- by Harriet Beecher Stowe
- ">
- Contents
- List of Illustrations
- VOLUME I
- VOLUME II
- CHAPTER XIX
- CHAPTER XX
- CHAPTER XXI
- CHAPTER XXII
- CHAPTER XXIII
- CHAPTER XXIV
- CHAPTER XXV
- CHAPTER XXVI
- CHAPTER XXVII
- CHAPTER XXVIII
- CHAPTER XXIX
- CHAPTER XXX
- CHAPTER XXXI
- CHAPTER XXXII
- CHAPTER XXXIII
- CHAPTER XXXIV
- CHAPTER XXXV
- CHAPTER XXXVI
- CHAPTER XXXVII
- CHAPTER XXXVIII
- CHAPTER XXXIX
- CHAPTER XL
- CHAPTER XLI
- CHAPTER XLII
- CHAPTER XLIII
- CHAPTER XLIV
- CHAPTER XLV
- CHAPTER XIX
www.gutenberg.org
# Uncle Tom’s Cabin
by Harriet Beecher Stowe
Contents
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CHAPTER I—In Which the Reader Is Introduced to a Man of Humanity
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CHAPTER II—The Mother
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CHAPTER III —The Husband and Father
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CHAPTER IV—An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin
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CHAPTER V—Showing the Feelings of Living Property on Changing Owners
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CHAPTER VI—Discovery
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CHAPTER VII—The Mother’s Struggle
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CHAPTER VIII—Eliza’s Escape
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CHAPTER IX—In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man
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CHAPTER X—The Property Is Carried Off
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CHAPTER XI—In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind
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CHAPTER XII—Select Incident of Lawful Trade
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CHAPTER XIII—The Quaker Settlement
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CHAPTER XIV—Evangeline
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CHAPTER XV—Of Tom’s New Master, and Various Other Matters
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CHAPTER XVI—Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions
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CHAPTER XVII—The Freeman’s Defence
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CHAPTER XVIII—Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions
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CHAPTER—Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions Continued XIX
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CHAPTER XX—Topsy
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CHAPTER XXI—Kentuck
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CHAPTER XXII—“The Grass Withereth—the Flower Fadeth”
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CHAPTER XXIII—Henrique
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CHAPTER XXIV—Foreshadowings
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CHAPTER XXV—The Little Evangelist
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CHAPTER XXVI—Death
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CHAPTER XXVII—“This Is the Last of Earth”
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CHAPTER XXVIII—Reunion
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CHAPTER XXIX—The Unprotected
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CHAPTER XXX—The Slave Warehouse
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CHAPTER XXXI—The Middle Passage
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CHAPTER XXXII—Dark Places
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CHAPTER XXXIII—Cassy
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CHAPTER XXXIV—The Quadroon’s Story
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CHAPTER XXXV—The Tokens
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CHAPTER XXXVI—Emmeline and Cassy
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CHAPTER XXXVII—Liberty
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CHAPTER XXXVIII—The Victory
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CHAPTER XXXIX—The Stratagem
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CHAPTER XL—The Martyr
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CHAPTER XLI—The Young Master
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CHAPTER XLII—An Authentic Ghost Story
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CHAPTER XLIII—Results
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CHAPTER XLIV—The Liberator
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CHAPTER XLV—Concluding Remarks
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List of Illustrations
| Eliza comes to tell Uncle Tom that he is sold, and that she is running away to save her child. | | —- | | THE AUCTION SALE. | | THE FREEMAN’S DEFENCE. | | LITTLE EVA READING THE BIBLE TO UNCLE TOM IN THE ARBOR. | | CASSY MINISTERING TO UNCLE TOM AFTER HIS WHIPPING. | | THE FUGITIVES ARE SAVE IN A FREE LAND. |
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I
In Which the Reader Is Introduced to a Man of Humanity
Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen were sitting
alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining parlor, in the town of
P——, in Kentucky. There were no servants present, and the
gentlemen, with chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some
subject with great earnestness.
For convenience sake, we have said, hitherto, two . One of the
parties, however, when critically examined, did not seem, strictly speaking, to
come under the species. He was a short, thick-set man, with coarse, commonplace
features, and that swaggering air of pretension which marks a low man who is
trying to elbow his way upward in the world. He was much over-dressed, in a
gaudy vest of many colors, a blue neckerchief, bedropped gayly with yellow
spots, and arranged with a flaunting tie, quite in keeping with the general air
of the man. His hands, large and coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings;
and he wore a heavy gold watch-chain, with a bundle of seals of portentous
size, and a great variety of colors, attached to it,—which, in the ardor
of conversation, he was in the habit of flourishing and jingling with evident
satisfaction. His conversation was in free and easy defiance of Murray’s
Grammar,
and was garnished at convenient intervals with various profane expressions,
which not even the desire to be graphic in our account shall induce us to
transcribe.
[1]
English Grammar (1795), by Lindley Murray (1745-1826), the most authoritative
American grammarian of his day.
His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gentleman; and the
arrangements of the house, and the general air of the housekeeping, indicated
easy, and even opulent circumstances. As we before stated, the two were in the
midst of an earnest conversation.
“That is the way I should arrange the matter,” said Mr. Shelby.
“I can’t make trade that way—I positively can’t, Mr.
Shelby,” said the other, holding up a glass of wine between his eye and
the light.
“Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow; he is certainly
worth that sum anywhere,—steady, honest, capable, manages my whole farm
like a clock.”
“You mean honest, as niggers go,” said Haley, helping himself to a
glass of brandy.
“No; I mean, really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, pious fellow. He
got religion at a camp-meeting, four years ago; and I believe he really
get it. I’ve trusted him, since then, with everything I
have,—money, house, horses,—and let him come and go round the
country; and I always found him true and square in everything.”
“Some folks don’t believe there is pious niggers Shelby,”
said Haley, with a candid flourish of his hand, “but . I had a
fellow, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans—‘t was as good
as a meetin, now, really, to hear that critter pray; and he was quite gentle
and quiet like. He fetched me a good sum, too, for I bought him cheap of a man
that was ’bliged to sell out; so I realized six hundred on him. Yes, I
consider religion a valeyable thing in a nigger, when it’s the genuine
article, and no mistake.”
“Well, Tom’s got the real article, if ever a fellow had,”
rejoined the other. “Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati alone, to
do business for me, and bring home five hundred dollars. ‘Tom,’
says I to him, ‘I trust you, because I think you’re a
Christian—I know you wouldn’t cheat.’ Tom comes back, sure
enough; I knew he would. Some low fellows, they say, said to him—Tom, why
don’t you make tracks for Canada?’ ’Ah, master trusted me,
and I couldn’t,’—they told me about it. I am sorry to part
with Tom, I must say. You ought to let him cover the whole balance of the debt;
and you would, Haley, if you had any conscience.”
“Well, I’ve got just as much conscience as any man in business can
afford to keep,—just a little, you know, to swear by, as ’t
were,” said the trader, jocularly; “and, then, I’m ready to
do anything in reason to ’blige friends; but this yer, you see, is a
leetle too hard on a fellow—a leetle too hard.” The trader sighed
contemplatively, and poured out some more brandy.
“Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?” said Mr. Shelby, after an
uneasy interval of silence.
“Well, haven’t you a boy or gal that you could throw in with
Tom?”
“Hum!—none that I could well spare; to tell the truth, it’s
only hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don’t like parting
with any of my hands, that’s a fact.”
Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between four and five years of
age, entered the room. There was something in his appearance remarkably
beautiful and engaging. His black hair, fine as floss silk, hung in glossy
curls about his round, dimpled face, while a pair of large dark eyes, full of
fire and softness, looked out from beneath the rich, long lashes, as he peered
curiously into the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and yellow plaid, carefully
made and neatly fitted, set off to advantage the dark and rich style of his
beauty; and a certain comic air of assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed
that he had been not unused to being petted and noticed by his master.
“Hulloa, Jim Crow!” said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and snapping a
bunch of raisins towards him, “pick that up, now!”
The child scampered, with all his little strength, after the prize, while his
master laughed.
“Come here, Jim Crow,” said he. The child came up, and the master
patted the curly head, and chucked him under the chin.
“Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can dance and sing.” The boy
commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common among the negroes, in a
rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing with many comic evolutions of the
hands, feet, and whole body, all in perfect time to the music.
“Bravo!” said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange.
“Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe, when he has the rheumatism,”
said his master.
Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appearance of deformity
and distortion, as, with his back humped up, and his master’s stick in
his hand, he hobbled about the room, his childish face drawn into a doleful
pucker, and spitting from right to left, in imitation of an old man.
Both gentlemen laughed uproariously.
“Now, Jim,” said his master, “show us how old Elder Robbins
leads the psalm.” The boy drew his chubby face down to a formidable
length, and commenced toning a psalm tune through his nose, with imperturbable
gravity.
“Hurrah! bravo! what a young ’un!” said Haley; “that
chap’s a case, I’ll promise. Tell you what,” said he,
suddenly clapping his hand on Mr. Shelby’s shoulder, “fling in that
chap, and I’ll settle the business—I will. Come, now, if that
ain’t doing the thing up about the rightest!”
At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and a young quadroon woman,
apparently about twenty-five, entered the room.
There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identify her as its
mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye, with its long lashes; the same
ripples of silky black hair. The brown of her complexion gave way on the cheek
to a perceptible flush, which deepened as she saw the gaze of the strange man
fixed upon her in bold and undisguised admiration. Her dress was of the neatest
possible fit, and set off to advantage her finely moulded shape;—a
delicately formed hand and a trim foot and ankle were items of appearance that
did not escape the quick eye of the trader, well used to run up at a glance the
points of a fine female article.
“Well, Eliza?” said her master, as she stopped and looked
hesitatingly at him.
“I was looking for Harry, please, sir;” and the boy bounded toward
her, showing his spoils, which he had gathered in the skirt of his robe.
“Well, take him away then,” said Mr. Shelby; and hastily she
withdrew, carrying the child on her arm.
“By Jupiter,” said the trader, turning to him in admiration,
“there’s an article, now! You might make your fortune on that ar
gal in Orleans, any day. I’ve seen over a thousand, in my day, paid down
for gals not a bit handsomer.”
“I don’t want to make my fortune on her,” said Mr. Shelby,
dryly; and, seeking to turn the conversation, he uncorked a bottle of fresh
wine, and asked his companion’s opinion of it.
“Capital, sir,—first chop!” said the trader; then turning,
and slapping his hand familiarly on Shelby’s shoulder, he added—
“Come, how will you trade about the gal?—what shall I say for
her—what’ll you take?”
“Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold,” said Shelby. “My wife
would not part with her for her weight in gold.”
“Ay, ay! women always say such things, cause they ha’nt no sort of
calculation. Just show ’em how many watches, feathers, and trinkets,
one’s weight in gold would buy, and that alters the case,
reckon.”
“I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of; I say no, and I mean
no,” said Shelby, decidedly.
“Well, you’ll let me have the boy, though,” said the trader;
“you must own I’ve come down pretty handsomely for him.”
“What on earth can you want with the child?” said Shelby.
“Why, I’ve got a friend that’s going into this yer branch of
the business—wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for the market. Fancy
articles entirely—sell for waiters, and so on, to rich ’uns, that
can pay for handsome ’uns. It sets off one of yer great places—a
real handsome boy to open door, wait, and tend. They fetch a good sum; and this
little devil is such a comical, musical concern, he’s just the
article!’
“I would rather not sell him,” said Mr. Shelby, thoughtfully;
“the fact is, sir, I’m a humane man, and I hate to take the boy
from his mother, sir.”
“O, you do?—La! yes—something of that ar natur. I understand,
perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on with women, sometimes, I
al’ays hates these yer screechin,’ screamin’ times. They are
onpleasant; but, as I manages business, I generally avoids
’em, sir. Now, what if you get the girl off for a day, or a week, or so;
then the thing’s done quietly,—all over before she comes home. Your
wife might get her some ear-rings, or a new gown, or some such truck, to make
up with her.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Lor bless ye, yes! These critters ain’t like white folks, you
know; they gets over things, only manage right. Now, they say,” said
Haley, assuming a candid and confidential air, “that this kind o’
trade is hardening to the feelings; but I never found it so. Fact is, I never
could do things up the way some fellers manage the business. I’ve seen
’em as would pull a woman’s child out of her arms, and set him up
to sell, and she screechin’ like mad all the time;—very bad
policy—damages the article—makes ’em quite unfit for service
sometimes. I knew a real handsome gal once, in Orleans, as was entirely ruined
by this sort o’ handling. The fellow that was trading for her
didn’t want her baby; and she was one of your real high sort, when her
blood was up. I tell you, she squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked,
and went on real awful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think of ’t;
and when they carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest went
ravin’ mad, and died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of a thousand dollars,
just for want of management,—there’s where ’t is. It’s
always best to do the humane thing, sir; that’s been
experience.” And the trader leaned back in his chair, and folded his arm,
with an air of virtuous decision, apparently considering himself a second
Wilberforce.
The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply; for while Mr. Shelby was
thoughtfully peeling an orange, Haley broke out afresh, with becoming
diffidence, but as if actually driven by the force of truth to say a few words
more.
“It don’t look well, now, for a feller to be praisin’
himself; but I say it jest because it’s the truth. I believe I’m
reckoned to bring in about the finest droves of niggers that is brought
in,—at least, I’ve been told so; if I have once, I reckon I have a
hundred times,—all in good case,—fat and likely, and I lose as few
as any man in the business. And I lays it all to my management, sir; and
humanity, sir, I may say, is the great pillar of management.”
Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, “Indeed!”
“Now, I’ve been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I’ve been
talked to. They an’t pop’lar, and they an’t common; but I
stuck to ’em, sir; I’ve stuck to ’em, and realized well on
’em; yes, sir, they have paid their passage, I may say,” and the
trader laughed at his joke.
There was something so piquant and original in these elucidations of humanity,
that Mr. Shelby could not help laughing in company. Perhaps you laugh too, dear
reader; but you know humanity comes out in a variety of strange forms
now-a-days, and there is no end to the odd things that humane people will say
and do.
Mr. Shelby’s laugh encouraged the trader to proceed.
“It’s strange, now, but I never could beat this into people’s
heads. Now, there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in Natchez; he was a
clever fellow, Tom was, only the very devil with niggers,—on principle
’t was, you see, for a better hearted feller never broke bread; ’t
was his , sir. I used to talk to Tom. ‘Why, Tom,’ I
used to say, ‘when your gals takes on and cry, what’s the use
o’ crackin on’ ’em over the head, and knockin’ on
’em round? It’s ridiculous,’ says I, ‘and don’t
do no sort o’ good. Why, I don’t see no harm in their
cryin’,’ says I; ’it’s natur,’ says I, ‘and
if natur can’t blow off one way, it will another. Besides, Tom,’
says I, ‘it jest spiles your gals; they get sickly, and down in the
mouth; and sometimes they gets ugly,—particular yallow gals do,—and
it’s the devil and all gettin’ on ’em broke in. Now,’
says I, ‘why can’t you kinder coax ’em up, and speak
’em fair? Depend on it, Tom, a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a
heap further than all your jawin’ and crackin’; and it pays
better,’ says I, ‘depend on ’t.’ But Tom couldn’t
get the hang on ’t; and he spiled so many for me, that I had to break off
with him, though he was a good-hearted fellow, and as fair a business hand as
is goin’.”
“And do you find your ways of managing do the business better than
Tom’s?” said Mr. Shelby.
“Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any ways can, I takes a
leetle care about the onpleasant parts, like selling young uns and
that,—get the gals out of the way—out of sight, out of mind, you
know,—and when it’s clean done, and can’t be helped, they
naturally gets used to it. ’Tan’t, you know, as if it was white
folks, that’s brought up in the way of ’spectin’ to keep
their children and wives, and all that. Niggers, you know, that’s fetched
up properly, ha’n’t no kind of ’spectations of no kind; so
all these things comes easier.”
“I’m afraid mine are not properly brought up, then,” said Mr.
Shelby.
“S’pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You mean well
by ’em, but ’tan’t no real kindness, arter all. Now, a
nigger, you see, what’s got to be hacked and tumbled round the world, and
sold to Tom, and Dick, and the Lord knows who, ’tan’t no kindness
to be givin’ on him notions and expectations, and bringin’ on him
up too well, for the rough and tumble comes all the harder on him arter. Now, I
venture to say, your niggers would be quite chop-fallen in a place where some
of your plantation niggers would be singing and whooping like all possessed.
Every man, you know, Mr. Shelby, naturally thinks well of his own ways; and I
think I treat niggers just about as well as it’s ever worth while to
treat ’em.”
“It’s a happy thing to be satisfied,” said Mr. Shelby, with a
slight shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable nature.
“Well,” said Haley, after they had both silently picked their nuts
for a season, “what do you say?”
“I’ll think the matter over, and talk with my wife,” said Mr.
Shelby. “Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter carried on in the quiet
way you speak of, you’d best not let your business in this neighborhood
be known. It will get out among my boys, and it will not be a particularly
quiet business getting away any of my fellows, if they know it, I’ll
promise you.”
“O! certainly, by all means, mum! of course. But I’ll tell you.
I’m in a devil of a hurry, and shall want to know, as soon as possible,
what I may depend on,” said he, rising and putting on his overcoat.
“Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and you shall have my
answer,” said Mr. Shelby, and the trader bowed himself out of the
apartment.
“I’d like to have been able to kick the fellow down the
steps,” said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed, “with
his impudent assurance; but he knows how much he has me at advantage. If
anybody had ever said to me that I should sell Tom down south to one of those
rascally traders, I should have said, ’Is thy servant a dog, that he
should do this thing?’ And now it must come, for aught I see. And
Eliza’s child, too! I know that I shall have some fuss with wife about
that; and, for that matter, about Tom, too. So much for being in
debt,—heigho! The fellow sees his advantage, and means to push it.”
Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to be seen in the State of
Kentucky. The general prevalence of agricultural pursuits of a quiet and
gradual nature, not requiring those periodic seasons of hurry and pressure that
are called for in the business of more southern districts, makes the task of
the negro a more healthful and reasonable one; while the master, content with a
more gradual style of acquisition, has not those temptations to hardheartedness
which always overcome frail human nature when the prospect of sudden and rapid
gain is weighed in the balance, with no heavier counterpoise than the interests
of the helpless and unprotected.
Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the good-humored indulgence of
some masters and mistresses, and the affectionate loyalty of some slaves, might
be tempted to dream the oft-fabled poetic legend of a patriarchal institution,
and all that; but over and above the scene there broods a portentous
shadow—the shadow of . So long as the law considers all these
human beings, with beating hearts and living affections, only as so many
belonging to a master,—so long as the failure, or
misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the kindest owner, may cause them any
day to exchange a life of kind protection and indulgence for one of hopeless
misery and toil,—so long it is impossible to make anything beautiful or
desirable in the best regulated administration of slavery.
Mr. Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-natured and kindly, and
disposed to easy indulgence of those around him, and there had never been a
lack of anything which might contribute to the physical comfort of the negroes
on his estate. He had, however, speculated largely and quite loosely; had
involved himself deeply, and his notes to a large amount had come into the
hands of Haley; and this small piece of information is the key to the preceding
conversation.
Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door, Eliza had caught enough
of the conversation to know that a trader was making offers to her master for
somebody.
She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she came out; but her
mistress just then calling, she was obliged to hasten away.
Still she thought she heard the trader make an offer for her boy;—could
she be mistaken? Her heart swelled and throbbed, and she involuntarily strained
him so tight that the little fellow looked up into her face in astonishment.
“Eliza, girl, what ails you today?” said her mistress, when Eliza
had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the workstand, and finally was
abstractedly offering her mistress a long nightgown in place of the silk dress
she had ordered her to bring from the wardrobe.
Eliza started. “O, missis!” she said, raising her eyes; then,
bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and began sobbing.
“Why, Eliza child, what ails you?” said her mistress.
“O! missis, missis,” said Eliza, “there’s been a trader
talking with master in the parlor! I heard him.”
“Well, silly child, suppose there has.”
“O, missis, you suppose mas’r would sell my Harry?”
And the poor creature threw herself into a chair, and sobbed convulsively.
“Sell him! No, you foolish girl! You know your master never deals with
those southern traders, and never means to sell any of his servants, as long as
they behave well. Why, you silly child, who do you think would want to buy your
Harry? Do you think all the world are set on him as you are, you goosie? Come,
cheer up, and hook my dress. There now, put my back hair up in that pretty
braid you learnt the other day, and don’t go listening at doors any
more.”
“Well, but, missis, never would give your
consent—to—to—”
“Nonsense, child! to be sure, I shouldn’t. What do you talk so for?
I would as soon have one of my own children sold. But really, Eliza, you are
getting altogether too proud of that little fellow. A man can’t put his
nose into the door, but you think he must be coming to buy him.”
Reassured by her mistress’ confident tone, Eliza proceeded nimbly and
adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her own fears, as she proceeded.
Mrs. Shelby was a woman of high class, both intellectually and morally. To that
natural magnanimity and generosity of mind which one often marks as
characteristic of the women of Kentucky, she added high moral and religious
sensibility and principle, carried out with great energy and ability into
practical results. Her husband, who made no professions to any particular
religious character, nevertheless reverenced and respected the consistency of
hers, and stood, perhaps, a little in awe of her opinion. Certain it was that
he gave her unlimited scope in all her benevolent efforts for the comfort,
instruction, and improvement of her servants, though he never took any decided
part in them himself. In fact, if not exactly a believer in the doctrine of the
efficiency of the extra good works of saints, he really seemed somehow or other
to fancy that his wife had piety and benevolence enough for two—to
indulge a shadowy expectation of getting into heaven through her superabundance
of qualities to which he made no particular pretension.
The heaviest load on his mind, after his conversation with the trader, lay in
the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wife the arrangement
contemplated,—meeting the importunities and opposition which he knew he
should have reason to encounter.
Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband’s embarrassments, and
knowing only the general kindliness of his temper, had been quite sincere in
the entire incredulity with which she had met Eliza’s suspicions. In
fact, she dismissed the matter from her mind, without a second thought; and
being occupied in preparations for an evening visit, it passed out of her
thoughts entirely.
CHAPTER II
The Mother
Eliza had been brought up by her mistress, from girlhood, as a petted and
indulged favorite.
The traveller in the south must often have remarked that peculiar air of
refinement, that softness of voice and manner, which seems in many cases to be
a particular gift to the quadroon and mulatto women. These natural graces in
the quadroon are often united with beauty of the most dazzling kind, and in
almost every case with a personal appearance prepossessing and agreeable.
Eliza, such as we have described her, is not a fancy sketch, but taken from
remembrance, as we saw her, years ago, in Kentucky. Safe under the protecting
care of her mistress, Eliza had reached maturity without those temptations
which make beauty so fatal an inheritance to a slave. She had been married to a
bright and talented young mulatto man, who was a slave on a neighboring estate,
and bore the name of George Harris.
This young man had been hired out by his master to work in a bagging factory,
where his adroitness and ingenuity caused him to be considered the first hand
in the place. He had invented a machine for the cleaning of the hemp, which,
considering the education and circumstances of the inventor, displayed quite as
much mechanical genius as Whitney’s cotton-gin.
[2]
A machine of this description was really the invention of a young colored
man in Kentucky. [Mrs. Stowe’s note.]
He was possessed of a handsome person and pleasing manners, and was a general
favorite in the factory. Nevertheless, as this young man was in the eye of the
law not a man, but a thing, all these superior qualifications were subject to
the control of a vulgar, narrow-minded, tyrannical master. This same gentleman,
having heard of the fame of George’s invention, took a ride over to the
factory, to see what this intelligent chattel had been about. He was received
with great enthusiasm by the employer, who congratulated him on possessing so
valuable a slave.
He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machinery by George, who, in
high spirits, talked so fluently, held himself so erect, looked so handsome and
manly, that his master began to feel an uneasy consciousness of inferiority.
What business had his slave to be marching round the country, inventing
machines, and holding up his head among gentlemen? He’d soon put a stop
to it. He’d take him back, and put him to hoeing and digging, and
“see if he’d step about so smart.” Accordingly, the
manufacturer and all hands concerned were astounded when he suddenly demanded
George’s wages, and announced his intention of taking him home.
“But, Mr. Harris,” remonstrated the manufacturer,
“isn’t this rather sudden?”
“What if it is?—isn’t the man ?”
“We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of compensation.”
“No object at all, sir. I don’t need to hire any of my hands out,
unless I’ve a mind to.”
“But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business.”
“Dare say he may be; never was much adapted to anything that I set him
about, I’ll be bound.”
“But only think of his inventing this machine,” interposed one of
the workmen, rather unluckily.
“O yes! a machine for saving work, is it? He’d invent that,
I’ll be bound; let a nigger alone for that, any time. They are all
labor-saving machines themselves, every one of ’em. No, he shall
tramp!”
George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom thus suddenly
pronounced by a power that he knew was irresistible. He folded his arms,
tightly pressed in his lips, but a whole volcano of bitter feelings burned in
his bosom, and sent streams of fire through his veins. He breathed short, and
his large dark eyes flashed like live coals; and he might have broken out into
some dangerous ebullition, had not the kindly manufacturer touched him on the
arm, and said, in a low tone,
“Give way, George; go with him for the present. We’ll try to help
you, yet.”
