The Bondwoman's Narrative (20 page)

We traveled slowly. The men soon wearied beneath their burden, and my weakened limbs and attenuated frame could
barely
hardly support the exercise of walking, even with long and frequent intervals of rest. At length, and just as night was shutting
over the landscape, the patter of a mill, the spire of a church, and the distant hum of voices gave indication that we approached
a village. The houses were soon in sight, some of them in a sort of dusky gloom that was neither light nor darkness, but the
most
with lights twinkling at the windows,
that look
and all wearing a placid look of peace and content.

One of the men went forward, as I supposed to herald our arrival, and to see that some place was prepared for our reception,
my heart told me too well what place that would be.

He returned speedily, whispered that it was ready, and on we went into the village, along a street, past a tavern where many
lights were burning and a great many people standing by a store whose broad glass windows were richly illuminated besides
being garnished with a great variety of goods—and to a large building that seemed to blockade the street as it loomed dark
and gloomy and in perfect contrast to the surrounding objects. They paused before this building, and one of
them
them tapped at a little low window, which like the others, was garnished with iron gratings. A few words were exchanged in
a low tone with some one within, and the bolts revolved, an iron door swung heavily open and we stood within the vestibule
of a prison.

It was a small, but strong guard room, from which a narrow stair case led upwards, and two low entrances conducted to cells
or apartments on the ground floor, all secured with the tyrant strength of bolts and bars. The bleak walls otherwise bare
were not unsuitably furnished with iron fetters, and other uncouth implements, designed for still more inhuman purposes, interspersed
with broad bowie knives, guns, pistols, and other weapons of of-fence and defence.

At finding ourselves,
thus suddenly,
and without having committed any crime, thus introduced into one of the legal fortresses of a country celebrated throughout
the world for the freedom, equality, and magnanimity of its laws, I could not help reflecting on the strange ideas of right
and justice that seemed to have usurped a place in public opinion, since the mere accident of birth,
and what persons were
the least capable of changing or modifying was made a reason for punishing and imprisoning them.

At our first entrance I turned an eager glance towards my mistress, and our conductors, but the lamp in the vestibule was
too low in flame to afford my curiosity any satisfaction. Had her countenance expressed all the horror in the world, or theirs
all the sympathy I could not have discerned it by the dim uncertain rays. Presently the jailer lit a small tallow candle,
which he found after along search on a little shelf, and I obtained a distinct view of his uncouth features and wild appearance.
His hair was red as fire, and being brushed back from his equally red face stood all on end. His eyes were blood-shotten,
and various small red pimples disfigured his nose. He seemed to understand perfectly who and what we were, and made sundry
remarks at our expense.

“Gals runaway—couldn’t afford to lose ’em—bring heaps of money—one of ’em sick, eh.”

He then bade us follow him.

“You will make them comfortable as you can, poor things” said Horace.

The fellow grinned an affirmative.

“And keep them here, till we have time to notify their owners and receive our reward” suggested another.

Another ghastly grin, and then he marshaled us up the stairs, and along a narrow gallery, which had several doors opening
into it, that apparently communicated with other cells and passages. Then coming to a dead halt, he applied a key to
the lock
of the lock of a door so low and narrow that no one could pass through it erect, or without turning side-foremost. The door
flew open.

“Now walk in there, one at a time” he said eyeing us closely. We obeyed in silence, and he was about closing the door upon
us when I inquired if we couldn’t have a light.

“A light, faith, and what do you want of that?” he answered roughly.

“To see by, of course; it is very dark in here” I replied.

“There isn’t much to see, I guess” he said with a low chuckle “but I shall be back directly to bring you some supper” and
the door shut with a bang.

We were now in almost Egyptian darkness, and the hot stifling air had a suffocating stench. We could only cling to each other,
and group [grope] our way
around the cell
with outstretched hands around the cell.

