New Destination for the Children

Mrs. Flint proclaimed her intention of informing Mrs. Sands who was the father of my children. She likewise proposed to tell her what an artful devil I was; that I had made a great deal of trouble in her family; that when Mr. Sands was at the north, she didn’t doubt I had followed him in disguise, and persuaded William to run away. She had some reason to entertain such an idea; for I had written from the north, from time to time, and I dated my letters from various places. Many of them fell into Dr. Flint’s hands, as I expected they would; and he must have come to the conclusion that I travelled about a good deal. He kept a close watch over my children, thinking they would eventually lead to my detection.

Mrs. Flint announced that she intended to tell Mrs. Sands who the father of my children was. She also planned to tell her what a cunning devil I was and how much trouble I had caused her family. She had no doubt that I had followed Mr. Sands in disguise when he was in the North and persuaded William to run away. She had some reason to think so. I had written from the North from time to time, dating my letters from various places. As I expected, many of those letters fell into Dr. Flint’s hands. He must have concluded that I traveled around a great deal. He kept a close watch over my children, thinking they would eventually lead him to me.

A new and unexpected trial was in store for me. One day, when Mr. Sands and his wife were walking in the street, they met Benny. The lady took a fancy to him, and exclaimed, “What a pretty little negro! Whom does he belong to?”

A new and unexpected hardship awaited me. One day, Mr. Sands and his wife were walking down the street when they met Benny. His wife took a liking to him and exclaimed, “What a pretty little Black boy! Who does he belong to?”

Benny did not hear the answer; but he came home very indignant with the stranger lady, because she had called him a negro. A few days afterwards, Mr. Sands called on my grandmother, and told her he wanted her to take the children to his house. He said he had informed his wife of his relation to them, and told her they were motherless; and she wanted to see them.

Benny did not hear the answer. But he came home very angry with the strange lady because she had called him a Negro. A few days later, Mr. Sands visited my grandmother and asked her to bring the children to his house. He said he had told his wife about his relationship to the children and that they were motherless. His wife wanted to see them.

When he had gone, my grandmother came and asked what I would do. The question seemed a mockery. What could I do? They were Mr. Sands’s slaves, and their mother was a slave, whom he had represented to be dead. Perhaps he thought I was. I was too much pained and puzzled to come to any decision; and the children were carried without my knowledge.

When he had gone, my grandmother came and asked what I would do. The question felt like a cruel joke. What could I do? The children were Mr. Sands’s slaves, and their mother was a slave. He had claimed that their mother was dead. Perhaps he thought I was dead. I was too hurt and confused to make a decision, and the children were taken away without my knowledge.

Mrs. Sands had a sister from Illinois staying with her. This lady, who had no children of her own, was so much pleased with Ellen, that she offered to adopt her, and bring her up as she would a daughter. Mrs. Sands wanted to take Benjamin. When grandmother reported this to me, I was tried almost beyond endurance. Was this all I was to gain by what I had suffered for the sake of having my children free? True, the prospect seemed fair; but I knew too well how lightly slaveholders held such “parental relations.” If pecuniary troubles should come, or if the new wife required more money than could conveniently be spared, my children might be thought of as a convenient means of raising funds. I had no trust in thee, O Slavery! Never should I know peace till my children were emancipated with all due formalities of law.

Mrs. Sands had a sister from Illinois staying with her. The sister had no children of her own. She was so pleased with Ellen that she offered to adopt her and raise her as a daughter. Mrs. Sands wanted to take Benjamin. When grandmother told me this, I could hardly bear it. Was this all I was to gain from what I had suffered to make my children free? It was true that the prospect seemed promising. But I knew too well how little slaveholders valued such “parental relations.” If financial troubles arose, my children might be seen as a convenient way to raise money. The same might happen if the new wife needed more money than could easily be spared. I had no trust in you, O Slavery! I would never know peace until my children were emancipated with all the proper legal formalities.