The tyrant observed the whisper, and conjectured its import, though he could
not hear what was said; and he inwardly strengthened himself in his
determination to keep the power he possessed over his victim.
George was taken home, and put to the meanest drudgery of the farm. He had been
able to repress every disrespectful word; but the flashing eye, the gloomy and
troubled brow, were part of a natural language that could not be
repressed,—indubitable signs, which showed too plainly that the man could
not become a thing.
It was during the happy period of his employment in the factory that George had
seen and married his wife. During that period,—being much trusted and
favored by his employer,—he had free liberty to come and go at
discretion. The marriage was highly approved of by Mrs. Shelby, who, with a
little womanly complacency in match-making, felt pleased to unite her handsome
favorite with one of her own class who seemed in every way suited to her; and
so they were married in her mistress’ great parlor, and her mistress
herself adorned the bride’s beautiful hair with orange-blossoms, and
threw over it the bridal veil, which certainly could scarce have rested on a
fairer head; and there was no lack of white gloves, and cake and wine,—of
admiring guests to praise the bride’s beauty, and her mistress’
indulgence and liberality. For a year or two Eliza saw her husband frequently,
and there was nothing to interrupt their happiness, except the loss of two
infant children, to whom she was passionately attached, and whom she mourned
with a grief so intense as to call for gentle remonstrance from her mistress,
who sought, with maternal anxiety, to direct her naturally passionate feelings
within the bounds of reason and religion.
After the birth of little Harry, however, she had gradually become
tranquillized and settled; and every bleeding tie and throbbing nerve, once
more entwined with that little life, seemed to become sound and healthful, and
Eliza was a happy woman up to the time that her husband was rudely torn from
his kind employer, and brought under the iron sway of his legal owner.
The manufacturer, true to his word, visited Mr. Harris a week or two after
George had been taken away, when, as he hoped, the heat of the occasion had
passed away, and tried every possible inducement to lead him to restore him to
his former employment.
“You needn’t trouble yourself to talk any longer,” said he,
doggedly; “I know my own business, sir.”
“I did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only thought that you
might think it for your interest to let your man to us on the terms
proposed.”
“O, I understand the matter well enough. I saw your winking and
whispering, the day I took him out of the factory; but you don’t come it
over me that way. It’s a free country, sir; the man’s ,
and I do what I please with him,—that’s it!”
And so fell George’s last hope;—nothing before him but a life of
toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every little smarting vexation and
indignity which tyrannical ingenuity could devise.
A very humane jurist once said, The worst use you can put a man to is to hang
him. No; there is another use that a man can be put to that is WORSE!
CHAPTER III
The Husband and Father
Mrs. Shelby had gone on her visit, and Eliza stood in the verandah, rather
dejectedly looking after the retreating carriage, when a hand was laid on her
shoulder. She turned, and a bright smile lighted up her fine eyes.
“George, is it you? How you frightened me! Well; I am so glad you
’s come! Missis is gone to spend the afternoon; so come into my little
room, and we’ll have the time all to ourselves.”
Saying this, she drew him into a neat little apartment opening on the verandah,
where she generally sat at her sewing, within call of her mistress.
“How glad I am!—why don’t you smile?—and look at
Harry—how he grows.” The boy stood shyly regarding his father
through his curls, holding close to the skirts of his mother’s dress.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” said Eliza, lifting his long curls and
kissing him.
“I wish he’d never been born!” said George, bitterly.
“I wish I’d never been born myself!”
Surprised and frightened, Eliza sat down, leaned her head on her
husband’s shoulder, and burst into tears.
“There now, Eliza, it’s too bad for me to make you feel so, poor
girl!” said he, fondly; “it’s too bad: O, how I wish you
never had seen me—you might have been happy!”
“George! George! how can you talk so? What dreadful thing has happened,
or is going to happen? I’m sure we’ve been very happy, till
lately.”
“So we have, dear,” said George. Then drawing his child on his
knee, he gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and passed his hands through
his long curls.
“Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I ever saw, and
the best one I ever wish to see; but, oh, I wish I’d never seen you, nor
you me!”
“O, George, how can you!”
“Yes, Eliza, it’s all misery, misery, misery! My life is bitter as
wormwood; the very life is burning out of me. I’m a poor, miserable,
forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down with me, that’s all.
What’s the use of our trying to do anything, trying to know anything,
trying to be anything? What’s the use of living? I wish I was
dead!”
“O, now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know how you feel about
losing your place in the factory, and you have a hard master; but pray be
patient, and perhaps something—”
“Patient!” said he, interrupting her; “haven’t I been
patient? Did I say a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly reason,
from the place where everybody was kind to me? I’d paid him truly every
cent of my earnings,—and they all say I worked well.”
“Well, it dreadful,” said Eliza; “but, after all,
he is your master, you know.”
“My master! and who made him my master? That’s what I think
of—what right has he to me? I’m a man as much as he is. I’m a
better man than he is. I know more about business than he does; I am a better
manager than he is; I can read better than he can; I can write a better
hand,—and I’ve learned it all myself, and no thanks to
him,—I’ve learned it in spite of him; and now what right has he to
make a dray-horse of me?—to take me from things I can do, and do better
than he can, and put me to work that any horse can do? He tries to do it; he
says he’ll bring me down and humble me, and he puts me to just the
hardest, meanest and dirtiest work, on purpose!”
“O, George! George! you frighten me! Why, I never heard you talk so;
I’m afraid you’ll do something dreadful. I don’t wonder at
your feelings, at all; but oh, do be careful—do, do—for my
sake—for Harry’s!”
“I have been careful, and I have been patient, but it’s growing
worse and worse; flesh and blood can’t bear it any longer;—every
chance he can get to insult and torment me, he takes. I thought I could do my
work well, and keep on quiet, and have some time to read and learn out of work
hours; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on. He says that though
I don’t say anything, he sees I’ve got the devil in me, and he
means to bring it out; and one of these days it will come out in a way that he
won’t like, or I’m mistaken!”
“O dear! what shall we do?” said Eliza, mournfully.
“It was only yesterday,” said George, “as I was busy loading
stones into a cart, that young Mas’r Tom stood there, slashing his whip
so near the horse that the creature was frightened. I asked him to stop, as
pleasant as I could,—he just kept right on. I begged him again, and then
he turned on me, and began striking me. I held his hand, and then he screamed
and kicked and ran to his father, and told him that I was fighting him. He came
in a rage, and said he’d teach me who was my master; and he tied me to a
tree, and cut switches for young master, and told him that he might whip me
till he was tired;—and he did do it! If I don’t make him remember
it, some time!” and the brow of the young man grew dark, and his eyes
burned with an expression that made his young wife tremble. “Who made
this man my master? That’s what I want to know!” he said.
“Well,” said Eliza, mournfully, “I always thought that I must
obey my master and mistress, or I couldn’t be a Christian.”
“There is some sense in it, in your case; they have brought you up like a
child, fed you, clothed you, indulged you, and taught you, so that you have a
good education; that is some reason why they should claim you. But I have been
kicked and cuffed and sworn at, and at the best only let alone; and what do I
owe? I’ve paid for all my keeping a hundred times over. I
bear it. No, I !” he said, clenching
his hand with a fierce frown.
Eliza trembled, and was silent. She had never seen her husband in this mood
before; and her gentle system of ethics seemed to bend like a reed in the
surges of such passions.
“You know poor little Carlo, that you gave me,” added George;
“the creature has been about all the comfort that I’ve had. He has
slept with me nights, and followed me around days, and kind o’ looked at
me as if he understood how I felt. Well, the other day I was just feeding him
with a few old scraps I picked up by the kitchen door, and Mas’r came
along, and said I was feeding him up at his expense, and that he couldn’t
afford to have every nigger keeping his dog, and ordered me to tie a stone to
his neck and throw him in the pond.”
“O, George, you didn’t do it!”
“Do it? not I!—but he did. Mas’r and Tom pelted the poor
drowning creature with stones. Poor thing! he looked at me so mournful, as if
he wondered why I didn’t save him. I had to take a flogging because I
wouldn’t do it myself. I don’t care. Mas’r will find out that
I’m one that whipping won’t tame. My day will come yet, if he
don’t look out.”
“What are you going to do? O, George, don’t do anything wicked; if
you only trust in God, and try to do right, he’ll deliver you.”
“I an’t a Christian like you, Eliza; my heart’s full of
bitterness; I can’t trust in God. Why does he let things be so?”
“O, George, we must have faith. Mistress says that when all things go
wrong to us, we must believe that God is doing the very best.”
“That’s easy to say for people that are sitting on their sofas and
riding in their carriages; but let ’em be where I am, I guess it would
come some harder. I wish I could be good; but my heart burns, and can’t
be reconciled, anyhow. You couldn’t in my place,—you can’t
now, if I tell you all I’ve got to say. You don’t know the whole
yet.”
“What can be coming now?”
“Well, lately Mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to let me
marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his tribe, because they
are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I’ve got proud
notions from you; and he says he won’t let me come here any more, and
that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded
and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for
a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down
river.”
“Why—but you were married to , by the minister, as much as
if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza, simply.
“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is no law in
this country for that; I can’t hold you for my wife, if he chooses to
part us. That’s why I wish I’d never seen you,—why I wish
I’d never been born; it would have been better for us both,—it
would have been better for this poor child if he had never been born. All this
may happen to him yet!”
“O, but master is so kind!”
“Yes, but who knows?—he may die—and then he may be sold to
nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and
bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every
good and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much
for you to keep.”
The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came
before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her a deadly blow, she turned
pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the
boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding
triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have
spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.
“No, no,—he has enough to bear, poor fellow!” she thought.
“No, I won’t tell him; besides, it an’t true; Missis never
deceives us.”
“So, Eliza, my girl,” said the husband, mournfully, “bear up,
now; and good-by, for I’m going.”
“Going, George! Going where?”
“To Canada,” said he, straightening himself up; “and when
I’m there, I’ll buy you; that’s all the hope that’s
left us. You have a kind master, that won’t refuse to sell you.
I’ll buy you and the boy;—God helping me, I will!”
“O, dreadful! if you should be taken?”
“I won’t be taken, Eliza; I’ll first! I’ll
be free, or I’ll die!”
“You won’t kill yourself!”
“No need of that. They will kill me, fast enough; they never will get me
down the river alive!”
“O, George, for my sake, do be careful! Don’t do anything wicked;
don’t lay hands on yourself, or anybody else! You are tempted too
much—too much; but don’t—go you must—but go carefully,
prudently; pray God to help you.”
“Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas’r took it into his head to
send me right by here, with a note to Mr. Symmes, that lives a mile past. I
believe he expected I should come here to tell you what I have. It would please
him, if he thought it would aggravate ’Shelby’s folks,’ as he
calls ’em. I’m going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all
was over. I’ve got some preparations made,—and there are those that
will help me; and, in the course of a week or so, I shall be among the missing,
some day. Pray for me, Eliza; perhaps the good Lord will hear
.”
“O, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him; then you won’t
do anything wicked.”
“Well, now, ,” said George, holding Eliza’s
hands, and gazing into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent; then there
were last words, and sobs, and bitter weeping,—such parting as those may
make whose hope to meet again is as the spider’s web,—and the
husband and wife were parted.
CHAPTER IV
An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin
The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, close adjoining to “the
house,” as the negro designates his master’s
dwelling. In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer,
strawberries, raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, flourished
under careful tending. The whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet
bignonia and a native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left
scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in summer, various
brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-o’clocks, found an
indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors, and were the delight and
pride of Aunt Chloe’s heart.
Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over, and Aunt
Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to inferior
officers in the kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes, and
come out into her own snug territories, to “get her ole man’s
supper”; therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the fire,
presiding with anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stew-pan, and
anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from whence
steam forth indubitable intimations of “something good.” A round,
black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that she might
have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her
whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from under her
well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it, a
little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the
neighborhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.
A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not a
chicken or turkey or duck in the barn-yard but looked grave when they saw her
approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and
certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing and
roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in any reflecting
fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins,
and other species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less
practised compounders; and she would shake her fat sides with honest pride and
merriment, as she would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of
her compeers had made to attain to her elevation.
The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and suppers
“in style,” awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight was
more welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the verandah,
for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.
Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan; in which
congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our picture of the
cottage.
In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread; and by the
side of it was a piece of carpeting, of some considerable size. On this piece
of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks
of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact,
were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far as possible,
sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks. In fact,
that corner was the of the establishment. In the other
corner was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for
. The wall over the fireplace was adorned with some very brilliant
scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington, drawn and colored in a
manner which would certainly have astonished that hero, if ever he happened to
meet with its like.
On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed boys, with glistening
black eyes and fat shining cheeks, were busy in superintending the first
walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the case, consisted in
getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tumbling down,—each
successive failure being violently cheered, as something decidedly clever.
A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out in front of the fire,
and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and saucers of a decidedly brilliant
pattern, with other symptoms of an approaching meal. At this table was seated
Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby’s best hand, who, as he is to be the hero of our
story, we must daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large, broad-chested,
powerfully-made man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose truly African
features were characterized by an expression of grave and steady good sense,
united with much kindliness and benevolence. There was something about his
whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a confiding and humble
simplicity.
He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him, on which
he was carefully and slowly endeavoring to accomplish a copy of some letters,
in which operation he was overlooked by young Mas’r George, a smart,
bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realize the dignity of his
position as instructor.
“Not that way, Uncle Tom,—not that way,” said he, briskly, as
Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his the wrong side out;
“that makes a , you see.”
“La sakes, now, does it?” said Uncle Tom, looking with a
respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled
’s and ’s innumerable for his edification; and
then, taking the pencil in his big, heavy fingers, he patiently recommenced.
“How easy white folks al’us does things!” said Aunt Chloe,
pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon on her fork, and
regarding young Master George with pride. “The way he can write, now! and
read, too! and then to come out here evenings and read his lessons to
us,—it’s mighty interestin’!”
“But, Aunt Chloe, I’m getting mighty hungry,” said George.
“Isn’t that cake in the skillet almost done?”
“Mose done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid
and peeping in,—“browning beautiful—a real lovely brown. Ah!
let me alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t’ other
day, jes to her, she said. ‘O, go way, Missis,’ said I;
‘it really hurts my feelin’s, now, to see good vittles spilt dat ar
way! Cake ris all to one side—no shape at all; no more than my shoe; go
way!’”
And with this final expression of contempt for Sally’s greenness, Aunt
Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a
neatly-baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been
ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt
Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.
“Here you, Mose and Pete! get out de way, you niggers! Get away, Polly,
honey,—mammy’ll give her baby some fin, by and by. Now, Mas’r
George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old man, and
I’ll take up de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes on your
plates in less dan no time.”
“They wanted me to come to supper in the house,” said George;
“but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe.”
“So you did—so you did, honey,” said Aunt Chloe, heaping the
smoking batter-cakes on his plate; “you know’d your old
aunty’d keep the best for you. O, let you alone for dat! Go way!”
And, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed to be
immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great briskness.
“Now for the cake,” said Mas’r George, when the activity of
the griddle department had somewhat subsided; and, with that, the youngster
flourished a large knife over the article in question.
“La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, with
earnestness, catching his arm, “you wouldn’t be for cuttin’
it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash all down—spile all de pretty rise
of it. Here, I’ve got a thin old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now,
see! comes apart light as a feather! Now eat away—you won’t get
anything to beat dat ar.”
“Tom Lincon says,” said George, speaking with his mouth full,
“that their Jinny is a better cook than you.”
“Dem Lincons an’t much count, no way!” said Aunt Chloe,
contemptuously; “I mean, set along side folks. They ’s
’spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but, as to gettin’
up anything in style, they don’t begin to have a notion on ’t. Set
Mas’r Lincon, now, alongside Mas’r Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis
Lincon,—can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis,—so
kinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! don’t tell me nothin’ of dem
Lincons!”—and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped she did
know something of the world.
“Well, though, I’ve heard you say,” said George, “that
Jinny was a pretty fair cook.”
“So I did,” said Aunt Chloe,—“I may say dat. Good,
plain, common cookin’, Jinny’ll do;—make a good pone o’
bread,—bile her taters ,—her corn cakes isn’t
extra, not extra now, Jinny’s corn cakes isn’t, but then
they’s far,—but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what
she do? Why, she makes pies—sartin she does; but what kinder
crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies
all up like a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be
married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin’ pies. Jinny and I is
good friends, ye know. I never said nothin’; but go ’long,
Mas’r George! Why, I shouldn’t sleep a wink for a week, if I had a
batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey wan’t no ’count ’t
all.”
“I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice,” said George.
“Thought so!—didn’t she? Thar she was, showing em, as
innocent—ye see, it’s jest here, Jinny .
Lor, the family an’t nothing! She can’t be spected to know!
’Ta’nt no fault o’ hem. Ah, Mas’r George, you
doesn’t know half ’your privileges in yer family and bringin’
up!” Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.
“I’m sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand my pie and pudding
privileges,” said George. “Ask Tom Lincon if I don’t crow
over him, every time I meet him.”
Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty guffaw of laughter,
at this witticism of young Mas’r’s, laughing till the tears rolled
down her black, shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully
slapping and poking Mas’r Georgey, and telling him to go way, and that he
was a case—that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill
her, one of these days; and, between each of these sanguinary predictions,
going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George
really began to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, and that it
became him to be careful how he talked “as funny as he could.”
“And so ye telled Tom, did ye? O, Lor! what young uns will be up ter! Ye
crowed over Tom? O, Lor! Mas’r George, if ye wouldn’t make a
hornbug laugh!”
“Yes,” said George, “I says to him, ‘Tom, you ought to
see some of Aunt Chloe’s pies; they’re the right sort,’ says
I.”
“Pity, now, Tom couldn’t,” said Aunt Chloe, on whose
benevolent heart the idea of Tom’s benighted condition seemed to make a
strong impression. “Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o’
these times, Mas’r George,” she added; “it would look quite
pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas’r George, ye oughtenter feel ’bove
nobody, on ’count yer privileges, ’cause all our privileges is
gi’n to us; we ought al’ays to ’member that,” said Aunt
Chloe, looking quite serious.
“Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week,” said George;
“and you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we’ll make him stare.
Won’t we make him eat so he won’t get over it for a
fortnight?”
“Yes, yes—sartin,” said Aunt Chloe, delighted;
“you’ll see. Lor! to think of some of our dinners! Yer mind dat ar
great chicken pie I made when we guv de dinner to General Knox? I and Missis,
we come pretty near quarrelling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies
sometimes, I don’t know; but, sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind
o’ ’sponsibility on ’em, as ye may say, and is all kinder
and taken up, dey takes dat ar time to be
hangin’ round and kinder interferin’! Now, Missis, she wanted me to
do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat way; and, finally, I got kinder sarcy,
and, says I, ’Now, Missis, do jist look at dem beautiful white hands
o’ yourn with long fingers, and all a sparkling with rings, like my white
lilies when de dew ’s on ’em; and look at my great black stumpin
hands. Now, don’t ye think dat de Lord must have meant to make
de pie-crust, and you to stay in de parlor? Dar! I was jist so sarcy,
Mas’r George.”
“And what did mother say?” said George.
“Say?—why, she kinder larfed in her eyes—dem great handsome
eyes o’ hern; and, says she, ‘Well, Aunt Chloe, I think you are
about in the right on ’t,’ says she; and she went off in de parlor.
She oughter cracked me over de head for bein’ so sarcy; but dar’s
whar ’t is—I can’t do nothin’ with ladies in de
kitchen!”
“Well, you made out well with that dinner,—I remember everybody
said so,” said George.
“Didn’t I? And wan’t I behind de dinin’-room door dat
bery day? and didn’t I see de General pass his plate three times for some
more dat bery pie?—and, says he, ‘You must have an uncommon cook,
Mrs. Shelby.’ Lor! I was fit to split myself.
“And de Gineral, he knows what cookin’ is,” said Aunt Chloe,
drawing herself up with an air. “Bery nice man, de Gineral! He comes of
one of de bery families in Old Virginny! He knows what’s
what, now, as well as I do—de Gineral. Ye see, there’s
in all pies, Mas’r George; but tan’t everybody knows what they is,
or as orter be. But the Gineral, he knows; I knew by his ’marks he made.
Yes, he knows what de pints is!”
By this time, Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a boy can
come (under uncommon circumstances, when he really could not eat another
morsel), and, therefore, he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads
and glistening eyes which were regarding their operations hungrily from the
opposite corner.
“Here, you Mose, Pete,” he said, breaking off liberal bits, and
throwing it at them; “you want some, don’t you? Come, Aunt Chloe,
bake them some cakes.”
And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney-corner, while
Aunte Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and
began alternately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to Mose and
Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as they rolled about on the
floor under the table, tickling each other, and occasionally pulling the
baby’s toes.
“O! go long, will ye?” said the mother, giving now and then a kick,
in a kind of general way, under the table, when the movement became too
obstreperous. “Can’t ye be decent when white folks comes to see ye?
Stop dat ar, now, will ye? Better mind yerselves, or I’ll take ye down a
button-hole lower, when Mas’r George is gone!”
What meaning was couched under this terrible threat, it is difficult to say;
but certain it is that its awful indistinctness seemed to produce very little
impression on the young sinners addressed.
“La, now!” said Uncle Tom, “they are so full of tickle all
the while, they can’t behave theirselves.”
Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with hands and faces well
plastered with molasses, began a vigorous kissing of the baby.
“Get along wid ye!” said the mother, pushing away their woolly
heads. “Ye’ll all stick together, and never get clar, if ye do dat
fashion. Go long to de spring and wash yerselves!” she said, seconding
her exhortations by a slap, which resounded very formidably, but which seemed
only to knock out so much more laugh from the young ones, as they tumbled
precipitately over each other out of doors, where they fairly screamed with
merriment.
“Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns?” said Aunt Chloe,
rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept for such emergencies, she
poured a little water out of the cracked tea-pot on it, and began rubbing off
the molasses from the baby’s face and hands; and, having polished her
till she shone, she set her down in Tom’s lap, while she busied herself
in clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom’s
nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his woolly hair, which
last operation seemed to afford her special content.
“Aint she a peart young un?” said Tom, holding her from him to take
a full-length view; then, getting up, he set her on his broad shoulder, and
began capering and dancing with her, while Mas’r George snapped at her
with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now returned again, roared
after her like bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they “fairly took her
head off” with their noise. As, according to her own statement, this
surgical operation was a matter of daily occurrence in the cabin, the
declaration no whit abated the merriment, till every one had roared and tumbled
and danced themselves down to a state of composure.
“Well, now, I hopes you’re done,” said Aunt Chloe, who had
been busy in pulling out a rude box of a trundle-bed; “and now, you Mose
and you Pete, get into thar; for we’s goin’ to have the
meetin’.”
“O mother, we don’t wanter. We wants to sit up to
meetin’,—meetin’s is so curis. We likes ’em.”
“La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let ’em sit up,” said
Mas’r George, decisively, giving a push to the rude machine.
Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highly delighted to push the
thing under, saying, as she did so, “Well, mebbe ’t will do
’em some good.”
The house now resolved itself into a committee of the whole, to consider the
accommodations and arrangements for the meeting.
“What we’s to do for cheers, now, declar I don’t
know,” said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Tom’s
weekly, for an indefinite length of time, without any more
“cheers,” there seemed some encouragement to hope that a way would
be discovered at present.
“Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last
week,” suggested Mose.
“You go long! I’ll boun’ you pulled ’em out; some
o’ your shines,” said Aunt Chloe.
“Well, it’ll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!”
said Mose.
“Den Uncle Peter mus’n’t sit in it, cause he al’ays
hitches when he gets a singing. He hitched pretty nigh across de room, t’
other night,” said Pete.
“Good Lor! get him in it, then,” said Mose, “and den
he’d begin, ‘Come saints—and sinners, hear me tell,’
and den down he’d go,”—and Mose imitated precisely the nasal
tones of the old man, tumbling on the floor, to illustrate the supposed
catastrophe.
“Come now, be decent, can’t ye?” said Aunt Chloe;
“an’t yer shamed?”
Mas’r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and declared
decidedly that Mose was a “buster.” So the maternal admonition
seemed rather to fail of effect.
“Well, ole man,” said Aunt Chloe, “you’ll have to tote
in them ar bar’ls.”
“Mother’s bar’ls is like dat ar widder’s, Mas’r
George was reading ’bout, in de good book,—dey never fails,”
said Mose, aside to Peter.
“I’m sure one on ’em caved in last week,” said Pete,
“and let ’em all down in de middle of de singin’; dat ar was
failin’, warnt it?”
During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty casks had been rolled into
the cabin, and being secured from rolling, by stones on each side, boards were
laid across them, which arrangement, together with the turning down of certain
tubs and pails, and the disposing of the rickety chairs, at last completed the
preparation.
“Mas’r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he’ll
stay to read for us,” said Aunt Chloe; “‘pears like ’t
will be so much more interestin’.”
