Aunt Nancy

I have mentioned my great-aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint’s family, and who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered from him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is, as far as slaves can marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress, and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without any legal value. Her master or mistress could annul it any day they pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint’s chamber door, that she might be within call. When she was married, she was told she might have the use of a small room in an out-house. Her mother and her husband furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was allowed to sleep there when he was at home. But on the wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her old post on the entry floor.

I have mentioned my great-aunt, who was enslaved by Dr. Flint’s family. She was my refuge during the shameful persecution I suffered from him. My aunt married at twenty, that is, as far as enslaved people can marry. Her master and mistress gave their consent, and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But the ceremony was a mere formality, with no legal value. Her master or mistress could annul the marriage any day they pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint’s bedroom door. She slept there so she would be within call. When she married, she was told she could use a small room in an outbuilding. Her mother and her husband furnished it. Her husband was a sailor, and he was allowed to sleep there when he was home. But on her wedding evening, the bride was ordered back to her old post on the entry floor.

Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to be a mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to lie at her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give premature birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume her place on the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint’s babe needed her attentions. She kept her station there through summer and winter, until she had given premature birth to six children; and all the while she was employed as night-nurse to Mrs. Flint’s children. Finally, toiling all day, and being deprived of rest at night, completely broke down her constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it was impossible she could ever become the mother of a living child. The fear of losing so valuable a servant by death, now induced them to allow her to sleep in her little room in the out-house, except when there was sickness in the family. She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a few days, and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow as she held the last dead baby in her arms. “I wish it could have lived,” she said; “it is not the will of God that any of my children should live. But I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven.”

At that time, Mrs. Flint had no children, but she was expecting a baby. If she wanted a drink of water at night, what could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was forced to lie at her door. One midnight, my aunt had to leave because she was giving birth prematurely. Two weeks later, she was required to return to her place on the hallway floor because Mrs. Flint’s baby needed her care. She stayed there through summer and winter, until she had given birth prematurely to six children. All the while, she worked as a night nurse to Mrs. Flint’s children. Finally, working all day and being deprived of rest at night completely ruined her health. Dr. Flint declared that it was impossible for her ever to give birth to a living child. Fearing they would lose such a valuable servant to death, the Flints allowed her to sleep in her little room in the outbuilding. She still had to sleep in the hallway when someone in the family was sick. She later had two weak babies. One died after a few days, and the other after four weeks. I remember well her patient sorrow as she held the last dead baby in her arms. “I wish it could have lived,” she said. “It is not God’s will for any of my children to live. But I will try to be worthy of meeting their little spirits in heaven.”

Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint’s family. Indeed, she was the factotum of the household. Nothing went on well without her. She was my mother’s twin sister, and, as far as was in her power, she supplied a mother’s place to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I lived in my old master’s house, and the bond between us was very strong. When my friends tried to discourage me from running away, she always encouraged me. When they thought I had better return and ask my master’s pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never to yield. She said if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my children; and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life. After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack! “I am old, and have not long to live,” she used to say; “and I could die happy if I could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness.” I would beg her not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I should always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life. A word from her always strengthened me; and not me only. The whole family relied upon her judgment, and were guided by her advice.

Aunt Nancy was the housekeeper and personal maid for Dr. Flint’s family. In fact, she was the person who did everything in the household. Nothing went well without her. She was my mother’s twin sister and, as much as she could, took a mother’s place for us orphans. I slept with her the whole time I lived in my old master’s house, and we were very close. When my friends tried to discourage me from running away, she always encouraged me. They thought I should return and ask my master’s forgiveness because there was no chance of escape. But she sent word that I should never give in. She said that if I kept trying, I might perhaps win freedom for my children. Even if I died trying, she said, that was better than leaving them to suffer the same abuses that had ruined my own life. After I was shut up in my dark cell, she slipped away whenever she could. She brought me news and said something to cheer me. How often I knelt to listen to her comforting words, whispered through a crack! “I am old, and I don’t have long to live,” she used to say. “I could die happy if I could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness.” I would beg her not to worry about me. I told her that all suffering ends sooner or later. Whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I would always remember her as the good friend who had comforted me throughout my life. A word from her always gave me strength, and not just me. The whole family relied on her judgment and followed her advice.