I was too proud to ask Mr. Sands to do any thing for my own benefit; but I could bring myself to become a supplicant for my children. I resolved to remind him of the promise he had made me, and to throw myself upon his honor for the performance of it. I persuaded my grandmother to go to him, and tell him I was not dead, and that I earnestly entreated him to keep the promise he had made me; that I had heard of the recent proposals concerning my children, and did not feel easy to accept them; that he had promised to emancipate them, and it was time for him to redeem his pledge. I knew there was some risk in thus betraying that I was in the vicinity; but what will not a mother do for her children? He received the message with surprise, and said, “The children are free. I have never intended to claim them as slaves. Linda may decide their fate. In my opinion, they had better be sent to the north. I don’t think they are quite safe here. Dr. Flint boasts that they are still in his power. He says they were his daughter’s property, and as she was not of age when they were sold, the contract is not legally binding.”

I was too proud to ask Mr. Sands to do anything for my own benefit. But I could bring myself to plead with him for my children. I decided to remind him of his promise and trust him, on his honor, to keep it. I persuaded my grandmother to go to him and tell him I was not dead. She was to tell him that I begged him to keep his promise to me. I had heard of the recent proposals concerning my children, and I did not feel comfortable accepting them. He had promised to free my children, and it was time for him to keep his word. I knew I was taking a risk by revealing that I was nearby. But what will a mother not do for her children? He was surprised by the message and said, “The children are free. I have never intended to claim them as slaves. Linda may decide their fate. In my opinion, it would be better to send them north. I don’t think they are quite safe here. Dr. Flint boasts that they are still in his power. He says they were his daughter’s property. Because she was not legally an adult when they were sold, he says, the contract is not legally binding.”

So, then, after all I had endured for their sakes, my poor children were between two fires; between my old master and their new master! And I was powerless. There was no protecting arm of the law for me to invoke. Mr. Sands proposed that Ellen should go, for the present, to some of his relatives, who had removed to Brooklyn, Long Island. It was promised that she should be well taken care of, and sent to school. I consented to it, as the best arrangement I could make for her. My grandmother, of course, negotiated it all; and Mrs. Sands knew of no other person in the transaction. She proposed that they should take Ellen with them to Washington, and keep her till they had a good chance of sending her, with friends, to Brooklyn. She had an infant daughter. I had had a glimpse of it, as the nurse passed with it in her arms. It was not a pleasant thought to me, that the bondwoman’s child should tend her free-born sister; but there was no alternative. Ellen was made ready for the journey. O, how it tried my heart to send her away, so young, alone, among strangers! Without a mother’s love to shelter her from the storms of life; almost without memory of a mother! I doubted whether she and Benny would have for me the natural affection that children feel for a parent. I thought to myself that I might perhaps never see my daughter again, and I had a great desire that she should look upon me, before she went, that she might take my image with her in her memory. It seemed to me cruel to have her brought to my dungeon. It was sorrow enough for her young heart to know that her mother was a victim of slavery, without seeing the wretched hiding-place to which it had driven her. I begged permission to pass the last night in one of the open chambers, with my little girl. They thought I was crazy to think of trusting such a young child with my perilous secret. I told them I had watched her character, and I felt sure she would not betray me; that I was determined to have an interview, and if they would not facilitate it, I would take my own way to obtain it. They remonstrated against the rashness of such a proceeding; but finding they could not change my purpose, they yielded. I slipped through the trap-door into the storeroom, and my uncle kept watch at the gate, while I passed into the piazza and went up stairs, to the room I used to occupy. It was more than five years since I had seen it; and how the memories crowded on me! There I had taken shelter when my mistress drove me from her house; there came my old tyrant, to mock, insult, and curse me; there my children were first laid in my arms; there I had watched over them, each day with a deeper and sadder love; there I had knelt to God, in anguish of heart, to forgive the wrong I had done. How vividly it all came back! And after this long, gloomy interval, I stood there such a wreck!