George very readily consented, for your boy is always ready for anything that
makes him of importance.
The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old gray-headed
patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little harmless
gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red
headkerchief, and how “Missis was a going to give Lizzy that spotted
muslin gown, when she’d got her new berage made up;” and how
Mas’r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that was going to
prove an addition to the glories of the place. A few of the worshippers
belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to attend, and who brought
in various choice scraps of information, about the sayings and doings at the
house and on the place, which circulated as freely as the same sort of small
change does in higher circles.
After a while the singing commenced, to the evident delight of all present. Not
even all the disadvantage of nasal intonation could prevent the effect of the
naturally fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. The words were
sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung in the churches about, and
sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, picked up at camp-meetings.
The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sung with great energy and
unction:
“Die on the field of battle,
Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul.”
Another special favorite had oft repeated the words—
“O, I’m going to glory,—won’t you come along with me?
Don’t you see the angels beck’ning, and a calling me away?
Don’t you see the golden city and the everlasting day?”
There were others, which made incessant mention of “Jordan’s
banks,” and “Canaan’s fields,” and the “New
Jerusalem;” for the negro mind, impassioned and imaginative, always
attaches itself to hymns and expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and,
as they sung, some laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook
hands rejoicingly with each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side
of the river.
Various exhortations, or relations of experience, followed, and intermingled
with the singing. One old gray-headed woman, long past work, but much revered
as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning on her staff,
said—“Well, chil’en! Well, I’m mighty glad to hear ye
all and see ye all once more, ’cause I don’t know when I’ll
be gone to glory; but I’ve done got ready, chil’en; ’pears
like I’d got my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet on, jest a
waitin’ for the stage to come along and take me home; sometimes, in the
night, I think I hear the wheels a rattlin’, and I’m lookin’
out all the time; now, you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all,
chil’en,” she said striking her staff hard on the floor, “dat
ar is a mighty thing! It’s a mighty thing,
chil’en,—you don’no nothing about it,—it’s
.” And the old creature sat down, with streaming tears,
as wholly overcome, while the whole circle struck up—
“O Canaan, bright Canaan
I’m bound for the land of Canaan.”
Mas’r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, often
interrupted by such exclamations as “The now!”
“Only hear that!” “Jest think on ’t!” “Is
all that a comin’ sure enough?”
George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious things by his
mother, finding himself an object of general admiration, threw in expositions
of his own, from time to time, with a commendable seriousness and gravity, for
which he was admired by the young and blessed by the old; and it was agreed, on
all hands, that “a minister couldn’t lay it off better than he did;
that ’t was reely ’mazin’!”
Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters, in the neighborhood.
Having, naturally, an organization in which the was strongly
predominant, together with a greater breadth and cultivation of mind than
obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with great respect, as a
sort of minister among them; and the simple, hearty, sincere style of his
exhortations might have edified even better educated persons. But it was in
prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the touching
simplicity, the childlike earnestness, of his prayer, enriched with the
language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought itself into his
being, as to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his lips
unconsciously; in the language of a pious old negro, he “prayed right
up.” And so much did his prayer always work on the devotional feelings of
his audiences, that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost
altogether in the abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere around
him.
While this scene was passing in the cabin of the man, one quite otherwise
passed in the halls of the master.
The trader and Mr. Shelby were seated together in the dining room afore-named,
at a table covered with papers and writing utensils.
Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills, which, as they were
counted, he pushed over to the trader, who counted them likewise.
“All fair,” said the trader; “and now for signing these
yer.”
Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, and signed them, like a
man that hurries over some disagreeable business, and then pushed them over
with the money. Haley produced, from a well-worn valise, a parchment, which,
after looking over it a moment, he handed to Mr. Shelby, who took it with a
gesture of suppressed eagerness.
“Wal, now, the thing’s !” said the trader, getting
up.
“It’s !” said Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone; and,
fetching a long breath, he repeated,
“Yer don’t seem to feel much pleased with it, ’pears to
me,” said the trader.
“Haley,” said Mr. Shelby, “I hope you’ll remember that
you promised, on your honor, you wouldn’t sell Tom, without knowing what
sort of hands he’s going into.”
“Why, you’ve just done it sir,” said the trader.
“Circumstances, you well know, me,” said Shelby,
haughtily.
“Wal, you know, they may ’blige , too,” said the
trader. “Howsomever, I’ll do the very best I can in gettin’
Tom a good berth; as to my treatin’ on him bad, you needn’t be a
grain afeard. If there’s anything that I thank the Lord for, it is that
I’m never noways cruel.”
After the expositions which the trader had previously given of his humane
principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularly reassured by these
declarations; but, as they were the best comfort the case admitted of, he
allowed the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a solitary
cigar.
CHAPTER V
Showing the Feelings of Living Property on Changing Owners
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment for the night. He was
lounging in a large easy-chair, looking over some letters that had come in the
afternoon mail, and she was standing before her mirror, brushing out the
complicated braids and curls in which Eliza had arranged her hair; for,
noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused her attendance that
night, and ordered her to bed. The employment, naturally enough, suggested her
conversation with the girl in the morning; and turning to her husband, she
said, carelessly,
“By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged in to
our dinner-table today?”
“Haley is his name,” said Shelby, turning himself rather uneasily
in his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter.
“Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?”
“Well, he’s a man that I transacted some business with, last time I
was at Natchez,” said Mr. Shelby.
“And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and dine
here, ay?”
“Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him,” said Shelby.
“Is he a negro-trader?” said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a certain
embarrassment in her husband’s manner.
“Why, my dear, what put that into your head?” said Shelby, looking
up.
“Nothing,—only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a great worry,
crying and taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that she
heard him make an offer for her boy—the ridiculous little goose!”
“She did, hey?” said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, which he
seemed for a few moments quite intent upon, not perceiving that he was holding
it bottom upwards.
“It will have to come out,” said he, mentally; “as well now
as ever.”
“I told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing her
hair, “that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had
anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never meant to
sell any of our people,—least of all, to such a fellow.”
“Well, Emily,” said her husband, “so I have always felt and
said; but the fact is that my business lies so that I cannot get on without. I
shall have to sell some of my hands.”
“To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious.”
“I’m sorry to say that I am,” said Mr. Shelby.
“I’ve agreed to sell Tom.”
“What! our Tom?—that good, faithful creature!—been your
faithful servant from a boy! O, Mr. Shelby!—and you have promised him his
freedom, too,—you and I have spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I
can believe anything now,—I can believe that you could sell
little Harry, poor Eliza’s only child!” said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone
between grief and indignation.
“Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sell Tom and
Harry both; and I don’t know why I am to be rated, as if I were a
monster, for doing what every one does every day.”
“But why, of all others, choose these?” said Mrs. Shelby.
“Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must sell at all?”
“Because they will bring the highest sum of any,—that’s why.
I could choose another, if you say so. The fellow made me a high bid on Eliza,
if that would suit you any better,” said Mr. Shelby.
“The wretch!” said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.
“Well, I didn’t listen to it, a moment,—out of regard to your
feelings, I wouldn’t;—so give me some credit.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, “forgive
me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared for
this;—but surely you will allow me to intercede for these poor creatures.
Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr.
Shelby, that if he were put to it, he would lay down his life for you.”
“I know it,—I dare say;—but what’s the use of all
this?—I can’t help myself.”
“Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I’m willing to bear my part of
the inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have tried—tried most faithfully, as
a Christian woman should—to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent
creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and know
all their little cares and joys, for years; and how can I ever hold up my head
again among them, if, for the sake of a little paltry gain, we sell such a
faithful, excellent, confiding creature as poor Tom, and tear from him in a
moment all we have taught him to love and value? I have taught them the duties
of the family, of parent and child, and husband and wife; and how can I bear to
have this open acknowledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no relation,
however sacred, compared with money? I have talked with Eliza about her
boy—her duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray for
him, and bring him up in a Christian way; and now what can I say, if you tear
him away, and sell him, soul and body, to a profane, unprincipled man, just to
save a little money? I have told her that one soul is worth more than all the
money in the world; and how will she believe me when she sees us turn round and
sell her child?—sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and
soul!”
“I’m sorry you feel so about it,—indeed I am,” said Mr.
Shelby; “and I respect your feelings, too, though I don’t pretend
to share them to their full extent; but I tell you now, solemnly, it’s of
no use—I can’t help myself. I didn’t mean to tell you this
Emily; but, in plain words, there is no choice between selling these two and
selling everything. Either they must go, or must. Haley has come
into possession of a mortgage, which, if I don’t clear off with him
directly, will take everything before it. I’ve raked, and scraped, and
borrowed, and all but begged,—and the price of these two was needed to
make up the balance, and I had to give them up. Haley fancied the child; he
agreed to settle the matter that way, and no other. I was in his power, and
to do it. If you feel so to have them sold, would it be any better
to have sold?”
Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to her toilet, she rested
her face in her hands, and gave a sort of groan.
“This is God’s curse on slavery!—a bitter, bitter, most
accursed thing!—a curse to the master and a curse to the slave! I was a
fool to think I could make anything good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin
to hold a slave under laws like ours,—I always felt it was,—I
always thought so when I was a girl,—I thought so still more after I
joined the church; but I thought I could gild it over,—I thought, by
kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make the condition of mine better
than freedom—fool that I was!”
“Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite.”
“Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery, they
talk! We don’t need them to tell us; you know I never thought that
slavery was right—never felt willing to own slaves.”
“Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men,” said Mr.
Shelby. “You remember Mr. B.‘s sermon, the other Sunday?”
“I don’t want to hear such sermons; I never wish to hear Mr. B. in
our church again. Ministers can’t help the evil,
perhaps,—can’t cure it, any more than we can,—but defend
it!—it always went against my common sense. And I think you didn’t
think much of that sermon, either.”
“Well,” said Shelby, “I must say these ministers sometimes
carry matters further than we poor sinners would exactly dare to do. We men of
the world must wink pretty hard at various things, and get used to a deal that
isn’t the exact thing. But we don’t quite fancy, when women and
ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond us in matters of either
modesty or morals, that’s a fact. But now, my dear, I trust you see the
necessity of the thing, and you see that I have done the very best that
circumstances would allow.”
“O yes, yes!” said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedly
fingering her gold watch,—“I haven’t any jewelry of any
amount,” she added, thoughtfully; “but would not this watch do
something?—it was an expensive one, when it was bought. If I could only
at least save Eliza’s child, I would sacrifice anything I have.”
“I’m sorry, very sorry, Emily,” said Mr. Shelby,
“I’m sorry this takes hold of you so; but it will do no good. The
fact is, Emily, the thing’s done; the bills of sale are already signed,
and in Haley’s hands; and you must be thankful it is no worse. That man
has had it in his power to ruin us all,—and now he is fairly off. If you
knew the man as I do, you’d think that we had had a narrow escape.”
“Is he so hard, then?”
“Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather,—a man alive
to nothing but trade and profit,—cool, and unhesitating, and unrelenting,
as death and the grave. He’d sell his own mother at a good
percentage—not wishing the old woman any harm, either.”
“And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and Eliza’s
child!”
“Well, my dear, the fact is that this goes rather hard with me;
it’s a thing I hate to think of. Haley wants to drive matters, and take
possession tomorrow. I’m going to get out my horse bright and early, and
be off. I can’t see Tom, that’s a fact; and you had better arrange
a drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is out
of sight.”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Shelby; “I’ll be in no sense
accomplice or help in this cruel business. I’ll go and see poor old Tom,
God help him, in his distress! They shall see, at any rate, that their mistress
can feel for and with them. As to Eliza, I dare not think about it. The Lord
forgive us! What have we done, that this cruel necessity should come on
us?”
There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. and Mrs. Shelby little
suspected.
Communicating with their apartment was a large closet, opening by a door into
the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby had dismissed Eliza for the night, her
feverish and excited mind had suggested the idea of this closet; and she had
hidden herself there, and, with her ear pressed close against the crack of the
door, had lost not a word of the conversation.
When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept stealthily away. Pale,
shivering, with rigid features and compressed lips, she looked an entirely
altered being from the soft and timid creature she had been hitherto. She moved
cautiously along the entry, paused one moment at her mistress’ door, and
raised her hands in mute appeal to Heaven, and then turned and glided into her
own room. It was a quiet, neat apartment, on the same floor with her mistress.
There was a pleasant sunny window, where she had often sat singing at her
sewing; there a little case of books, and various little fancy articles, ranged
by them, the gifts of Christmas holidays; there was her simple wardrobe in the
closet and in the drawers:—here was, in short, her home; and, on the
whole, a happy one it had been to her. But there, on the bed, lay her
slumbering boy, his long curls falling negligently around his unconscious face,
his rosy mouth half open, his little fat hands thrown out over the bedclothes,
and a smile spread like a sunbeam over his whole face.
“Poor boy! poor fellow!” said Eliza; “they have sold you! but
your mother will save you yet!”
No tear dropped over that pillow; in such straits as these, the heart has no
tears to give,—it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence. She
took a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote, hastily,
“O, Missis! dear Missis! don’t think me
ungrateful,—don’t think hard of me, any way,—I heard all you
and master said tonight. I am going to try to save my boy—you will not
blame me! God bless and reward you for all your kindness!”
Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawer and made up a little
package of clothing for her boy, which she tied with a handkerchief firmly
round her waist; and, so fond is a mother’s remembrance, that, even in
the terrors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the little package one
or two of his favorite toys, reserving a gayly painted parrot to amuse him,
when she should be called on to awaken him. It was some trouble to arouse the
little sleeper; but, after some effort, he sat up, and was playing with his
bird, while his mother was putting on her bonnet and shawl.
“Where are you going, mother?” said he, as she drew near the bed,
with his little coat and cap.
His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes, that he at once
divined that something unusual was the matter.
“Hush, Harry,” she said; “mustn’t speak loud, or they
will hear us. A wicked man was coming to take little Harry away from his
mother, and carry him ’way off in the dark; but mother won’t let
him—she’s going to put on her little boy’s cap and coat, and
run off with him, so the ugly man can’t catch him.”
Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child’s simple
outfit, and, taking him in her arms, she whispered to him to be very still;
and, opening a door in her room which led into the outer verandah, she glided
noiselessly out.
It was a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the mother wrapped the shawl
close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with vague terror, he clung round
her neck.
Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of the porch, rose, with
a low growl, as she came near. She gently spoke his name, and the animal, an
old pet and playmate of hers, instantly, wagging his tail, prepared to follow
her, though apparently revolving much, in this simple dog’s head, what
such an indiscreet midnight promenade might mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence
or impropriety in the measure seemed to embarrass him considerably; for he
often stopped, as Eliza glided forward, and looked wistfully, first at her and
then at the house, and then, as if reassured by reflection, he pattered along
after her again. A few minutes brought them to the window of Uncle Tom’s
cottage, and Eliza stopping, tapped lightly on the window-pane.
The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom’s had, in the order of hymn-singing, been
protracted to a very late hour; and, as Uncle Tom had indulged himself in a few
lengthy solos afterwards, the consequence was, that, although it was now
between twelve and one o’clock, he and his worthy helpmeet were not yet
asleep.
“Good Lord! what’s that?” said Aunt Chloe, starting up and
hastily drawing the curtain. “My sakes alive, if it an’t Lizy! Get
on your clothes, old man, quick!—there’s old Bruno, too, a pawin
round; what on airth! I’m gwine to open the door.”
And suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and the light of the
tallow candle, which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the haggard face and
dark, wild eyes of the fugitive.
“Lord bless you!—I’m skeered to look at ye, Lizy! Are ye tuck
sick, or what’s come over ye?”
“I’m running away—Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe—carrying off
my child—Master sold him!”
Eliza comes to tell Uncle Tom that he is sold, and that she is running away to save her child.
“Sold him?” echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay.
“Yes, sold him!” said Eliza, firmly; “I crept into the closet
by Mistress’ door tonight, and I heard Master tell Missis that he had
sold my Harry, and you, Uncle Tom, both, to a trader; and that he was going off
this morning on his horse, and that the man was to take possession
today.”
Tom had stood, during this speech, with his hands raised, and his eyes dilated,
like a man in a dream. Slowly and gradually, as its meaning came over him, he
collapsed, rather than seated himself, on his old chair, and sunk his head down
upon his knees.
“The good Lord have pity on us!” said Aunt Chloe. “O! it
don’t seem as if it was true! What has he done, that Mas’r should
sell ?”
“He hasn’t done anything,—it isn’t for that. Master
don’t want to sell, and Missis she’s always good. I heard her plead
and beg for us; but he told her ’t was no use; that he was in this
man’s debt, and that this man had got the power over him; and that if he
didn’t pay him off clear, it would end in his having to sell the place
and all the people, and move off. Yes, I heard him say there was no choice
between selling these two and selling all, the man was driving him so hard.
Master said he was sorry; but oh, Missis—you ought to have heard her
talk! If she an’t a Christian and an angel, there never was one.
I’m a wicked girl to leave her so; but, then, I can’t help it. She
said, herself, one soul was worth more than the world; and this boy has a soul,
and if I let him be carried off, who knows what’ll become of it? It must
be right: but, if it an’t right, the Lord forgive me, for I can’t
help doing it!”
“Well, old man!” said Aunt Chloe, “why don’t you go,
too? Will you wait to be toted down river, where they kill niggers with hard
work and starving? I’d a heap rather die than go there, any day!
There’s time for ye,—be off with Lizy,—you’ve got a
pass to come and go any time. Come, bustle up, and I’ll get your things
together.”
Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but quietly around, and
said,
“No, no—I an’t going. Let Eliza go—it’s her
right! I wouldn’t be the one to say no—‘tan’t in
for her to stay; but you heard what she said! If I must be sold,
or all the people on the place, and everything go to rack, why, let me be sold.
I s’pose I can bar it as well as any on ’em,” he added, while
something like a sob and a sigh shook his broad, rough chest convulsively.
“Mas’r always found me on the spot—he always will. I never
have broke trust, nor used my pass no ways contrary to my word, and I never
will. It’s better for me alone to go, than to break up the place and sell
all. Mas’r an’t to blame, Chloe, and he’ll take care of you
and the poor—”
Here he turned to the rough trundle bed full of little woolly heads, and broke
fairly down. He leaned over the back of the chair, and covered his face with
his large hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse and loud, shook the chair, and great tears
fell through his fingers on the floor; just such tears, sir, as you dropped
into the coffin where lay your first-born son; such tears, woman, as you shed
when you heard the cries of your dying babe. For, sir, he was a man,—and
you are but another man. And, woman, though dressed in silk and jewels, you are
but a woman, and, in life’s great straits and mighty griefs, ye feel but
one sorrow!
“And now,” said Eliza, as she stood in the door, “I saw my
husband only this afternoon, and I little knew then what was to come. They have
pushed him to the very last standing place, and he told me, today, that he was
going to run away. Do try, if you can, to get word to him. Tell him how I went,
and why I went; and tell him I’m going to try and find Canada. You must
give my love to him, and tell him, if I never see him again,” she turned
away, and stood with her back to them for a moment, and then added, in a husky
voice, “tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meet me in the
kingdom of heaven.”
“Call Bruno in there,” she added. “Shut the door on him, poor
beast! He mustn’t go with me!”
A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and clasping her
wondering and affrighted child in her arms, she glided noiselessly away.
CHAPTER VI
Discovery
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby, after their protracted discussion of the night before, did
not readily sink to repose, and, in consequence, slept somewhat later than
usual, the ensuing morning.
“I wonder what keeps Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, after giving her
bell repeated pulls, to no purpose.
Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharpening his razor; and
just then the door opened, and a colored boy entered, with his shaving-water.
“Andy,” said his mistress, “step to Eliza’s door, and
tell her I have rung for her three times. Poor thing!” she added, to
herself, with a sigh.
Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonishment.
“Lor, Missis! Lizy’s drawers is all open, and her things all lying
every which way; and I believe she’s just done clared out!”
The truth flashed upon Mr. Shelby and his wife at the same moment. He
exclaimed,
“Then she suspected it, and she’s off!”
“The Lord be thanked!” said Mrs. Shelby. “I trust she
is.”
“Wife, you talk like a fool! Really, it will be something pretty awkward
for me, if she is. Haley saw that I hesitated about selling this child, and
he’ll think I connived at it, to get him out of the way. It touches my
honor!” And Mr. Shelby left the room hastily.
There was great running and ejaculating, and opening and shutting of doors, and
appearance of faces in all shades of color in different places, for about a
quarter of an hour. One person only, who might have shed some light on the
matter, was entirely silent, and that was the head cook, Aunt Chloe. Silently,
and with a heavy cloud settled down over her once joyous face, she proceeded
making out her breakfast biscuits, as if she heard and saw nothing of the
excitement around her.
Very soon, about a dozen young imps were roosting, like so many crows, on the
verandah railings, each one determined to be the first one to apprize the
strange Mas’r of his ill luck.
“He’ll be rael mad, I’ll be bound,” said Andy.
“ he swar!” said little black Jake.
“Yes, for he swar,” said woolly-headed Mandy. “I
hearn him yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it then, ’cause I got
into the closet where Missis keeps the great jugs, and I hearn every
word.” And Mandy, who had never in her life thought of the meaning of a
word she had heard, more than a black cat, now took airs of superior wisdom,
and strutted about, forgetting to state that, though actually coiled up among
the jugs at the time specified, she had been fast asleep all the time.
When, at last, Haley appeared, booted and spurred, he was saluted with the bad
tidings on every hand. The young imps on the verandah were not disappointed in
their hope of hearing him “swar,” which he did with a fluency and
fervency which delighted them all amazingly, as they ducked and dodged hither
and thither, to be out of the reach of his riding-whip; and, all whooping off
together, they tumbled, in a pile of immeasurable giggle, on the withered turf
under the verandah, where they kicked up their heels and shouted to their full
satisfaction.
“If I had the little devils!” muttered Haley, between his teeth.
“But you ha’nt got ’em, though!” said Andy, with a
triumphant flourish, and making a string of indescribable mouths at the
unfortunate trader’s back, when he was fairly beyond hearing.
“I say now, Shelby, this yer ’s a most extro’rnary
business!” said Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlor. “It seems
that gal ’s off, with her young un.”
“Mr. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present,” said Mr. Shelby.
“I beg pardon, ma’am,” said Haley, bowing slightly, with a
still lowering brow; “but still I say, as I said before, this yer’s
a sing’lar report. Is it true, sir?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Shelby, “if you wish to communicate with me,
you must observe something of the decorum of a gentleman. Andy, take Mr.
Haley’s hat and riding-whip. Take a seat, sir. Yes, sir; I regret to say
that the young woman, excited by overhearing, or having reported to her,
something of this business, has taken her child in the night, and made
off.”
“I did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess,” said Haley.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round upon him,
“what am I to understand by that remark? If any man calls my honor in
question, I have but one answer for him.”
The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat lower tone said that “it
was plaguy hard on a fellow, that had made a fair bargain, to be gulled that
way.”
“Mr. Haley,” said Mr. Shelby, “if I did not think you had
some cause for disappointment, I should not have borne from you the rude and
unceremonious style of your entrance into my parlor this morning. I say thus
much, however, since appearances call for it, that I shall allow of no
insinuations cast upon me, as if I were at all partner to any unfairness in
this matter. Moreover, I shall feel bound to give you every assistance, in the
use of horses, servants, &c., in the recovery of your property. So, in
short, Haley,” said he, suddenly dropping from the tone of dignified
coolness to his ordinary one of easy frankness, “the best way for you is
to keep good-natured and eat some breakfast, and we will then see what is to be
done.”
Mrs. Shelby now rose, and said her engagements would prevent her being at the
breakfast-table that morning; and, deputing a very respectable mulatto woman to
attend to the gentlemen’s coffee at the side-board, she left the room.
“Old lady don’t like your humble servant, over and above,”
said Haley, with an uneasy effort to be very familiar.
“I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with such freedom,”
said Mr. Shelby, dryly.
“Beg pardon; of course, only a joke, you know,” said Haley, forcing
a laugh.
“Some jokes are less agreeable than others,” rejoined Shelby.
“Devilish free, now I’ve signed those papers, cuss him!”
muttered Haley to himself; “quite grand, since yesterday!”
Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion wider surges of
sensation than the report of Tom’s fate among his compeers on the place.
It was the topic in every mouth, everywhere; and nothing was done in the house
or in the field, but to discuss its probable results. Eliza’s
flight—an unprecedented event on the place—was also a great
accessory in stimulating the general excitement.
Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being about three shades blacker
than any other son of ebony on the place, was revolving the matter profoundly
in all its phases and bearings, with a comprehensiveness of vision and a strict
lookout to his own personal well-being, that would have done credit to any
white patriot in Washington.
“It’s an ill wind dat blow nowhar,—dat ar a fact,” said
Sam, sententiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons, and adroitly
substituting a long nail in place of a missing suspender-button, with which
effort of mechanical genius he seemed highly delighted.
“Yes, it’s an ill wind blows nowhar,” he repeated.
“Now, dar, Tom’s down—wal, course der’s room for some
nigger to be up—and why not dis nigger?—dat’s de idee. Tom, a
ridin’ round de country—boots blacked—pass in his
pocket—all grand as Cuffee—but who he? Now, why shouldn’t
Sam?—dat’s what I want to know.”
