 | Incidents in the life of a slave girl |  |
XXIV.
THE CANDIDATE FOR CONGRESS.
The summer had nearly ended, when Dr. Flint
made a third visit to New York, in search of me.
Two candidates were running for Congress, and he
returned in season to vote. The father of my children
was the Whig candidate. The doctor had hitherto been
a stanch Whig; but now he exerted all his energies
for the defeat of Mr. Sands. He invited large parties
of men to dine in the shade of his trees, and supplied
them with plenty of rum and brandy. If any poor
fellow drowned his wits in the bowl, and, in the openness
of his convivial heart, proclaimed that he did not
mean to vote the Democratic ticket, he was shoved into
the street without ceremony.
The doctor expended his liquor in vain. Mr. Sands
was elected; an event which occasioned me some
anxious thoughts. He had not emancipated my children,
and if he should die they would be at the mercy
of his heirs. Two little voices, that frequently met
my ear, seemed to plead with me not to let their father
depart without striving to make their freedom secure.
Years had passed since I had spoken to him. I had
not even seen him since the night I passed him, unrecognized,
in my disguise of a sailor. I supposed he
would call before he left, to say something to my grandmother
concerning the children, and I resolved what
course to take.
The day before his departure for Washington I
made arrangements, towards evening, to get from my
hiding-place into the storeroom below. I found myself
so stiff and clumsy that it was with great difficulty
I could hitch from one resting place to another.
When I reached the storeroom my ankles gave way
under me, and I sank exhausted on the floor. It
seemed as if I could never use my limbs again. But
the purpose I had in view roused all the strength I
had. I crawled on my hands and knees to the window,
and, screened behind a barrel, I waited for his coming.
The clock struck nine, and I knew the steamboat would
leave between ten and eleven. My hopes were failing.
But presently I heard his voice, saying to some one,
“Wait for me a moment. I wish to see aunt Martha.”
When he came out, as he passed the window, I said,
“Stop one moment, and let me speak for my children.”
He started, hesitated, and then passed on, and went
out of the gate. I closed the shutter I had partially
opened, and sank down behind the barrel. I had suffered
much; but seldom had I experienced a keener
pang than I then felt. Had my children, then, become
of so little consequence to him? And had he
so little feeling for their wretched mother that he
would not listen a moment while she pleaded for
them? Painful memories were so busy within me,
that I forgot I had not hooked the shutter, till I heard
some one opening it. I looked up. He had come
back. “Who called me?” said he, in a low tone.
“I did,” I replied. “Oh, Linda,” said he, “I knew
your voice; but I was afraid to answer, lest my friend
should hear me. Why do you come here? Is it possible
to allow it. I shall expect to hear that you are all
ruined.” I did not wish to implicate him, by letting
him know my place of concealment; so I merely said,
“I thought you would come to bid grandmother good
by, and so I came here to speak a few words to you
about emancipating my children. Many changes may
take place during the six months you are gone to
Washington, and it does not seem right for you to
expose them to the risk of such changes. I want nothing
for myself; all I ask is, that you will free my
children, or authorize some friend to do it, before
you go.”
He promised he would do it, and also expressed a
readiness to make any arrangements whereby I could
be purchased.
I heard footsteps approaching, and closed the shutter
hastily. I wanted to crawl back to my den, without
letting the family know what I had done; for I knew
they would deem it very imprudent. But he stepped
back into the house, to tell my grandmother that he
had spoken with me at the storeroom window, and to
beg of her not to allow me to remain in the house over
night. He said it was the height of madness for me
to be there; that we should certainly all be ruined.
Luckily, he was in too much of a hurry to wait for a
reply, or the dear old woman would surely have told
him all.
I tried to go back to my den, but found it more
difficult to go up than I had to come down. Now that
my mission was fulfilled, the little strength that had
supported me through it was gone, and I sank helpless
risk I had run, came into the storeroom in the dark,
and locked the door behind her. “Linda,” she whispered,
“where are you?”
“I am here by the window,” I replied. “I couldn't
have him go away without emancipating the children.
Who knows what may happen?”
“Come, come, child,” said she, “it won't do for
you to stay here another minute. You've done wrong;
but I can't blame you, poor thing!”
I told her I could not return without assistance, and
she must call my uncle. Uncle Phillip came, and pity
prevented him from scolding me. He carried me back
to my dungeon, laid me tenderly on the bed, gave me
some medicine, and asked me if there was any thing
more he could do. Then he went away, and I was left
with my own thoughts — starless as the midnight darkness
around me.
My friends feared I should become a cripple for life;
and I was so weary of my long imprisonment that,
had it not been for the hope of serving my children, I
should have been thankful to die; but, for their sakes,
I was willing to bear on.
| Incidents in the life of a slave girl | |