So, after all I had endured for their sakes, my poor children were caught between two fires. They were caught between my old master and their new master! And I was powerless. There was no protection from the law for me to call on. Mr. Sands proposed that Ellen should go for the time being to some of his relatives who had moved to Brooklyn, Long Island. He promised that she would be well cared for and sent to school. I agreed because it was the best arrangement I could make for her. My grandmother, of course, handled all the arrangements. Mrs. Sands knew of no one else involved. She proposed taking Ellen with them to Washington and keeping her there. Then they could send her to Brooklyn with friends when they had a good opportunity. Mrs. Sands had an infant daughter. I had caught a glimpse of her as the nurse carried her past. It was not a pleasant thought that the enslaved woman’s child should care for her free-born sister. But there was no alternative. Ellen was made ready for the journey. Oh, how it pained me to send her away so young, alone, among strangers! She would have no mother’s love to shelter her from the storms of life, and almost no memory of a mother! I wondered whether she and Benny would feel the natural affection children have for a parent. I thought I might perhaps never see my daughter again. I deeply wanted her to see me before she left, so she could carry my image in her memory. It seemed cruel to bring her to my dungeon. It was sad enough for her young heart to know that her mother was a victim of slavery. She should not have to see the miserable hiding place where slavery had driven me. I begged permission to spend the last night with my little girl in one of the rooms above. They thought I was crazy to trust such a young child with my dangerous secret. I told them I had watched her character and felt sure she would not betray me. I was determined to see her, and if they would not help me, I would find my own way. They protested that this would be reckless. But when they saw they could not change my mind, they gave in. I slipped through the trapdoor into the storeroom. My uncle watched the gate while I crossed the piazza and went upstairs to the room I used to occupy. It had been more than five years since I had seen it. How the memories crowded in on me! I had taken shelter there when my mistress drove me from her house. My old tyrant had come there to mock, insult, and curse me. There my children were first placed in my arms. There I had watched over them, each day with a deeper and sadder love. There I had knelt before God, my heart in anguish, and asked him to forgive the wrong I had done. How vividly it all came back! And after this long, gloomy time, I stood there such a wreck!

In the midst of these meditations, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened, and my uncle Phillip came in, leading Ellen by the hand. I put my arms round her, and said, “Ellen, my dear child, I am your mother.” She drew back a little, and looked at me; then, with sweet confidence, she laid her cheek against mine, and I folded her to the heart that had been so long desolated. She was the first to speak. Raising her head, she said, inquiringly, “You really are my mother?” I told her I really was; that during all the long time she had not seen me, I had loved her most tenderly; and that now she was going away, I wanted to see her and talk with her, that she might remember me. With a sob in her voice, she said, “I’m glad you’ve come to see me; but why didn’t you ever come before? Benny and I have wanted so much to see you! He remembers you, and sometimes he tells me about you. Why didn’t you come home when Dr. Flint went to bring you?”

While I was thinking about these things, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened, and my uncle Phillip came in, leading Ellen by the hand. I put my arms around her and said, “Ellen, my dear child, I am your mother.” She drew back a little and looked at me. Then, with sweet trust, she laid her cheek against mine. I held her close to my heart, which had been so lonely for so long. She was the first to speak. She raised her head and asked, “You really are my mother?” I told her I really was. I had loved her very dearly throughout all the long time she had not seen me. And now that she was going away, I wanted to see her and talk with her so she would remember me. With a sob in her voice, she said, “I’m glad you’ve come to see me; but why didn’t you ever come before? Benny and I have wanted so much to see you! He remembers you, and sometimes he tells me about you. Why didn’t you come home when Dr. Flint went to bring you?”

I answered, “I couldn’t come before, dear. But now that I am with you, tell me whether you like to go away.” “I don’t know,” said she, crying. “Grandmother says I ought not to cry; that I am going to a good place, where I can learn to read and write, and that by and by I can write her a letter. But I shan’t have Benny, or grandmother, or uncle Phillip, or any body to love me. Can’t you go with me? O, do go, dear mother!”

