Harriet Beecher Stowe - Uncle tom's cabin - Chapter 8 - 11 - Have subtitles
Harriet beecher stowe - Uncle Tom's Cabin (chapter 8-11) have subtitles By: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896) Uncle Tom’s Cabin is one of the most controversial novels of the last century, with it’s sentimental portrayal of the anti-slavery movement in the USA. Written in 1852, the novel instantly rose to fame and split Americans up and down the country. Stowe was a passionate abolitionist and was inspired to write Uncle Tom when she spent time in Cincinnati in the early part of the 18th century. She met many slaves who had escaped from Kentucky and was touched by the friendships she built. It was with this sentiment that the novel was born and the deep empathy Stowe had for slaves is evident throughout. As you would expect, the book was hugely provocative with pro-slavery supporters outraged by the negative portrayal of masters within the slave trade. It was said to be so incendiary that Abraham Lincoln claimed Stowe to be "the little lady who started this great war". It is not clear if that quote is genuine but the hype Stowe created both before and after the civil war is definitely real. The novel follows the story of long suffering slave Tom and mother and son duo Eliza and Harry. Whilst Tom is sold down the river by his master, Eliza and her son manage to escape the clutches of slavery. There is no doubt in the genuineness of Howe’s wish to uncover the slave trade for all of its sins. Pleasingly the book ends with an optimistic outlook, one that shook the government at the time and one sure to shake you.
Tip: Highlight text to annotate itX
Chapter 8 CHAPTER VIII Eliza's Escape
Eliza made her desperate retreat across the river just in the dusk of twilight. The gray
mist of evening, rising slowly from the river, enveloped her as she disappeared up the bank,
and the swollen current and floundering masses of ice presented a hopeless barrier between
her and her pursuer. Haley therefore slowly and discontentedly returned to the little
tavern, to ponder further what was to be done. The woman opened to him the door of a little
parlor, covered with a rag carpet, where stood a table with a very shining black oil-cloth,
sundry lank, high-backed wood chairs, with some plaster images in resplendent colors
on the mantel-shelf, above a very dimly-smoking grate; a long hard-wood settle extended its
uneasy length by the chimney, and here Haley sat him down to meditate on the instability
of human hopes and happiness m general. "What did I want with the little cuss, now,"
he said to himself, "that I should have got myself treed like a ***, as I am, this yer
way?" and Haley relieved himself by repeating over a not very select litany of imprecations
on himself, which, though there was the best possible reason to consider them as true,
we shall, as a matter of taste, omit. He was startled by the loud and dissonant
voice of a man who was apparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to the window.
-122-
"By the land! if this yer an't the nearest, now, to what I've heard folks call Providence,"
said Haley. "I do b'lieve that ar's Tom Loker." Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in
the corner of the room, was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in height, and broad in
proportion. He was dressed in a coat of buffalo-skin, made with the hair outward, which gave him
'a shaggy and fierce appearance, perfectly in keeping with the whole air of his physiognomy.
In the head and face every organ and lineament expressive of brutal and unhesitating violence
was in a state of the highest possible development. Indeed, could our readers fancy a bull-dog
come unto man's estate, and walking about in a hat and coat, they would have no unapt
idea of the general style and effect of his physique. He was accompanied by a travelling
companion, in many respects an exact contrast to himself He was short and slender, lithe
and catlike in his motions, and had a peering, mousing expression about his keen black eyes,
with which every feature of his face seemed sharpened into sympathy; his thin, long nose,
ran out as if it was eager to bore into the nature of things in general; his sleek, thin,
black hair was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motions and evolutions expressed a
dry, cautious acuteness. The great man poured out a big tumbler half full of raw spirits,
and gulped it down without a word. The little man stood tip-toe, and putting his head first
to one side and then the other, and snuffing considerately in the directions of the various
bottles, ordered at last a mint julep, in a thin and quivering voice, and with an air
of great circumspection. When poured out, he took it and looked at it with a sharp,
complacent air, like a man who thinks he has done about the right thing, and hit the nail
on the head, and proceeded to dispose of it in short and well-advised sips.
"Wal, now, who'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come
to me? Why, Loker, how are ye?" said Haley, coming forward, and extending his hand to
the big man. "The devil!" was the civil reply. "What brought
you here, Haley?"
The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly stopped his sipping, and, poking
his head forward, looked shrewdly on the new acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks at
a moving dry leaf, or some other possible object of pursuit.
"I say, Tom, this yer's the luckiest thing in the world. I'm in a devil of a hobble,
and you must help me out."
"Ugh? aw! like enough!" grunted his complacent acquaintance. "A body may be pretty sure of
that, when you're glad to see 'em; something to be made off of 'em. What's the blow now?"
"You've got a friend here?" said Haley, looking doubtfully at Marks; "partner, perhaps?"
"Yes, I have. Here, Marks! here's that ar feller that I was in with in Natchez."
"Shall be pleased with his acquaintance," said Marks, thrusting out a long, thin hand,
like a raven's claw. "Mr. Haley, I believe?" "The same, sir," said Haley. "And now, gentlemen,
seein' as we've met so happily, I think I'll stand up to a small matter of a treat in this
here parlor. So, now, old ***," said he to the man at the bar, "get us hot water, and
sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the real stuff and we'll have a blow-out."
Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the burning point in the grate,
and our three worthies seated round a table, well spread with all the accessories to good
fellowship enumerated before. Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar
troubles. Loker shut up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff and surly attention. Marks,
who was anxiously and with much fidgeting compounding a tumbler of
-124-
punch to his own peculiar taste, occasionally looked up from his employment, and, poking
his sharp nose and chin almost into Haley's face, gave the most earnest heed to the whole
narrative. The conclusion of it appeared to amuse him extremely, for he shook his shoulders
and sides in silence, and perked up his thin lips with an air of great internal enjoyment.
"So, then, ye'r fairly sewed up, an't ye?" he said; "he! he! he! It's neatly done, too."
"This yer young-un business makes lots of trouble in the trade," said Haley, dolefully.
"If we could get a breed of gals that didn't care, now, for their young uns," said Marks;
"tell ye, I think 't would be 'bout the greatest mod'rn improvement I knows on," -- and Marks
patronized his joke by a quiet introductory sniggle.
"Jes so," said Haley; "I never couldn't see into it; young uns is heaps of trouble to
'em; one would think, now, they'd be glad to get clar on 'em; but they arn't. And the
trouble a young un is, and the more good for nothing, as a gen'l thing, the tighter they
sticks to 'em." "Wal, Mr. Haley," said Marks, "'est pass the
hot water. Yes, sir, you say 'est what I feel and all'us have. Now, I bought a gal once,
when I was in the trade, -- a tight, likely *** she was, too, and quite considerable
smart, -- and she had a young un that was mis'able sickly; it had a crooked back, or
something or other; and I jest gin 't away to a man that thought he'd take his chance
raising on 't, being it didn't cost nothin'; -- never thought, yer know, of the gal's taking'
on about it, -- but, Lord, yer oughter seen how she went on. Why, re'lly, she did seem
to me to valley the child more 'cause 't was sickly and cross, and plagued her; and she
warn't making b'lieve, neither, -- cried about it, she did, and lopped round, as if she'd
lost every friend she had. It re'lly was droll to think on 't. Lord, there ain't no end to
women's notions." -125-
"Wal, jest so with me," said Haley. "Last summer, down on Red river, I got a gal traded
off on me, with a likely lookin' child enough, and his eyes looked as bright as yourn; but,
come to look, I found him stone blind. Fact -- he was stone blind. Wal, ye see, I thought
there warn't no harm in my jest passing him along, and not sayin' nothin'; and I'd got
him nicely swapped off for a keg o' whiskey; but come to get him away from the gal, she
was jest like a tiger. So 't was before we started, and I hadn't got my gang chained
up; so what should she do but ups on a cotton-bale, like a cat, ketches a knife from one of the
deck hands, and, I tell ye, she made all fly for a minit, till she saw 't wan't no use;
and she jest turns round, and pitches head first, young un and all, into the river, -- went
down plump, and never ris." "Bah!" said Tom Loker, who had listened to
these stories with ill-repressed disgust, -- "shif'less, both on ye! my gals don't cut
up no such shines, I tell ye!" "Indeed! how do you help it?" said Marks,
briskly.
"Help it? why, I buys a gal, and if she's got a young un to be sold, I jest walks up
and puts my fist to her face, and says, 'Look here, now, if you give me one word out of
your head, I'll smash yer face in. I won't hear one word -- not the beginning of a word.'
I says to 'em, 'This yer young un's mine, and not yourn, and you've no kind o' business
with it. I'm going to sell it, first chance; mind, you don't cut up none o' yer shines
about it, or I'll make ye wish ye'd never been born.' I tell ye, they sees it an't no
play, when I gets hold. I makes 'em as whist as fishes; and if one on 'em begins and gives
a yelp, why, -- " and Mr. Loker brought down his fist with a thump that fully explained
the hiatus.
"That ar's what ye may call emphasis," said Marks, poking Haley in the side, and going
into another small giggle. "An't Tom peculiar? he! he! I say, Tom, I s'pect you make 'em
understand, for all ***' heads -126-
is woolly. They don't never have no doubt o' your meaning, Tom. If you an't the devil,
Tom, you 's his twin brother, I'll say that for ye!"
Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and began to look as affable as was
consistent, as John Bunyan says, "with his doggish nature."
Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple of the evening, began to feel a
sensible elevation and enlargement of his moral faculties, -- a phenomenon not unusual
with gentlemen of a serious and reflective turn, under similar circumstances.
"Wal, now, Tom," he said, "ye re'lly is too bad, as I al'ays have told ye; ye know, Tom,
you and I used to talk over these yer matters down in Natchez, and I used to prove to ye
that we made full as much, and was as well off for this yer world, by treatin' on 'em
well, besides keepin' a better chance for comin' in the kingdom at last, when wust comes
to wust, and thar an't nothing else left to get, ye know."
"Boh!" said Tom, "don't I know? -- don't make me too sick with any yer stuff, -- my stomach
is a leetle riled now;" and Tom drank half a glass of raw brandy.
"I say," said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and gesturing impressively, "I'll say
this now, I al'ays meant to drive my trade so as to make money on 't fust and foremost,
as much as any man; but, then, trade an't everything, and money an't everything, 'cause
we 's all got souls. I don't care, now, who hears me say it, -- and I think a cussed sight
on it, -- so I may as well come out with it. I b'lieve in religion, and one of these days,
when I've got matters tight and snug, I calculates to tend to my soul and them ar matters; and
so what's the use of doin' any more wickedness than 's re'lly necessary? -- it don't seem
to me it's 't all prudent." "Tend to yer soul!" repeated Tom, contemptuously;
"take a bright look-out to find a soul in you, -- save yourself any care on that score.
If the devil sifts you through a hair sieve, he won't find one."
-127-
"Why, Tom, you're cross," said Haley; "why can't ye take it pleasant, now, when a feller's
talking for your good?"
"Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there," said Tom, gruffly. "I can stand most any talk o' yourn
but your pious talk, -- that kills me right up. After all, what's the odds between me
and you? 'Tan't that you care one bit more, or have a bit more feelin' -- it's clean,
sheer, dog meanness, wanting to cheat the devil and save your own skin; don't I see
through it? And your 'gettin' religion,' as you call it,
arter all, is too p'isin mean for any crittur; -- run up a bill with the devil all your life,
and then sneak out when pay time comes! Bob!" "Come, come, gentlemen, I say; this isn't
business," said Marks. "There's different ways, you know, of looking at all subjects.
Mr. Haley is a very nice man, no doubt, and has his own conscience; and, Tom, you have
your ways, and very good ones, too, Tom; but quarrelling, you know, won't answer no kind
of purpose. Let's go to business. Now, Mr. Haley, what is it? -- you want us to undertake
to catch this yer gal?" "The gal's no matter of mine, -- she's Shelby's;
it's only the boy. I was a fool for buying the monkey!"
"You're generally a fool!" said Tom, gruffly.
"Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs," said Marks, licking his lips; "you see, Mr.
Haley 's a puttin' us in a way of a good job, I reckon; just hold still -- these yer arrangements
is my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, how is she? what is she?"
"Wal! white and handsome -- well brought up. I'd a gin Shelby eight hundred or a thousand,
and then made well on her." "White and handsome -- well brought up!" said
Marks, his sharp eyes, nose and mouth, all alive with enterprise. "Look here, now, Loker,
a beautiful opening. We'll do a business here on our own account; -- we does the catchin';
the boy, of course, goes to Mr. -128-
Haley, -- we takes the gal to Orleans to speculate on. An't it beautiful?"
Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during this communication, now suddenly snapped
it together, as a big dog closes on a piece of meat, and seemed to be digesting the idea
at his leisure. "Ye see," said Marks to Haley, stirring his
punch as he did so, "ye see, we has justices convenient at all p'ints along shore, that
does up any little jobs in our line quite reasonable. Tom, he does the knockin' down
and that ar; and I come in all dressed up -- shining boots -- everything first chop,
when the swearin' 's to be done. You oughter see, now," said Marks, in a glow of professional
pride, "how I can tone it off. One day, I'm Mr.