“Halloo, Sam—O Sam! Mas’r wants you to cotch Bill and
Jerry,” said Andy, cutting short Sam’s soliloquy.
“High! what’s afoot now, young un?”
“Why, you don’t know, I s’pose, that Lizy’s cut stick,
and clared out, with her young un?”
“You teach your granny!” said Sam, with infinite contempt;
“knowed it a heap sight sooner than you did; this nigger an’t so
green, now!”
“Well, anyhow, Mas’r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up; and you
and I ’s to go with Mas’r Haley, to look arter her.”
“Good, now! dat’s de time o’ day!” said Sam.
“It’s Sam dat’s called for in dese yer times. He’s de
nigger. See if I don’t cotch her, now; Mas’r’ll see what Sam
can do!”
“Ah! but, Sam,” said Andy, “you’d better think twice;
for Missis don’t want her cotched, and she’ll be in yer
wool.”
“High!” said Sam, opening his eyes. “How you know dat?”
“Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin’, when I bring
in Mas’r’s shaving-water. She sent me to see why Lizy didn’t
come to dress her; and when I telled her she was off, she jest ris up, and ses
she, ‘The Lord be praised;’ and Mas’r, he seemed rael mad,
and ses he, ‘Wife, you talk like a fool.’ But Lor! she’ll
bring him to! I knows well enough how that’ll be,—it’s allers
best to stand Missis’ side the fence, now I tell yer.”
Black Sam, upon this, scratched his woolly pate, which, if it did not contain
very profound wisdom, still contained a great deal of a particular species much
in demand among politicians of all complexions and countries, and vulgarly
denominated “knowing which side the bread is buttered;” so,
stopping with grave consideration, he again gave a hitch to his pantaloons,
which was his regularly organized method of assisting his mental perplexities.
“Der an’t no saying’—never—‘bout no kind
o’ thing in yer world,” he said, at last. Sam spoke like
a philosopher, emphasizing —as if he had had a large
experience in different sorts of worlds, and therefore had come to his
conclusions advisedly.
“Now, sartin I’d a said that Missis would a scoured the varsal
world after Lizy,” added Sam, thoughtfully.
“So she would,” said Andy; “but can’t ye see through a
ladder, ye black nigger? Missis don’t want dis yer Mas’r Haley to
get Lizy’s boy; dat’s de go!”
“High!” said Sam, with an indescribable intonation, known only to
those who have heard it among the negroes.
“And I’ll tell yer more ’n all,” said Andy; “I
specs you’d better be making tracks for dem hosses,—mighty sudden,
too,—-for I hearn Missis ’quirin’ arter yer,—so
you’ve stood foolin’ long enough.”
Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in real earnest, and after a while
appeared, bearing down gloriously towards the house, with Bill and Jerry in a
full canter, and adroitly throwing himself off before they had any idea of
stopping, he brought them up alongside of the horse-post like a tornado.
Haley’s horse, which was a skittish young colt, winced, and bounced, and
pulled hard at his halter.
“Ho, ho!” said Sam, “skeery, ar ye?” and his black
visage lighted up with a curious, mischievous gleam. “I’ll fix ye
now!” said he.
There was a large beech-tree overshadowing the place, and the small, sharp,
triangular beech-nuts lay scattered thickly on the ground. With one of these in
his fingers, Sam approached the colt, stroked and patted, and seemed apparently
busy in soothing his agitation. On pretence of adjusting the saddle, he
adroitly slipped under it the sharp little nut, in such a manner that the least
weight brought upon the saddle would annoy the nervous sensibilities of the
animal, without leaving any perceptible graze or wound.
“Dar!” he said, rolling his eyes with an approving grin; “me
fix ’em!”
At this moment Mrs. Shelby appeared on the balcony, beckoning to him. Sam
approached with as good a determination to pay court as did ever suitor after a
vacant place at St. James’ or Washington.
“Why have you been loitering so, Sam? I sent Andy to tell you to
hurry.”
“Lord bless you, Missis!” said Sam, “horses won’t be
cotched all in a minit; they’d done clared out way down to the south
pasture, and the Lord knows whar!”
“Sam, how often must I tell you not to say ‘Lord bless you, and the
Lord knows,’ and such things? It’s wicked.”
“O, Lord bless my soul! I done forgot, Missis! I won’t say nothing
of de sort no more.”
“Why, Sam, you just said it again.”
“Did I? O, Lord! I mean—I didn’t go fur to say it.”
“You must be , Sam.”
“Just let me get my breath, Missis, and I’ll start fair. I’ll
be bery careful.”
“Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him the road, and help
him. Be careful of the horses, Sam; you know Jerry was a little lame last week;
.”
Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, and strong emphasis.
“Let dis child alone for dat!” said Sam, rolling up his eyes with a
volume of meaning. “Lord knows! High! Didn’t say dat!” said
he, suddenly catching his breath, with a ludicrous flourish of apprehension,
which made his mistress laugh, spite of herself. “Yes, Missis, I’ll
look out for de hosses!”
“Now, Andy,” said Sam, returning to his stand under the
beech-trees, “you see I wouldn’t be ’t all surprised if dat
ar gen’lman’s crittur should gib a fling, by and by, when he comes
to be a gettin’ up. You know, Andy, critturs do such
things;” and therewith Sam poked Andy in the side, in a highly suggestive
manner.
“High!” said Andy, with an air of instant appreciation.
“Yes, you see, Andy, Missis wants to make time,—dat ar’s clar
to der most or’nary ’bserver. I jis make a little for her. Now, you
see, get all dese yer hosses loose, caperin’ permiscus round dis yer lot
and down to de wood dar, and I spec Mas’r won’t be off in a
hurry.”
Andy grinned.
“Yer see,” said Sam, “yer see, Andy, if any such thing should
happen as that Mas’r Haley’s horse begin to act
contrary, and cut up, you and I jist lets go of our’n to help him, and
—oh yes!” And Sam and Andy laid their
heads back on their shoulders, and broke into a low, immoderate laugh, snapping
their fingers and flourishing their heels with exquisite delight.
At this instant, Haley appeared on the verandah. Somewhat mollified by certain
cups of very good coffee, he came out smiling and talking, in tolerably
restored humor. Sam and Andy, clawing for certain fragmentary palm-leaves,
which they were in the habit of considering as hats, flew to the horseposts, to
be ready to “help Mas’r.”
Sam’s palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from all pretensions to
braid, as respects its brim; and the slivers starting apart, and standing
upright, gave it a blazing air of freedom and defiance, quite equal to that of
any Fejee chief; while the whole brim of Andy’s being departed bodily, he
rapped the crown on his head with a dexterous thump, and looked about well
pleased, as if to say, “Who says I haven’t got a hat?”
“Well, boys,” said Haley, “look alive now; we must lose no
time.”
“Not a bit of him, Mas’r!” said Sam, putting Haley’s
rein in his hand, and holding his stirrup, while Andy was untying the other two
horses.
The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome creature bounded from the
earth with a sudden spring, that threw his master sprawling, some feet off, on
the soft, dry turf. Sam, with frantic ejaculations, made a dive at the reins,
but only succeeded in brushing the blazing palm-leaf afore-named into the
horse’s eyes, which by no means tended to allay the confusion of his
nerves. So, with great vehemence, he overturned Sam, and, giving two or three
contemptuous snorts, flourished his heels vigorously in the air, and was soon
prancing away towards the lower end of the lawn, followed by Bill and Jerry,
whom Andy had not failed to let loose, according to contract, speeding them off
with various direful ejaculations. And now ensued a miscellaneous scene of
confusion. Sam and Andy ran and shouted,—dogs barked here and
there,—and Mike, Mose, Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller specimens on the
place, both male and female, raced, clapped hands, whooped, and shouted, with
outrageous officiousness and untiring zeal.
Haley’s horse, which was a white one, and very fleet and spirited,
appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene with great gusto; and having for
his coursing ground a lawn of nearly half a mile in extent, gently sloping down
on every side into indefinite woodland, he appeared to take infinite delight in
seeing how near he could allow his pursuers to approach him, and then, when
within a hand’s breadth, whisk off with a start and a snort, like a
mischievous beast as he was and career far down into some alley of the
wood-lot. Nothing was further from Sam’s mind than to have any one of the
troop taken until such season as should seem to him most befitting,—and
the exertions that he made were certainly most heroic. Like the sword of Coeur
De Lion, which always blazed in the front and thickest of the battle,
Sam’s palm-leaf was to be seen everywhere when there was the least danger
that a horse could be caught; there he would bear down full tilt, shouting,
“Now for it! cotch him! cotch him!” in a way that would set
everything to indiscriminate rout in a moment.
Haley ran up and down, and cursed and swore and stamped miscellaneously. Mr.
Shelby in vain tried to shout directions from the balcony, and Mrs. Shelby from
her chamber window alternately laughed and wondered,—not without some
inkling of what lay at the bottom of all this confusion.
At last, about twelve o’clock, Sam appeared triumphant, mounted on Jerry,
with Haley’s horse by his side, reeking with sweat, but with flashing
eyes and dilated nostrils, showing that the spirit of freedom had not yet
entirely subsided.
“He’s cotched!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. “If
’t hadn’t been for me, they might a bust themselves, all on
’em; but I cotched him!”
“You!” growled Haley, in no amiable mood. “If it hadn’t
been for you, this never would have happened.”
“Lord bless us, Mas’r,” said Sam, in a tone of the deepest
concern, “and me that has been racin’ and chasin’ till the
sweat jest pours off me!”
“Well, well!” said Haley, “you’ve lost me near three
hours, with your cursed nonsense. Now let’s be off, and have no more
fooling.”
“Why, Mas’r,” said Sam, in a deprecating tone, “I
believe you mean to kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we are all just
ready to drop down, and the critters all in a reek of sweat. Why, Mas’r
won’t think of startin’ on now till arter dinner.
Mas’r’s hoss wants rubben down; see how he splashed hisself; and
Jerry limps too; don’t think Missis would be willin’ to have us
start dis yer way, no how. Lord bless you, Mas’r, we can ketch up, if we
do stop. Lizy never was no great of a walker.”
Mrs. Shelby, who, greatly to her amusement, had overheard this conversation
from the verandah, now resolved to do her part. She came forward, and,
courteously expressing her concern for Haley’s accident, pressed him to
stay to dinner, saying that the cook should bring it on the table immediately.
Thus, all things considered, Haley, with rather an equivocal grace, proceeded
to the parlor, while Sam, rolling his eyes after him with unutterable meaning,
proceeded gravely with the horses to the stable-yard.
“Did yer see him, Andy? yer see him?” said Sam, when he
had got fairly beyond the shelter of the barn, and fastened the horse to a
post. “O, Lor, if it warn’t as good as a meetin’, now, to see
him a dancin’ and kickin’ and swarin’ at us. Didn’t I
hear him? Swar away, ole fellow (says I to myself ); will yer have yer hoss
now, or wait till you cotch him? (says I). Lor, Andy, I think I can see him
now.” And Sam and Andy leaned up against the barn and laughed to their
hearts’ content.
“Yer oughter seen how mad he looked, when I brought the hoss up. Lord,
he’d a killed me, if he durs’ to; and there I was a standin’
as innercent and as humble.”
“Lor, I seed you,” said Andy; “an’t you an old hoss,
Sam?”
“Rather specks I am,” said Sam; “did yer see Missis up stars
at the winder? I seed her laughin’.”
“I’m sure, I was racin’ so, I didn’t see
nothing,” said Andy.
“Well, yer see,” said Sam, proceeding gravely to wash down
Haley’s pony, “I ’se ’quired what yer may call a habit
, Andy. It’s a very ’portant habit,
Andy; and I ’commend yer to be cultivatin’ it, now yer young. Hist
up that hind foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy, it’s makes
all de difference in niggers. Didn’t I see which way the wind blew dis
yer mornin’? Didn’t I see what Missis wanted, though she never let
on? Dat ar’s bobservation, Andy. I ’spects it’s what you may
call a faculty. Faculties is different in different peoples, but cultivation of
’em goes a great way.”
“I guess if I hadn’t helped your bobservation dis mornin’,
yer wouldn’t have seen your way so smart,” said Andy.
“Andy,” said Sam, “you’s a promisin’ child, der
an’t no manner o’ doubt. I thinks lots of yer, Andy; and I
don’t feel no ways ashamed to take idees from you. We oughtenter overlook
nobody, Andy, cause the smartest on us gets tripped up sometimes. And so, Andy,
let’s go up to the house now. I’ll be boun’ Missis’ll
give us an uncommon good bite, dis yer time.”
CHAPTER VII
The Mother’s Struggle
It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly desolate and
forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom’s cabin.
Her husband’s suffering and dangers, and the danger of her child, all
blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning sense of the risk she was
running, in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting loose from
the protection of a friend whom she loved and revered. Then there was the
parting from every familiar object,—the place where she had grown up, the
trees under which she had played, the groves where she had walked many an
evening in happier days, by the side of her young husband,—everything, as
it lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak reproachfully to her,
and ask her whither could she go from a home like that?
But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm of frenzy by
the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was old enough to have walked by
her side, and, in an indifferent case, she would only have led him by the hand;
but now the bare thought of putting him out of her arms made her shudder, and
she strained him to her bosom with a convulsive grasp, as she went rapidly
forward.
The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled at the sound;
every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent the blood backward to her heart,
and quickened her footsteps. She wondered within herself at the strength that
seemed to be come upon her; for she felt the weight of her boy as if it had
been a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed to increase the supernatural
power that bore her on, while from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent
ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend above—“Lord, help! Lord, save
me!”
If it were Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be
torn from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning,—if you had seen the
man, and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from
twelve o’clock till morning to make good your escape,—how fast
could walk? How many miles could you make in those few brief hours,
with the darling at your bosom,—the little sleepy head on your
shoulder,—the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?
For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept him waking; but his
mother so hurriedly repressed every breath or sound, and so assured him that if
he were only still she would certainly save him, that he clung quietly round
her neck, only asking, as he found himself sinking to sleep,
“Mother, I don’t need to keep awake, do I?”
“No, my darling; sleep, if you want to.”
“But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won’t let him get me?”
“No! so may God help me!” said his mother, with a paler cheek, and
a brighter light in her large dark eyes.
“You’re , an’t you, mother?”
“Yes, !” said the mother, in a voice that startled
herself; for it seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that was no part of
her; and the boy dropped his little weary head on her shoulder, and was soon
asleep. How the touch of those warm arms, the gentle breathings that came in
her neck, seemed to add fire and spirit to her movements! It seemed to her as
if strength poured into her in electric streams, from every gentle touch and
movement of the sleeping, confiding child. Sublime is the dominion of the mind
over the body, that, for a time, can make flesh and nerve impregnable, and
string the sinews like steel, so that the weak become so mighty.
The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed by her dizzily, as
she walked on; and still she went, leaving one familiar object after another,
slacking not, pausing not, till reddening daylight found her many a long mile
from all traces of any familiar objects upon the open highway.
She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections, in the little
village of T——, not far from the Ohio river, and knew the road
well. To go thither, to escape across the Ohio river, were the first hurried
outlines of her plan of escape; beyond that, she could only hope in God.
When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway, with that alert
perception peculiar to a state of excitement, and which seems to be a sort of
inspiration, she became aware that her headlong pace and distracted air might
bring on her remark and suspicion. She therefore put the boy on the ground,
and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she walked on at as rapid a pace as she
thought consistent with the preservation of appearances. In her little bundle
she had provided a store of cakes and apples, which she used as expedients for
quickening the speed of the child, rolling the apple some yards before them,
when the boy would run with all his might after it; and this ruse, often
repeated, carried them over many a half-mile.
After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland, through which murmured a
clear brook. As the child complained of hunger and thirst, she climbed over the
fence with him; and, sitting down behind a large rock which concealed them from
the road, she gave him a breakfast out of her little package. The boy wondered
and grieved that she could not eat; and when, putting his arms round her neck,
he tried to wedge some of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that the
rising in her throat would choke her.
“No, no, Harry darling! mother can’t eat till you are safe! We must
go on—on—till we come to the river!” And she hurried again
into the road, and again constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly
forward.
She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was personally known. If she
should chance to meet any who knew her, she reflected that the well-known
kindness of the family would be of itself a blind to suspicion, as making it an
unlikely supposition that she could be a fugitive. As she was also so white as
not to be known as of colored lineage, without a critical survey, and her child
was white also, it was much easier for her to pass on unsuspected.
On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to rest herself,
and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as the danger decreased with
the distance, the supernatural tension of the nervous system lessened, and she
found herself both weary and hungry.
The good woman, kindly and gossipping, seemed rather pleased than otherwise
with having somebody come in to talk with; and accepted, without examination,
Eliza’s statement, that she “was going on a little piece, to spend
a week with her friends,”—all which she hoped in her heart might
prove strictly true.
An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T——, by the Ohio
river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance was at
the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her and the Canaan of liberty on the
other side.
It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent; great cakes
of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid waters. Owing to
the peculiar form of the shore on the Kentucky side, the land bending far out
into the water, the ice had been lodged and detained in great quantities, and
the narrow channel which swept round the bend was full of ice, piled one cake
over another, thus forming a temporary barrier to the descending ice, which
lodged, and formed a great, undulating raft, filling up the whole river, and
extending almost to the Kentucky shore.
Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorable aspect of things,
which she saw at once must prevent the usual ferry-boat from running, and then
turned into a small public house on the bank, to make a few inquiries.
The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing operations over the
fire, preparatory to the evening meal, stopped, with a fork in her hand, as
Eliza’s sweet and plaintive voice arrested her.
“What is it?” she said.
“Isn’t there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to
B——, now?” she said.
“No, indeed!” said the woman; “the boats has stopped
running.”
Eliza’s look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and she said,
inquiringly,
“May be you’re wanting to get over?—anybody sick? Ye seem
mighty anxious?”
“I’ve got a child that’s very dangerous,” said Eliza.
“I never heard of it till last night, and I’ve walked quite a piece
today, in hopes to get to the ferry.”
“Well, now, that’s onlucky,” said the woman, whose motherly
sympathies were much aroused; “I’m re’lly consarned for ye.
Solomon!” she called, from the window, towards a small back building. A
man, in leather apron and very dirty hands, appeared at the door.
“I say, Sol,” said the woman, “is that ar man going to tote
them bar’ls over tonight?”
“He said he should try, if ’t was any way prudent,” said the
man.
“There’s a man a piece down here, that’s going over with some
truck this evening, if he durs’ to; he’ll be in here to supper
tonight, so you’d better set down and wait. That’s a sweet little
fellow,” added the woman, offering him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
“Poor fellow! he isn’t used to walking, and I’ve hurried him
on so,” said Eliza.
“Well, take him into this room,” said the woman, opening into a
small bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the weary boy upon
it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For her there was no
rest. As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged her on; and she
gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay between her and
liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the course of her
pursuers.
Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried on table, yet
it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before, that it required
more than one to make a bargain. So, although the order was fairly given out in
Haley’s hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe by at least half a dozen
juvenile messengers, that dignitary only gave certain very gruff snorts, and
tosses of her head, and went on with every operation in an unusually leisurely
and circumstantial manner.
For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the servants
generally that Missis would not be particularly disobliged by delay; and it was
wonderful what a number of counter accidents occurred constantly, to retard the
course of things. One luckless wight contrived to upset the gravy; and then
gravy had to be got up , with due care and formality, Aunt Chloe
watching and stirring with dogged precision, answering shortly, to all
suggestions of haste, that she “warn’t a going to have raw gravy on
the table, to help nobody’s catchings.” One tumbled down with the
water, and had to go to the spring for more; and another precipitated the
butter into the path of events; and there was from time to time giggling news
brought into the kitchen that “Mas’r Haley was mighty oneasy, and
that he couldn’t sit in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin’ and
stalkin’ to the winders and through the porch.”
“Sarves him right!” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly.
“He’ll get wus nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don’t
mend his ways. master’ll be sending for him, and then see how
he’ll look!”
“He’ll go to torment, and no mistake,” said little Jake.
“He desarves it!” said Aunt Chloe, grimly; “he’s broke
a many, many, many hearts,—I tell ye all!” she said, stopping, with
a fork uplifted in her hands; “it’s like what Mas’r George
reads in Ravelations,—souls a callin’ under the altar! and a
callin’ on the Lord for vengeance on sich!—and by and by the Lord
he’ll hear ’em—so he will!”
Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to with open
mouth; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, the whole kitchen was at
leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks.
“Sich’ll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won’t
ther?” said Andy.
“I’d be glad to see it, I’ll be boun’,” said
little Jake.
“Chil’en!” said a voice, that made them all start. It was
Uncle Tom, who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the
door.
“Chil’en!” he said, “I’m afeard you don’t
know what ye’re sayin’. Forever is a word,
chil’en; it’s awful to think on ’t. You oughtenter wish that
ar to any human crittur.”
“We wouldn’t to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said Andy;
“nobody can help wishing it to them, they ’s so awful
wicked.”
“Don’t natur herself kinder cry out on ’em?” said Aunt
Chloe. “Don’t dey tear der suckin’ baby right off his
mother’s breast, and sell him, and der little children as is crying and
holding on by her clothes,—don’t dey pull ’em off and sells
’em? Don’t dey tear wife and husband apart?” said Aunt Chloe,
beginning to cry, “when it’s jest takin’ the very life on
’em?—and all the while does they feel one bit, don’t dey
drink and smoke, and take it oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil don’t get
them, what’s he good for?” And Aunt Chloe covered her face with her
checked apron, and began to sob in good earnest.
“Pray for them that ’spitefully use you, the good book says,”
says Tom.
“Pray for ’em!” said Aunt Chloe; “Lor, it’s too
tough! I can’t pray for ’em.”
“It’s natur, Chloe, and natur ’s strong,” said Tom,
“but the Lord’s grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think what
an awful state a poor crittur’s soul ’s in that’ll do them ar
things,—you oughter thank God that you an’t him, Chloe.
I’m sure I’d rather be sold, ten thousand times over, than to have
all that ar poor crittur’s got to answer for.”
“So ’d I, a heap,” said Jake. “Lor,
we cotch it, Andy?”
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
“I’m glad Mas’r didn’t go off this morning, as he
looked to,” said Tom; “that ar hurt me more than sellin’, it
did. Mebbe it might have been natural for him, but ’t would have come
desp’t hard on me, as has known him from a baby; but I’ve seen
Mas’r, and I begin ter feel sort o’ reconciled to the Lord’s
will now. Mas’r couldn’t help hisself; he did right, but I’m
feared things will be kinder goin’ to rack, when I’m gone
Mas’r can’t be spected to be a pryin’ round everywhar, as
I’ve done, a keepin’ up all the ends. The boys all means well, but
they ’s powerful car’less. That ar troubles me.”
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.
“Tom,” said his master, kindly, “I want you to notice that I
give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the
spot when he wants you; he’s going today to look after his other
business, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like,
boy.”
“Thank you, Mas’r,” said Tom.
“And mind yourself,” said the trader, “and don’t come
it over your master with any o’ yer nigger tricks; for I’ll take
every cent out of him, if you an’t thar. If he’d hear to me, he
wouldn’t trust any on ye—slippery as eels!”
“Mas’r,” said Tom,—and he stood very
straight,—“I was jist eight years old when ole Missis put you into
my arms, and you wasn’t a year old. ‘Thar,’ says she,
‘Tom, that’s to be young Mas’r; take good care on
him,’ says she. And now I jist ask you, Mas’r, have I ever broke
word to you, or gone contrary to you, ’specially since I was a
Christian?”
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.
“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but the
truth; and if I was able to help it, all the world shouldn’t buy
you.”
“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shelby, “you
shall be redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means. Sir,”
she said to Haley, “take good account of who you sell him to, and let me
know.”
“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may bring
him up in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back.”
“I’ll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,”
said Mrs. Shelby.
“Of course,” said the trader, “all ’s equal with me;
li’ves trade ’em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want
is a livin’, you know, ma’am; that’s all any on us wants, I,
s’pose.”
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar impudence of
the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of putting a constraint on
their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the
greater became Mrs. Shelby’s dread of his succeeding in recapturing Eliza
and her child, and of course the greater her motive for detaining him by every
female artifice. She therefore graciously smiled, assented, chatted familiarly,
and did all she could to make time pass imperceptibly.
At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts,
apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous and ready
officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting, in flourishing style, to
Andy, of the evident and eminent success of the operation, now that he had
“farly come to it.”
“Your master, I s’pose, don’t keep no dogs,” said
Haley, thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount.
“Heaps on ’em,” said Sam, triumphantly; “thar’s
Bruno—he’s a roarer! and, besides that, ’bout every nigger of
us keeps a pup of some natur or uther.”
“Poh!” said Haley,—and he said something else, too, with
regard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered,
“I don’t see no use cussin’ on ’em, no way.”
“But your master don’t keep no dogs (I pretty much know he
don’t) for trackin’ out niggers.”
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest and desperate
simplicity.
“Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they’s the
kind, though they han’t never had no practice. They ’s
dogs, though, at most anything, if you’d get ’em started. Here,
Bruno,” he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came
pitching tumultuously toward them.
“You go hang!” said Haley, getting up. “Come, tumble up
now.”
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as he did so,
which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to Haley’s
indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip.
“I ’s ’stonished at yer, Andy,” said Sam, with awful
gravity. “This yer’s a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn’t be a
makin’ game. This yer an’t no way to help Mas’r.”
“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley,
decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. “I know
the way of all of ’em,—they makes tracks for the
underground.”
“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat’s de idee. Mas’r Haley
hits de thing right in de middle. Now, der’s two roads to de
river,—de dirt road and der pike,—which Mas’r mean to
take?”
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new geographical
fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by a vehement reiteration.
“Cause,” said Sam, “I’d rather be ’clined to
’magine that Lizy ’d take de dirt road, bein’ it’s the
least travelled.”
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally inclined to
be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view of the case.
“If yer warn’t both on yer such cussed liars, now!” he said,
contemplatively as he pondered a moment.
The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to amuse Andy
prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so as apparently to run a
great risk of failing off his horse, while Sam’s face was immovably
composed into the most doleful gravity.
“Course,” said Sam, “Mas’r can do as he’d ruther,
go de straight road, if Mas’r thinks best,—it’s all one to
us. Now, when I study ’pon it, I think de straight road de best,
.”
“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley, thinking
aloud, and not minding Sam’s remark.
“Dar an’t no sayin’,” said Sam; “gals is pecular;
they never does nothin’ ye thinks they will; mose gen’lly the
contrary. Gals is nat’lly made contrary; and so, if you thinks
they’ve gone one road, it is sartin you’d better go t’ other,
and then you’ll be sure to find ’em. Now, my private ’pinion
is, Lizy took der road; so I think we’d better take de straight
one.”
This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to dispose Haley
particularly to the straight road, and he announced decidedly that he should go
the other, and asked Sam when they should come to it.
“A little piece ahead,” said Sam, giving a wink to Andy with the
eye which was on Andy’s side of the head; and he added, gravely,
“but I’ve studded on de matter, and I’m quite clar we ought
not to go dat ar way. I nebber been over it no way. It’s despit lonesome,
and we might lose our way,—whar we’d come to, de Lord only
knows.”
“Nevertheless,” said Haley, “I shall go that way.”
“Now I think on ’t, I think I hearn ’em tell that dat ar road
was all fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an’t it, Andy?”
Andy wasn’t certain; he’d only “hearn tell” about that
road, but never been over it. In short, he was strictly noncommittal.
Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies of
greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favor of the dirt road
aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he perceived was involuntary on
Sam’s part at first, and his confused attempts to dissuade him he set
down to a desperate lying on second thoughts, as being unwilling to implicate
Liza.
When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged briskly into it,
followed by Sam and Andy.
Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly been a thoroughfare
to the river, but abandoned for many years after the laying of the new pike. It
was open for about an hour’s ride, and after that it was cut across by
various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly well,—indeed, the
road had been so long closed up, that Andy had never heard of it. He therefore
rode along with an air of dutiful submission, only groaning and vociferating
occasionally that ’t was “desp’t rough, and bad for
Jerry’s foot.”
“Now, I jest give yer warning,” said Haley, “I know yer; yer
won’t get me to turn off this road, with all yer fussin’—so
you shet up!”
“Mas’r will go his own way!” said Sam, with rueful
submission, at the same time winking most portentously to Andy, whose delight
was now very near the explosive point.
Sam was in wonderful spirits,—professed to keep a very brisk
lookout,—at one time exclaiming that he saw “a gal’s
bonnet” on the top of some distant eminence, or calling to Andy “if
that thar wasn’t ’Lizy’ down in the hollow;” always
making these exclamations in some rough or craggy part of the road, where the
sudden quickening of speed was a special inconvenience to all parties
concerned, and thus keeping Haley in a state of constant commotion.
After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a precipitate and
tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a large farming establishment.
Not a soul was in sight, all the hands being employed in the fields; but, as
the barn stood conspicuously and plainly square across the road, it was evident
that their journey in that direction had reached a decided finale.
“Wan’t dat ar what I telled Mas’r?” said Sam, with an
air of injured innocence. “How does strange gentleman spect to know more
about a country dan de natives born and raised?”
“You rascal!” said Haley, “you knew all about this.”
“Didn’t I tell yer I , and yer wouldn’t believe
me? I telled Mas’r ’t was all shet up, and fenced up, and I
didn’t spect we could get through,—Andy heard me.”
It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to pocket his wrath
with the best grace he was able, and all three faced to the right about, and
took up their line of march for the highway.
In consequence of all the various delays, it was about three-quarters of an
hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in the village tavern that the
party came riding into the same place. Eliza was standing by the window,
looking out in another direction, when Sam’s quick eye caught a glimpse
of her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, Sam contrived to
have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic ejaculation,
which startled her at once; she drew suddenly back; the whole train swept by
the window, round to the front door.
A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to Eliza. Her
room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child, and sprang down
the steps towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her just as she was
disappearing down the bank; and throwing himself from his horse, and calling
loudly on Sam and Andy, he was after her like a hound after a deer. In that
dizzy moment her feet to her scarce seemed to touch the ground, and a moment
brought her to the water’s edge. Right on behind they came; and, nerved
with strength such as God gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry and
flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the
raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap—impossible to anything but
madness and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy, instinctively cried out, and
lifted up their hands, as she did it.
The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and creaked as her
weight came on it, but she staid there not a moment. With wild cries and
desperate energy she leaped to another and still another cake;
stumbling—leaping—slipping—springing upwards again! Her shoes
are gone—her stockings cut from her feet—while blood marked every
step; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the
Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank.
“Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!” said the man, with an oath.
Eliza recognized the voice and face for a man who owned a farm not far from her
old home.
“O, Mr. Symmes!—save me—do save me—do hide me!”
said Elia.
“Why, what’s this?” said the man. “Why, if
’tan’t Shelby’s gal!”
“My child!—this boy!—he’d sold him! There is his
Mas’r,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. “O, Mr.
Symmes, you’ve got a little boy!”
“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew her up
the steep bank. “Besides, you’re a right brave gal. I like grit,
wherever I see it.”
When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused.
“I’d be glad to do something for ye,” said he; “but
then there’s nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is to tell ye to
go ,” said he, pointing to a large white house which stood by
itself, off the main street of the village. “Go thar; they’re kind
folks. Thar’s no kind o’ danger but they’ll help
you,—they’re up to all that sort o’ thing.”
“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza, earnestly.
“No ’casion, no ’casion in the world,” said the man.
“What I’ve done’s of no ’count.”
“And, oh, surely, sir, you won’t tell any one!”
“Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for? In course not,”
said the man. “Come, now, go along like a likely, sensible gal, as you
are. You’ve arnt your liberty, and you shall have it, for all me.”
The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and swiftly away.
The man stood and looked after her.
“Shelby, now, mebbe won’t think this yer the most neighborly thing
in the world; but what’s a feller to do? If he catches one of my gals in
the same fix, he’s welcome to pay back. Somehow I never could see no kind
o’ critter a strivin’ and pantin’, and trying to clar
theirselves, with the dogs arter ’em and go agin ’em. Besides, I
don’t see no kind of ’casion for me to be hunter and catcher for
other folks, neither.”
So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not been instructed in his
constitutional relations, and consequently was betrayed into acting in a sort
of Christianized manner, which, if he had been better situated and more
enlightened, he would not have been left to do.
Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till Eliza had
disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank, inquiring look on Sam and
Andy.
“That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business,” said Sam.
“The gal ’s got seven devils in her, I believe!” said Haley.
“How like a wildcat she jumped!”
“Wal, now,” said Sam, scratching his head, “I hope
Mas’r’ll ’scuse us trying dat ar road. Don’t think I
feel spry enough for dat ar, no way!” and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.
“ laugh!” said the trader, with a growl.
“Lord bless you, Mas’r, I couldn’t help it now,” said
Sam, giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. “She looked so
curi’s, a leapin’ and springin’—ice a
crackin’—and only to hear her,—plump! ker chunk! ker splash!
Spring! Lord! how she goes it!” and Sam and Andy laughed till the tears
rolled down their cheeks.
“I’ll make ye laugh t’ other side yer mouths!” said the
trader, laying about their heads with his riding-whip.
Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their horses before he
was up.
“Good-evening, Mas’r!” said Sam, with much gravity. “I
berry much spect Missis be anxious ’bout Jerry. Mas’r Haley
won’t want us no longer. Missis wouldn’t hear of our ridin’
the critters over Lizy’s bridge tonight;” and, with a facetious
poke into Andy’s ribs, he started off, followed by the latter, at full
speed,—their shouts of laughter coming faintly on the wind.
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 in general.
“What did I want with the little cuss, now,” he said to himself,
“that I should have got myself treed like a coon, 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.
“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 tiptoe, 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 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 coon,” said he
to the man at the bar, “get us hot water, and sugar, and cigars, and
plenty of the 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 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 more 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 wench 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 takin’ 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 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.”
“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! 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 ,” 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 , for all niggers’ heads 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, “ 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 , 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 lookout 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.”
“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.
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 niggers; then, again, I come out a distant relation of
Henry Clay, or some old cock 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, 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.
“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 , 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
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 , 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, and finally doesn’t catch the gal,—and
gals allers is the devil 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
, 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 pocket-book, 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—Dick and Lucy—man and wife, six hundred dollars;
wench 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.”
“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 tonight, 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.”
“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 niggers, 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 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 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 nigger, be alive!” called Sam, under the verandah;
“take these yer hosses to der barn; 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.
“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 today, she’d a been took a dozen times.
Warn’t it I started off de hosses, dis yer mornin’ 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 coon. 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 negro 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 nigger 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 today. You and Andy must be
hungry.”
“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 niggers,” 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
infrequently 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, 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 of all that had
appeared on the table for two or three days past. Savory morsels of ham, golden
blocks of corn-cake, 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, 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 in his way; 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 , 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 ,—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, ,” said Sam, giving an enthusiastic toss to a
chicken’s neck,—“what’s principles 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-niggers,” 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’ corn-cake, 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
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 tonight, and not be a keepin’
everybody up till mornin’; now, every one of you young uns that
don’t want to be cracked, had better be scase, mighty sudden.”
“Niggers! 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.
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-knob alone,—there’s a man! Mary! Mary!
don’t pull the cat’s tail,—poor pussy! 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 tonight!” 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 tea-table 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 fig 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 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 cock-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 stoned 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?”
“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 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 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 now turn away a poor, shivering,
hungry creature from your door, because he was a runaway? 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 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 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
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 cum in, and asked if she
couldn’t warm herself here a spell; and I was just a-askin’ her
where she cum 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!”
“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 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.
“Tonight.”
“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 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 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 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 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 bright and early tomorrow 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 tonight.”
“Tonight! 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 tonight, but .”
“Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver.”
“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 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 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 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 essayeth 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. 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 farmhouse.
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.
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 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 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,” 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.
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 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
thing I can thank him for. It’s 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 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!”
“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 ,” 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 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 negro 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
“That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns.”
[1]
A slightly inaccurate quotation from , Act III, scene I, lines
369-370.
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 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 dey gets good for somethin’; an’t no use in
niggers havin’ nothin’!”
Here one of the boys called out, “Thar’s Missis a-comin’
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 nigger, 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 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 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.”
“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 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.
“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 nigger
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
nigger 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, 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, !” 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,
“O! I couldn’t think o’ takin’ on ’t, Mas’r
George, no ways in the world!” said Tom, quite moved.
“But you 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 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, 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 good, Uncle Tom, I tell you,” said
George. “I’m going to be a ; 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 handcuffs, “I mean to start fa’r with ye, as I
gen’ally do with my niggers; 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 hard on my niggers. 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 nigger’s tricks of all sorts I’m up
to, and it’s no use. If niggers 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.
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
barroom 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-boned 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, 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 peculiarities. 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
mantelpieces, 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 air enough for his great lungs,—calls everybody
“stranger,” with nonchalant , 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.
“Nigger 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
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 fire-iron, 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’ treating on him, 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,—‘ 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 niggers 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 at the fireplace.
“I think you’re altogether right, friend,” said Mr. Wilson;
“and this boy described here 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
while.”
“These yer knowin’ boys is allers aggravatin’ and
sarcy,” said a coarse-looking fellow, from the other 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 niggers 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 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 negro 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 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 new-made 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 bosom, 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, , 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 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.”
“ 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; and the apostle sent
back Onesimus to his master.”
[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.”
“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 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 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 go. 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, have a country; but what
country have , 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 , 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 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 a man, as much as anybody?
Well, Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I had a father—one of your
Kentucky 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 and ,—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 nigger! 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 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 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 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, 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 good-natured 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.
“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 not
shoot, I reckon; at least, I wouldn’t 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 country allow them
to sell the child out of its mother’s bosom 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 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,— take it, ,—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 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 !” said George, proudly.
“Yes, sir; I’ve said Mas’r for the last time to any man.
“Take care! You are not sure,—you may be taken.”
“All men are free and equal , 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 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 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 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,— 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
present, poor child! Give it to her, and tell her I loved her to the last. Will
you? 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 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.”
“ 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 ,
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 .”
CHAPTER XII
Select Incident of Lawful Trade
“In Ramah there was a voice heard,—weeping, and lamentation, and
great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be
comforted.”
Jer. 31:15.
Mr. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their wagon, each, for a time, absorbed in
his own reflections. Now, the reflections of two men sitting side by side are a
curious thing,—seated on the same seat, having the same eyes, ears, hands
and organs of all sorts, and having pass before their eyes the same
objects,—it is wonderful what a variety we shall find in these same
reflections!
As, for example, Mr. Haley: he thought first of Tom’s length, and
breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was kept fat and in good
case till he got him into market. He thought of how he should make out his
gang; he thought of the respective market value of certain supposititious men
and women and children who were to compose it, and other kindred topics of the
business; then he thought of himself, and how humane he was, that whereas other
men chained their “niggers” hand and foot both, he only put fetters
on the feet, and left Tom the use of his hands, as long as he behaved well; and
he sighed to think how ungrateful human nature was, so that there was even room
to doubt whether Tom appreciated his mercies. He had been taken in so by
“niggers” whom he had favored; but still he was astonished to
consider how good-natured he yet remained!
As to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfashionable old book, which
kept running through his head, again and again, as follows: “We have here
no continuing city, but we seek one to come; wherefore God himself is not
ashamed to be called our God; for he hath prepared for us a city.” These
words of an ancient volume, got up principally by “ignorant and unlearned
men,” have, through all time, kept up, somehow, a strange sort of power
over the minds of poor, simple fellows, like Tom. They stir up the soul from
its depths, and rouse, as with trumpet call, courage, energy, and enthusiasm,
where before was only the blackness of despair.
Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and began looking over
their advertisements, with absorbed interest. He was not a remarkably fluent
reader, and was in the habit of reading in a sort of recitative half-aloud, by
way of calling in his ears to verify the deductions of his eyes. In this tone
he slowly recited the following paragraph:
“E
S,—N!—Agreeably to order of
court, will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in
the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John,
aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of
the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford,
“S M,
T F,
.”
“This yer I must look at,” said he to Tom, for want of somebody
else to talk to.
“Ye see, I’m going to get up a prime gang to take down with ye,
Tom; it’ll make it sociable and pleasant like,—good company will,
ye know. We must drive right to Washington first and foremost, and then
I’ll clap you into jail, while I does the business.”
Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly; simply wondering, in his
own heart, how many of these doomed men had wives and children, and whether
they would feel as he did about leaving them. It is to be confessed, too, that
the naive, off-hand information that he was to be thrown into jail by no means
produced an agreeable impression on a poor fellow who had always prided himself
on a strictly honest and upright course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess it,
was rather proud of his honesty, poor fellow,—not having very much else
to be proud of;—if he had belonged to some of the higher walks of
society, he, perhaps, would never have been reduced to such straits. However,
the day wore on, and the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in
Washington,—the one in a tavern, and the other in a jail.
About eleven o’clock the next day, a mixed throng was gathered around the
court-house steps,—smoking, chewing, spitting, swearing, and conversing,
according to their respective tastes and turns,—waiting for the auction
to commence. The men and women to be sold sat in a group apart, talking in a
low tone to each other. The woman who had been advertised by the name of Hagar
was a regular African in feature and figure. She might have been sixty, but was
older than that by hard work and disease, was partially blind, and somewhat
crippled with rheumatism. By her side stood her only remaining son, Albert, a
bright-looking little fellow of fourteen years. The boy was the only survivor
of a large family, who had been successively sold away from her to a southern
market. The mother held on to him with both her shaking hands, and eyed with
intense trepidation every one who walked up to examine him.
THE AUCTION SALE.
“Don’t be feard, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the men,
“I spoke to Mas’r Thomas ’bout it, and he thought he might
manage to sell you in a lot both together.”
“Dey needn’t call me worn out yet,” said she, lifting her
shaking hands. “I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour,—I’m
wuth a buying, if I do come cheap;—tell em dat ar,—you
em,” she added, earnestly.
Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to the old man, pulled his
mouth open and looked in, felt of his teeth, made him stand and straighten
himself, bend his back, and perform various evolutions to show his muscles; and
then passed on to the next, and put him through the same trial. Walking up last
to the boy, he felt of his arms, straightened his hands, and looked at his
fingers, and made him jump, to show his agility.
“He an’t gwine to be sold widout me!” said the old woman,
with passionate eagerness; “he and I goes in a lot together; I ’s
rail strong yet, Mas’r and can do heaps o’ work,—heaps on it,
Mas’r.”
“On plantation?” said Haley, with a contemptuous glance.
“Likely story!” and, as if satisfied with his examination, he
walked out and looked, and stood with his hands in his pocket, his cigar in his
mouth, and his hat cocked on one side, ready for action.
“What think of ’em?” said a man who had been following
Haley’s examination, as if to make up his own mind from it.
“Wal,” said Haley, spitting, “I shall put in, I think, for
the youngerly ones and the boy.”
“They want to sell the boy and the old woman together,” said the
man.
“Find it a tight pull;—why, she’s an old rack o’
bones,—not worth her salt.”
“You wouldn’t then?” said the man.
“Anybody ’d be a fool ’t would. She’s half blind,
crooked with rheumatis, and foolish to boot.”
“Some buys up these yer old critturs, and ses there’s a sight more
wear in ’em than a body ’d think,” said the man,
reflectively.
“No go, ’t all,” said Haley; “wouldn’t take her
for a present,—fact,—I’ve , now.”
“Wal, ’t is kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her
son,—her heart seems so sot on him,—s’pose they fling her in
cheap.”
“Them that’s got money to spend that ar way, it’s all well
enough. I shall bid off on that ar boy for a
plantation-hand;—wouldn’t be bothered with her, no way, not if
they’d give her to me,” said Haley.
“She’ll take on desp’t,” said the man.
“Nat’lly, she will,” said the trader, coolly.
The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in the audience; and the
auctioneer, a short, bustling, important fellow, elbowed his way into the
crowd. The old woman drew in her breath, and caught instinctively at her son.
“Keep close to yer mammy, Albert,—close,—dey’ll put us
up togedder,” she said.
“O, mammy, I’m feard they won’t,” said the boy.
“Dey must, child; I can’t live, no ways, if they don’t”
said the old creature, vehemently.
The stentorian tones of the auctioneer, calling out to clear the way, now
announced that the sale was about to commence. A place was cleared, and the
bidding began. The different men on the list were soon knocked off at prices
which showed a pretty brisk demand in the market; two of them fell to Haley.
“Come, now, young un,” said the auctioneer, giving the boy a touch
with his hammer, “be up and show your springs, now.”
“Put us two up togedder, togedder,—do please, Mas’r,”
said the old woman, holding fast to her boy.
“Be off,” said the man, gruffly, pushing her hands away; “you
come last. Now, darkey, spring;” and, with the word, he pushed the boy
toward the block, while a deep, heavy groan rose behind him. The boy paused,
and looked back; but there was no time to stay, and, dashing the tears from his
large, bright eyes, he was up in a moment.
His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face, raised an instant competition,
and half a dozen bids simultaneously met the ear of the auctioneer. Anxious,
half-frightened, he looked from side to side, as he heard the clatter of
contending bids,—now here, now there,—till the hammer fell. Haley
had got him. He was pushed from the block toward his new master, but stopped
one moment, and looked back, when his poor old mother, trembling in every limb,
held out her shaking hands toward him.
“Buy me too, Mas’r, for de dear Lord’s sake!—buy
me,—I shall die if you don’t!”
“You’ll die if I do, that’s the kink of it,” said
Haley,—“no!” And he turned on his heel.
The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The man who had addressed
Haley, and who seemed not destitute of compassion, bought her for a trifle, and
the spectators began to disperse.
The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up in one place together for
years, gathered round the despairing old mother, whose agony was pitiful to
see.
“Couldn’t dey leave me one? Mas’r allers said I should have
one,—he did,” she repeated over and over, in heart-broken tones.
“Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the men,
sorrowfully.
“What good will it do?” said she, sobbing passionately.
“Mother, mother,—don’t! don’t!” said the boy.
“They say you ’s got a good master.”
“I don’t care,—I don’t care. O, Albert! oh, my boy! you
’s my last baby. Lord, how ken I?”
“Come, take her off, can’t some of ye?” said Haley, dryly;
“don’t do no good for her to go on that ar way.”
The old men of the company, partly by persuasion and partly by force, loosed
the poor creature’s last despairing hold, and, as they led her off to her
new master’s wagon, strove to comfort her.
“Now!” said Haley, pushing his three purchases together, and
producing a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put on their wrists; and
fastening each handcuff to a long chain, he drove them before him to the jail.
A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely deposited on one of the Ohio
boats. It was the commencement of his gang, to be augmented, as the boat moved
on, by various other merchandise of the same kind, which he, or his agent, had
stored for him in various points along shore.
The La Belle Riviere, as brave and beautiful a boat as ever walked the waters
of her namesake river, was floating gayly down the stream, under a brilliant
sky, the stripes and stars of free America waving and fluttering over head; the
guards crowded with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen walking and enjoying the
delightful day. All was full of life, buoyant and rejoicing;—all but
Haley’s gang, who were stored, with other freight, on the lower deck, and
who, somehow, did not seem to appreciate their various privileges, as they sat
in a knot, talking to each other in low tones.
“Boys,” said Haley, coming up, briskly, “I hope you keep up
good heart, and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, ye see; keep stiff upper lip,
boys; do well by me, and I’ll do well by you.”
The boys addressed responded the invariable “Yes, Mas’r,” for
ages the watchword of poor Africa; but it’s to be owned they did not look
particularly cheerful; they had their various little prejudices in favor of
wives, mothers, sisters, and children, seen for the last time,—and though
“they that wasted them required of them mirth,” it was not
instantly forthcoming.
“I’ve got a wife,” spoke out the article enumerated as
“John, aged thirty,” and he laid his chained hand on Tom’s
knee,—“and she don’t know a word about this, poor
girl!”
“Where does she live?” said Tom.
“In a tavern a piece down here,” said John; “I wish, now, I
see her once more in this world,” he added.
Poor John! It rather natural; and the tears that fell, as he spoke,
came as naturally as if he had been a white man. Tom drew a long breath from a
sore heart, and tried, in his poor way, to comfort him.
And over head, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers, husbands and wives; and
merry, dancing children moved round among them, like so many little
butterflies, and everything was going on quite easy and comfortable.
“O, mamma,” said a boy, who had just come up from below,
“there’s a negro trader on board, and he’s brought four or
five slaves down there.”
“Poor creatures!” said the mother, in a tone between grief and
indignation.
“What’s that?” said another lady.
“Some poor slaves below,” said the mother.
“And they’ve got chains on,” said the boy.
“What a shame to our country that such sights are to be seen!” said
another lady.
“O, there’s a great deal to be said on both sides of the
subject,” said a genteel woman, who sat at her state-room door sewing,
while her little girl and boy were playing round her. “I’ve been
south, and I must say I think the negroes are better off than they would be to
be free.”
“In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant,” said the
lady to whose remark she had answered. “The most dreadful part of
slavery, to my mind, is its outrages on the feelings and affections,—the
separating of families, for example.”
“That a bad thing, certainly,” said the other lady,
holding up a baby’s dress she had just completed, and looking intently on
its trimmings; “but then, I fancy, it don’t occur often.”
“O, it does,” said the first lady, eagerly; “I’ve lived
many years in Kentucky and Virginia both, and I’ve seen enough to make
any one’s heart sick. Suppose, ma’am, your two children, there,
should be taken from you, and sold?”
“We can’t reason from our feelings to those of this class of
persons,” said the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her lap.
“Indeed, ma’am, you can know nothing of them, if you say so,”
answered the first lady, warmly. “I was born and brought up among them. I
know they feel, just as keenly,—even more so, perhaps,—as
we do.”
The lady said “Indeed!” yawned, and looked out the cabin window,
and finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with which she had
begun,—“After all, I think they are better off than they would be
to be free.”