I answered, “I couldn’t come before, dear. But now that I’m with you, tell me whether you want to go away.” “I don’t know,” she said, crying. “Grandmother says I shouldn’t cry. She says I’m going to a good place where I can learn to read and write. And before long, I can write her a letter. But I won’t have Benny, or grandmother, or uncle Phillip, or anyone to love me. Can’t you go with me? Oh, do go, dear mother!”

I told her I couldn’t go now; but sometime I would come to her, and then she and Benny and I would live together, and have happy times. She wanted to run and bring Benny to see me now. I told her he was going to the north, before long, with uncle Phillip, and then I would come to see him before he went away. I asked if she would like to have me stay all night and sleep with her. “O, yes,” she replied. Then, turning to her uncle, she said, pleadingly, “May I stay? Please, uncle! She is my own mother.” He laid his hand on her head, and said, solemnly, “Ellen, this is the secret you have promised grandmother never to tell. If you ever speak of it to any body, they will never let you see your grandmother again, and your mother can never come to Brooklyn.” “Uncle,” she replied, “I will never tell.” He told her she might stay with me; and when he had gone, I took her in my arms and told her I was a slave, and that was the reason she must never say she had seen me. I exhorted her to be a good child, to try to please the people where she was going, and that God would raise her up friends. I told her to say her prayers, and remember always to pray for her poor mother, and that God would permit us to meet again. She wept, and I did not check her tears. Perhaps she would never again have a chance to pour her tears into a mother’s bosom. All night she nestled in my arms, and I had no inclination to slumber. The moments were too precious to lose any of them. Once, when I thought she was asleep, I kissed her forehead softly, and she said, “I am not asleep, dear mother.”

I told her I couldn’t go now, but I would come to her someday. Then she, Benny, and I would live together and have happy times. She wanted to run and bring Benny to see me now. I told her he would be going north soon with uncle Phillip. I would come to see him before he left. I asked if she would like me to stay all night and sleep with her. “Oh, yes,” she replied. Then she turned to her uncle and pleaded, “May I stay? Please, uncle! She is my own mother.” He laid his hand on her head and said solemnly, “Ellen, this is the secret you promised grandmother you would never tell. If you ever speak of it to anyone, they will never let you see your grandmother again. And your mother can never come to Brooklyn.” “Uncle,” she replied, “I will never tell.” He told her she could stay with me. After he left, I took her in my arms and told her I was a slave. That was why she must never say she had seen me. I urged her to be a good child and try to please the people she was going to live with. I told her God would send her friends. I told her to say her prayers and always remember to pray for her poor mother. I told her to pray that God would allow us to meet again. She wept, and I did not stop her. Perhaps she would never again have a chance to weep in her mother’s arms. She nestled in my arms all night, and I had no desire to sleep. The moments were too precious to lose even one. Once, when I thought she was asleep, I softly kissed her forehead. She said, “I am not asleep, dear mother.”

Before dawn they came to take me back to my den. I drew aside the window curtain, to take a last look of my child. The moonlight shone on her face, and I bent over her, as I had done years before, that wretched night when I ran away. I hugged her close to my throbbing heart; and tears, too sad for such young eyes to shed, flowed down her cheeks, as she gave her last kiss, and whispered in my ear, “Mother, I will never tell.” And she never did.

Before dawn, they came to take me back to my hiding place. I pulled aside the window curtain to take one last look at my child. The moonlight shone on her face. I bent over her, just as I had years before, on that miserable night when I ran away. I held her close to my pounding heart. Tears too sad for such young eyes to shed ran down her cheeks. She gave me one last kiss and whispered in my ear, “Mother, I will never tell.” And she never did.