Twickem, from New Orleans; 'nother day, I'm just come from my plantation on Pearl river,
where I works seven hundred ***; then, again, I come out a distant relation of Henry
Clay, or some old *** in Kentuck. Talents is different, you know. Now, Tom's roarer
when there's any thumping or fighting to be done; but at lying he an't good, Tom an't,
-- ye see it don't come natural to him; but, Lord, if thar's a feller in the country that
can swear to anything and everything, and put in all the circumstances and flourishes
with a long face, and carry 't through better 'n I can, why, I'd like to see him, that's
all! I b'lieve my heart, I could get along and snake through, even if justices were more
particular than they is. Sometimes I rather wish they was more particular; 't would be
a heap more relishin' if they was, -- more fun, yer know."
Tom Loker, who, as we have made it appear, was a man of slow thoughts and movements,
here interrupted Marks by bringing his heavy fist down on the table, so as to make all
ring again, "It'll do!" he said. "Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn't break all
the glasses!" said Marks; "save your fist for time o' need."
"But, gentlemen, an't I to come in for a share of the profits?" said Haley.
-129-
"An't it enough we catch the boy for ye?" said Loker. "What do ye want?"
"Wal," said Haley, "if I gives you the job, it's worth something, -- say ten per cent.
on the profits, expenses paid." "Now," said Loker, with a tremendous oath,
and striking the table with his heavy fist, "don't I know you, Dan Haley? Don't you think
to come it over me! Suppose Marks and I have taken up the catchin' trade, jest to 'commodate
gentlemen like you, and get nothin' for ourselves? -- Not by a long chalk! we'll have the gal
out and out, and you keep quiet, or, ye see, we'll have both, -- what's to hinder? Han't
you show'd us the game? It's as free to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby wants to
chase us, look where the partridges was last year; if you find them or us, you're quite
welcome." "O, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that,"
said Haley, alarmed; "you catch the boy for the job; -- you allers did trade far with
me, Tom, and was up to yer word." "Ye know that," said Tom; "I don't pretend
none of your snivelling ways, but I won't lie in my 'counts with the devil himself.
What I ses I'll do, I will do, -- you know that, Dan Haley."
"Jes so, jes so, -- I said so, Tom," said Haley; "and if you'd only promise to have
the boy for me in a week, at any point you'll name, that's all I want."
"But it an't all I want, by a long jump," said Tom. "Ye don't think I did business with
you, down in Natchez, for nothing, Haley; I've learned to hold an eel, when I catch
him. You've got to fork over fifty dollars, flat down, or this child don't start a peg.
I know yer." "Why, when you have a job in hand that may
bring a clean profit of somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred, why, Tom, you're
onreasonable," said Haley. "Yes, and hasn't we business booked for five
weeks to come, -- all we can do? And suppose we leaves all, and goes to bush-whacking round
arter yer young uns, -130-
and finally doesn't catch the gal, -- and gals allers is the devil to catch, -- what's
then? would you pay us a cent -- would you? I think I see you a doin' it -- ugh! No, no;
flap down your fifty. If we get the job, and it pays, I'll hand it back; if we don't, it's
for our trouble, -- that's far, an't it, Marks?" "Certainly, certainly," said Marks, with a
conciliatory tone; "It's only a retaining fee, you see, -- he! he! he! -- we lawyers,
you know. Wal, we must all keep good-natured, -- keep easy, yer know. Tom'll have the boy
for yer, anywhere ye'll name; won't ye, Tom?" "If I find the young un, I'll bring him on
to Cincinnati, and leave him at Granny Belcher's, on the landing," said Loker.
Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocketbook, and taking a long paper from thence, he sat
down, and fixing his keen black eyes on it, began mumbling over its contents: "Barnes
-- Shelby County -- boy Jim, three hundred dollars for him, dead or alive.
"Edwards -- *** and Lucy -- man and wife, six hundred dollars; *** Polly and two children
-- six hundred for her or her head. "I'm jest a runnin' over our business, to
see if we can take up this yer handily. Loker," he said, after a pause, "we must set Adams
and Springer on the track of these yer; they've been booked some time."
"They'll charge too much," said Tom.
"I'll manage that ar; they 's young in the business, and must spect to work cheap," said
Marks, as he continued to read. "Ther's three on 'em easy cases, 'cause all you've
got to do is to shoot 'em, or swear they is shot; they couldn't, of course, charge much
for that. Them other cases," he said, folding the paper, "will bear puttin' off a spell.
So now let's come to the particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw this yer gal when she landed?"
"To be sure, -- plain as I see you."
-131-
"And a man helpin' on her up the bank?" said Loker. "To be sure, I did."
"Most likely," said Marks, "she's took in somewhere; but where, 's a question. Tom,
what do you say?" "We must cross the river to-night, no mistake,"
said Tom.
"But there's no boat about," said Marks. "The ice is running awfully, Tom; an't it dangerous?"
"Don'no nothing 'bout that, -- only it's got to be done," said Tom, decidedly.
"Dear me," said Marks, fidgeting, "it'll be -- I say," he said, walking to the window,
"it's dark as a wolf's mouth, and, Tom -- " "The long and short is, you're scared, Marks;
but I can't help that, -- you've got to go. Suppose you want to lie by a day or two, till
the gal 's been carried on the underground line up to Sandusky or so, before you start."
"O, no; I an't a grain afraid," said Marks, "only -- " "Only what?" said Tom.
"Well, about the boat. Yer see there an't any boat."
"I heard the woman say there was one coming along this evening, and that a man was going
to cross over in it. Neck or nothing, we must go with him," said Tom.
"I s'pose you've got good dogs," said Haley. "First rate," said Marks. "But what's the
use? you han't got nothin' o' hers to smell on." "Yes, I have," said Haley, triumphantly.
"Here's her shawl she left on the bed in her hurry; she left her bonnet, too."
"That ar's lucky," said Loker; "fork over." "Though the dogs might damage the gal, if
they come on her unawars," said Haley. "That ar's a consideration," said Marks. "Our dogs
tore a feller half to pieces, once, down in Mobile, 'fore we could get 'em off."
-132-
"Well, ye see, for this sort that's to be sold for their looks, that ar won't answer,
ye see," said Haley. "I do see," said Marks. "Besides, if she's
got took in, 'tan't no go, neither. Dogs is no 'count in these yer up states where these
critters gets carried; of course, ye can't get on their track. They only does down in
plantations, where ***, when they runs, has to do their own running, and don't get
no help." "Well," said Loker, who had just stepped out
to the bar to make some inquiries, "they say the man's come with the boat; so, Marks -- "
That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quarters he was leaving, but slowly rose to
obey. After exchanging a few words of further arrangement, Haley, with visible reluctance,
handed over the fifty dollars to Tom, and the worthy trio separated for the night.
If any of our refined and Christian readers object to the society into which this scene
introduces them, let us beg them to begin and conquer their prejudices in time. The
catching business, we beg to remind them, is rising to the dignity of a lawful and patriotic
profession. If all the broad land between the Mississippi and the Pacific becomes one
great market for bodies and souls, and human property retains the locomotive tendencies
of this nineteenth century, the trader and catcher may yet be among our aristocracy.
While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and Andy, in a state of high felicitation,
pursued their way home. Sam was in the highest possible feather, and
expressed his exultation by all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations, by divers odd motions
and contortions of his whole system. Sometimes he would sit backward, with his face to the
horse's tail and sides, and then, with a whoop and a somerset, come right side up in his
place again, and, drawing on a grave face, begin to lecture
-133-
Andy in high-sounding tones for laughing and playing the fool. Anon, slapping his sides
with his arms, he would burst forth in peals of laughter, that made the old woods ring
as they passed. With all these evolutions, he contrived to keep the horses up to the
top of their speed, until, between ten and eleven, their heels resounded on the gravel
at the end of the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the railings.
"Is that you, Sam? Where are they?"
"Mas'r Haley 's a-restin' at the tavern; he's drefful fatigued, Missis." "And Eliza, Sam?"
"Wal, she's clar 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in the land o' Canaan."
"Why, Sam, what do you mean?" said Mrs. Shelby, breathless, and almost faint, as the possible
meaning of these words came over her. "Wal, Missis, de Lord he persarves his own.
Lizy's done gone over the river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if de Lord took her over in
a charrit of fire and two hosses." Sam's vein of piety was always uncommonly
fervent in his mistress' presence; and he made great capital of scriptural figures and
images. "Come up here, Sam," said Mr. Shelby, who
had followed on to the verandah, "and tell your mistress what she wants. Come, come,
Emily," said he, passing his arm round her, "you are cold and all in a shiver; you allow
yourself to feel too much." "Feel too much! Am not I a woman, -- a mother?
Are we not both responsible to God for this poor girl? My God! lay not this sin to our
charge." "What sin, Emily? You see yourself that we
have only done what we were obliged to." "There's an awful feeling of guilt about it, though,"
said Mrs. Shelby. "I can't reason it away."
"Here, Andy, you ***, be alive!" called Sam, under the verandah; "take these yer hosses
to der barn; -134-
don't ye hear Mas'r a callin'?" and Sam soon appeared, palm-leaf in hand, at the parlor
door.
"Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was," said Mr. Shelby. "Where is Eliza, if
you know?" "Wal, Mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes,
a crossin' on the floatin' ice. She crossed most 'markably; it wasn't no less nor a miracle;
and I saw a man help her up the 'Hio side, and then she was lost in the dusk."
"Sam, I think this rather apocryphal, -- this miracle. Crossing on floating ice isn't so
easily done," said Mr. Shelby. "Easy! couldn't nobody a done it, without
de Lord. Why, now," said Sam, " 't was jist dis yer way. Mas'r Haley, and me, and Andy,
we comes up to de little tavern by the river, and I rides a leetle ahead, -- (I's so zealous
to be a cotchin' Lizy, that I couldn't hold in, no way), -- and when I comes by the tavern
winder, sure enough there she was, right in plain sight, and dey diggin' on behind. Wal,
I loses off my hat, and sings out nuff to raise the dead. Course Lizy she hars, and
she dodges back, when Mas'r Haley he goes past the door; and then, I tell ye, she clared
out de side door; she went down de river bank; -- Mas'r Haley he seed her, and yelled out,
and him, and me, and Andy, we took arter. Down she come to the river, and thar was the
current running ten feet wide by the shore, and over t' other side ice a sawin' and a
jiggling up and down, kinder as 't were a great island. We come right behind her, and
I thought my soul he'd got her sure enough, -- when she gin sich a screech as I never
hearn, and thar she was, clar over t' other side of the current, on the ice, and then
on she went, a screeching and a jumpin', - - the ice went crack! c'wallop! cracking!
chunk! and she a boundin' like a buck! Lord, the spring that ar gal's got in her an't common,
I'm o' 'pinion." Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with
excitement, while Sam told his story.
-135-
"God be praised, she isn't dead!" she said; "but where is the poor child now?"
"De Lord will pervide," said Sam, rolling up his eyes piously. "As I've been a sayin',
dis yer 's a providence and no mistake, as Missis has allers been a instructin' on us.
Thar's allers instruments ris up to do de Lord's will. Now, if 't hadn't been for me
to-day, she'd a been took a dozen times. Warn't it I started off de hosses, dis yer morning'
and kept 'em chasin' till nigh dinner time? And didn't I car Mas'r Haley night five miles
out of de road, dis evening, or else he'd a come up with Lizy as easy as a dog arter
a ***. These yer 's all providences."
"They are a kind of providences that you'll have to be pretty sparing of, Master Sam.
I allow no such practices with gentlemen on my place," said Mr. Shelby, with as much sternness
as he could command, under the circumstances. Now, there is no more use in making believe
be angry with a *** than with a child; both instinctively see the true state of the case,
through all attempts to affect the contrary; and Sam was in no wise disheartened by this
rebuke, though he assumed an air of doleful gravity, and stood with the corners of his
mouth lowered in most penitential style. "Mas'r quite right, -- quite; it was ugly
on me, -- there's no disputin' that ar; and of course Mas'r and Missis wouldn't encourage
no such works. I'm sensible of dat ar; but a poor *** like me 's 'mazin' tempted to
act ugly sometimes, when fellers will cut up such shines as dat ar Mas'r Haley; he an't
no gen'l'man no way; anybody's been raised as I've been can't help a seein' dat ar."
"Well, Sam," said Mrs. Shelby, "as you appear to have a proper sense of your errors, you
may go now and tell Aunt Chloe she may get you some of that cold ham that was left of
dinner to-day. You and Andy must be hungry." -136-
"Missis is a heap too good for us," said Sam, making his bow with alacrity, and departing.
