here already; and I’ve put her where
you or the devil would have a tough job to find her.”
“But it is another woman I want to bring,” said Peter. “_She_ is in
great distress, too, and you shall be paid any thing within reason, if
you’ll stop and take her.”
“What’s her name?” inquired the captain. “Linda,” he replied.
“That’s the name of the woman already here,” rejoined the captain. “By
George! I believe you mean to betray me.”
“O!” exclaimed Peter, “God knows I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.
I am too grateful to you. But there really _is_ another woman in great
danger. Do have the humanity to stop and take her!”
After a while they came to an understanding. Fanny, not dreaming I was
any where about in that region, had assumed my name, though she called
herself Johnson. “Linda is a common name,” said Peter, “and the woman I
want to bring is Linda Brent.”
The captain agreed to wait at a certain place till evening, being
handsomely paid for his detention.
Of course, the day was an anxious one for us all. But we concluded that
if Jenny had seen me, she would be too wise to let her mistress know
of it; and that she probably would not get a chance to see Dr. Flint’s
family till evening, for I knew very well what were the rules in that
household. I afterwards believed that she did not see me; for nothing
ever came of it, and she was one of those base characters that would
have jumped to betray a suffering fellow being for the sake of thirty
pieces of silver.
I made all my arrangements to go on board as soon as it was dusk. The
intervening time I resolved to spend with my son. I had not spoken to
him for seven years, though I had been under the same roof, and seen
him every day, when I was well enough to sit at the loophole. I did not
dare to venture beyond the storeroom; so they brought him there, and
locked us up together, in a place concealed from the piazza door. It
was an agitating interview for both of us. After we had talked and wept
together for a little while, he said, “Mother, I’m glad you’re going
away. I wish I could go with you. I knew you was here; and I have been
_so_ afraid they would come and catch you!” I was greatly surprised,
and asked him how he had found it out.
He replied, “I was standing under the eaves, one day, before Ellen went
away, and I heard somebody cough up over the wood shed. I don’t know
what made me think it was you, but I did think so. I missed Ellen, the
night before she went away; and grandmother brought her back into the
room in the night; and I thought maybe she’d been to see _you_, before
she went, for I heard grandmother whisper to her, ‘Now go to sleep; and
remember never to tell.’”
I asked him if he ever mentioned his suspicions to his sister. He said
he never did; but after he heard the cough, if he saw her playing
with other children on that side of the house, he always tried to
coax her round to the other side, for fear they would hear me cough,
too. He said he had kept a close lookout for Dr. Flint, and if he saw
him speak to a constable, or a patrol, he always told grandmother. I
now recollected that I had seen him manifest uneasiness, when people
were on that side of the house, and I had at the time been puzzled
to conjecture a motive for his actions. Such prudence may seem
extraordinary in a boy of twelve years, but slaves, being surrounded by
mysteries, deceptions, and dangers, early learn to be suspicious and
watchful, and prematurely cautious and cunning. He had never asked a
question of grandmother, or uncle Phillip, and I had often heard him
chime in with other children, when they spoke of my being at the north.
I told him I was now really going to the Free States, and if he was
a good, honest boy, and a loving child to his dear old grandmother,
the Lord would bless him, and bring him to me, and we and Ellen would
live together. He began to tell me that grandmother had not eaten any
thing all day. While he was speaking, the door was unlocked, and she
came in with a small bag of money, which she wanted me to take. I
begged her to keep a part of it, at least, to pay for Benny’s being
sent to the north; but she insisted, while her tears were falling fast,
that I should take the whole. “You may be sick among strangers,” she
said, “and they would send you to the poorhouse to die.” Ah, that good
grandmother!
For the last time I went up to my nook. Its desolate appearance no
longer chilled me, for the light of hope had risen in my soul. Yet,
even with the blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt very sad
at leaving forever that old homestead, where I had been sheltered so
long by the dear old grandmother; where I had dreamed my first young
dream of love; and where, after that had faded away, my children came
to twine themselves so closely round my desolate heart. As the hour
approached for me to leave, I again descended to the storeroom. My
grandmother and Benny were there. She took me by the hand, and said,
“Linda, let us pray.” We knelt down together, with my child pressed to
my heart, and my other arm round the faithful, loving old friend I was
about to leave forever. On no other occasion has it ever been my lot
to listen to so fervent a supplication for mercy and protection. It
thrilled through my heart, and inspired me with trust in God.
Peter was waiting for me in the street. I was soon by his side, faint
in body, but strong of purpose. I did not look back upon the old place,
though I felt that I should never see it again.