When I got back to my den, I threw myself on the bed and wept there alone in the darkness. It seemed as if my heart would burst. When the time for Ellen’s departure drew nigh, I could hear neighbors and friends saying to her, “Good by, Ellen. I hope your poor mother will find you out. Won’t you be glad to see her!” She replied, “Yes, ma’am;” and they little dreamed of the weighty secret that weighed down her young heart. She was an affectionate child, but naturally very reserved, except with those she loved, and I felt secure that my secret would be safe with her. I heard the gate close after her, with such feelings as only a slave mother can experience. During the day my meditations were very sad. Sometimes I feared I had been very selfish not to give up all claim to her, and let her go to Illinois, to be adopted by Mrs. Sands’s sister. It was my experience of slavery that decided me against it. I feared that circumstances might arise that would cause her to be sent back. I felt confident that I should go to New York myself; and then I should be able to watch over her, and in some degree protect her.

When I got back to my hiding place, I threw myself on the bed and wept alone in the darkness. It seemed as if my heart would burst. As the time for Ellen to leave drew near, I heard neighbors and friends say to her, “Goodbye, Ellen. I hope your poor mother will find you. Won’t you be glad to see her!” She replied, “Yes, ma’am.” They had no idea how heavily the secret weighed on her young heart. She was a loving child, but naturally very quiet, except with those she loved. I felt sure she would keep my secret safe. I heard the gate close behind her, with feelings only an enslaved mother can experience. During the day, my thoughts were very sad. Sometimes I feared I had been very selfish. Perhaps I should have given up all claim to her and let her go to Illinois, to be adopted by Mrs. Sands’s sister. But my experience of slavery made me decide against it. I feared that circumstances might arise that would cause her to be sent back. I felt sure I would go to New York myself. Then I would be able to watch over her and protect her to some degree.

Dr. Flint’s family knew nothing of the proposed arrangement till after Ellen was gone, and the news displeased them greatly. Mrs. Flint called on Mrs. Sands’s sister to inquire into the matter. She expressed her opinion very freely as to the respect Mr. Sands showed for his wife, and for his own character, in acknowledging those “young niggers.” And as for sending Ellen away, she pronounced it to be just as much stealing as it would be for him to come and take a piece of furniture out of her parlor. She said her daughter was not of age to sign the bill of sale, and the children were her property; and when she became of age, or was married, she could take them, wherever she could lay hands on them.

Dr. Flint’s family knew nothing about the proposed arrangement until Ellen was gone. The news greatly displeased them. Mrs. Flint visited Mrs. Sands’s sister to ask about it. She spoke freely about how little respect Mr. Sands showed for his wife and his own character by acknowledging those “young niggers.” As for sending Ellen away, she said it was stealing, just as much as if he had taken a piece of furniture from her parlor. She said her daughter was too young to sign the bill of sale, and the children were her property. When her daughter came of age or married, she could take them wherever she could find them.

Miss Emily Flint, the little girl to whom I had been bequeathed, was now in her sixteenth year. Her mother considered it all right and honorable for her, or her future husband, to steal my children; but she did not understand how any body could hold up their heads in respectable society, after they had purchased their own children, as Mr. Sands had done. Dr. Flint said very little. Perhaps he thought that Benny would be less likely to be sent away if he kept quiet. One of my letters, that fell into his hands, was dated from Canada; and he seldom spoke of me now. This state of things enabled me to slip down into the storeroom more frequently, where I could stand upright, and move my limbs more freely.

Miss Emily Flint, the little girl to whom I had been left as property, was now fifteen. Her mother thought it perfectly right and honorable for Miss Emily or her future husband to steal my children. But she could not understand how anyone could hold their head up in respectable society after buying their own children, as Mr. Sands had done. Dr. Flint said very little. Perhaps he thought Benny would be less likely to be sent away if he kept quiet. One of my letters that fell into his hands was dated from Canada, and he seldom spoke of me now. This situation allowed me to slip down into the storeroom more often. There I could stand upright and move my limbs more freely.