It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that Master Sam had a native talent that might,
undoubtedly, have raised him to eminence in political life, -- a talent of making capital
out of everything that turned up, to be invested for his own especial praise and glory; and
having done up his piety and humility, as he trusted, to the satisfaction of the parlor,
he clapped his palm-leaf on his head, with a sort of rakish, free-and-easy air, and proceeded
to the dominions of Aunt Chloe, with the intention of flourishing largely in the kitchen.
"I'll speechify these yer ***," said Sam to himself, "now I've got a chance. Lord,
I'll reel it off to make 'em stare!" It must be observed that one of Sam's especial
delights had been to ride in attendance on his master to all kinds of political gatherings,
where, roosted on some rail fence, or perched aloft in some tree, he would sit watching
the orators, with the greatest apparent gusto, and then, descending among the various brethren
of his own color, assembled on the same errand, he would edify and delight them with the most
ludicrous burlesques and imitations, all delivered with the most imperturbable earnestness and
solemnity; and though the auditors immediately about him were generally of his own color,
it not unfrequently happened that they were fringed pretty deeply with those of a fairer
complexion, who listened, laughing and winking, to Sam's great self- congratulation. In fact,
Sam considered oratory as his vocation, and never let slip an opportunity of magnifying
his office. Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had
existed, from ancient times, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a decided coolness; but, as
Sam was meditating something in the provision department, as the necessary and obvious foundation
of his operations, he determined, -137-
on the present occasion, to be eminently conciliatory; for he well knew that although "Missis' orders"
would undoubtedly be followed to the letter, yet he should gain a considerable deal by
enlisting the spirit also. He therefore appeared before Aunt Chloe with a touchingly subdued,
resigned expression, like one who has suffered immeasurable hardships in behalf of a persecuted
fellow-creature, -- enlarged upon the fact that Missis had directed him to come to Aunt
Chloe for whatever might be wanting to make up the balance in his solids and fluids, -- and
thus unequivocally acknowledged her right and supremacy in the cooking department, and
all thereto pertaining. The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple,
virtuous body was ever cajoled by the attentions of an electioneering politician with more
ease than Aunt Chloe was won over by Master Sam's suavities; and if he had been the prodigal
son himself, he could not have been overwhelmed with more maternal bountifulness; and he soon
found himself seated, happy and glorious, over a large tin pan, containing a sort of
olla podrida of all that had appeared on the table for two or three days past. Savory morsels
of ham, golden blocks of corncake, fragments of pie of every conceivable mathematical figure,
chicken wings, gizzards, and drumsticks, all appeared in picturesque confusion; and Sam,
as monarch of all he surveyed, sat with his palm-leaf cocked rejoicingly to one side,
and patronizing Andy at his right hand. The kitchen was full of all his compeers,
who had hurried and crowded in, from the various cabins, to hear the termination of the day's
exploits. Now was Sam's hour of glory. The story of the day was rehearsed, with all kinds
of ornament and varnishing which might be necessary to heighten its effect; for Sam,
like some of our fashionable dilettanti, never allowed a story to lose any of its gilding
by passing through his hands. Roars of laughter attended the narration,
-138-
and were taken up and prolonged by all the smaller fry, who were lying, in any quantity,
about on the floor, or perched in every corner. In the height of the uproar and laughter,
Sam, however, preserved an immovable gravity, only from time to time rolling his eyes up,
and giving his auditors divers inexpressibly droll glances, without departing from the
sententious elevation of his oratory. "Yer see, fellow-countrymen," said Sam, elevating
a turkey's leg, with energy, "yer see, now what dis yer chile 's up ter, for fendin'
yer all, -- yes, all on yer. For him as tries to get one o' our people is as good as tryin'
to get all; yer see the principle 's de same, -- dat ar's clar. And any one o' these yer
drivers that comes smelling round arter any our people, why, he's got me in his way; I'm
the feller he's got to set in with, -- I'm the feller for yer all to come to, bredren,
-- I'll stand up for yer rights, -- I'll fend 'em to the last breath!"
"Why, but Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin', that you'd help this yer Mas'r to cotch Lizy;
seems to me yer talk don't hang together," said Andy.
"I tell you now, Andy," said Sam, with awful superiority, "don't yer be a talkin' 'bout
what yer don't know nothin' on; boys like you, Andy, means well, but they can't be spected
to collusitate the great principles of action." Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard
word collusitate, which most of the youngerly members of the company seemed to consider
as a settler in the case, while Sam proceeded. "Dat ar was conscience, Andy; when I thought
of gwine arter Lizy, I railly spected Mas'r was sot dat way. When I found Missis was sot
the contrar, dat ar was conscience more yet, -- cause fellers allers gets more by stickin'
to Missis' side, -- so yer see I's persistent either way, and sticks up to conscience, and
holds on to principles. Yes, principles," said Sam, giving an enthusiastic toss to a
chicken's neck, -- "what's principles -139-
good for, if we isn't persistent, I wanter know? Thar, Andy, you may have dat ar bone,
-- tan't picked quite clean." Sam's audience hanging on his words with open
mouth, he could not but proceed. "Dis yer matter 'bout persistence, feller-***,"
said Sam, with the air of one entering into an abstruse subject, "dis yer 'sistency
's a thing what an't seed into very clar, by most anybody. Now, yer see, when a feller
stands up for a thing one day and night, de
contrar de next, folks ses (and nat'rally enough dey ses), why he an't persistent, -- hand
me dat ar bit o' corncake, Andy. But let's look inter it. I hope the gen'lmen and der
fair sex will scuse my usin' an or'nary sort o' 'parison. Here! I'm a trying to get top
o' der hay. Wal, I puts up my larder dis yer side; 'tan't no go; -- den, cause I don't
try dere no more, but puts my larder right de contrar side, an't I persistent? I'm persistent
in wantin' to get up which ary side my larder is; don't you see, all on yer?"
"It's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows!" muttered Aunt Chloe, who
was getting rather restive; the merriment of the evening being to her somewhat after
the Scripture comparison, -- like "vinegar upon nitre."
"Yes, indeed!" said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory, for a closing effort. "Yes, my
feller-citizens and ladies of de other sex in general, I has principles, -- I'm proud
to 'oon 'em, -- they 's perquisite to dese yer times, and ter all times. I has principles,
and I sticks to 'em like forty, -- jest anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in to 't;
-- I wouldn't mind if dey burnt me 'live, -- I'd walk right up to de stake, I would,
and say, here I comes to shed my last blood fur my principles, fur my country, fur de
gen'l interests of society." "Well," said Aunt Chloe, "one o' yer principles
will have to be to get to bed some time to-night, and not be a keepin' everybody up till mornin';
now, every one of -140-
you young uns that don't want to be cracked, had better be scase, mighty sudden." "***!
all on yer," said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with benignity, "I give yer my
blessin'; go to bed now, and be good boys."
And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed.
-141-
Chapter 9 CHAPTER IX In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But
a Man
The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpet of a cosey parlor, and glittered
on the sides of the tea-cups and well-brightened tea-pot, as Senator Bird was drawing off his
boots, preparatory to inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome slippers, which his
wife had been working for him while away on his senatorial tour. Mrs.
Bird, looking the very picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the
table, ever and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of frolicsome juveniles, who were
effervescing in all those modes of untold gambol and mischief that have astonished mothers
ever since the flood. "Tom, let the door-*** alone, -- there's
a man! Mary! Mary! don't pull the cat's tail, -- poor ***! Jim, you mustn't climb on that
table, -- no, no! -- You don't know, my dear, what a surprise it is to us all, to see you
here to-night!" said she, at last, when she found a space to say something to her husband.
"Yes, yes, I thought I'd just make a run down, spend the night, and have a little comfort
at home. I'm tired to death, and my head aches!" Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle,
which stood in the half-open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach to it, but her husband
interposed. "No, no, Mary, no doctoring! a cup of your
good
hot tea, and some of our good home living, is what I want. It's a tiresome business,
this legislating!" And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked
the idea of considering himself a sacrifice to his country.
"Well," said his wife, after the business of the teatable was getting rather slack,
"and what have they been doing in the Senate?" Now, it was a very unusual thing for gentle
little Mrs. Bird ever to trouble her head with what was going on in the house of the
state, very wisely considering that she had enough to do to mind her own. Mr. Bird, therefore,
opened his eyes in surprise, and said, "Not very much of importance."
"Well; but is it true that they have been passing a law forbidding people to give meat
and drink to those poor colored folks that come along? I heard they were talking of some
such law, but I didn't think any Christian legislature would pass it!" "Why, Mary, you
are getting to be a politician, all at once."
"No, nonsense! I wouldn't give a fip for all your politics, generally, but I think this
is something downright cruel and unchristian. I hope, my dear, no such law has been passed."
"There has been a law passed forbidding people to help off the slaves that come over from
Kentucky, my dear; so much of that thing has been done by these reckless Abolitionists,
that our brethren in Kentucky are very strongly excited, and it seems necessary, and no more
than Christian and kind, that something should be done by our state to quiet the excitement."
"And what is the law? It don't forbid us to shelter those poor creatures a night, does
it, and to give 'em something comfortable to eat, and a few old clothes, and send them
quietly about their business?" "Why, yes, my dear; that would be aiding and
abetting, you know." Mrs. Bird was a timid, blushing little woman, of
-143-
about four feet in height, and with mild blue eyes, and a peach-blow complexion, and the
gentlest, sweetest voice in the world; -- as for courage, a moderate-sized ***- turkey
had been known to put her to rout at the very first gobble, and a stout house-dog, of moderate
capacity, would bring her into subjection merely by a show of his teeth. Her husband
and children were her entire world, and in these she ruled more by entreaty and persuasion
than by command or argument. There was only one thing that was capable of arousing her,
and that provocation came in on the side of her unusually gentle and sympathetic nature;
-- anything in the shape of cruelty would throw her into a passion, which was the more
alarming and inexplicable in proportion to the general softness of her nature. Generally
the most indulgent and easy to be entreated of all mothers, still her boys had a very
reverent remembrance of a most vehement chastisement she once bestowed on them, because she found
them leagued with several graceless boys of the neighborhood, stoning a defenceless kitten.
"I'll tell you what," Master Bill used to say, "I was scared that time. Mother came
at me so that I thought she was crazy, and I was whipped and tumbled off to bed, without
any supper, before I could get over wondering what had come about; and, after that, I heard
mother crying outside the door, which made me feel worse than all the rest. I'll tell
you what," he'd say, "we boys never *** another kitten!"
On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with very red cheeks, which quite improved
her general appearance, and walked up to her husband, with quite a resolute air, and said,
in a determined tone, "Now, John, I want to know if you think such
a law as that is right and Christian?" "You won't shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do!"
"I never could have thought it of you, John; you didn't vote for it?"
-144-
"Even so, my fair politician."
"You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless, houseless creatures! It's a shameful, wicked,
abominable law, and I'll break it, for one, the first time I get a chance; and I hope
I shall have a chance, I do! Things have got to a pretty pass, if a woman can't give a
warm supper and a bed to poor, starving creatures, just because they are slaves, and have been
abused and oppressed all their lives, poor things!"
"But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are all quite right, dear, and interesting,
and I love you for them; but, then, dear, we mustn't suffer our feelings to run away
with our judgment; you must consider it's a matter of private feeling, -- there are
great public interests involved, -- there is such a state of public agitation rising,
that we must put aside our private feelings." "Now, John, I don't know anything about politics,
but I can read my Bible; and there I see that I must feed the hungry, clothe the naked,
and comfort the desolate; and that Bible I mean to follow."
"But in cases where your doing so would involve a great public evil -- "
"Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it can't. It's always safest, all round,
to do as He bids us. "Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state
to you a very clear argument, to show -- " "O, nonsense, John! -- you can talk all night,
but you wouldn't do it. I put it to you, John, -- would you now turn away a poor, shivering,
hungry creature from your door, because he was a runaway? Would you, now?"
Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfortune to be a man who had a particularly
humane and accessible nature, and turning away anybody that was in
trouble never had been his forte; and what was worse for him in this particular pinch
of the argument -145-
was, that his wife knew it, and, of course was making an assault on rather an indefensible
point. So he had recourse to the usual means of gaining time for such cases made and provided;
he said "ahem," and coughed several times, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began
to wipe his glasses. Mrs. Bird, seeing the defenceless condition of the enemy's territory,
had no more conscience than to push her advantage. "I should like to see you doing that, John
-- I really should! Turning a woman out of doors in a snowstorm, for instance; or may
be you'd take her up and put her in jail, wouldn't you? You would make a great hand
at that!" "Of course, it would be a very painful duty,"
began Mr. Bird, in a moderate tone. "Duty, John! don't use that word! You know it isn't
a duty-it can't be a duty! If folks want to keep their slaves from running away,
let 'em treat 'em well, -- that's my doctrine. If I had slaves (as I hope I never shall have),
I'd risk their wanting to run away from me, or you either, John. I tell you folks don't
run away when they are happy; and when they do run, poor creatures! they suffer enough
with cold and hunger and fear, without everybody's turning against them; and, law or no law,
I never will, so help me God!" "Mary! Mary! My dear, let me reason with you."