I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter. She was very ill, and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint’s house for several years. They had treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now. She was grateful for permission to watch by the death-bed of her child. They had always been devoted to each other; and now they sat looking into each other’s eyes, longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both. My aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and the last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance, she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she would try to hold up her hand, to let her know that all was well with her. Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side. His eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flint took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to her. “Martha,” said he, “aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for her sake.” She replied, “Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little know me if you think I can feel any thing but good will for her children.”

I had been in my cell for six years when my grandmother was called to the bedside of her last surviving daughter. My aunt was very ill, and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint’s house for several years. The Flints had treated her cruelly, but she gave that no thought now. She was grateful for permission to sit by her dying child. Mother and daughter had always been devoted to each other. Now they sat looking into each other’s eyes, longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so heavily on both their hearts. My aunt had suffered a stroke that left her paralyzed. She lived only two more days, and on the last day she could not speak. Before she lost the ability to speak, she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her. She said she would try to raise her hand to let her mother know that all was well with her. Even the hard-hearted doctor softened a little when he saw the dying woman try to smile at her elderly mother, who was kneeling beside her. His eyes filled with tears for a moment. He said she had always been a faithful servant and that they would never be able to replace her. Mrs. Flint was so overcome by the shock that she took to her bed. While my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son. Aunt Nancy had always been very fond of the boy, and he was deeply attached to her. “Martha,” he said, “aunt Nancy loved this child. When he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him for her sake.” She replied, “Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, and my poor Nancy’s foster-sister. You know me very little if you think I can feel anything but goodwill toward her children.”

“I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of it,” said he; “and that Linda would come to supply her aunt’s place. She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for her. I wish it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age.”

“I wish we could forget the past and never think about it,” he said. “I also wish Linda would come and take her aunt’s place. She would be worth more to us than all the money anyone could pay for her. I wish this for your sake too, Martha. Now that Nancy has been taken away from you, Linda would be a great comfort to you in your old age.”

He knew he was touching a tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, “It was not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are gone; and of my nine children only one is left. God help me!”

He knew he was touching on a painful subject. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, “I was not the one who drove Linda away. My grandchildren are gone, and only one of my nine children is left. God help me!”

To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had helped to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and the thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last, as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one inquire, “How is she?” and he answered, “She is dead.” My little cell seemed whirling round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me. I had no need to ask any questions. He whispered, “Linda, she died happy.” I could not weep. My fixed gaze troubled him. “Don’t look so,” he said. “Don’t add to my poor mother’s trouble. Remember how much she has to bear, and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her.” Ah, yes, that blessed old grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms of a slave-mother’s life. She did indeed need consolation!

The death of this kind relative brought me sorrow beyond words. I knew she had been slowly murdered, and I felt that my troubles had helped finish the work. After I heard she was ill, I listened constantly for news from the great house. The thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last, uncle Phillip came into the house. I heard someone ask, “How is she?” He answered, “She is dead.” My little cell seemed to spin around me. I knew nothing more until I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me. I did not need to ask any questions. He whispered, “Linda, she died happy.” I could not weep. My fixed stare troubled him. “Don’t look so,” he said. “Don’t add to my poor mother’s trouble. Remember how much she has to bear, and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her.” Ah, yes, that blessed old grandmother had endured the storms of a slave-mother’s life for seventy-three years. She did indeed need comfort!

Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her health by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But now she became very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her feet. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor’s family burial-place. No colored person had ever been allowed interment in the white people’s burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of our family reposed together in the old graveyard of the slaves. He therefore replied, “I have no objection to complying with your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy’s mother may have some choice as to where her remains shall be deposited.”