“It’s undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the African race
should be servants,—kept in a low condition,” said a grave-looking
gentleman in black, a clergyman, seated by the cabin door. “‘Cursed
be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be,’ the scripture
says.”
[1]
Gen. 9:25. his is what Noah says when he wakes out of drunkenness and
realizes that his youngest son, Ham, father of Canaan, has seen him naked.
“I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means?” said a tall
man, standing by.
“Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable reason, to doom
the race to bondage, ages ago; and we must not set up our opinion against
that.”
“Well, then, we’ll all go ahead and buy up niggers,” said the
man, “if that’s the way of Providence,—won’t we,
Squire?” said he, turning to Haley, who had been standing, with his hands
in his pockets, by the stove and intently listening to the conversation.
“Yes,” continued the tall man, “we must all be resigned to
the decrees of Providence. Niggers must be sold, and trucked round, and kept
under; it’s what they’s made for. ’Pears like this yer view
’s quite refreshing, an’t it, stranger?” said he to Haley.
“I never thought on ’t,” said Haley, “I couldn’t
have said as much, myself; I ha’nt no larning. I took up the trade just
to make a living; if ’tan’t right, I calculated to ’pent on
’t in time, ye know.”
“And now you’ll save yerself the trouble, won’t ye?”
said the tall man. “See what ’t is, now, to know scripture. If
ye’d only studied yer Bible, like this yer good man, ye might have
know’d it before, and saved ye a heap o’ trouble. Ye could jist
have said, ’Cussed be’—what’s his
name?—‘and ’t would all have come right.’” And
the stranger, who was no other than the honest drover whom we introduced to our
readers in the Kentucky tavern, sat down, and began smoking, with a curious
smile on his long, dry face.
A tall, slender young man, with a face expressive of great feeling and
intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the words, “‘All things
whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto
them.’ I suppose,” he added, “ is scripture, as
much as ’Cursed be Canaan.’”
“Wal, it seems quite plain a text, stranger,” said John
the drover, “to poor fellows like us, now;” and John smoked on like
a volcano.
The young man paused, looked as if he was going to say more, when suddenly the
boat stopped, and the company made the usual steamboat rush, to see where they
were landing.
“Both them ar chaps parsons?” said John to one of the men, as they
were going out.
The man nodded.
As the boat stopped, a black woman came running wildly up the plank, darted
into the crowd, flew up to where the slave gang sat, and threw her arms round
that unfortunate piece of merchandise before enumerate—“John, aged
thirty,” and with sobs and tears bemoaned him as her husband.
But what needs tell the story, told too oft,—every day told,—of
heart-strings rent and broken,—the weak broken and torn for the profit
and convenience of the strong! It needs not to be told;—every day is
telling it,—telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, though he
be long silent.
The young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity and God before stood
with folded arms, looking on this scene. He turned, and Haley was standing at
his side. “My friend,” he said, speaking with thick utterance,
“how can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this? Look at those
poor creatures! Here I am, rejoicing in my heart that I am going home to my
wife and child; and the same bell which is a signal to carry me onward towards
them will part this poor man and his wife forever. Depend upon it, God will
bring you into judgment for this.”
The trader turned away in silence.
“I say, now,” said the drover, touching his elbow,
“there’s differences in parsons, an’t there? ’Cussed be
Canaan’ don’t seem to go down with this ’un, does it?”
Haley gave an uneasy growl.
“And that ar an’t the worst on ’t,” said John;
“mabbee it won’t go down with the Lord, neither, when ye come to
settle with Him, one o’ these days, as all on us must, I reckon.”
Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat.
“If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs,” he thought,
“I reckon I’ll stop off this yer; it’s really getting
dangerous.” And he took out his pocket-book, and began adding over his
accounts,—a process which many gentlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a
specific for an uneasy conscience.
The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went on merrily, as before.
Men talked, and loafed, and read, and smoked. Women sewed, and children played,
and the boat passed on her way.
One day, when she lay to for a while at a small town in Kentucky, Haley went up
into the place on a little matter of business.
Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate circuit, had drawn
near the side of the boat, and stood listlessly gazing over the railing. After
a time, he saw the trader returning, with an alert step, in company with a
colored woman, bearing in her arms a young child. She was dressed quite
respectably, and a colored man followed her, bringing along a small trunk. The
woman came cheerfully onward, talking, as she came, with the man who bore her
trunk, and so passed up the plank into the boat. The bell rung, the steamer
whizzed, the engine groaned and coughed, and away swept the boat down the
river.
The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of the lower deck, and,
sitting down, busied herself with chirruping to her baby.
Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming up, seated himself
near her, and began saying something to her in an indifferent undertone.
Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman’s brow; and that
she answered rapidly, and with great vehemence.
“I don’t believe it,—I won’t believe it!” he
heard her say. “You’re jist a foolin’ with me.”
“If you won’t believe it, look here!” said the man, drawing
out a paper; “this yer’s the bill of sale, and there’s your
master’s name to it; and I paid down good solid cash for it, too, I can
tell you,—so, now!”
“I don’t believe Mas’r would cheat me so; it can’t be
true!” said the woman, with increasing agitation.
“You can ask any of these men here, that can read writing. Here!”
he said, to a man that was passing by, “jist read this yer, won’t
you! This yer gal won’t believe me, when I tell her what ’t
is.”
“Why, it’s a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick,” said the
man, “making over to you the girl Lucy and her child. It’s all
straight enough, for aught I see.”
The woman’s passionate exclamations collected a crowd around her, and the
trader briefly explained to them the cause of the agitation.
“He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire out as cook to
the same tavern where my husband works,—that’s what Mas’r
told me, his own self; and I can’t believe he’d lie to me,”
said the woman.
“But he has sold you, my poor woman, there’s no doubt about
it,” said a good-natured looking man, who had been examining the papers;
“he has done it, and no mistake.”
“Then it’s no account talking,” said the woman, suddenly
growing quite calm; and, clasping her child tighter in her arms, she sat down
on her box, turned her back round, and gazed listlessly into the river.
“Going to take it easy, after all!” said the trader.
“Gal’s got grit, I see.”
The woman looked calm, as the boat went on; and a beautiful soft summer breeze
passed like a compassionate spirit over her head,—the gentle breeze, that
never inquires whether the brow is dusky or fair that it fans. And she saw
sunshine sparkling on the water, in golden ripples, and heard gay voices, full
of ease and pleasure, talking around her everywhere; but her heart lay as if a
great stone had fallen on it. Her baby raised himself up against her, and
stroked her cheeks with his little hands; and, springing up and down, crowing
and chatting, seemed determined to arouse her. She strained him suddenly and
tightly in her arms, and slowly one tear after another fell on his wondering,
unconscious face; and gradually she seemed, and little by little, to grow
calmer, and busied herself with tending and nursing him.
The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large and strong of his age, and
very vigorous in his limbs. Never, for a moment, still, he kept his mother
constantly busy in holding him, and guarding his springing activity.
“That’s a fine chap!” said a man, suddenly stopping opposite
to him, with his hands in his pockets. “How old is he?”
“Ten months and a half,” said the mother.
The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stick of candy, which he
eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had it in a baby’s general depository,
to wit, his mouth.
“Rum fellow!” said the man “Knows what’s what!”
and he whistled, and walked on. When he had got to the other side of the boat,
he came across Haley, who was smoking on top of a pile of boxes.
The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying, as he did so,
“Decentish kind o’ wench you’ve got round there,
stranger.”
“Why, I reckon she tol’able fair,” said Haley,
blowing the smoke out of his mouth.
“Taking her down south?” said the man.
Haley nodded, and smoked on.
“Plantation hand?” said the man.
“Wal,” said Haley, “I’m fillin’ out an order for
a plantation, and I think I shall put her in. They telled me she was a good
cook; and they can use her for that, or set her at the cotton-picking.
She’s got the right fingers for that; I looked at ’em. Sell well,
either way;” and Haley resumed his cigar.
“They won’t want the young ’un on the plantation,” said
the man.
“I shall sell him, first chance I find,” said Haley, lighting
another cigar.
“S’pose you’d be selling him tol’able cheap,”
said the stranger, mounting the pile of boxes, and sitting down comfortably.
“Don’t know ’bout that,” said Haley; “he’s
a pretty smart young ’un, straight, fat, strong; flesh as hard as a
brick!”
“Very true, but then there’s the bother and expense of
raisin’.”
“Nonsense!” said Haley; “they is raised as easy as any kind
of critter there is going; they an’t a bit more trouble than pups. This
yer chap will be running all around, in a month.”
“I’ve got a good place for raisin’, and I thought of
takin’ in a little more stock,” said the man. “One cook lost
a young ’un last week,—got drownded in a washtub, while she was a
hangin’ out the clothes,—and I reckon it would be well enough to
set her to raisin’ this yer.”
Haley and the stranger smoked a while in silence, neither seeming willing to
broach the test question of the interview. At last the man resumed:
“You wouldn’t think of wantin’ more than ten dollars for that
ar chap, seeing you get him off yer hand, any how?”
Haley shook his head, and spit impressively.
“That won’t do, no ways,” he said, and began his smoking
again.
“Well, stranger, what will you take?”
“Well, now,” said Haley, “I raise that ar chap
myself, or get him raised; he’s oncommon likely and healthy, and
he’d fetch a hundred dollars, six months hence; and, in a year or two,
he’d bring two hundred, if I had him in the right spot; I shan’t
take a cent less nor fifty for him now.”
“O, stranger! that’s rediculous, altogether,” said the man.
“Fact!” said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.
“I’ll give thirty for him,” said the stranger, “but not
a cent more.”
“Now, I’ll tell ye what I will do,” said Haley, spitting
again, with renewed decision. “I’ll split the difference, and say
forty-five; and that’s the most I will do.”
“Well, agreed!” said the man, after an interval.
“Done!” said Haley. “Where do you land?”
“At Louisville,” said the man.
“Louisville,” said Haley. “Very fair, we get there about
dusk. Chap will be asleep,—all fair,—get him off quietly, and no
screaming,—happens beautiful,—I like to do everything
quietly,—I hates all kind of agitation and fluster.” And so, after
a transfer of certain bills had passed from the man’s pocket-book to the
trader’s, he resumed his cigar.
It was a bright, tranquil evening when the boat stopped at the wharf at
Louisville. The woman had been sitting with her baby in her arms, now wrapped
in a heavy sleep. When she heard the name of the place called out, she hastily
laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the hollow among the boxes,
first carefully spreading under it her cloak; and then she sprung to the side
of the boat, in hopes that, among the various hotel-waiters who thronged the
wharf, she might see her husband. In this hope, she pressed forward to the
front rails, and, stretching far over them, strained her eyes intently on the
moving heads on the shore, and the crowd pressed in between her and the child.
“Now’s your time,” said Haley, taking the sleeping child up,
and handing him to the stranger. “Don’t wake him up, and set him to
crying, now; it would make a devil of a fuss with the gal.” The man took
the bundle carefully, and was soon lost in the crowd that went up the wharf.
When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had loosed from the wharf,
and was beginning slowly to strain herself along, the woman returned to her old
seat. The trader was sitting there,—the child was gone!
“Why, why,—where?” she began, in bewildered surprise.
“Lucy,” said the trader, “your child’s gone; you may as
well know it first as last. You see, I know’d you couldn’t take him
down south; and I got a chance to sell him to a first-rate family,
that’ll raise him better than you can.”
The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and political perfection
which has been recommended by some preachers and politicians of the north,
lately, in which he had completely overcome every humane weakness and
prejudice. His heart was exactly where yours, sir, and mine could be brought,
with proper effort and cultivation. The wild look of anguish and utter despair
that the woman cast on him might have disturbed one less practised; but he was
used to it. He had seen that same look hundreds of times. You can get used to
such things, too, my friend; and it is the great object of recent efforts to
make our whole northern community used to them, for the glory of the Union. So
the trader only regarded the mortal anguish which he saw working in those dark
features, those clenched hands, and suffocating breathings, as necessary
incidents of the trade, and merely calculated whether she was going to scream,
and get up a commotion on the boat; for, like other supporters of our peculiar
institution, he decidedly disliked agitation.
But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too straight and direct
through the heart, for cry or tear.
Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her side. Her eyes
looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. All the noise and hum of the
boat, the groaning of the machinery, mingled dreamily to her bewildered ear;
and the poor, dumb-stricken heart had neither cry not tear to show for its
utter misery. She was quite calm.
The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost as humane as some of
our politicians, seemed to feel called on to administer such consolation as the
case admitted of.
“I know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy,” said he;
“but such a smart, sensible gal as you are, won’t give way to it.
You see it’s , and can’t be helped!”
“O! don’t, Mas’r, don’t!” said the woman, with a
voice like one that is smothering.
“You’re a smart wench, Lucy,” he persisted; “I mean to
do well by ye, and get ye a nice place down river; and you’ll soon get
another husband,—such a likely gal as you—”
“O! Mas’r, if you won’t talk to me now,”
said the woman, in a voice of such quick and living anguish that the trader
felt that there was something at present in the case beyond his style of
operation. He got up, and the woman turned away, and buried her head in her
cloak.
The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionally stopped and looked
at her.
“Takes it hard, rather,” he soliloquized, “but quiet,
tho’;—let her sweat a while; she’ll come right, by and
by!”
Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last, and had a perfect
understanding of its results. To him, it looked like something unutterably
horrible and cruel, because, poor, ignorant black soul! he had not learned to
generalize, and to take enlarged views. If he had only been instructed by
certain ministers of Christianity, he might have thought better of it, and seen
in it an every-day incident of a lawful trade; a trade which is the vital
support of an institution which an American divine tells us has
.” But Tom, as we see, being a poor, ignorant
fellow, whose reading had been confined entirely to the New Testament, could
not comfort and solace himself with views like these. His very soul bled within
him for what seemed to him the of the poor suffering thing that
lay like a crushed reed on the boxes; the feeling, living, bleeding, yet
immortal , which American state law coolly classes with the
bundles, and bales, and boxes, among which she is lying.
[2]
Dr. Joel Parker of Philadelphia. [Mrs. Stowe’s note.] Presbyterian
clergyman (1798-1873), a friend of the Beecher family. Mrs. Stowe attempted
unsuccessfully to have this identifying note removed from the stereotype-plate
of the first edition.
Tom drew near, and tried to say something; but she only groaned. Honestly, and
with tears running down his own cheeks, he spoke of a heart of love in the
skies, of a pitying Jesus, and an eternal home; but the ear was deaf with
anguish, and the palsied heart could not feel.
Night came on,—night calm, unmoved, and glorious, shining down with her
innumerable and solemn angel eyes, twinkling, beautiful, but silent. There was
no speech nor language, no pitying voice or helping hand, from that distant
sky. One after another, the voices of business or pleasure died away; all on
the boat were sleeping, and the ripples at the prow were plainly heard. Tom
stretched himself out on a box, and there, as he lay, he heard, ever and anon,
a smothered sob or cry from the prostrate creature,—“O! what shall
I do? O Lord! O good Lord, do help me!” and so, ever and anon, until the
murmur died away in silence.
At midnight, Tom waked, with a sudden start. Something black passed quickly by
him to the side of the boat, and he heard a splash in the water. No one else
saw or heard anything. He raised his head,—the woman’s place was
vacant! He got up, and sought about him in vain. The poor bleeding heart was
still, at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just as brightly as if it had
not closed above it.
Patience! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongs like these. Not
one throb of anguish, not one tear of the oppressed, is forgotten by the Man of
Sorrows, the Lord of Glory. In his patient, generous bosom he bears the anguish
of a world. Bear thou, like him, in patience, and labor in love; for sure as he
is God, “the year of his redeemed come.”
The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see to his live stock. It
was now his turn to look about in perplexity.
“Where alive is that gal?” he said to Tom.
Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did not feel called upon to
state his observations and suspicions, but said he did not know.
“She surely couldn’t have got off in the night at any of the
landings, for I was awake, and on the lookout, whenever the boat stopped. I
never trust these yer things to other folks.”
This speech was addressed to Tom quite confidentially, as if it was something
that would be specially interesting to him. Tom made no answer.
The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes, bales and
barrels, around the machinery, by the chimneys, in vain.
“Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer,” he said, when, after a
fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing. “You know something
about it, now. Don’t tell me,—I know you do. I saw the gal
stretched out here about ten o’clock, and ag’in at twelve, and
ag’in between one and two; and then at four she was gone, and you was a
sleeping right there all the time. Now, you know something,—you
can’t help it.”
“Well, Mas’r,” said Tom, “towards morning something
brushed by me, and I kinder half woke; and then I hearn a great splash, and
then I clare woke up, and the gal was gone. That’s all I know on
’t.”
The trader was not shocked nor amazed; because, as we said before, he was used
to a great many things that you are not used to. Even the awful presence of
Death struck no solemn chill upon him. He had seen Death many times,—met
him in the way of trade, and got acquainted with him,—and he only thought
of him as a hard customer, that embarrassed his property operations very
unfairly; and so he only swore that the gal was a baggage, and that he was
devilish unlucky, and that, if things went on in this way, he should not make a
cent on the trip. In short, he seemed to consider himself an ill-used man,
decidedly; but there was no help for it, as the woman had escaped into a state
which give up a fugitive,—not even at the demand of the
whole glorious Union. The trader, therefore, sat discontentedly down, with his
little account-book, and put down the missing body and soul under the head of
“He’s a shocking creature, isn’t he,—this trader? so
unfeeling! It’s dreadful, really!”
“O, but nobody thinks anything of these traders! They are universally
despised,—never received into any decent society.”
But who, sir, makes the trader? Who is most to blame? The enlightened,
cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the system of which the trader is the
inevitable result, or the poor trader himself? You make the public statement
that calls for his trade, that debauches and depraves him, till he feels no
shame in it; and in what are you better than he?
Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, you refined and he
coarse, you talented and he simple?
In the day of a future judgment, these very considerations may make it more
tolerable for him than for you.
In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, we must beg the world not
to think that American legislators are entirely destitute of humanity, as
might, perhaps, be unfairly inferred from the great efforts made in our
national body to protect and perpetuate this species of traffic.
Who does not know how our great men are outdoing themselves, in declaiming
against the slave-trade. There are a perfect host of Clarksons
and Wilberforces risen up among us on that subject, most edifying to hear and
behold. Trading negroes from Africa, dear reader, is so horrid! It is not to be
thought of! But trading them from Kentucky,—that’s quite another
thing!
[3]
Thomas Clarkson (1760-1846) and William Wilberforce (1759- 1833), English
philanthropists and anti-slavery agitators who helped to secure passage of the
Emancipation Bill by Parliament in 1833.
CHAPTER XIII
The Quaker Settlement
A quiet scene now rises before us. A large, roomy, neatly-painted kitchen, its
yellow floor glossy and smooth, and without a particle of dust; a neat,
well-blacked cooking-stove; rows of shining tin, suggestive of unmentionable
good things to the appetite; glossy green wood chairs, old and firm; a small
flag-bottomed rocking-chair, with a patch-work cushion in it, neatly contrived
out of small pieces of different colored woollen goods, and a larger sized one,
motherly and old, whose wide arms breathed hospitable invitation, seconded by
the solicitation of its feather cushions,—a real comfortable, persuasive
old chair, and worth, in the way of honest, homely enjoyment, a dozen of your
plush or drawing-room gentry; and in the chair, gently
swaying back and forward, her eyes bent on some fine sewing, sat our fine old
friend Eliza. Yes, there she is, paler and thinner than in her Kentucky home,
with a world of quiet sorrow lying under the shadow of her long eyelashes, and
marking the outline of her gentle mouth! It was plain to see how old and firm
the girlish heart was grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow; and when,
anon, her large dark eye was raised to follow the gambols of her little Harry,
who was sporting, like some tropical butterfly, hither and thither over the
floor, she showed a depth of firmness and steady resolve that was never there
in her earlier and happier days.
By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap, into which she was
carefully sorting some dried peaches. She might be fifty-five or sixty; but
hers was one of those faces that time seems to touch only to brighten and
adorn. The snowy lisse crape cap, made after the strait Quaker
pattern,—the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in placid folds
across her bosom,—the drab shawl and dress,—showed at once the
community to which she belonged. Her face was round and rosy, with a healthful
downy softness, suggestive of a ripe peach. Her hair, partially silvered by
age, was parted smoothly back from a high placid forehead, on which time had
written no inscription, except peace on earth, good will to men, and beneath
shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving brown eyes; you only needed to look
straight into them, to feel that you saw to the bottom of a heart as good and
true as ever throbbed in woman’s bosom. So much has been said and sung of
beautiful young girls, why don’t somebody wake up to the beauty of old
women? If any want to get up an inspiration under this head, we refer them to
our good friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her little
rocking-chair. It had a turn for quacking and squeaking,—that chair
had,—either from having taken cold in early life, or from some asthmatic
affection, or perhaps from nervous derangement; but, as she gently swung
backward and forward, the chair kept up a kind of subdued “creechy
crawchy,” that would have been intolerable in any other chair. But old
Simeon Halliday often declared it was as good as any music to him, and the
children all avowed that they wouldn’t miss of hearing mother’s
chair for anything in the world. For why? for twenty years or more, nothing but
loving words, and gentle moralities, and motherly loving kindness, had come
from that chair;—head-aches and heart-aches innumerable had been cured
there,—difficulties spiritual and temporal solved there,—all by one
good, loving woman, God bless her!
“And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?” she said, as
she was quietly looking over her peaches.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Eliza, firmly. “I must go onward. I
dare not stop.”
“And what’ll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must think about
that, my daughter.”
“My daughter” came naturally from the lips of Rachel Halliday; for
hers was just the face and form that made “mother” seem the most
natural word in the world.
Eliza’s hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work; but she
answered, firmly,
“I shall do—anything I can find. I hope I can find
something.”
“Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,” said
Rachel.
“O, thank you,” said Eliza, “but”—she pointed to
Harry—“I can’t sleep nights; I can’t rest. Last night I
dreamed I saw that man coming into the yard,” she said, shuddering.
“Poor child!” said Rachel, wiping her eyes; “but thee
mustn’t feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive
been stolen from our village. I trust thine will not be the first.”
The door here opened, and a little short, round, pin-cushiony woman stood at
the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a ripe apple. She was dressed,
like Rachel, in sober gray, with the muslin folded neatly across her round,
plump little chest.
“Ruth Stedman,” said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; “how is
thee, Ruth? she said, heartily taking both her hands.
“Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and dusting
it with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a round little head, on
which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the stroking
and patting of the small fat hands, which were busily applied to arranging it.
Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had escaped here and there,
and had to be coaxed and cajoled into their place again; and then the new
comer, who might have been five-and-twenty, turned from the small
looking-glass, before which she had been making these arrangements, and looked
well pleased,—as most people who looked at her might have been,—for
she was decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping little woman, as ever
gladdened man’s heart withal.
“Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little boy I told
thee of.”
“I am glad to see thee, Eliza,—very,” said Ruth, shaking
hands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting; “and
this is thy dear boy,—I brought a cake for him,” she said, holding
out a little heart to the boy, who came up, gazing through his curls, and
accepted it shyly.
“Where’s thy baby, Ruth?” said Rachel.
“O, he’s coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, and ran off
with him to the barn, to show him to the children.”
At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-looking girl, with
large brown eyes, like her mother’s, came in with the baby.
“Ah! ha!” said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat
fellow in her arms, “how good he looks, and how he does grow!”
“To be sure, he does,” said little bustling Ruth, as she took the
child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood, and various layers and
wrappers of outer garments; and having given a twitch here, and a pull there,
and variously adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him heartily, she set him
on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed quite used to this mode of
proceeding, for he put his thumb in his mouth (as if it were quite a thing of
course), and seemed soon absorbed in his own reflections, while the mother
seated herself, and taking out a long stocking of mixed blue and white yarn,
began to knit with briskness.
“Mary, thee’d better fill the kettle, hadn’t thee?”
gently suggested the mother.
Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing, placed it over the
stove, where it was soon purring and steaming, a sort of censer of hospitality
and good cheer. The peaches, moreover, in obedience to a few gentle whispers
from Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand, in a stew-pan over the
fire.
Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an apron, proceeded
quietly to making up some biscuits, first saying to Mary,—“Mary,
hadn’t thee better tell John to get a chicken ready?” and Mary
disappeared accordingly.
“And how is Abigail Peters?” said Rachel, as she went on with her
biscuits.
“O, she’s better,” said Ruth; “I was in, this morning;
made the bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this afternoon, and
baked bread and pies enough to last some days; and I engaged to go back to get
her up, this evening.”
“I will go in tomorrow, and do any cleaning there may be, and look over
the mending,” said Rachel.
“Ah! that is well,” said Ruth. “I’ve heard,” she
added, “that Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last
night,—I must go there tomorrow.”
“John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all
day,” suggested Rachel.
“Thank thee, Rachel; will see, tomorrow; but, here comes Simeon.”
Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and pantaloons,
and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.
“How is thee, Ruth?” he said, warmly, as he spread his broad open
hand for her little fat palm; “and how is John?”
“O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks,” said Ruth,
cheerily.