"I hate reasoning, John, -- especially reasoning on such subjects. There's a way you political
folks have of coming round and round a plain right thing; and you don't believe in it yourselves,
when it comes to practice. I know you well enough, John. You don't believe it's right
any more than I do; and you wouldn't do it any sooner than I."
At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work, put his head in at
the door, and wished "Missis would come into the kitchen;" and our senator, tolerably relieved,
looked after his little wife with a -146-
whimsical mixture of amusement and vexation, and, seating himself in the arm-chair, began
to read the papers. After a moment, his wife's voice was heard
at the door, in a quick, earnest tone, -- "John! John! I do wish you'd come here, a moment."
He laid down his paper, and went into the kitchen, and started, quite amazed at the
sight that presented itself: -- A young and slender woman, with garments torn and frozen,
with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away from the cut and bleeding foot, was laid
back in a deadly swoon upon two chairs. There was the impress of the despised race on her
face, yet none could help feeling its mournful and pathetic beauty, while its stony sharpness,
its cold, fixed, deathly aspect, struck a solemn chill over him. He drew his breath
short, and stood in silence. His wife, and their only colored domestic, old Aunt Dinah,
were busily engaged in restorative measures; while old Cudjoe had got the boy on his knee,
and was busy pulling off his shoes and stockings, and chafing his little cold feet.
"Sure, now, if she an't a sight to behold!" said old Dinah, compassionately; "'pears like
't was the heat that made her faint. She was tol'able peart when she *** in, and asked
if she couldn't warm herself here a spell; and I was just a-askin' her where she ***
from, and she fainted right down. Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks of her
hands." "Poor creature!" said Mrs. Bird, compassionately,
as the woman slowly unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked vacantly at her. Suddenly
an expression of agony crossed her face, and she sprang up, saying, "O, my Harry! Have
they got him?" The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe's knee,
and running to her side put up his arms. "O, he's here! he's here!" she exclaimed.
"O, ma'am!" said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird, "do protect us! don't let them get him!"
-147-
"Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman," said Mrs. Bird, encouragingly. "You are safe;
don't be afraid." "God bless you!" said the woman, covering
her face and sobbing; while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get into her lap.
With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew better how to render than Mrs. Bird,
the poor woman was, in time, rendered more calm. A temporary bed was provided for her
on the settle, near the fire; and, after a short time, she fell into a heavy slumber,
with the child, who seemed no less weary, soundly sleeping on her arm; for the mother
resisted, with nervous anxiety, the kindest attempts to take him from her; and, even in
sleep, her arm encircled him with an unrelaxing clasp, as if she could not even then be beguiled
of her vigilant hold.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlor, where, strange as it may appear, no reference
was made, on either side, to the preceding conversation; but Mrs. Bird busied herself
with her knitting-work, and Mr. Bird pretended to be reading the paper.
"I wonder who and what she is!" said Mr. Bird, at last, as he laid it down. "When she wakes
up and feels a little rested, we will see," said Mrs. Bird. "I say, wife!" said Mr. Bird
after musing in silence over his newspaper. "Well, dear!"
"She couldn't wear one of your gowns, could she, by any letting down, or such matter?
She seems to be rather larger than you are." A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs.
Bird's face, as she answered, "We'll see." Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out,
"I say, wife!" "Well! What now?" "Why, there's that old bombazin cloak, that
you
-148-
keep on purpose to put over me when I take my afternoon's nap; you might as well give
her that, -- she needs clothes." At this instant, Dinah looked in to say that
the woman was awake, and wanted to see Missis. Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed
by the two eldest boys, the smaller fry having, by this time, been safely disposed of in bed.
The woman was now sitting up on the settle, by the fire. She was looking steadily into
the blaze, with a calm, heart-broken expression, very different from her former agitated wildness.
"Did you want me?" said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. "I hope you feel better now, poor woman!"
A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; but she lifted her dark eyes, and
fixed them on her with such a forlorn and imploring expression, that the tears came
into the little woman's eyes. "You needn't be afraid of anything; we are
friends here, poor woman! Tell me where you came from, and what you want," said she.
"I came from Kentucky," said the woman. "When?" said Mr. Bird, taking up the interogatory.
"To-night." "How did you come?" "I crossed on the ice."
"Crossed on the ice!" said every one present.
"Yes," said the woman, slowly, "I did. God helping me, I crossed on the ice; for they
were behind me -- right behind -- and there was no other way!"
"Law, Missis," said Cudjoe, "the ice is all in broken-up blocks, a swinging and a tetering
up and down in the water!" "I know it was -- I know it!" said she, wildly;
"but I did it! I wouldn't have thought I could, -- I didn't think I should get over, but I
didn't care! I could but die, if I didn't. The Lord helped me; nobody knows how much
the Lord can help 'em, till they try," said the woman, with a flashing eye. "Were you
a slave?" said Mr. Bird. "Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky."
"Was he unkind to you?" "No, sir; he was a good master."
"And was your mistress unkind to you?"
"No, sir -- no! my mistress was always good to me."
"What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and run away, and go through such dangers?"
The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, with a keen, scrutinizing glance, and it did not escape
her that she was dressed in deep mourning. "Ma'am," she said, suddenly, "have you ever
lost a child?"
The question was unexpected, and it was thrust on a new wound; for it was only a month since
a darling child of the family had been laid in the grave.
Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and Mrs. Bird burst into tears; but, recovering
her voice, she said, "Why do you ask that? I have lost a little
one."
"Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after another, -- left 'em buried there
when I came away; and I had only this one left. I never slept a night without him; he
was all I had. He was my comfort and pride, day and night; and, ma'am, they were going
to take him away from me, -- to sell him, -- sell him down south, ma'am, to go all alone,
-- a baby that had never been away from his mother in his life! I couldn't stand it, ma'am.
I knew I never should be good for anything, if they did; and when I knew the papers the
papers were signed, and he was sold, I took him and came off in the night; and they chased
me, -- the man that bought him, and some of Mas'r's folks, -- and they were coming down
right behind me, and I heard 'em. I jumped right on to the ice; and how I got across,
I -150-
don't know, -- but, first I knew, a man was helping me up the bank."
The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a place where tears are dry; but every
one around her was, in some way characteristic of themselves, showing signs of hearty sympathy.
The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in their pockets, in search of those pocket-handkerchiefs
which mothers know are never to be found there, had thrown themselves disconsolately into
the skirts of their mother's gown, where they were sobbing, and wiping their eyes and noses,
to their hearts' content; -- Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in her pocket-handkerchief;
and old Dinah, with tears streaming down her black, honest face, was ejaculating, "Lord
have mercy on us!" with all the fervor of a camp-meeting; -- while old Cudjoe, rubbing
his eyes very hard with his cuffs, and making a most uncommon variety of wry faces, occasionally
responded in the same
key, with great fervor. Our senator was a statesman, and of course could not be expected
to cry, like other mortals; and so he turned his back to the company, and looked out of
the window, and seemed particularly busy in clearing his throat and wiping his spectacle-glasses,
occasionally blowing his nose in a manner that was calculated to excite suspicion, had
any one been in a state to observe critically. "How came you to tell me you had a kind master?"
he suddenly exclaimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind of rising in his throat, and turning
suddenly round upon the woman. "Because he was a kind master; I'll say that
of him, any way; -- and my mistress was kind; but they couldn't help themselves. They were
owing money; and there was some way, I can't tell how, that a man had a hold on them, and
they were obliged to give him his will. I listened, and heard him telling mistress that,
and she begging and pleading for me, -- and he told her he
couldn't help himself, and that the papers were all drawn; -- and then it was I took
him and left my home, and came away. I knew 't was no use of my trying to live, if they
did it; for 't 'pears like this child is all I have."
"Have you no husband?"
"Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real hard to him, and won't let him come
to see me, hardly ever; and he's grown harder and harder upon us, and he threatens to sell
him down south; -- it's like I'll never see him again!"
The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words might have led a superficial observer
to think that she was entirely apathetic; but there was a calm, settled depth of anguish
in her large, dark eye, that spoke of something far otherwise.
"And where do you mean to go, my poor woman?" said Mrs. Bird.
"To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very far off, is Canada?" said she,
looking up, with a simple, confiding air, to Mrs. Bird's face.
"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily.
"Is 't a very great way off, think?" said the woman, earnestly.
"Much further than you think, poor child!" said Mrs. Bird; "but we will try to think
what can be done for you. Here, Dinah, make her up a bed in your own room, close by the
kitchen, and I'll think what to do for her in the morning. Meanwhile, never fear, poor
woman; put your trust in God; he will protect you."
Mrs. Bird and her husband reentered the parlor. She sat down in her little rocking- chair
before the fire, swaying thoughtfully to and fro. Mr. Bird strode up and down the room,
grumbling to himself, "Pish! pshaw! confounded awkward business!" At length, striding up
to his wife, he said, "I say, wife, she'll have to get away from
here, this very night. That fellow will be down on the scent
-152-
bright and early to-morrow morning: if 't was only the woman, she could lie quiet till
it was over; but that little chap can't be kept still by a troop of horse and foot, I'll
warrant me; he'll bring it all out, popping his head out of some window or door. A pretty
kettle of fish it would be for me, too, to be caught with them both here, just now! No;
they'll have to be got off to-night." "To-night! How is it possible? -- where to?"
"Well, I know pretty well where to," said the senator, beginning to put on his boots,
with a reflective air; and, stopping when his leg was half in, he embraced his knee
with both hands, and seemed to go off in deep meditation.
"It's a confounded awkward, ugly business," said he, at last, beginning to tug at his
boot-straps again, "and that's a fact!" After one boot was fairly on, the senator sat with
the other in his hand, profoundly studying the figure of the carpet. "It will have to
be done, though, for aught I see, -- hang it all!" and he drew the other boot anxiously
on, and looked out of the window. Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman,
-- a woman who never in her life said, "I told you so!" and, on the present occasion,
though pretty well aware of the shape her husband's meditations were taking, she very
prudently forbore to meddle with them, only sat very quietly in her chair, and looked
quite ready to hear her liege lord's intentions, when he should think proper to utter them.
"You see," he said, "there's my old client, Van Trompe, has come over from Kentucky, and
set all his slaves free; and he has bought a place seven miles up the creek, here, back
in the woods, where nobody goes, unless they go on purpose; and it's a place that isn't
found in a hurry. There she'd be safe enough; but the plague of the thing is, nobody could
drive a carriage there to-night, but me."
"Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver."
-153-
"Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed twice; and the second crossing
is quite dangerous, unless one knows it as I do. I have crossed it a hundred times on
horseback, and know exactly the turns to take. And so, you see, there's no help for it. Cudjoe
must put in the horses, as quietly as may be, about twelve o'clock, and I'll take her
over; and then, to give color to the matter, he must carry me on to the next tavern to
take the stage for Columbus, that comes by about three or four, and so it will look as
if I had had the carriage only for that. I shall get into business bright and early in
the morning. But I'm thinking I shall feel rather cheap there, after all that's been
said and done; but, hang it, I can't help it!"
"Your heart is better than your head, in this case, John," said the wife, laying her little
white hand on his. "Could I ever have loved you, had I not known you better than you know
yourself?" And the little woman looked so handsome, with the tears sparkling in her
eyes, that the senator thought he must be a decidedly clever fellow, to get such a pretty
creature into such a passionate admiration of him; and so, what could he do but walk
off soberly, to see about the carriage. At the door, however, he stopped a moment, and
then coming back, he said, with some hesitation. "Mary, I don't know how you'd feel about it,
but there's that drawer full of things -- of -- of -- poor little Henry's." So saying,
he turned quickly on his heel, and shut the door after him.
His wife opened the little bed-room door adjoining her room and, taking the candle, set it down
on the top of a bureau there; then from a small recess she took a key, and put it thoughtfully
in the lock of a drawer, and made a sudden pause, while two boys, who, boy like, had
followed close on her heels, stood looking, with silent, significant glances, at their
mother. And oh! mother that reads this, has there never been in your
house a drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been to you like the opening again
of a little grave? Ah! happy mother that you are, if it has not been so.
Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little coats of many a form and pattern,
piles of aprons, and rows of small stockings; and even a pair of little shoes, worn and
rubbed at the toes, were peeping from the folds of a paper. There was a toy horse and
wagon, a top, a ball, -- memorials gathered with many a tear and many a heart-break! She
sat down by the drawer, and, leaning her head on her hands over it,
wept till the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer; then suddenly raising her
head, she began, with nervous haste, selecting the plainest and most substantial articles,
and gathering them into a bundle. "Mamma," said one of the boys, gently touching
her arm, "you going to give away those things?" "My dear boys," she said, softly and earnestly,
"if our dear, loving little Henry looks down from heaven, he would be glad to have us do
this. I could not find it in my heart to give them away to any common person -- to anybody
that was happy; but I give them to a mother more heart-broken and sorrowful than I am;
and I hope God will send his blessings with them!"
