 | Incidents in the life of a slave girl |  |
XXIX.
PREPARATIONS FOR ESCAPE.
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
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 resolved 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
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
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
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
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 paticulars. 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,
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,
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 grand
mother 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
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
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
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
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.
| Incidents in the life of a slave girl | |