“Any news, father?” said Rachel, as she was putting her biscuits
into the oven.
“Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along tonight, with
,” said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing his hands
at a neat sink, in a little back porch.
“Indeed!” said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza.
“Did thee say thy name was Harris?” said Simeon to Eliza, as he
reentered.
Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously answered
“yes;” her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that possibly there
might be advertisements out for her.
“Mother!” said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling Rachel
out.
“What does thee want, father?” said Rachel, rubbing her floury
hands, as she went into the porch.
“This child’s husband is in the settlement, and will be here
tonight,” said Simeon.
“Now, thee doesn’t say that, father?” said Rachel, all her
face radiant with joy.
“It’s really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the wagon, to the
other stand, and there he found an old woman and two men; and one said his name
was George Harris; and from what he told of his history, I am certain who he
is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too.”
“Shall we tell her now?” said Simeon.
“Let’s tell Ruth,” said Rachel. “Here, Ruth,—come
here.”
Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back porch in a moment.
“Ruth, what does thee think?” said Rachel. “Father says
Eliza’s husband is in the last company, and will be here tonight.”
A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She gave such
a bound from the floor, as she clapped her little hands, that two stray curls
fell from under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her white neckerchief.
“Hush thee, dear!” said Rachel, gently; “hush, Ruth! Tell us,
shall we tell her now?”
“Now! to be sure,—this very minute. Why, now, suppose ’t was
my John, how should I feel? Do tell her, right off.”
“Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor, Ruth,”
said Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth.
“To be sure. Isn’t it what we are made for? If I didn’t love
John and the baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now do tell
her,—do!” and she laid her hands persuasively on Rachel’s
arm. “Take her into thy bed-room, there, and let me fry the chicken while
thee does it.”
Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, and opening the door
of a small bed-room, said, gently, “Come in here with me, my daughter; I
have news to tell thee.”
The blood flushed in Eliza’s pale face; she rose, trembling with nervous
anxiety, and looked towards her boy.
“No, no,” said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her hands.
“Never thee fear; it’s good news, Eliza,—go in, go in!”
And she gently pushed her to the door which closed after her; and then, turning
round, she caught little Harry in her arms, and began kissing him.
“Thee’ll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it? Thy father
is coming,” she said, over and over again, as the boy looked wonderingly
at her.
Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Rachel Halliday drew
Eliza toward her, and said, “The Lord hath had mercy on thee, daughter;
thy husband hath escaped from the house of bondage.”
The blood flushed to Eliza’s cheek in a sudden glow, and went back to her
heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, pale and faint.
“Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her hand on her head.
“He is among friends, who will bring him here tonight.”
“Tonight!” Eliza repeated, “tonight!” The words lost
all meaning to her; her head was dreamy and confused; all was mist for a
moment.
When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed, with a blanket
over her, and little Ruth rubbing her hands with camphor. She opened her eyes
in a state of dreamy, delicious languor, such as one who has long been bearing
a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would rest. The tension of the nerves,
which had never ceased a moment since the first hour of her flight, had given
way, and a strange feeling of security and rest came over her; and as she lay,
with her large, dark eyes open, she followed, as in a quiet dream, the motions
of those about her. She saw the door open into the other room; saw the
supper-table, with its snowy cloth; heard the dreamy murmur of the singing
tea-kettle; saw Ruth tripping backward and forward, with plates of cake and
saucers of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a cake into
Harry’s hand, or pat his head, or twine his long curls round her snowy
fingers. She saw the ample, motherly form of Rachel, as she ever and anon came
to the bedside, and smoothed and arranged something about the bedclothes, and
gave a tuck here and there, by way of expressing her good-will; and was
conscious of a kind of sunshine beaming down upon her from her large, clear,
brown eyes. She saw Ruth’s husband come in,—saw her fly up to him,
and commence whispering very earnestly, ever and anon, with impressive gesture,
pointing her little finger toward the room. She saw her, with the baby in her
arms, sitting down to tea; she saw them all at table, and little Harry in a
high chair, under the shadow of Rachel’s ample wing; there were low
murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling of tea-spoons, and musical clatter of cups and
saucers, and all mingled in a delightful dream of rest; and Eliza slept, as she
had not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour when she had taken her
child and fled through the frosty starlight.
She dreamed of a beautiful country,—a land, it seemed to her, of
rest,—green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully glittering water;
and there, in a house which kind voices told her was a home, she saw her boy
playing, free and happy child. She heard her husband’s footsteps; she
felt him coming nearer; his arms were around her, his tears falling on her
face, and she awoke! It was no dream. The daylight had long faded; her child
lay calmly sleeping by her side; a candle was burning dimly on the stand, and
her husband was sobbing by her pillow.
The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. “Mother”
was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and boys, whom we had scarce time
to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved obediently to
Rachel’s gentle “Thee had better,” or more gentle
“Hadn’t thee better?” in the work of getting breakfast; for a
breakfast in the luxurious valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and
multiform, and, like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in
Paradise, asking other hands than those of the original mother. While,
therefore, John ran to the spring for fresh water, and Simeon the second sifted
meal for corn-cakes, and Mary ground coffee, Rachel moved gently, and quietly
about, making biscuits, cutting up chicken, and diffusing a sort of sunny
radiance over the whole proceeding generally. If there was any danger of
friction or collision from the ill-regulated zeal of so many young operators,
her gentle “Come! come!” or “I wouldn’t, now,”
was quite sufficient to allay the difficulty. Bards have written of the cestus
of Venus, that turned the heads of all the world in successive generations. We
had rather, for our part, have the cestus of Rachel Halliday, that kept heads
from being turned, and made everything go on harmoniously. We think it is more
suited to our modern days, decidedly.
While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the elder stood in his
shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in the corner, engaged in the
anti-patriarchal operation of shaving. Everything went on so sociably, so
quietly, so harmoniously, in the great kitchen,—it seemed so pleasant to
every one to do just what they were doing, there was such an atmosphere of
mutual confidence and good fellowship everywhere,—even the knives and
forks had a social clatter as they went on to the table; and the chicken and
ham had a cheerful and joyous fizzle in the pan, as if they rather enjoyed
being cooked than otherwise;—and when George and Eliza and little Harry
came out, they met such a hearty, rejoicing welcome, no wonder it seemed to
them like a dream.
At last, they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary stood at the stove,
baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the true exact golden-brown tint of
perfection, were transferred quite handily to the table.
Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the head of her table.
There was so much motherliness and full-heartedness even in the way she passed
a plate of cakes or poured a cup of coffee, that it seemed to put a spirit into
the food and drink she offered.
It was the first time that ever George had sat down on equal terms at any white
man’s table; and he sat down, at first, with some constraint and
awkwardness; but they all exhaled and went off like fog, in the genial morning
rays of this simple, overflowing kindness.
This, indeed, was a home,—,—a word that George had never
yet known a meaning for; and a belief in God, and trust in his providence,
began to encircle his heart, as, with a golden cloud of protection and
confidence, dark, misanthropic, pining atheistic doubts, and fierce despair,
melted away before the light of a living Gospel, breathed in living faces,
preached by a thousand unconscious acts of love and good will, which, like the
cup of cold water given in the name of a disciple, shall never lose their
reward.
“Father, what if thee should get found out again?” said Simeon
second, as he buttered his cake.
“I should pay my fine,” said Simeon, quietly.
“But what if they put thee in prison?”
“Couldn’t thee and mother manage the farm?” said Simeon,
smiling.
“Mother can do almost everything,” said the boy. “But
isn’t it a shame to make such laws?”
“Thee mustn’t speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon,” said his
father, gravely. “The Lord only gives us our worldly goods that we may do
justice and mercy; if our rulers require a price of us for it, we must deliver
it up.
“Well, I hate those old slaveholders!” said the boy, who felt as
unchristian as became any modern reformer.
“I am surprised at thee, son,” said Simeon; “thy mother never
taught thee so. I would do even the same for the slaveholder as for the slave,
if the Lord brought him to my door in affliction.”
Simeon second blushed scarlet; but his mother only smiled, and said,
“Simeon is my good boy; he will grow older, by and by, and then he will
be like his father.”
“I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any difficulty on our
account,” said George, anxiously.
“Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the world. If we
would not meet trouble for a good cause, we were not worthy of our name.”
“But, for ,” said George, “I could not bear
it.”
“Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for God and man,
we do it,” said Simeon. “And now thou must lie by quietly this day,
and tonight, at ten o’clock, Phineas Fletcher will carry thee onward to
the next stand,—thee and the rest of thy company. The pursuers are hard
after thee; we must not delay.”
“If that is the case, why wait till evening?” said George.
“Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement is a
Friend, and all are watching. It has been found safer to travel by
night.”
CHAPTER XIV
Evangeline
“A young star! which shone
O’er life—too sweet an image, for such glass!
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded;
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.”
The Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have its scenes been changed,
since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poetic description of it,
as a river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid undreamed wonders of
vegetable and animal existence.
[1]
(1801) by Francois Auguste Rene, Vicomte de Chateaubriand (1768-1848).
But as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance has emerged to a
reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What other river of the world
bears on its bosom to the ocean the wealth and enterprise of such another
country?—a country whose products embrace all between the tropics and the
poles! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing along, an apt
resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is poured along its wave by
a race more vehement and energetic than any the old world ever saw. Ah! would
that they did not also bear along a more fearful freight,—the tears of
the oppressed, the sighs of the helpless, the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant
hearts to an unknown God—unknown, unseen and silent, but who will yet
“come out of his place to save all the poor of the earth!”
The slanting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-like expanse of the
river; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark cypress, hung with wreaths of
dark, funereal moss, glow in the golden ray, as the heavily-laden steamboat
marches onward.
Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over deck and sides, till
she seems in the distance a square, massive block of gray, she moves heavily
onward to the nearing mart. We must look some time among its crowded decks
before we shall find again our humble friend Tom. High on the upper deck, in a
little nook among the everywhere predominant cotton-bales, at last we may find
him.
Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby’s representations, and
partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet character of the man, Tom had
insensibly won his way far into the confidence even of such a man as Haley.
At first he had watched him narrowly through the day, and never allowed him to
sleep at night unfettered; but the uncomplaining patience and apparent
contentment of Tom’s manner led him gradually to discontinue these
restraints, and for some time Tom had enjoyed a sort of parole of honor, being
permitted to come and go freely where he pleased on the boat.
Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a hand in every emergency
which occurred among the workmen below, he had won the good opinion of all the
hands, and spent many hours in helping them with as hearty a good will as ever
he worked on a Kentucky farm.
When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would climb to a nook among
the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and busy himself in studying over his
Bible,—and it is there we see him now.
For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river is higher than the
surrounding country, and rolls its tremendous volume between massive levees
twenty feet in height. The traveller from the deck of the steamer, as from some
floating castle top, overlooks the whole country for miles and miles around.
Tom, therefore, had spread out full before him, in plantation after plantation,
a map of the life to which he was approaching.
He saw the distant slaves at their toil; he saw afar their villages of huts
gleaming out in long rows on many a plantation, distant from the stately
mansions and pleasure-grounds of the master;—and as the moving picture
passed on, his poor, foolish heart would be turning backward to the Kentucky
farm, with its old shadowy beeches,—to the master’s house, with its
wide, cool halls, and, near by, the little cabin overgrown with the multiflora
and bignonia. There he seemed to see familiar faces of comrades who had grown
up with him from infancy; he saw his busy wife, bustling in her preparations
for his evening meals; he heard the merry laugh of his boys at their play, and
the chirrup of the baby at his knee; and then, with a start, all faded, and he
saw again the canebrakes and cypresses and gliding plantations, and heard again
the creaking and groaning of the machinery, all telling him too plainly that
all that phase of life had gone by forever.
In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messages to your children; but
Tom could not write,—the mail for him had no existence, and the gulf of
separation was unbridged by even a friendly word or signal.
Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of his Bible, as he lays
it on the cotton-bale, and, with patient finger, threading his slow way from
word to word, traces out its promises? Having learned late in life, Tom was but
a slow reader, and passed on laboriously from verse to verse. Fortunate for him
was it that the book he was intent on was one which slow reading cannot
injure,—nay, one whose words, like ingots of gold, seem often to need to
be weighed separately, that the mind may take in their priceless value. Let us
follow him a moment, as, pointing to each word, and pronouncing each half
aloud, he reads,
“Let—not—your—heart—be—troubled.
In—my—Father’s—house—are—many—mansions.
I—go—to—prepare—a—place—for—you.”
Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had a heart as full of
honest grief as poor Tom’s,—perhaps no fuller, for both were only
men;—but Cicero could pause over no such sublime words of hope, and look
to no such future reunion; and if he seen them, ten to one he would
not have believed,—he must fill his head first with a thousand questions
of authenticity of manuscript, and correctness of translation. But, to poor
Tom, there it lay, just what he needed, so evidently true and divine that the
possibility of a question never entered his simple head. It must be true; for,
if not true, how could he live?
As for Tom’s Bible, though it had no annotations and helps in margin from
learned commentators, still it had been embellished with certain way-marks and
guide-boards of Tom’s own invention, and which helped him more than the
most learned expositions could have done. It had been his custom to get the
Bible read to him by his master’s children, in particular by young Master
George; and, as they read, he would designate, by bold, strong marks and
dashes, with pen and ink, the passages which more particularly gratified his
ear or affected his heart. His Bible was thus marked through, from one end to
the other, with a variety of styles and designations; so he could in a moment
seize upon his favorite passages, without the labor of spelling out what lay
between them;—and while it lay there before him, every passage breathing
of some old home scene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible seemed to
him all of this life that remained, as well as the promise of a future one.
Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of fortune and family,
resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St. Clare. He had with him a
daughter between five and six years of age, together with a lady who seemed to
claim relationship to both, and to have the little one especially under her
charge.
Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl,—for she was one of
those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more contained in one place than
a sunbeam or a summer breeze,—nor was she one that, once seen, could be
easily forgotten.
Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual chubbiness
and squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating and aerial grace,
such as one might dream of for some mythic and allegorical being. Her face was
remarkable less for its perfect beauty of feature than for a singular and
dreamy earnestness of expression, which made the ideal start when they looked
at her, and by which the dullest and most literal were impressed, without
exactly knowing why. The shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust
was peculiarly noble, and the long golden-brown hair that floated like a cloud
around it, the deep spiritual gravity of her violet blue eyes, shaded by heavy
fringes of golden brown,—all marked her out from other children, and made
every one turn and look after her, as she glided hither and thither on the
boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you would have called either a
grave child or a sad one. On the contrary, an airy and innocent playfulness
seemed to flicker like the shadow of summer leaves over her childish face, and
around her buoyant figure. She was always in motion, always with a half smile
on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an undulating and cloud-like
tread, singing to herself as she moved as in a happy dream. Her father and
female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of her,—but, when
caught, she melted from them again like a summer cloud; and as no word of
chiding or reproof ever fell on her ear for whatever she chose to do, she
pursued her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to
move like a shadow through all sorts of places, without contracting spot or
stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where those fairy
footsteps had not glided, and that visionary golden head, with its deep blue
eyes, fleeted along.
The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes found those eyes
looking wonderingly into the raging depths of the furnace, and fearfully and
pityingly at him, as if she thought him in some dreadful danger. Anon the
steersman at the wheel paused and smiled, as the picture-like head gleamed
through the window of the round house, and in a moment was gone again. A
thousand times a day rough voices blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softness
stole over hard faces, as she passed; and when she tripped fearlessly over
dangerous places, rough, sooty hands were stretched involuntarily out to save
her, and smooth her path.
Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race, ever yearning
toward the simple and childlike, watched the little creature with daily
increasing interest. To him she seemed something almost divine; and whenever
her golden head and deep blue eyes peered out upon him from behind some dusky
cotton-bale, or looked down upon him over some ridge of packages, he half
believed that he saw one of the angels stepped out of his New Testament.
Often and often she walked mournfully round the place where Haley’s gang
of men and women sat in their chains. She would glide in among them, and look
at them with an air of perplexed and sorrowful earnestness; and sometimes she
would lift their chains with her slender hands, and then sigh wofully, as she
glided away. Several times she appeared suddenly among them, with her hands
full of candy, nuts, and oranges, which she would distribute joyfully to them,
and then be gone again.
Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ventured on any overtures
towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abundance of simple acts to propitiate and
invite the approaches of the little people, and he resolved to play his part
right skilfully. He could cut cunning little baskets out of cherry-stones,
could make grotesque faces on hickory-nuts, or odd-jumping figures out of
elder-pith, and he was a very Pan in the manufacture of whistles of all sizes
and sorts. His pockets were full of miscellaneous articles of attraction, which
he had hoarded in days of old for his master’s children, and which he now
produced, with commendable prudence and economy, one by one, as overtures for
acquaintance and friendship.
The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in everything going on, and
it was not easy to tame her. For a while, she would perch like a canary-bird on
some box or package near Tom, while busy in the little arts afore-named, and
take from him, with a kind of grave bashfulness, the little articles he
offered. But at last they got on quite confidential terms.
“What’s little missy’s name?” said Tom, at last, when
he thought matters were ripe to push such an inquiry.
“Evangeline St. Clare,” said the little one, “though papa and
everybody else call me Eva. Now, what’s your name?”
“My name’s Tom; the little chil’en used to call me Uncle Tom,
way back thar in Kentuck.”
“Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I like you,”
said Eva. “So, Uncle Tom, where are you going?”
“I don’t know, Miss Eva.”
“Don’t know?” said Eva.
“No, I am going to be sold to somebody. I don’t know who.”
“My papa can buy you,” said Eva, quickly; “and if he buys
you, you will have good times. I mean to ask him, this very day.”
“Thank you, my little lady,” said Tom.
The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood, and Eva, hearing her
father’s voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom rose up, and went forward to
offer his service in wooding, and soon was busy among the hands.
Eva and her father were standing together by the railings to see the boat start
from the landing-place, the wheel had made two or three revolutions in the
water, when, by some sudden movement, the little one suddenly lost her balance
and fell sheer over the side of the boat into the water. Her father, scarce
knowing what he did, was plunging in after her, but was held back by some
behind him, who saw that more efficient aid had followed his child.
Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck, as she fell. He saw her
strike the water, and sink, and was after her in a moment. A broad-chested,
strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for him to keep afloat in the water, till,
in a moment or two the child rose to the surface, and he caught her in his
arms, and, swimming with her to the boat-side, handed her up, all dripping, to
the grasp of hundreds of hands, which, as if they had all belonged to one man,
were stretched eagerly out to receive her. A few moments more, and her father
bore her, dripping and senseless, to the ladies’ cabin, where, as is
usual in cases of the kind, there ensued a very well-meaning and kind-hearted
strife among the female occupants generally, as to who should do the most
things to make a disturbance, and to hinder her recovery in every way possible.
It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer drew near to New
Orleans. A general bustle of expectation and preparation was spread through the
boat; in the cabin, one and another were gathering their things together, and
arranging them, preparatory to going ashore. The steward and chambermaid, and
all, were busily engaged in cleaning, furbishing, and arranging the splendid
boat, preparatory to a grand entree.
On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, and anxiously, from
time to time, turning his eyes towards a group on the other side of the boat.
There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day before, but
otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident which had befallen her. A
graceful, elegantly-formed young man stood by her, carelessly leaning one elbow
on a bale of cotton while a large pocket-book lay open before him. It was quite
evident, at a glance, that the gentleman was Eva’s father. There was the
same noble cast of head, the same large blue eyes, the same golden-brown hair;
yet the expression was wholly different. In the large, clear blue eyes, though
in form and color exactly similar, there was wanting that misty, dreamy depth
of expression; all was clear, bold, and bright, but with a light wholly of this
world: the beautifully cut mouth had a proud and somewhat sarcastic expression,
while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat not ungracefully in every turn
and movement of his fine form. He was listening, with a good-humored, negligent
air, half comic, half contemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating
on the quality of the article for which they were bargaining.
“All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black Morocco,
complete!” he said, when Haley had finished. “Well, now, my good
fellow, what’s the damage, as they say in Kentucky; in short,
what’s to be paid out for this business? How much are you going to cheat
me, now? Out with it!”
“Wal,” said Haley, “if I should say thirteen hundred dollars
for that ar fellow, I shouldn’t but just save myself; I shouldn’t,
now, re’ly.”
“Poor fellow!” said the young man, fixing his keen, mocking blue
eye on him; “but I suppose you’d let me have him for that, out of a
particular regard for me.”
“Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and nat’lly
enough.”
“O! certainly, there’s a call on your benevolence, my friend. Now,
as a matter of Christian charity, how cheap could you afford to let him go, to
oblige a young lady that’s particular sot on him?”
“Wal, now, just think on ’t,” said the trader; “just
look at them limbs,—broad-chested, strong as a horse. Look at his head;
them high forrads allays shows calculatin niggers, that’ll do any kind
o’ thing. I’ve, marked that ar. Now, a nigger of that ar heft and
build is worth considerable, just as you may say, for his body, supposin
he’s stupid; but come to put in his calculatin faculties, and them which
I can show he has oncommon, why, of course, it makes him come higher. Why, that
ar fellow managed his master’s whole farm. He has a strornary talent for
business.”
“Bad, bad, very bad; knows altogether too much!” said the young
man, with the same mocking smile playing about his mouth. “Never will do,
in the world. Your smart fellows are always running off, stealing horses, and
raising the devil generally. I think you’ll have to take off a couple of
hundred for his smartness.”
“Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warnt for his character;
but I can show recommends from his master and others, to prove he is one of
your real pious,—the most humble, prayin, pious crittur ye ever did see.
Why, he’s been called a preacher in them parts he came from.”
“And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly,” added the
young man, dryly. “That’s quite an idea. Religion is a remarkably
scarce article at our house.”
“You’re joking, now.”
“How do you know I am? Didn’t you just warrant him for a preacher?
Has he been examined by any synod or council? Come, hand over your
papers.”
If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humored twinkle in the large
eye, that all this banter was sure, in the long run, to turn out a cash
concern, he might have been somewhat out of patience; as it was, he laid down a
greasy pocket-book on the cotton-bales, and began anxiously studying over
certain papers in it, the young man standing by, the while, looking down on him
with an air of careless, easy drollery.
“Papa, do buy him! it’s no matter what you pay,” whispered
Eva, softly, getting up on a package, and putting her arm around her
father’s neck. “You have money enough, I know. I want him.”
“What for, pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box, or a
rocking-horse, or what?
“I want to make him happy.”
“An original reason, certainly.”
Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, which the young
man took with the tips of his long fingers, and glanced over carelessly.
“A gentlemanly hand,” he said, “and well spelt, too. Well,
now, but I’m not sure, after all, about this religion,” said he,
the old wicked expression returning to his eye; “the country is almost
ruined with pious white people; such pious politicians as we have just before
elections,—such pious goings on in all departments of church and state,
that a fellow does not know who’ll cheat him next. I don’t know,
either, about religion’s being up in the market, just now. I have not
looked in the papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundred dollars,
now, do you put on for this religion?”
“You like to be jokin, now,” said the trader; “but, then,
there’s under all that ar. I know there’s differences
in religion. Some kinds is mis’rable: there’s your meetin pious;
there’s your singin, roarin pious; them ar an’t no account, in
black or white;—but these rayly is; and I’ve seen it in niggers as
often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy, honest, pious, that the hull
world couldn’t tempt ’em to do nothing that they thinks is wrong;
and ye see in this letter what Tom’s old master says about him.”
“Now,” said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of bills,
“if you can assure me that I really can buy kind of pious,
and that it will be set down to my account in the book up above, as something
belonging to me, I wouldn’t care if I did go a little extra for it. How
d’ye say?”
“Wal, raily, I can’t do that,” said the trader.
“I’m a thinkin that every man’ll have to hang on his own
hook, in them ar quarters.”
“Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and can’t
trade with it in the state where he wants it most, an’t it, now?”
said the young man, who had been making out a roll of bills while he was
speaking. “There, count your money, old boy!” he added, as he
handed the roll to the trader.
“All right,” said Haley, his face beaming with delight; and pulling
out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale, which, in a few
moments, he handed to the young man.
“I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried,” said the
latter as he ran over the paper, “how much I might bring. Say so much for
the shape of my head, so much for a high forehead, so much for arms, and hands,
and legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent, honesty, religion!
Bless me! there would be small charge on that last, I’m thinking. But
come, Eva,” he said; and taking the hand of his daughter, he stepped
across the boat, and carelessly putting the tip of his finger under Tom’s
chin, said, good-humoredly, “Look-up, Tom, and see how you like your new
master.”
Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young, handsome
face, without a feeling of pleasure; and Tom felt the tears start in his eyes
as he said, heartily, “God bless you, Mas’r!”
“Well, I hope he will. What’s your name? Tom? Quite as likely to do
it for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive horses,
Tom?”
“I’ve been allays used to horses,” said Tom.
“Mas’r Shelby raised heaps of ’em.”
“Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition that you
won’t be drunk more than once a week, unless in cases of emergency,
Tom.”
Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, “I never drink,
Mas’r.”
“I’ve heard that story before, Tom; but then we’ll see. It
will be a special accommodation to all concerned, if you don’t. Never
mind, my boy,” he added, good-humoredly, seeing Tom still looked grave;
“I don’t doubt you mean to do well.”