There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring up into joys for others;
whose earthly hopes, laid in the grave with many tears, are the seed from which spring
healing flowers and balm for the desolate and the distressed. Among such was the delicate
woman who sits there by the lamp, dropping slow tears, while she prepares the memorials
of her own lost one for the outcast wanderer. After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe,
and, taking from thence a plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down busily to her work-table,
and, with needle, scissors, and thimble, at hand, quietly commenced the "letting down"
process which her husband had recommended, and continued busily at it till the old clock
in -155-
the corner struck twelve, and she heard the low rattling of wheels at the door. "Mary,"
said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in his hand, "you must wake
her up now; we must be off."
Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had collected in a small plain trunk,
and locking it, desired her husband to see it in the carriage, and then proceeded to
call the woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that had belonged to her
benefactress, she appeared at the door with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her
into the carriage, and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage steps. Eliza leaned
out of the carriage, and put out her hand, -- a hand as soft and beautiful as was given
in return. She fixed her large, dark eyes, full of earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird's face,
and seemed going to speak. Her lips moved, -- she tried once or twice, but there was
no sound, -- and pointing upward, with a look never to be forgotten, she fell back in the
seat, and covered her face. The door was shut, and the carriage drove on.
What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had been all the week before spurring
up the legislature of his native state to pass more stringent resolutions against escaping
fugitives, their harborers and abettors! Our good senator in his native state had not
been exceeded by any of his brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence which has won for
them immortal renown! How sublimely he had sat with his hands in his pockets, and scouted
all sentimental weakness of those who would put the welfare of a few miserable fugitives
before great state interests! He was as bold as a lion about it, and "mightily
convinced" not only himself, but everybody that heard him; -- but then his idea of a
fugitive was only an idea of the letters that spell the word, -- or at the most, the image
of a little newspaper picture of a man with a
-156-
stick and bundle with "Ran away from the subscriber" under it. The magic of the real presence of
distress, -- the imploring human eye, the frail, trembling human hand, the despairing
appeal of helpless agony, -- these he had never tried. He had never thought that a fugitive
might be a hapless mother, a defenceless child, -- like that one which was now wearing his
lost boy's little well-known cap; and so, as our poor senator was not stone or steel,
-- as he was a man, and a downright noble-hearted one, too, -- he was, as everybody must see,
in a sad case for his patriotism. And you need not exult over him, good brother of the
Southern States; for we have some inklings that many of you, under similar circumstances,
would not do much better. We have reason to know, in Kentucky, as in Mississippi, are
noble and generous hearts, to whom never was tale of suffering told in vain. Ah, good brother!
is it fair for you to expect of us services which your own brave, honorable heart would
not allow you to render, were you in our place? Be that as it may, if our good senator was
a political sinner, he was in a fair way to expiate it by his night's penance. There had
been a long continuous period of rainy weather, and the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as every
one knows, is admirably suited to the manufacture of mud -- and the road was an Ohio railroad
of the good old times. "And pray, what sort of a road may that be?"
says some eastern traveller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas with a railroad,
but those of smoothness or speed. Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that
in benighted regions of the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and sublime depth,
roads are made of round rough logs,
arranged transversely side by side, and coated over in their pristine freshness with earth,
turf, and whatsoever may come to hand, and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road,
and straightway es -157-
sayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time, the rains wash off all the turf and grass
aforesaid, move the logs hither and thither, in picturesque positions, up, down and crosswise,
with divers chasms and ruts of black mud intervening. Over such a road as this our senator went
stumbling along, making moral reflections as continuously as under the circumstances
could be expected, -- the carriage proceeding along much as follows, -- bump! bump! bump!
slush! down in the mud! -- the senator, woman and child, reversing their positions so suddenly
as to come, without any very accurate adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side.
Carriage sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the outside is heard making a great muster among
the horses. After various ineffectual pullings and twitchings,
just as the senator is losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a
bounce, -- two front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman, and child, all
tumble promiscuously on to the front seat, -- senator's hat is jammed over his eyes and
nose quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself fairly extinguished; -- child cries,
and Cudjoe on the outside delivers animated addresses to the horses, who are kicking,
and floundering, and straining under repeated cracks of the whip. Carriage springs up, with
another bounce, -- down go the hind wheels, -- senator, woman, and child, fly over on
to the back seat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both her feet being jammed
into his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After a few moments the "slough" is passed,
and the horses stop, panting; -- the senator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet
and hushes her child, and they brace themselves for what is yet to come.
For a while only the continuous bump! bump! intermingled, just by way of variety, with
divers side plunges and compound shakes; and they begin to flatter themselves that they
are not so badly off, after all. -158-
At last, with a square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down into their
seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops, -- and, after much outside commotion,
Cudjoe appears at the door. "Please, sir, it's powerful bad spot, this'
yer. I don't know how we's to get clar out. I'm a thinkin' we'll have to be a gettin'
rails."
The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm foothold; down goes
one foot an immeasurable depth, -- he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles
over into the mud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition, by Cudjoe.
But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones. Western travellers, who have beguiled
the midnight hour in the interesting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry their
carriages out of mud holes, will have a respectful and mournful sympathy with our unfortunate
hero. We beg them to drop a silent tear, and pass on.
It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged, dripping and bespattered, out of
the creek, and stood at the door of a large farm-house.
It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates; but at last the respectable
proprietor appeared, and undid the door. He was a great, tall, bristling Orson of a fellow,
full six feet and some inches in his stockings, and arrayed in a red flannel hunting-shirt.
A very heavy mat of sandy hair, in a decidedly tousled condition, and a beard of some days'
growth, gave the worthy man an appearance, to say the least, not particularly prepossessing.
He stood for a few minutes holding the candle aloft, and blinking on our travellers with
a dismal and mystified expression that was truly ludicrous. It cost some effort of our
senator to induce him to comprehend the case fully; and while he is doing his best at that,
we shall give him a little introduction to our readers.
-159-
Honest old John Van Trompe was once quite a considerable land-owner and slave- owner
in the State of Kentucky. Having "nothing of the bear about him but the skin," and being
gifted by nature with a great, honest, just heart, quite equal to his gigantic frame,
he had been for some years witnessing with repressed uneasiness the workings of a system
equally bad for oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day, John's great heart had swelled
altogether too big to wear his bonds any longer; so he just took his pocket- book out of his
desk, and went over into Ohio, and bought a quarter of a township of good, rich land,
made out free papers for all his people, -- men, women, and children, -- packed them up in
wagons, and sent them off to settle down; and then honest John turned his face up the
creek, and sat quietly down on a snug, retired farm, to enjoy his conscience and his reflections.
"Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and child from slave-catchers?" said
the senator, explicitly. "I rather think I am," said honest John, with
some considerable emphasis.
"I thought so,"' said the senator.
"If there's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching his tall, muscular form upward,
"why here I'm ready for him: and I've got seven sons, each six foot high, and they'll
be ready for 'em. Give our respects to 'em," said John; "tell 'em it's no matter how soon
they call, -- make no kinder difference to us," said John, running his fingers through
the shock of hair that thatched his head, and bursting out into a great laugh.
Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to the door, with her child lying
in a heavy sleep on her arm. The rough man held the candle to her face, and uttering
a kind of compassionate grunt, opened the door of a small bed-room adjoining to the
large kitchen -160-
where they were standing, and motioned her to go in. He took down a candle, and lighting
it, set it upon the table, and then addressed himself to Eliza.
"Now, I say, gal, you needn't be a bit afeard, let who will come here. I'm up to all that
sort o' thing," said he, pointing to two or three goodly rifles over the mantel-piece;
"and most people that know me know that 't wouldn't be healthy to try to get anybody
out o' my house when I'm agin it. So now you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother
was a rockin' ye," said he, as he shut the door.
"Why, this is an uncommon handsome un," he said to the senator. "Ah, well; handsome uns
has the greatest cause to run, sometimes, if they has any kind o' feelin, such as decent
women should. I know all about that." The senator, in a few words, briefly explained
Eliza's history.
"O! ou! aw! now, I want to know?" said the good man, pitifully; "sho! now sho! That's
natur now, poor crittur! hunted down now like a deer, -- hunted down, jest for havin' natural
feelin's, and doin' what no kind o' mother could help a doin'! I tell ye what, these
yer things make me come the nighest to swearin', now, o' most anything," said honest John,
as he wiped his eyes with the back of a great, freckled, yellow hand. "I tell yer what, stranger,
it was years and years before I'd jine the church, 'cause the ministers round in our
parts used to preach that the Bible went in for these ere cuttings up, -- and I couldn't
be up to 'em with their Greek and Hebrew, and so I took up agin 'em, Bible and all.
I never jined the church till I found a minister that was up to 'em all in Greek and all that,
and he said right the contrary; and then I took right hold, and jined the church, -- I
did now, fact," said John, who had been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottled
cider, which at this juncture he presented.
"Ye'd better jest put up here, now, till daylight,"
-161-
said he, heartily, "and I'll call up the old woman, and have a bed got ready for you in
no time." "Thank you, my good friend," said the senator,
"I must be along, to take the night stage for Columbus."
"Ah! well, then, if you must, I'll go a piece with you, and show you a cross road that will
take you there better than the road you came on. That road's mighty bad."
John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, was soon seen guiding the senator's
carriage towards a road that ran down in a hollow, back of his dwelling. When they parted,
the senator put into his hand a ten-dollar bill.
"It's for her," he said, briefly.
"Ay, ay," said John, with equal conciseness. They shook hands, and parted.
-162-
Chapter 10 CHAPTER X The Property Is Carried Off
The February morning looked gray and drizzling through the window of Uncle Tom's cabin. It
looked on downcast faces, the images of mournful hearts. The little table stood out before
the fire, covered with an ironing-cloth; a coarse but clean shirt or two, fresh from
the iron, hung on the back of a chair by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another spread out
before her on the table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed every fold and every hem, with
the most scrupulous exactness, every now and then raising her hand to her face to wipe
off the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.
Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his head leaning upon his hand;
-- but neither spoke. It was yet early, and the children lay all asleep together in their
little rude trundle-bed.
Tom, who had, to the full, the gentle, domestic heart, which woe for them! has been a peculiar
characteristic of his unhappy race, got up and walked silently to look at his children.
"It's the last time," he said.
Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and over on the coarse shirt, already
as smooth as hands could make it; and finally setting her iron suddenly down with a despairing
plunge, she sat down to -163-
the table, and "lifted up her voice and wept."
"S'pose we must be resigned; but oh Lord! how ken I? If I know'd anything whar you 's
goin', or how they'd sarve you! Missis says she'll try and 'deem ye, in a year or two;
but Lor! nobody never comes up that goes down thar! They kills 'em! I've hearn 'em tell
how dey works 'em up on dem ar plantations." "There'll be the same God there, Chloe, that
there is here."
"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "s'pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful things happen, sometimes.
I don't seem to get no comfort dat way." "I'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; "nothin'
can go no furder than he lets it; -- and thar's one thing I can thank him for. It's me that's
sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you're safe; -- what comes will come
only on me; and the Lord, he'll help me, -- I know he will."
Ah, brave, manly heart, -- smothering thine own sorrow, to comfort thy beloved ones! Tom
spoke with a thick utterance, and with a bitter choking in his throat, -- but he spoke brave
and strong. "Let's think on our marcies!" he added, tremulously,
as if he was quite sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed.
"Marcies!" said Aunt Chloe; "don't see no marcy in 't! 'tan't right! tan't right it
should be so! Mas'r never ought ter left it so that ye could be took for his debts. Ye've
arnt him all he gets for ye, twice over. He owed ye yer freedom, and ought ter gin 't
to yer years ago. Mebbe he can't help himself now, but I feel it's wrong. Nothing can't
beat that ar out o' me. Sich a faithful crittur as ye've been, -- and allers sot his business
'fore yer own every way, -- and reckoned on him more than yer own wife and chil'en! Them
as sells heart's love and heart's blood, to get out thar scrapes, de Lord'll be up to
'em!"
-164-
"Chloe! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhaps jest the last time we'll
ever have together! And I'll tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word agin Mas'r.
Wan't he put in my arms a baby? -- it's natur I should think a heap of him. And he couldn't
be spected to think so much of poor Tom. Mas'rs is used to havin' all these yer things done
for 'em, and nat'lly they don't think so much on 't. They can't be spected to, no way. Set
him 'longside of other Mas'rs -- who's had the treatment and livin' I've had? And he
never would have let this yer come on me, if he could have seed it aforehand. I know
he wouldn't." "Wal, any way, thar's wrong about it somewhar,"
said Aunt Chloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait; "I can't
jest make out whar 't is, but thar's wrong somewhar, I'm clar o' that."
"Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above -- he's above all -- thar don't a sparrow fall without
him." "It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect
it orter," said Aunt Chloe. "But dar's no use talkin'; I'll jes wet up de corn-cake,
and get ye one good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows when you'll get another."