Mrs. Flint had left her poor foster-sister childless, apparently without any remorse. In her cruel selfishness, she had ruined her health through years of constant, unpaid work and interrupted sleep. But now Mrs. Flint became very sentimental. I suppose she thought burying her old, worn-out servant at her feet would beautifully illustrate the bond between slaveholder and slave. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he objected to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor’s family burial place. No Black person had ever been allowed burial in the white people’s graveyard. The minister knew that all our family members who had died were buried together in the old slave graveyard. So he replied, “I have no objection to doing as you wish, but perhaps aunt Nancy’s mother may have a preference about where her remains should be buried.”

It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings. When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from her. She might have added with touching pathos, “I was so long used to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor.”

Mrs. Flint had never considered that slaves could have feelings. When asked, my grandmother immediately said she wanted Nancy buried with all the rest of her family, where her own old body would be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously agreed, though she said it pained her to have Nancy buried away from her. She might have added with touching sadness, “I was so used to sleeping with her lying near me on the hallway floor.”

My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant such favors to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, but perfectly respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs. Flint’s minister read the funeral service. There was a large concourse of colored people, bond and free, and a few white persons who had always been friendly to our family. Dr. Flint’s carriage was in the procession; and when the body was deposited in its humble resting place, the mistress dropped a tear, and returned to her carriage, probably thinking she had performed her duty nobly.

My uncle Phillip asked permission to pay for his sister’s burial. Slaveholders are always ready to grant such favors to enslaved people and their relatives. The funeral arrangements were simple but perfectly respectable. She was buried on Sunday, and Mrs. Flint’s minister read the funeral service. A large crowd of Black people, enslaved and free, attended. A few white people who had always been friendly to our family attended too. Dr. Flint’s carriage was in the procession. When the body was laid in its humble grave, the mistress shed a tear. Then she returned to her carriage, probably thinking she had done her duty nobly.

It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern travellers, passing through the place, might have described this tribute of respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the “patriarchal institution;” a touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders and their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed this impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. We could have told them a different story. We could have given them a chapter of wrongs and sufferings, that would have touched their hearts, if they had any hearts to feel for the colored people. We could have told them how the poor old slave-mother had toiled, year after year, to earn eight hundred dollars to buy her son Phillip’s right to his own earnings; and how that same Phillip paid the expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much credit to the master. We could also have told them of a poor, blighted young creature, shut up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures that would be inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the face of her departed friend.

The slaves talked about it as a very grand funeral. Northern travelers passing through town might have described this tribute to the humble dead as a beautiful feature of the “patriarchal institution.” They might have called it touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders and their servants. And tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed that impression, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. We could have told them a different story. We could have told them a whole chapter of wrongs and suffering. It would have touched their hearts, if they had any hearts to feel for colored people. We could have told them how the poor old slave mother had worked year after year. She had earned eight hundred dollars to buy her son Phillip’s right to keep his own earnings. And that same Phillip paid for the funeral, which they thought reflected so well on the master. We could also have told them about a poor, ruined young woman, shut up in a living grave for years. She stayed there to avoid the torture she would suffer if she dared come out and look on her departed friend’s face.

All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living.

I thought of all this and much more as I sat at my loophole, waiting for the family to return from the grave. Sometimes I wept. Sometimes I fell asleep and had strange dreams about the dead and the living.

It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had always been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported her. But her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to knock for me to come to the trap-door, and each place had a different meaning. She now came oftener than she had done, and talked to me of her dead daughter, while tears trickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks. I said all I could to comfort her; but it was a sad reflection, that instead of being able to help her, I was a constant source of anxiety and trouble. The poor old back was fitted to its burden. It bent under it, but did not break.

It was sad to see my grandmother grieving her loss. She had always been strong enough to bear hardship, and her religious faith supported her now, as always. But her dark life had grown even darker, and age and trouble were leaving deep marks on her wrinkled face. She had four places where she could knock to call me to the trapdoor, and each place meant something different. She came more often now and talked to me about her dead daughter, while tears slowly ran down her lined cheeks. I said all I could to comfort her. But it was sad to think that, instead of helping her, I was a constant source of anxiety and trouble. Her poor old back was suited to its burden. It bent under the weight but did not break.