It contained no furniture with the exception of a low wooden stool, and a cot-bed or pallet very narrow and exceedingly filthy.
Stumbling over these we were both seated when the jailer returned.

“Making yourselves at home a[l]ready” he said in a half-cheerful half sneering manner. “Here is your supper and
hope you
I hope you won’t
many
make any disturbance, or try to get out, because you see it isn’t pleasant to have a muss, specially with women.”

Telling him not to give himself uneasiness on that score I again besought him to leave us a light.

“If it wasn’t gin the rules” he began.

“Who cares for the rules” I said interrupting him. “You must certainly be an independent man, you can tell, you know very
well what is necessary. We have not been placed here for punishment but only safe-keeping.” And thus by alternately coaxing
and flattering him he was induced to leave the candle with us, muttering meanwhile to himself that he wasn’t sure it was all
right.

The food he brought us was coarse and unpalatable. It consisted of some hard, dry mouldy bread, some cheese alive with vermin
and some water so
me
warm and fetid that we could scarcely drink it. We only ate a few morsels, and then retired to our humble
bed.

It is said that persons have been known to sleep on the rack, and
even when exposed to the keenest agony of torturing fire.
Worn out with fatigue and harrowing anxiety I sank into a painful and uneasy slumber. It was not rest, for I was wearied and
tortured by a frightful dream. It was not the blessed oblivion that locks the senses when peace and happiness surround us,
but a sort of lethargic stupor, the result of over-taxed exertion mental and physical.

Then came a sensation of bodily pain, and presently a consciousness that some animal was trying to devour me. I started up
in horror and grasped a huge rat that was nibbling at my cheek. Releasing him as quickly he ran frightened into his hole,
which the faint rays of the lamp rendered visible in the farthest corner of the cell.

With the contingency of being devoured before my eyes, I could not shut them again, but lay painfully awake, while my terrified
imagination began to conjure strange fancies. I had heard of rats in prisons and ancient charnel-houses, that
banqueted
banqueted hediously on the dead, or that assailing even living men and women by thousands gnawed the quivering and palpitating
flesh from their bones. Such a fate was too horrible to contemplate. I gazed in fascinated horror at the cavity, whence now
and then the creature would stick its head, glance around with its eager eyes, and then draw back suddenly.

At length to my inexpressible horror and alarm the candle which had burned low in the socket suddenly flickered, wavered,
went out and we were involved in darkness. A cold sweat rose to my forehead, and I trembled with excess of nervous agitation,
when a voice seemed to whisper to my soul
one word only
“God” and immediately, like light breaking in the darkness I felt a comforting a heavenly assurance of his protection and
presence. “Cast all your care upon him, for he careth for you.” “The hairs of your heads are numbered your tears are in his
bottle.” These and the like consoling passages of Scripture strengthened and supported me.
Then I thought of the Saviour and
his agony and drew comfort from the assurances of his dying love. I felt that the God of Israel was my refuge, that underneath
me were his everlasting arms, and I felt rebuked in conscience for my doubts and fears and despondency, and that I had forgotten
him so long.

I embraced my dear companion, though she slumbered heavily, kissed and wept over her, and then endeavored to compose myself.
I succeeded. A pleasant slumber sealed my eyelids, and I enjoyed a blessed dream of my mother, whom I had never seen. My angel
mother; I loved then, I still love to fancy that she was near me at the time; that a spirit herself she influenced me spiritually,
and that her blessed and holy presence was made the medium of my consolation.

When the jailer came round in the morning we implored for more light and liberty. It was reluctantly granted and the range
of a few small cells accorded us. They were all equally miserable and discomfortless, but they added a fellow prisoner to
our society. She was a little old woman, withered and skin-dried and having altogether the most singular appearance. Yet her
countenance was benevolent, and she had a soft low voice, though sorrow and confinement had impaired her intellect. She was
the victim of mental hallunciation, and strangely enough believed that these miserable cells were palace halls, in which she
acted the character of hostess and received us as guests. Her bows, and smiles, and courtesies were painfully amusing as she
extended her hand to receive us, and observed with an air of great politeness “Very happy, I am sure, but whom have I the
honor of addressing?”