In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold south, it must be remembered
that all the instinctive affections of that race are peculiarly strong. Their local attachments
are very abiding. They are not naturally daring and enterprising, but home- loving and affectionate.
Add to this all the terrors with which ignorance invests the unknown, and add to this, again,
that selling to the south is set before the *** from childhood as the last severity
of punishment. The threat that terrifies more than whipping or torture of any kind is the
threat of being sent down river. We have ourselves heard this feeling expressed by them, and
seen the unaffected horror with which they will sit in their gossipping hours, and tell
frightful stories of that "down river," which to them is
-165-
"That undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns." 1
A missionary figure among the fugitives in Canada told us that many of the fugitives
confessed themselves to have escaped from comparatively kind masters, and that they
were induced to brave the perils of escape, in almost every case, by the desperate horror
with which they regarded being sold south, -- a doom which was hanging either over themselves
or their husbands, their wives or children. This nerves the African, naturally patient,
timid and unenterprising, with heroic courage, and leads him to suffer hunger, cold, pain,
the perils of the wilderness, and the more dread penalties of recapture.
The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs. Shelby had excused Aunt Chloe's
attendance at the great house that morning. The poor soul had expended all her little
energies on this farewell feast, -- had killed and dressed her choicest chicken, and prepared
her corn-cake with scrupulous exactness, just to her husband's taste, and brought out certain
mysterious jars on the mantel-piece, some preserves that were never produced except
on extreme occasions. "Lor, Pete," said Mose, triumphantly, "han't
we got a buster of a breakfast!" at the same time catching at a fragment of the chicken.
Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. "Thar now! crowing over the last breakfast
yer poor daddy's gwine to have to home!" "O, Chloe!" said Tom, gently.
"Wal, I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in her apron; "I 's so tossed about
it, it makes me act ugly." The boys stood quite still, looking first
at their father
-166-
and then at their mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes, began an imperious,
commanding cry. "Thar!" said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and
taking up the baby; "now I's done, I hope, -- now do eat something. This yer's my nicest
chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have some, poor critturs! Yer mammy's been cross to yer."
The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with great zeal for the eatables;
and it was well they did so, as otherwise there would have been very little performed
to any purpose by the party.
"Now," said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, "I must put up yer clothes. Jest
like as not, he'll take 'em all away. I know thar ways -- mean as dirt, they is! Wal, now,
yer flannels for rhumatis is in this corner; so be careful, 'cause there won't nobody make
ye no more. Then here's yer old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off these yer
stockings last night, and put de ball in 'em to mend with. But Lor! who'll ever mend for
ye?" and Aunt Chloe, again overcome, laid her head on the box side, and sobbed. "To
think on 't! no crittur to do for ye, sick or well! I don't railly think I ought ter
be good now!" The boys, having eaten everything there was
on the breakfast-table, began now to take some thought of the case; and, seeing their
mother crying, and their father looking very sad, began to whimper and put their hands
to their eyes. Uncle Tom had the baby on his knee, and was letting her enjoy herself to
the utmost extent, scratching his face and pulling his hair, and occasionally breaking
out into clamorous explosions of delight, evidently arising out of her own internal
reflections. "Ay, crow away, poor crittur!" said Aunt Chloe;
ye'll have to come to it, too! ye'll live to see yer husband sold, or mebbe be sold
yerself; and these yer boys, they's to be sold, I s'pose, too, jest like as not, when
-167-
dey gets good for somethin'; an't no use in *** havin' nothin'!" Here one of the boys
called out, "Thar's Missis acomin' in!" "She can't do no good; what's she coming for?"
said Aunt Chloe.
Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in a manner decidedly gruff and crusty.
She did not seem to notice either the action or the manner. She looked pale and anxious.
"Tom," she said, "I come to -- " and stopping suddenly, and regarding the silent group,
she sat down in the chair, and, covering her face with her handkerchief, began to sob.
"Lor, now, Missis, don't -- don't!" said Aunt Chloe, bursting out in her turn; and for a
few moments they all wept in company. And in those tears they all shed together, the
high and the lowly, melted away all the heart-burnings and anger of the oppressed. O, ye who visit
the distressed, do ye know that everything your money can buy, given with a cold, averted
face, is not worth one honest tear shed in real sympathy?
"My good fellow," said Mrs. Shelby, "I can't give you anything to do you any good. If I
give you money, it will only be taken from you. But I tell you solemnly, and before God,
that I will keep trace of you, and bring you back as soon as I can command the money; -
- and, till then, trust in God!"
Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was coming, and then an unceremonious kick
pushed open the door. Haley stood there in very ill humor, having ridden hard the night
before, and being not at all pacified by his ill success in recapturing his prey.
"Come," said he, "ye ***, ye'r ready? Servant, ma'am!" said he, taking off his hat, as he
saw Mrs. Shelby. Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting
-168-
up, looked gruffly on the trader, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire.
Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and raised up his heavy box on his shoulder.
His wife took the baby in her arms to go with him to the wagon, and the children, still
crying, trailed on behind. Mrs. Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained
him for a few moments, talking with him in an earnest manner; and while she was thus
talking, the whole family party proceeded to a wagon, that stood ready harnessed at
the door. A crowd of all the old and young hands on the place stood gathered around it,
to bid farewell to their old associate. Tom had been looked up to, both as a head servant
and a Christian teacher, by all the place, and there was much honest sympathy and grief
about him, particularly among the women. "Why, Chloe, you bar it better 'n we do!"
said one of the women, who had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy calmness with
which Aunt Chloe stood by the wagon. "I's done my tears!" she said, looking grimly
at the trader, who was coming up. "I does not feel to cry 'fore dat ar old limb, no
how!" "Get in!" said Haley to Tom, as he strode
through the crowd of servants, who looked at him with lowering brows.
Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the wagon seat a heavy pair of shackles, made
them fast around each ankle. A smothered groan of indignation ran through
the whole circle, and Mrs. Shelby spoke from the verandah, --
"Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unnecessary."
"Don' know, ma'am; I've lost one five hundred dollars from this yer place, and I can't afford
to run no more risks." -169-
"What else could she spect on him?" said Aunt Chloe, indignantly, while the two boys, who
now seemed to comprehend at once their father's destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing and groaning
vehemently. "I'm sorry," said Tom, "that Mas'r George
happened to be away."
George had gone to spend two or three days with a companion on a neighboring estate,
and having departed early in the morning, before Tom's misfortune had been made public,
had left without hearing of it. "Give my love to Mas'r George," he said, earnestly.
Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful look, fixed to the last on the old
place, Tom was whirled away. Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home. He
had sold Tom under the spur of a driving necessity, to get out of the power of a man whom he dreaded,
-- and his first feeling, after the consummation of the bargain, had been that of relief. But
his wife's expostulations awoke his half-slumbering regrets; and Tom's manly disinterestedness
increased the unpleasantness of his feelings. It was in vain that he said to himself that
he had a right to do it, -- that everybody did it, -- and that some did it without even
the excuse of necessity; -- he could not satisfy his own feelings; and that he might not witness
the unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a short business tour up the
country, hoping that all would be over before he returned.
Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling past every old familiar spot, until
the bounds of the estate were fairly passed, and they found themselves out on the open
pike. After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up at the door of a blacksmith's
shop, when, taking out with him a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into the shop, to have
a little alteration in them. "These yer 's a little too small for his build,"
said Haley, showing the fetters, and pointing out to Tom.
-170-
"Lor! now, if thar an't Shelby's Tom. He han't sold him, now?" said the smith. "Yes, he has,"
said Haley. "Now, ye don't! well, reely," said the smith,
"who'd a thought it! Why, ye needn't go to fetterin' him up this yer way. He's the faithfullest,
best crittur -- " "Yes, yes," said Haley; "but your good fellers
are just the critturs to want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as doesn't care whar they
go, and shifless, drunken ones, as don't care for nothin', they'll stick by, and like as
not be rather pleased to be toted round; but these yer prime fellers, they hates it like
sin. No way but to fetter 'em; got legs, -- they'll use 'em, -- no mistake."
"Well," said the smith, feeling among his tools, "them plantations down thar, stranger,
an't jest the place a Kentuck *** wants to go to; they dies thar tol'able fast, don't
they?" "Wal, yes, tol'able fast, ther dying is; what
with the 'climating and one thing and another, they dies so as to keep the market up pretty
brisk," said Haley. "Wal, now, a feller can't help thinkin' it's
a mighty pity to have a nice, quiet, likely feller, as good un as Tom is, go down to be
fairly ground up on one of them ar sugar plantations." "Wal, he's got a fa'r chance. I promised to
do well by him. I'll get him in house-servant in some good old family, and then, if he stands
the fever and 'climating, he'll have a berth good as any *** ought ter ask for."
"He leaves his wife and chil'en up here, s'pose?"
"Yes; but he'll get another thar. Lord, thar's women enough everywhar," said Haley.
Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the shop while this conversation was going
on. Suddenly he heard the quick, short click of a horse's hoof behind him; and, before
he could fairly awake from his surprise, young Master George sprang into the wagon,
-171- threw his arms tumultuously round his neck,
and was sobbing and scolding with energy. "I declare, it's real mean! I don't care what
they say, any of 'em! It's a nasty, mean shame! If I was a man, they shouldn't do it,
-- they should not, so!" said George, with a kind of subdued howl.
"O! Mas'r George! this does me good!" said Tom. "I couldn't bar to go off without seein'
ye! It does me real good, ye can't tell!" Here Tom made some movement of his feet, and
George's eye fell on the fetters. "What a shame!" he exclaimed, lifting his
hands. "I'll knock that old fellow down -- I will!"
"No you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so loud. It won't help me any, to
anger him." "Well, I won't, then, for your sake; but only
to think of it -- isn't it a shame? They never sent for me, nor sent me any word, and, if
it hadn't been for Tom Lincon, I shouldn't have heard it. I tell you, I blew 'em up well,
all of 'em, at home!" "That ar wasn't right, I'm 'feard, Mas'r George."
"Can't help it! I say it's a shame! Look here, Uncle Tom," said he, turning his back to the
shop, and speaking in a mysterious tone, "I've brought you my dollar!"
"O! I couldn't think o' takin' on 't, Mas'r George, no ways in the world!" said Tom, quite
moved. "But you shall take it!" said George; "look
here -- I told Aunt Chloe I'd do it, and she advised me just to make a hole in it, and
put a string through, so you could hang it round your neck, and keep it out of sight;
else this mean scamp would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want to blow him up! it would
do me good!" "No, don't Mas'r George, for it won't do me
any good."
"Well, I won't, for your sake," said George, busily tying his dollar round Tom's neck;
"but there, now, button your coat tight over it, and keep it, and remember,
-172-
every time you see it, that I'll come down after you, and bring you back. Aunt Chloe
and I have been talking about it. I told her not to fear; I'll see to it, and I'll tease
father's life out, if he don't do it." "O! Mas'r George, ye mustn't talk so 'bout
yer father!" "Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad."
"And now, Mas'r George," said Tom, "ye must be a good boy; 'member how many hearts is
sot on ye. Al'ays keep close to yer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of them
foolish ways boys has of gettin' too big to mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas'r George,
the Lord gives good many things twice over; but he don't give ye a mother but once. Ye'll
never see sich another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hundred years old. So,
now, you hold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort to her, thar's my own good boy,
-- you will now, won't ye?" "Yes, I will, Uncle Tom," said George seriously.
"And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young boys, when they comes to your age, is
wilful, sometimes -- it is natur they should be. But real gentlemen, such as I hopes you'll
be, never lets fall on words that isn't 'spectful to thar parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George?"
"No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good advice."
"I's older, ye know," said Tom, stroking the boy's fine, curly head with his large, strong
hand, but speaking in a voice as tender as a woman's, "and I sees all that's bound up
in you. O, Mas'r George, you has everything, -- l'arnin', privileges, readin', writin',
-- and you'll grow up to be a great, learned, good man and all the people on the place and
your mother and father'll be so proud on ye! Be a good Mas'r, like yer father; and be a
Christian, like yer mother. 'Member yer Creator in the days o' yer youth, Mas'r George."
"I'll be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you," said
-173-
George. "I'm going to be a first-rater; and don't you be discouraged. I'll have you back
to the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe this morning, I'll build our house all over, and
you shall have a room for a parlor with a carpet on it, when I'm a man. O, you'll have
good times yet!" Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs
in his hands.
"Look here, now, Mister," said George, with an air of great superiority, as he got out,
"I shall let father and mother know how you treat Uncle Tom!"
"You're welcome," said the trader.
"I should think you'd be ashamed to spend all your life buying men and women, and chaining
them, like cattle! I should think you'd feel mean!" said George.
"So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women, I'm as good as they is," said
Haley; "'tan't any meaner sellin' on 'em, that 't is buyin'!"
"I'll never do either, when I'm a man," said George; "I'm ashamed, this day, that I'm a
Kentuckian. I always was proud of it before;" and George sat very straight on his horse,
and looked round with an air, as if he expected the state would be impressed with his opinion.