Days, weeks, and months passed, and there came no news of Ellen. I sent a letter to Brooklyn, written in my grandmother’s name, to inquire whether she had arrived there. Answer was returned that she had not. I wrote to her in Washington; but no notice was taken of it. There was one person there, who ought to have had some sympathy with the anxiety of the child’s friends at home; but the links of such relations as he had formed with me, are easily broken and cast away as rubbish. Yet how protectingly and persuasively he once talked to the poor, helpless slave girl! And how entirely I trusted him! But now suspicions darkened my mind. Was my child dead, or had they deceived me, and sold her?

Days, weeks, and months passed, and still there was no news of Ellen. I sent a letter to Brooklyn in my grandmother’s name, asking whether Ellen had arrived there. The reply said she had not. I wrote to Ellen in Washington, but received no response. One person there should have understood the anxiety of the child’s friends at home. But the kind of relationship he had formed with me is easily broken and thrown away like rubbish. Yet how protectively and persuasively he had once spoken to the poor, helpless slave girl! And how completely I had trusted him! But now my mind filled with dark suspicions. Was my child dead, or had they deceived me and sold her?

If the secret memoirs of many members of Congress should be published, curious details would be unfolded. I once saw a letter from a member of Congress to a slave, who was the mother of six of his children. He wrote to request that she would send her children away from the great house before his return, as he expected to be accompanied by friends. The woman could not read, and was obliged to employ another to read the letter. The existence of the colored children did not trouble this gentleman, it was only the fear that friends might recognize in their features a resemblance to him.

If the private accounts of many members of Congress were published, curious details would come to light. I once saw a letter from a member of Congress to an enslaved woman. She was the mother of six of his children. He asked her to send the children away from the great house before he returned, because he expected friends to accompany him. The woman could not read, so she had to ask someone else to read the letter. The existence of his children of color did not trouble this gentleman. He feared only that his friends might see his resemblance in their faces.

At the end of six months, a letter came to my grandmother, from Brooklyn. It was written by a young lady in the family, and announced that Ellen had just arrived. It contained the following message from her: “I do try to do just as you told me to, and I pray for you every night and morning.” I understood that these words were meant for me; and they were a balsam to my heart. The writer closed her letter by saying, “Ellen is a nice little girl, and we shall like to have her with us. My cousin, Mr. Sands, has given her to me, to be my little waiting maid. I shall send her to school, and I hope some day she will write to you herself.” This letter perplexed and troubled me. Had my child’s father merely placed her there till she was old enough to support herself? Or had he given her to his cousin, as a piece of property? If the last idea was correct, his cousin might return to the south at any time, and hold Ellen as a slave. I tried to put away from me the painful thought that such a foul wrong could have been done to us. I said to myself, “Surely there must be some justice in man;” then I remembered, with a sigh, how slavery perverted all the natural feelings of the human heart. It gave me a pang to look on my light-hearted boy. He believed himself free; and to have him brought under the yoke of slavery, would be more than I could bear. How I longed to have him safely out of the reach of its power!

After six months, my grandmother received a letter from Brooklyn. A young lady in the family had written it to announce that Ellen had just arrived. The letter included this message from Ellen: “I do try to do just as you told me, and I pray for you every night and morning.” I understood that these words were meant for me, and they soothed my heart. The writer ended her letter by saying, “Ellen is a nice little girl, and we will be glad to have her with us. My cousin, Mr. Sands, has given her to me to be my little maid. I will send her to school, and I hope she will write to you herself someday.” The letter confused and troubled me. Had my child’s father only placed her there until she was old enough to support herself? Or had he given her to his cousin as property? If he had given her away, his cousin might return to the south at any time and hold Ellen as a slave. I tried to push away the painful thought that such a terrible wrong could have been done to us. I said to myself, “Surely there must be some justice in man.” Then I sighed, remembering how slavery twisted all the natural feelings of the human heart. It hurt me to look at my carefree boy. He believed he was free, and I could not bear to see him forced into slavery. How I longed for him to be safely beyond slavery’s reach!