The jailer, who was present, looked at me, touched his forehead, and said half-aside “Not quite right here, but perfectly
harmless. They can amuse each other” and he pointed to my mistress.

“I see you are strangers here” continued the old lady whose name was Wright. “I was a stranger here myself, and it was sometime
before I learned to appreciate all the comforts of the place. I have the honor of living here now, and I live well and easy
too. The state cares for me, provides for me, furnishes me a home—very motherly and good is the state.” Then glancing at my
companion she inquired “Be you sisters?” I shook my head. “Only friends.[”] “Friends” she repeated after me. “Well, I had
a friend once. I had a lover once. I had children once; I had a husband once, but I have nothing now, neither friend, nor
lover, nor child, nor husband; all all deserted me when I came here, but misery dwells in palaces I always heard that” and
her eyes wandered over the rough stone walls, and the high dark ceiling with an admiring and complacent look.

I felt a strange curiosity to ascertain what grand or beautiful semblances her diseased fancy had given to the hard coarse
stones, filthy with accumulated dust and clothed with the webs of spiders.

“They brought me here” she continued “they told me it was necessary that I should stay. I couldn’t see it so at first but
after a time I—I—grew more reconciled. And now I call it my palace, and that man, who comes in once and awhile is my groom
of the ceremonies, and I have guests occasionally as I have now.”

“But why did you come here?” I inquired “You certainly would have preferred staying with your husband and children.”

I had struck the right chord in her memory, and she answered perfectly rational.

[“]It’s a long story. I don’t know that I can tell it all; for sometimes I forget, or I cannot recall names and events in
their proper places.”

I told her that made no difference; she only need give me the outline of her history. I should be quite satisfied with that.

It seemed as near as I could gather from her disconnected and disjoin[t]ed statements that she had been well to do in the
world, and greatly esteemed and beloved by her neighbors. Her woman’s
heart was brimful of love and kindness for all, but
most especially for the oppressed and afflicted. She had a great fondness for little children, yet one, and that one a slave
child, shared particularly her love and tenderness. The kind good-hearted soul had never learned the cold lesson of the world
that slaves were made for toil, not love, and that it was a waste of affection to lavish it on them.

In her earlier years and before she was able to work Ellen was suffered to visit Mrs Wright whenever she pleased, and to stay
as long as she desired. Then she made one less about the grounds, she obtained food and many little things of which the mistress
took account, but when she grew older, and her labor became desirable she was forbidden to visit the house of her friend.
But habits of intimacy once acquired are not readily broken off. Ellen felt that she must go, and go she would and did. She
had attained her fifteenth year, and was really a beautiful girl, in complexion approaching the Spanish with dark sparkling
eyes, and a profusion of hair, jet black, and curling around a neck and over shoulders of exquisite grace.

A slave-trader was around. He was selecting and purchasing beautiful girls for the New Orleans market. Ellen attracted his
attention, and he determined to obtain her if possible.
Readily and willingly
Readily and willingly, for the consideration of a good sum in money, her master yeilded to his wishes. He felt no compunction
in dooming the beautiful girl to a life of misery ten times more horrible than a death of torture. He reck[on]ed not that
she was a woman of delicate sensibilities and fine perfections—she was a slave, and
no more
that was all to him.

When the news of her dreadful fate reached the ears of Ellen, she fled in horror and consternation to Mrs Wright. That good
lady was filled with almost equal grief and astonishment. It seemed that duty, love, religion, humanity everything and every
generous sentiment urged her to preserve the beautiful victim
from such a miserable doom. Perhaps she exercised too little
discretion, but moved by the considerations of mercy and tenderness, and above all by the tears and prayers and entreaties
of Ellen she resolved on a desperate expedient, no other than smuggling the terrified girl out of the country.