"Well, good-by, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip," said George.
"Good-by, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and admiringly at him. "God Almighty
bless you! Ah! Kentucky han't got many like you!" he said, in the fulness of his heart,
as the frank, boyish face was lost to his view. Away he went, and Tom looked, till the
clatter of his horse's heels died away, the last sound or sight of his home. But over
his heart there seemed to be a warm spot, where those young hands had placed that precious
dollar. Tom put up his hand, and held it close to his heart.
"Now, I tell ye what, Tom," said Haley, as he came up to the wagon, and threw in the
hand-cuffs, "I mean -174-
to start fa'r with ye, as I gen'ally do with my ***; and I'll tell ye now, to begin
with, you treat me fa'r, and I'll treat you fa'r; I an't never *** my ***. Calculates
to do the best for 'em I can. Now, ye see, you'd better jest settle down comfortable,
and not be tryin' no tricks; because ***'s tricks of all sorts I'm up to, and it's no
use. If *** is quiet, and don't try to get off, they has good times with me; and
if they don't, why, it's thar fault, and not mine."
Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions of running off. In fact, the exhortation seemed
rather a superfluous one to a man with a great pair of iron fetters on his feet. But Mr.
Haley had got in the habit of commencing his relations with his stock with little exhortations
of this nature, calculated, as he deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and confidence, and
prevent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes. And here, for the present, we take our leave
of Tom, to pursue the fortunes of other characters in our story.
1. A slightly inaccurate quotation from Hamlet, Act III, scene I, lines 369-370.
-175-
Chapter 11 CHAPTER XI
In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind
It was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveler alighted at the door of a small country
hotel, in the village of N -- -- , in Kentucky. In the bar-room he found assembled quite a
miscellaneous company, whom stress of weather had driven to harbor, and the place presented
the usual scenery of such reunions. Great, tall, raw-*** Kentuckians, attired in hunting-shirts,
and trailing their loose joints over a vast extent of territory, with the easy lounge
peculiar to the race, -- rifles stacked away in the corner, shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs,
and little negroes, all rolled together in the corners, -- were the characteristic features
in the picture. At each end of the fireplace sat a long-legged gentleman, with his chair
tipped back, his hat on his head, and the heels of his muddy boots reposing sublimely
on the mantel-piece, -- a position, we will inform our readers, decidedly favorable to
the turn of reflection incident to western taverns, where travellers exhibit a decided
preference for this particular mode of elevating their understandings.
Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his country men, was great of stature,
good-natured and loose-jointed, with an enormous shock of hair on his head, and a great tall
hat on the top of that. In fact, everybody in the room bore on his
head this characteristic emblem of man's sovereignty; whether it
were felt hat, palm-leaf, greasy beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true
republican independence. In truth, it appeared to be the characteristic mark of every individual.
Some wore them tipped rakishly to one side -- these were your men of humor, jolly, free-and-easy
dogs; some had them jammed independently down over their noses -- these were your hard characters,
thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, wanted to wear them, and to wear them just
as they had a mind to; there were those who had them set far over back -- wide-awake men,
who wanted a clear prospect; while careless men, who did not know, or care, how their
hats sat, had them shaking about in all directions. The various hats, in fact, were quite a Shakespearean
study. Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons,
and with no redundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither and thither,
without bringing to pass any very particular results, except expressing a generic willingness
to turn over everything in creation generally for the benefit of Mas'r and his guests. Add
to this picture a jolly, crackling, rollicking fire, going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney,
-- the outer door and every window being set wide open, and the calico window-curtain flopping
and snapping in a
good stiff breeze of damp raw air, -- and you have an idea of the jollities of a Kentucky
tavern. Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good
illustration of the doctrine of transmitted instincts and pecularities. His fathers were
mighty hunters, -- men who lived in the woods, and slept under the free, open heavens, with
the stars to hold their candles; and their descendant to this day always acts as if the
house were his camp, -- wears his hat at all hours, tumbles himself about, and puts his
heels on the tops of chairs or mantel- pieces, just as his father rolled on the green sward,
and put his upon trees and logs, -- keeps all the windows and doors open, winter and
summer, that he may get -177-
air enough for his great lungs, -- calls everybody "stranger," with nonchalant bonhommie, and
is altogether the frankest, easiest, most jovial creature living.
Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller entered. He was a short, thick-set
man, carefully dressed, with a round, good-natured countenance, and something rather fussy and
particular in his appearance. He was very careful of his valise and umbrella, bringing
them in with his own hands, and resisting, pertinaciously, all offers from the various
servants to relieve him of them. He looked round the barroom with rather an anxious air,
and, retreating with his valuables to the warmest corner, disposed them under his chair,
sat down, and looked rather apprehensively up at the worthy whose heels illustrated the
end of the mantel-piece, who was spitting from right to left, with a courage and energy
rather alarming to gentlemen of weak nerves and particular habits.
"I say, stranger, how are ye?" said the aforesaid gentleman, firing an honorary salute of tobacco-juice
in the direction of the new arrival. "Well, I reckon," was the reply of the other,
as he dodged, with some alarm, the threatening honor.
"Any news?" said the respondent, taking out a strip of tobacco and a large hunting- knife
from his pocket. "Not that I know of," said the man.
"Chaw?" said the first speaker, handing the old gentleman a bit of his tobacco, with a
decidedly brotherly air. "No, thank ye -- it don't agree with me,"
said the little man, edging off.
"Don't, eh?" said the other, easily, and stowing away the morsel in his own mouth, in order
to keep up the supply of tobacco-juice, for the general benefit of society.
The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever his long-sided brother fired
in his direction; and this being observed by his companion, he very
good-naturedly turned his artillery to another quarter, and proceeded to storm one of the
fire-irons with a degree of military talent fully sufficient to take a city.
"What's that?" said the old gentleman, observing some of the company formed in a group around
a large handbill. "*** advertised!" said one of the company,
briefly.
Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman's name, rose up, and, after carefully adjusting
his valise and umbrella, proceeded deliberately to take out his spectacles and fix them on
his nose; and, this operation being performed, read as follows:
"Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George six feet in height,
a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read
and write, will probably try to pass for a white man, is deeply scarred on his back and
shoulders, has been branded in his right hand with the letter H.
"I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same sum for satisfactory proof
that he has been killed." The old gentleman read this advertisement
from end to end in a low voice, as if he were studying it.
The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fireiron, as before related, now took
down his cumbrous length, and rearing aloft his tall form, walked up to the advertisement
and very deliberately spit a full discharge of tobacco-juice on it.
"There's my mind upon that!" said he, briefly, and sat down again. "Why, now, stranger, what's
that for?" said mine host. "I'd do it all the same to the writer of that
ar paper, if he was here," said the long man, coolly resuming his old employment of cutting
tobacco. "Any man that owns a boy like that, and can't find any better way o'
-179-
treating on him, deserves to lose him. Such papers as these is a shame to Kentucky; that's
my mind right out, if anybody wants to know!" "Well, now, that's a fact," said mine host,
as he made an entry in his book.
"I've got a gang of boys, sir," said the long man, resuming his attack on the fire-irons,
"and I jest tells 'em -- 'Boys,' says I, -- 'run now! dig! put! jest when ye want to! I never
shall come to look after you!' That's the way I keep mine. Let 'em know they are free
to run any time, and it jest breaks up their wanting to. More 'n all, I've got free papers
for 'em all recorded, in case I gets keeled up any o' these times, and they know it; and
I tell ye, stranger, there an't a fellow in our parts gets more out of his *** than
I do. Why, my boys have been to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars' worth of colts,
and brought me back the money, all straight, time and agin. It stands to reason they should.
Treat 'em like dogs, and you'll have dogs' works and dogs' actions. Treat 'em like men,
and you'll have men's works." And the honest drover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral
sentiment by firing a perfect feu de joi at the fireplace.
"I think you're altogether right, friend," said Mr. Wilson; "and this boy described here
is a fine fellow -- no mistake about that. He worked for me some half-dozen years in
my bagging factory, and he was my best hand, sir. He is an ingenious fellow, too: he invented
a machine for the cleaning of hemp -- a really valuable affair; it's gone into use in several
factories. His master holds the patent of it."
"I'll warrant ye," said the drover, "holds it and makes money out of it, and then turns
round and brands the boy in his right hand. If I had a fair chance, I'd mark him, I reckon
so that he'd carry it one while." "These yer knowin' boys is allers aggravatin'
and sarcy," said a coarse-looking fellow, from the other
-180-
side of the room; "that's why they gets cut up and marked so. If they behaved themselves,
they wouldn't." "That is to say, the Lord made 'em men, and
it's a hard squeeze gettin 'em down into beasts," said the drover, dryly.
"Bright *** isn't no kind of 'vantage to their masters," continued the other, well
entrenched, in a coarse, unconscious obtuseness, from the contempt of his opponent; "what's
the use o' talents and them things, if you can't get the use on 'em yourself?
Why, all the use they make on 't is to get round you. I've had one or two of these fellers,
and I jest sold 'em down river. I knew I'd got to lose 'em, first or last, if I didn't."
"Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set, and leave out their souls entirely,"
said the drover. Here the conversation was interrupted by the
approach of a small one-horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, and a well-dressed,
gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a colored servant driving.
The whole party examined the new comer with the interest with which a set of loafers in
a rainy day usually examine every newcomer. He was very tall, with a dark, Spanish complexion,
fine, expressive black eyes, and close-curling hair, also of a glossy blackness. His well-formed
aquiline nose, straight thin lips, and the admirable contour of his finely-formed limbs,
impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of something uncommon. He walked
easily in among the company, and with a nod indicated to his waiter where to place his
trunk, bowed to the company, and, with his hat in his hand, walked up leisurely to the
bar, and gave in his name as Henry Butter, Oaklands, Shelby County. Turning, with an
indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, and read it over.
"Jim," he said to his man, "seems to me we met a
-181-
boy something like this, up at Beman's, didn't we?" "Yes, Mas'r, said Jim, "only I an't sure
about the hand." "Well, I didn't look, of course," said the
stranger with a careless yawn. Then walking up to the landlord, he desired him to furnish
him with a private apartment, as he had some writing to do immediately.
The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven negroes, old and young, male
and female, little and big, were soon whizzing about, like a covey of partridges, bustling,
hurrying, treading on each other's toes, and tumbling over each other, in their zeal to
get Mas'r's room ready, while he seated himself easily on a chair in the middle of the room,
and entered into conversation with the man who sat next to him.
The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of the stranger, had regarded
him with an air of disturbed and uneasy curiosity. He seemed to himself to have met and been
acquainted with him somewhere, but he could not recollect. Every few moments, when the
man spoke, or moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his
eyes on him, and then suddenly withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes met his with such
unconcerned coolness. At last, a sudden recollection seemed to flash upon him, for he stared at
the stranger with such an air of blank amazement and alarm, that he walked up to him.
"Mr. Wilson, I think," said he, in a tone of recognition, and extending his hand. "I
beg your pardon, I didn't recollect you before. I see you remember me, -- Mr. Butler, of Oaklands,
Shelby County." "Ye -- yes -- yes, sir," said Mr. Wilson,
like one speaking in a dream.
Just then a *** boy entered, and announced that Mas'r's room was ready.
"Jim, see to the trunks," said the gentleman, negligently; then addressing himself to Mr.
Wilson, he -182-
added -- "I should like to have a few moments' conversation with you on business, in my room,
if you please." Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks
in his sleep; and they proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a newmade fire was crackling,
and various servants flying about, putting finishing touches to the arrangements.
When all was done, and the servants departed, the young man deliberately locked the door,
and putting the key in his pocket, faced about, and folding his arms on his ***, looked
Mr. Wilson full in the face. "George!" said Mr. Wilson.
"Yes, George," said the young man. "I couldn't have thought it!"
"I am pretty well disguised, I fancy," said the young man, with a smile. "A little walnut
bark has made my yellow skin a genteel brown, and I've dyed my hair black; so you see I
don't answer to the advertisement at all." "O, George! but this is a dangerous game you
are playing. I could not have advised you to it."
"I can do it on my own responsibility," said George, with the same proud smile.
We remark, en passant, that George was, by his father's side, of white descent. His mother
was one of those unfortunates of her race, marked out by personal beauty to be the slave
of the passions of her possessor, and the mother of children who may never know a father.
From one of the proudest families in Kentucky he had inherited a set of fine European features,
and a high, indomitable spirit. From his mother he had received only a slight mulatto tinge,
amply compensated by its accompanying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the tint of the
skin and the color of his hair had metamorphosed him into the Spanish-looking fellow he then
appeared; and as gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly manners had always been perfectly
natural to -183-
him, he found no difficulty in playing the bold part he had adopted -- that of a gentleman
travelling with his domestic. Mr. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety
and cautious old gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as John Bunyan hath
it, "much tumbled up and down in his mind," and divided between his wish to help George,
and a certain confused notion of maintaining law and order: so, as he shambled about, he
delivered himself as follows: "Well, George, I s'pose you're running away-leaving
your lawful master, George -- (I don't wonder at it) -- at the same time, I'm sorry, George,
-- yes, decidedly -- I think I must say that, George -- it's my duty to tell you so."
