University of Virginia Library

XXV.
COMPETITION IN CUNNING.

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: —

“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.