"Why are you sorry, sir?" said George, calmly. "Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself
in opposition to the laws of your country." "My country!" said George, with a strong and
bitter emphasis; "what country have I, but the grave, -- and I wish to God that I
was laid there!"
"Why, George, no -- no -- it won't do; this way of talking is wicked -- unscriptural.
George, you've got a hard master -- in fact, he is -- well he conducts himself reprehensibly
-- I can't pretend to defend him. But you know how the angel commanded Hagar to return
to her mistress, and submit herself under the hand; 1 and the apostle sent back Onesimus
to his master."2 "Don't quote Bible at me that way, Mr. Wilson,"
said George, with a flashing eye, "don't! for my wife is a Christian, and I mean to
be, if ever I get to where I can; but to quote Bible to a fellow in my circumstances, is
enough to make him give it up altogether. I appeal to God Almighty; -- I'm willing to
go with the case to
-184-
Him, and ask Him if I do wrong to seek my freedom."
"These feelings are quite natural, George," said the good-natured man, blowing his nose.
"Yes, they're natural, but it is my duty not to encourage 'em in you. Yes, my boy, I'm
sorry for you, now; it's a bad case -- very bad; but the apostle says, 'Let everyone abide
in the condition in which he is called.' We must all submit to the indications of Providence,
George, -- don't you see?" George stood with his head drawn back, his
arms folded tightly over his broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his lips.
"I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take you a prisoner away from your
wife and children, and want to keep you all your life hoeing corn for them, if you'd think
it your duty to abide in the condition in which you were called. I rather think that
you'd think the first stray horse you could find an indication of Providence -- shouldn't
you?" The little old gentleman stared with both
eyes at this illustration of the case; but, though not much of a reasoner, he had the
sense in which some logicians on this particular subject do not excel, -- that of saying nothing,
where nothing could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking his umbrella, and folding
and patting down all the creases in it, he proceeded on with his exhortations in a general
way. "You see, George, you know, now, I always
have stood your friend; and whatever I've said, I've said for your good. Now, here,
it seems to me, you're running an awful risk. You can't hope to carry it out. If you're
taken, it will be worse with you than ever; they'll only abuse you, and half kill you,
and sell you down the river." "Mr. Wilson, I know all this," said George.
"I do run a risk, but -- " he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols and a bowie-knife.
"There!" he said, "I'm ready for 'em! Down south I never will go.
-185-
No! if it comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet of free soil, -- the first
and last I shall ever own in Kentucky!" "Why, George, this state of mind is awful;
it's getting really desperate George. I'm concerned. Going to break the laws of your
country!"
"My country again! Mr. Wilson, you have a country; but what country have I, or any one
like me, born of slave mothers? What laws are there for us? We don't make them, -- we
don't consent to them, -- we have nothing to do with them; all they do for us is to
crush us, and keep us down. Haven't I heard your Fourth-of-July speeches? Don't you tell
us all, once a year, that governments derive their just power from the consent of the governed?
Can't a fellow think, that hears such things? Can't he put this and that together, and see
what it comes to?" Mr. Wilson's mind was one of those that may
not unaptly be represented by a bale of cotton, -- downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and confused.
He really pitied George with all his heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy perception
of the style of feeling that agitated him; but he deemed it his duty to go on talking
good to him, with infinite pertinacity. "George, this is bad. I must tell you, you
know, as a friend, you'd better not be meddling with such notions; they are bad, George, very
bad, for boys in your condition, - - very;" and Mr. Wilson sat down to a table,
and began nervously chewing the handle of his umbrella.
"See here, now, Mr. Wilson," said George, coming up and sitting himself determinately
down in front of him; "look at me, now. Don't I sit before you, every way, just as much
a man as you are? Look at my face, -- look at my hands, -- look at my body," and the
young man drew himself up proudly; "why am I not a man, as much as anybody? Well, Mr.
Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I had a father -- one of your Kentucky
-186-
gentlemen -- who didn't think enough of me to keep me from being sold with his dogs and
horses, to satisfy the estate, when he died. I saw my mother put up at sheriff's sale,
with her seven children. They were sold before her eyes, one by one, all to different masters;
and I was the youngest. She came and kneeled down before old Mas'r, and begged him to buy
her with me, that she might have at least one child with her; and he kicked her away
with his heavy boot. I saw him do it; and the last that I heard was her moans and screams,
when I was tied to his horse's neck, to be carried off to his place."
"Well, then?"
"My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister. She was a pious,
good girl, -- a member of the Baptist church, -- and as handsome as my poor mother had been.
She was well brought up, and had good manners. At first, I was glad she was
bought, for I had one friend near me. I was soon sorry for it. Sir, I have stood at the
door and heard her whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into my naked heart,
and I couldn't do anything to help her; and she was whipped, sir, for wanting to live
a decent Christian life, such as your laws give no slave girl a right to live; and at
last I saw her chained with a trader's gang, to be sent to market in Orleans, -- sent there
for nothing else but that, -- and that's the last I know of her. Well, I grew up, -- long
years and years, -- no father, no mother, no sister, not a
living soul that cared for me more than a dog; nothing but whipping, scolding, starving.
Why, sir, I've been so hungry that I have been glad to take the bones they threw to
their dogs; and yet, when I was a little fellow, and laid awake whole nights and cried, it
wasn't the hunger, it wasn't the whipping, I cried for. No, sir, it was for my mother
and my sisters, -- it was because I hadn't a friend to love me on earth. I never knew
what peace or comfort was. I never had a kind word spoken to me till I came to
work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me well; you encouraged me to do well, and
to learn to read and write, and to try to make something of myself; and God knows how
grateful I am for it. Then, sir, I found my wife; you've seen her, -- you know how beautiful
she is. When I found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely could believe I was
alive, I was so happy; and, sir, she is as good as she is beautiful. But now what? Why,
now comes my master, takes me right away from my work, and my friends, and all I like, and
grinds me down into the very dirt! And why? Because, he says, I forgot who I was; he says,
to teach me that I am only a ***! After all, and last of all, he comes between me
and my wife, and says I shall give her up, and live with another woman. And all this
your laws give him power to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it! There
isn't one of all these things, that have broken the hearts of my mother and my sister, and
my wife and myself, but your laws allow, and give every man power to do, in Kentucky, and
none can say to him nay! Do you call these the laws of my country? Sir, I haven't any
country, anymore than I have any father. But I'm going to have one. I don't want anything
of your country, except to be let alone, -- to go peaceably out of it; and when I get to
Canada, where the laws will own me and protect me, that shall be my country, and its laws
I will obey. But if any man tries to stop me, let him take care, for I am desperate.
I'll fight for my liberty to the last breath I breathe. You say your fathers did it; if
it was right for them, it is right for me!" This speech, delivered partly while sitting
at the table, and partly walking up and down the room, -- delivered with tears, and flashing
eyes, and despairing gestures, -- was altogether too much for the goodnatured old body to whom
it was addressed, who had
pulled out a great yellow silk pocket-handkerchief, and was mopping up his face with great energy.
-188-
"Blast 'em all!" he suddenly broke out. "Haven't I always said so -- the infernal old cusses!
I hope I an't swearing, now. Well! go ahead, George, go ahead; but be careful, my boy;
don't shoot anybody, George, unless -- well -- you'd better not shoot, I reckon; at least,
I wouldn't hit anybody, you know. Where is your wife, George?" he added, as he nervously
rose, and began walking the room. "Gone, sir gone, with her child in her arms,
the Lord only knows where; -- gone after the north star; and when we ever meet, or whether
we meet at all in this world, no creature can tell."
"Is it possible! astonishing! from such a kind family?"
"Kind families get in debt, and the laws of our country allow them to sell the child out
of its mother's *** to pay its master's debts," said George, bitterly.
"Well, well," said the honest old man, fumbling in his pocket: "I s'pose, perhaps, I an't
following my judgment, -- hang it, I won't follow my judgment!" he added, suddenly; "so
here, George," and, taking out a roll of bills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George.
"No, my kind, good sir!" said George, "you've done a great deal for me, and this might get
you into trouble. I have money enough, I hope, to take me as far as I need it."
"No; but you must, George. Money is a great help everywhere; -- can't have too much, if
you get it honestly. Take it, -- do take it, now, -- do, my boy!"
"On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, I will," said George, taking
up the money. "And now, George, how long are you going to
travel in this way? -- not long or far, I hope. It's well carried on, but too bold.
And this black fellow, -- who is he?" "A true fellow, who went to Canada more than
a year ago. He heard, after he got there, that his master was so angry at him for going
off that he had whipped -189-
his poor old mother; and he has come all the way back to comfort her, and get a chance
to get her away."
"Has he got her?"
"Not yet; he has been hanging about the place, and found no chance yet. Meanwhile, he is
going with me as far as Ohio, to put me among friends that helped him, and then he will
come back after her. "Dangerous, very dangerous!" said the old
man. George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully. The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot,
with a sort of innocent wonder.
"George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up your head, and speak and move
like another man," said Mr. Wilson. "Because I'm a freeman!" said George, proudly.
"Yes, sir; I've said Mas'r for the last time to any man. I'm free!"
"Take care! You are not sure, -- you may be taken."
"All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr. Wilson," said George.
"I'm perfectly dumb-founded with your boldness!" said Mr. Wilson, -- "to come right
here to the nearest tavern!"
"Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that they will never think of
it; they will look for me on ahead, and you yourself wouldn't know me. Jim's master don't
live in this county; he isn't known in these parts. Besides, he is given up; nobody is
looking after him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement, I think."
"But the mark in your hand?"
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scar in his hand.
"That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris' regard," he said, scornfully. "A fortnight ago, he
took it into his head to give it to me, because he said he believed I should try to get away
one of these days. Looks interesting, doesn't it?" he said, drawing his glove on again.
"I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of
-190-
it, -- your condition and your risks!" said Mr. Wilson.
"Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present, it's about up to the boiling
point," said George. "Well, my good sir," continued George, after
a few moments' silence, "I saw you knew me; I thought I'd just have this talk with you,
lest your surprised looks should bring me out. I leave early tomorrow morning, before
daylight; by tomorrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I shall travel by daylight,
stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner-tables with the lords of the land. So, good-by, sir;
if you hear that I'm taken, you may know that I'm dead!"
George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a prince. The friendly
little old man shook it heartily, and after a little shower of caution, he took his umbrella,
and fumbled his way out of the room. George stood thoughtfully looking at the door,
as the old man closed it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped
to it, and opening it, said, "Mr. Wilson, one word more."
The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, locked the door, and then stood
for a few moments looking on the floor, irresolutely. At last, raising his head with a sudden effort
-- "Mr. Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian
in your treatment of me, -- I want to ask one last deed of Christian kindness of you."
"Well, George."
"Well, sir, -- what you said was true. I am running a dreadful risk. There isn't, on earth,
a living soul to care if I die," he added, drawing his breath hard, and speaking with
a great effort, -- "I shall be kicked out and buried like a dog, and nobody'll think
of it a day after, -- only my poor wife! Poor soul! she'll mourn and grieve; and if you'd
only contrive, Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her. She gave it to me for a Christmas
-191-
present, poor child! Give it to her, and tell her I loved her to the last. Will you? Will
you?" he added, earnestly. "Yes, certainly -- poor fellow!" said the
old gentleman, taking the pin, with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice.
"Tell her one thing," said George; "it's my last wish, if she can get to Canada, to go
there. No matter how kind her mistress is, -- no matter how much she loves her home;
beg her not to go back, -- for slavery always ends in misery. Tell her to bring up our boy
a free man, and then he won't suffer as I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you?"
"Yes, George. I'll tell her; but I trust you won't die; take heart, -- you're a brave fellow.
Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my heart you were safe through, though, -- that's what
I do." "Is there a God to trust in?" said George,
in such a tone of bitter despair as arrested the old gentleman's words. "O, I've seen things
all my life that have made me feel that there can't be a God. You Christians don't know
how these things look to us. There's a God for you, but is there any for us?"
"O, now, don't -- don't, my boy!" said the old man, almost sobbing as he spoke; "don't
feel so! There is -- there is; clouds and darkness are around about him, but righteousness
and judgment are the habitation of his throne. There's a God, George, -- believe it; trust
in Him, and I'm sure He'll help you. Everything will be set right, -- if not in this life,
in another." The real piety and benevolence of the simple
old man invested him with a temporary dignity and authority, as he spoke. George stopped
his distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfully a moment, and then said,
quietly, "Thank you for saying that, my good friend;
I'll think of that."
1. Gen. 16. The angel bade the pregnant Hagar return to her mistress Sarai, even though
Sarai had dealt harshly with her. 2. Phil. 1:10. Onesimus went back to his master
to become no longer a servant but a "brother beloved."