“I sartin do, Mas’r,” said Tom.
“And you shall have good times,” said Eva. “Papa is very good
to everybody, only he always will laugh at them.”
“Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation,” said St.
Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.
CHAPTER XV
Of Tom’s New Master, and Various Other Matters
Since the thread of our humble hero’s life has now become interwoven with
that of higher ones, it is necessary to give some brief introduction to them.
Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana. The family
had its origin in Canada. Of two brothers, very similar in temperament and
character, one had settled on a flourishing farm in Vermont, and the other
became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The mother of Augustine was a Huguenot
French lady, whose family had emigrated to Louisiana during the days of its
early settlement. Augustine and another brother were the only children of their
parents. Having inherited from his mother an exceeding delicacy of
constitution, he was, at the instance of physicians, during many years of his
boyhood, sent to the care of his uncle in Vermont, in order that his
constitution might be strengthened by the cold of a more bracing climate.
In childhood, he was remarkable for an extreme and marked sensitiveness of
character, more akin to the softness of woman than the ordinary hardness of his
own sex. Time, however, overgrew this softness with the rough bark of manhood,
and but few knew how living and fresh it still lay at the core. His talents
were of the very first order, although his mind showed a preference always for
the ideal and the æsthetic, and there was about him that repugnance to
the actual business of life which is the common result of this balance of the
faculties. Soon after the completion of his college course, his whole nature
was kindled into one intense and passionate effervescence of romantic passion.
His hour came,—the hour that comes only once; his star rose in the
horizon,—that star that rises so often in vain, to be remembered only as
a thing of dreams; and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure,—he
saw and won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the
northern states, and they were affianced. He returned south to make
arrangements for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters were
returned to him by mail, with a short note from her guardian, stating to him
that ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to
madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling the whole thing
from his heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seek
explanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionable society, and
in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover of the
reigning belle of the season; and as soon as arrangements could be made, he
became the husband of a fine figure, a pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred
thousand dollars; and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow.
The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining a brilliant
circle of friends in their splendid villa, near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one
day, a letter was brought to him in well-remembered writing. It was
handed to him while he was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in
a whole room-full of company. He turned deadly pale when he saw the writing,
but still preserved his composure, and finished the playful warfare of badinage
which he was at the moment carrying on with a lady opposite; and, a short time
after, was missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read the
letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from her, giving a
long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed by her
guardian’s family, to lead her to unite herself with their son: and she
related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive; how she had
written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful; how her health had
failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had discovered the whole
fraud which had been practised on them both. The letter ended with expressions
of hope and thankfulness, and professions of undying affection, which were more
bitter than death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her immediately:
“I have received yours,—but too late. I believed all I heard. I was
desperate. , and all is over. Only forget,—it is all
that remains for either of us.”
And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St. Clare. But
the remained,—the , like the flat, bare, oozy
tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding boats
and white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone down,
and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare,—exceedingly real.
Of course, in a novel, people’s hearts break, and they die, and that is
the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do
not die when all that makes life bright dies to us. There is a most busy and
important round of eating, drinking, dressing, walking, visiting, buying,
selling, talking, reading, and all that makes up what is commonly called
, yet to be gone through; and this yet remained to Augustine. Had
his wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done something—as woman
can—to mend the broken threads of life, and weave again into a tissue of
brightness. But Marie St. Clare could not even see that they had been broken.
As before stated, she consisted of a fine figure, a pair of splendid eyes, and
a hundred thousand dollars; and none of these items were precisely the ones to
minister to a mind diseased.
When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa, and pleaded sudden
sick-headache as the cause of his distress, she recommended to him to smell of
hartshorn; and when the paleness and headache came on week after week, she only
said that she never thought Mr. St. Clare was sickly; but it seems he was very
liable to sick-headaches, and that it was a very unfortunate thing for her,
because he didn’t enjoy going into company with her, and it seemed odd to
go so much alone, when they were just married. Augustine was glad in his heart
that he had married so undiscerning a woman; but as the glosses and civilities
of the honeymoon wore away, he discovered that a beautiful young woman, who has
lived all her life to be caressed and waited on, might prove quite a hard
mistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed much capability of
affection, or much sensibility, and the little that she had, had been merged
into a most intense and unconscious selfishness; a selfishness the more
hopeless, from its quiet obtuseness, its utter ignorance of any claims but her
own. From her infancy, she had been surrounded with servants, who lived only to
study her caprices; the idea that they had either feelings or rights had never
dawned upon her, even in distant perspective. Her father, whose only child she
had been, had never denied her anything that lay within the compass of human
possibility; and when she entered life, beautiful, accomplished, and an
heiress, she had, of course, all the eligibles and non-eligibles of the other
sex sighing at her feet, and she had no doubt that Augustine was a most
fortunate man in having obtained her. It is a great mistake to suppose that a
woman with no heart will be an easy creditor in the exchange of affection.
There is not on earth a more merciless exactor of love from others than a
thoroughly selfish woman; and the more unlovely she grows, the more jealously
and scrupulously she exacts love, to the uttermost farthing. When, therefore,
St. Clare began to drop off those gallantries and small attentions which flowed
at first through the habitude of courtship, he found his sultana no way ready
to resign her slave; there were abundance of tears, poutings, and small
tempests, there were discontents, pinings, upbraidings. St. Clare was
good-natured and self-indulgent, and sought to buy off with presents and
flatteries; and when Marie became mother to a beautiful daughter, he really
felt awakened, for a time, to something like tenderness.
St. Clare’s mother had been a woman of uncommon elevation and purity of
character, and he gave to his child his mother’s name, fondly fancying
that she would prove a reproduction of her image. The thing had been remarked
with petulant jealousy by his wife, and she regarded her husband’s
absorbing devotion to the child with suspicion and dislike; all that was given
to her seemed so much taken from herself. From the time of the birth of this
child, her health gradually sunk. A life of constant inaction, bodily and
mental,—the friction of ceaseless ennui and discontent, united to the
ordinary weakness which attended the period of maternity,—in course of a
few years changed the blooming young belle into a yellow faded, sickly woman,
whose time was divided among a variety of fanciful diseases, and who considered
herself, in every sense, the most ill-used and suffering person in existence.
There was no end of her various complaints; but her principal forte appeared to
lie in sick-headache, which sometimes would confine her to her room three days
out of six. As, of course, all family arrangements fell into the hands of
servants, St. Clare found his menage anything but comfortable. His only
daughter was exceedingly delicate, and he feared that, with no one to look
after her and attend to her, her health and life might yet fall a sacrifice to
her mother’s inefficiency. He had taken her with him on a tour to
Vermont, and had persuaded his cousin, Miss Ophelia St. Clare, to return with
him to his southern residence; and they are now returning on this boat, where
we have introduced them to our readers.
And now, while the distant domes and spires of New Orleans rise to our view,
there is yet time for an introduction to Miss Ophelia.
Whoever has travelled in the New England States will remember, in some cool
village, the large farmhouse, with its clean-swept grassy yard, shaded by the
dense and massive foliage of the sugar maple; and remember the air of order and
stillness, of perpetuity and unchanging repose, that seemed to breathe over the
whole place. Nothing lost, or out of order; not a picket loose in the fence,
not a particle of litter in the turfy yard, with its clumps of lilac bushes
growing up under the windows. Within, he will remember wide, clean rooms, where
nothing ever seems to be doing or going to be done, where everything is once
and forever rigidly in place, and where all household arrangements move with
the punctual exactness of the old clock in the corner. In the family
“keeping-room,” as it is termed, he will remember the staid,
respectable old book-case, with its glass doors, where Rollin’s
History,
Milton’s Paradise Lost, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, and
Scott’s Family Bible,
stand side by side in decorous order, with multitudes of other books, equally
solemn and respectable. There are no servants in the house, but the lady in the
snowy cap, with the spectacles, who sits sewing every afternoon among her
daughters, as if nothing ever had been done, or were to be done,—she and
her girls, in some long-forgotten fore part of the day, “,” and for the rest of the time, probably, at all hours when you
would see them, it is “.” The old kitchen floor never
seems stained or spotted; the tables, the chairs, and the various cooking
utensils, never seem deranged or disordered; though three and sometimes four
meals a day are got there, though the family washing and ironing is there
performed, and though pounds of butter and cheese are in some silent and
mysterious manner there brought into existence.
[1]
, ten volumes (1730-1738), by the French historian
Charles Rollin (1661-1741).
[2]
(1788-1792), edited with notes by the
English Biblical commentator, Thomas Scott (1747-1821).
On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia had spent a quiet
existence of some forty-five years, when her cousin invited her to visit his
southern mansion. The eldest of a large family, she was still considered by her
father and mother as one of “the children,” and the proposal that
she should go to was a most momentous one to the family circle.
The old gray-headed father took down Morse’s Atlas out of the
book-case, and looked out the exact latitude and longitude; and read
Flint’s Travels in the South and West, to make up his own
mind as to the nature of the country.
[3]
(1842-1845), by Sidney
Edwards Morse (1794-1871), son of the geographer, Jedidiah Morse, and brother
of the painter-inventor, Samuel F. B. Morse.
[4]
(1826) by Timothy Flint
(1780-1840), missionary of Presbyterianism to the trans-Allegheny West.
The good mother inquired, anxiously, “if Orleans wasn’t an awful
wicked place,” saying, “that it seemed to her most equal to going
to the Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among the heathen.”
It was known at the minister’s and at the doctor’s, and at Miss
Peabody’s milliner shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was “talking
about” going away down to Orleans with her cousin; and of course the
whole village could do no less than help this very important process of
the matter. The minister, who inclined strongly to
abolitionist views, was quite doubtful whether such a step might not tend
somewhat to encourage the southerners in holding on to their slaves; while the
doctor, who was a stanch colonizationist, inclined to the opinion that Miss
Ophelia ought to go, to show the Orleans people that we don’t think
hardly of them, after all. He was of opinion, in fact, that southern people
needed encouraging. When however, the fact that she had resolved to go was
fully before the public mind, she was solemnly invited out to tea by all her
friends and neighbors for the space of a fortnight, and her prospects and plans
duly canvassed and inquired into. Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help
to do the dress-making, acquired daily accessions of importance from the
developments with regard to Miss Ophelia’s wardrobe which she had been
enabled to make. It was credibly ascertained that Squire Sinclare, as his name
was commonly contracted in the neighborhood, had counted out fifty dollars, and
given them to Miss Ophelia, and told her to buy any clothes she thought best;
and that two new silk dresses, and a bonnet, had been sent for from Boston. As
to the propriety of this extraordinary outlay, the public mind was
divided,—some affirming that it was well enough, all things considered,
for once in one’s life, and others stoutly affirming that the money had
better have been sent to the missionaries; but all parties agreed that there
had been no such parasol seen in those parts as had been sent on from New York,
and that she had one silk dress that might fairly be trusted to stand alone,
whatever might be said of its mistress. There were credible rumors, also, of a
hemstitched pocket-handkerchief; and report even went so far as to state that
Miss Ophelia had one pocket-handkerchief with lace all around it,—it was
even added that it was worked in the corners; but this latter point was never
satisfactorily ascertained, and remains, in fact, unsettled to this day.
Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you, in a very shining brown
linen travelling-dress, tall, square-formed, and angular. Her face was thin,
and rather sharp in its outlines; the lips compressed, like those of a person
who is in the habit of making up her mind definitely on all subjects; while the
keen, dark eyes had a peculiarly searching, advised movement, and travelled
over everything, as if they were looking for something to take care of.
All her movements were sharp, decided, and energetic; and, though she was never
much of a talker, her words were remarkably direct, and to the purpose, when
she did speak.
In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order, method, and exactness.
In punctuality, she was as inevitable as a clock, and as inexorable as a
railroad engine; and she held in most decided contempt and abomination anything
of a contrary character.
The great sin of sins, in her eyes,—the sum of all evils,—was
expressed by one very common and important word in her
vocabulary—“shiftlessness.” Her finale and ultimatum of
contempt consisted in a very emphatic pronunciation of the word
“shiftless;” and by this she characterized all modes of procedure
which had not a direct and inevitable relation to accomplishment of some
purpose then definitely had in mind. People who did nothing, or who did not
know exactly what they were going to do, or who did not take the most direct
way to accomplish what they set their hands to, were objects of her entire
contempt,—a contempt shown less frequently by anything she said, than by
a kind of stony grimness, as if she scorned to say anything about the matter.
As to mental cultivation,—she had a clear, strong, active mind, was well
and thoroughly read in history and the older English classics, and thought with
great strength within certain narrow limits. Her theological tenets were all
made up, labelled in most positive and distinct forms, and put by, like the
bundles in her patch trunk; there were just so many of them, and there were
never to be any more. So, also, were her ideas with regard to most matters of
practical life,—such as housekeeping in all its branches, and the various
political relations of her native village. And, underlying all, deeper than
anything else, higher and broader, lay the strongest principle of her
being—conscientiousness. Nowhere is conscience so dominant and
all-absorbing as with New England women. It is the granite formation, which
lies deepest, and rises out, even to the tops of the highest mountains.
Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the “.”
Once make her certain that the “path of duty,” as she commonly
phrased it, lay in any given direction, and fire and water could not keep her
from it. She would walk straight down into a well, or up to a loaded
cannon’s mouth, if she were only quite sure that there the path lay. Her
standard of right was so high, so all-embracing, so minute, and making so few
concessions to human frailty, that, though she strove with heroic ardor to
reach it, she never actually did so, and of course was burdened with a constant
and often harassing sense of deficiency;—this gave a severe and somewhat
gloomy cast to her religious character.
But, how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with Augustine St.
Clare,—gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, sceptical,—in
short,—walking with impudent and nonchalant freedom over every one of her
most cherished habits and opinions?
To tell the truth, then, Miss Ophelia loved him. When a boy, it had been hers
to teach him his catechism, mend his clothes, comb his hair, and bring him up
generally in the way he should go; and her heart having a warm side to it,
Augustine had, as he usually did with most people, monopolized a large share of
it for himself, and therefore it was that he succeeded very easily in
persuading her that the “path of duty” lay in the direction of New
Orleans, and that she must go with him to take care of Eva, and keep everything
from going to wreck and ruin during the frequent illnesses of his wife. The
idea of a house without anybody to take care of it went to her heart; then she
loved the lovely little girl, as few could help doing; and though she regarded
Augustine as very much of a heathen, yet she loved him, laughed at his jokes,
and forbore with his failings, to an extent which those who knew him thought
perfectly incredible. But what more or other is to be known of Miss Ophelia our
reader must discover by a personal acquaintance.
There she is, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded by a mixed multitude of
little and big carpet-bags, boxes, baskets, each containing some separate
responsibility which she is tying, binding up, packing, or fastening, with a
face of great earnestness.
“Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things? Of course you
haven’t,—children never do: there’s the spotted carpet-bag
and the little blue band-box with your best bonnet,—that’s two;
then the India rubber satchel is three; and my tape and needle box is four; and
my band-box, five; and my collar-box; and that little hair trunk, seven. What
have you done with your sunshade? Give it to me, and let me put a paper round
it, and tie it to my umbrella with my shade;—there, now.”
“Why, aunty, we are only going up home;—what is the use?”
“To keep it nice, child; people must take care of their things, if they
ever mean to have anything; and now, Eva, is your thimble put up?”
“Really, aunty, I don’t know.”
“Well, never mind; I’ll look your box over,—thimble, wax, two
spools, scissors, knife, tape-needle; all right,—put it in here. What did
you ever do, child, when you were coming on with only your papa. I should have
thought you’d a lost everything you had.”
“Well, aunty, I did lose a great many; and then, when we stopped
anywhere, papa would buy some more of whatever it was.”
“Mercy on us, child,—what a way!”
“It was a very easy way, aunty,” said Eva.
“It’s a dreadful shiftless one,” said aunty.
“Why, aunty, what’ll you do now?” said Eva; “that trunk
is too full to be shut down.”
“It shut down,” said aunty, with the air of a general,
as she squeezed the things in, and sprung upon the lid;—still a little
gap remained about the mouth of the trunk.
“Get up here, Eva!” said Miss Ophelia, courageously; “what
has been done can be done again. This trunk has shut and
locked—there are no two ways about it.”
And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute statement, gave in. The
hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the key, and pocketed
it in triumph.
“Now we’re ready. Where’s your papa? I think it time this
baggage was set out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you see your papa.”
“O, yes, he’s down the other end of the gentlemen’s cabin,
eating an orange.”
“He can’t know how near we are coming,” said aunty;
“hadn’t you better run and speak to him?”
“Papa never is in a hurry about anything,” said Eva, “and we
haven’t come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty. Look!
there’s our house, up that street!”
The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tired monster, to
prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers at the levee. Eva joyously
pointed out the various spires, domes, and way-marks, by which she recognized
her native city.
“Yes, yes, dear; very fine,” said Miss Ophelia. “But mercy on
us! the boat has stopped! where is your father?”
And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing—waiters running twenty ways
at once—men tugging trunks, carpet-bags, boxes—women anxiously
calling to their children, and everybody crowding in a dense mass to the plank
towards the landing.
Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately vanquished trunk, and
marshalling all her goods and chattels in fine military order, seemed resolved
to defend them to the last.
“Shall I take your trunk, ma’am?” “Shall I take your
baggage?” “Let me ’tend to your baggage, Missis?”
“Shan’t I carry out these yer, Missis?” rained down upon her
unheeded. She sat with grim determination, upright as a darning-needle stuck in
a board, holding on her bundle of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a
determination that was enough to strike dismay even into a hackman, wondering
to Eva, in each interval, “what upon earth her papa could be thinking of;
he couldn’t have fallen over, now,—but something must have
happened;”—and just as she had begun to work herself into a real
distress, he came up, with his usually careless motion, and giving Eva a
quarter of the orange he was eating, said,
“Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready.”
“I’ve been ready, waiting, nearly an hour,” said Miss
Ophelia; “I began to be really concerned about you.
“That’s a clever fellow, now,” said he. “Well, the
carriage is waiting, and the crowd are now off, so that one can walk out in a
decent and Christian manner, and not be pushed and shoved. Here,” he
added to a driver who stood behind him, “take these things.”
“I’ll go and see to his putting them in,” said Miss Ophelia.
“O, pshaw, cousin, what’s the use?” said St. Clare.
“Well, at any rate, I’ll carry this, and this, and this,”
said Miss Ophelia, singling out three boxes and a small carpet-bag.
“My dear Miss Vermont, positively you mustn’t come the Green
Mountains over us that way. You must adopt at least a piece of a southern
principle, and not walk out under all that load. They’ll take you for a
waiting-maid; give them to this fellow; he’ll put them down as if they
were eggs, now.”
Miss Ophelia looked despairingly as her cousin took all her treasures from her,
and rejoiced to find herself once more in the carriage with them, in a state of
preservation.
“Where’s Tom?” said Eva.
“O, he’s on the outside, Pussy. I’m going to take Tom up to
mother for a peace-offering, to make up for that drunken fellow that upset the
carriage.”
“O, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know,” said Eva;
“he’ll never get drunk.”
The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, built in that odd mixture
of Spanish and French style, of which there are specimens in some parts of New
Orleans. It was built in the Moorish fashion,—a square building enclosing
a court-yard, into which the carriage drove through an arched gateway. The
court, in the inside, had evidently been arranged to gratify a picturesque and
voluptuous ideality. Wide galleries ran all around the four sides, whose
Moorish arches, slender pillars, and arabesque ornaments, carried the mind
back, as in a dream, to the reign of oriental romance in Spain. In the middle
of the court, a fountain threw high its silvery water, falling in a
never-ceasing spray into a marble basin, fringed with a deep border of fragrant
violets. The water in the fountain, pellucid as crystal, was alive with myriads
of gold and silver fishes, twinkling and darting through it like so many living
jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved with a mosaic of pebbles, laid in
various fanciful patterns; and this, again, was surrounded by turf, smooth as
green velvet, while a carriage-drive enclosed the whole. Two large
orange-trees, now fragrant with blossoms, threw a delicious shade; and, ranged
in a circle round upon the turf, were marble vases of arabesque sculpture,
containing the choicest flowering plants of the tropics. Huge pomegranate
trees, with their glossy leaves and flame-colored flowers, dark-leaved Arabian
jessamines, with their silvery stars, geraniums, luxuriant roses bending
beneath their heavy abundance of flowers, golden jessamines, lemon-scented
verbenum, all united their bloom and fragrance, while here and there a mystic
old aloe, with its strange, massive leaves, sat looking like some old
enchanter, sitting in weird grandeur among the more perishable bloom and
fragrance around it.
The galleries that surrounded the court were festooned with a curtain of some
kind of Moorish stuff, and could be drawn down at pleasure, to exclude the
beams of the sun. On the whole, the appearance of the place was luxurious and
romantic.
As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to burst from a cage,
with the wild eagerness of her delight.
“O, isn’t it beautiful, lovely! my own dear, darling home!”
she said to Miss Ophelia. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“’T is a pretty place,” said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted;
“though it looks rather old and heathenish to me.”
Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an air of calm, still
enjoyment. The negro, it must be remembered, is an exotic of the most gorgeous
and superb countries of the world, and he has, deep in his heart, a passion for
all that is splendid, rich, and fanciful; a passion which, rudely indulged by
an untrained taste, draws on them the ridicule of the colder and more correct
white race.
St. Clare, who was in heart a poetical voluptuary, smiled as Miss Ophelia made
her remark on his premises, and, turning to Tom, who was standing looking
round, his beaming black face perfectly radiant with admiration, he said,
“Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you.”
“Yes, Mas’r, it looks about the right thing,” said Tom.
All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being hustled off, hackman paid,
and while a crowd, of all ages and sizes,—men, women, and
children,—came running through the galleries, both above and below to see
Mas’r come in. Foremost among them was a highly-dressed young mulatto
man, evidently a very personage, attired in the ultra extreme
of the mode, and gracefully waving a scented cambric handkerchief in his hand.
This personage had been exerting himself, with great alacrity, in driving all
the flock of domestics to the other end of the verandah.
“Back! all of you. I am ashamed of you,” he said, in a tone of
authority. “Would you intrude on Master’s domestic relations, in
the first hour of his return?”
All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with quite an air, and
stood huddled together at a respectful distance, except two stout porters, who
came up and began conveying away the baggage.
Owing to Mr. Adolph’s systematic arrangements, when St. Clare turned
round from paying the hackman, there was nobody in view but Mr. Adolph himself,
conspicuous in satin vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and bowing with
inexpressible grace and suavity.
“Ah, Adolph, is it you?” said his master, offering his hand to him;
“how are you, boy?” while Adolph poured forth, with great fluency,
an extemporary speech, which he had been preparing, with great care, for a
fortnight before.
“Well, well,” said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air of
negligent drollery, “that’s very well got up, Adolph. See that the
baggage is well bestowed. I’ll come to the people in a minute;”
and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to a large parlor that opened on the
verandah.
While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird, through the porch and
parlor, to a little boudoir opening likewise on the verandah.
A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman, half rose from a couch on which she was
reclining.
“Mamma!” said Eva, in a sort of a rapture, throwing herself on her
neck, and embracing her over and over again.
“That’ll do,—take care, child,—don’t, you make my
head ache,” said the mother, after she had languidly kissed her.
St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, husbandly fashion, and
then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her large eyes on her cousin
with an air of some curiosity, and received her with languid politeness. A
crowd of servants now pressed to the entry door, and among them a middle-aged
mulatto woman, of very respectable appearance, stood foremost, in a tremor of
expectation and joy, at the door.
“O, there’s Mammy!” said Eva, as she flew across the room;
and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly.
This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but, on the contrary,
she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, till her sanity was a thing to be
doubted of; and when released from her, Eva flew from one to another, shaking
hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia afterwards declared fairly turned
her stomach.
“Well!” said Miss Ophelia, “you southern children can do
something that couldn’t.”
“What, now, pray?” said St. Clare.
“Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn’t have anything
hurt; but as to kissing—”
“Niggers,” said St. Clare, “that you’re not up
to,—hey?”
“Yes, that’s it. How can she?”
St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. “Halloa, here,
what’s to pay out here? Here, you all—Mammy, Jimmy, Polly,
Sukey—glad to see Mas’r?” he said, as he went shaking hands
from one to another. “Look out for the babies!” he added, as he
stumbled over a sooty little urchin, who was crawling upon all fours. “If
I step upon anybody, let ’em mention it.”
There was an abundance of laughing and blessing Mas’r, as St. Clare
distributed small pieces of change among them.
“Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls,” he
said; and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared through a door into
a large verandah, followed by Eva, who carried a large satchel, which she had
been filling with apples, nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and toys of every
description, during her whole homeward journey.
As St. Clare turned to go back his eye fell upon Tom, who was standing
uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while Adolph stood negligently
leaning against the banisters, examining Tom through an opera-glass, with an
air that would have done credit to any dandy living.
“Puh! you puppy,” said his master, striking down the opera glass;
“is that the way you treat your company? Seems to me, Dolph,” he
added, laying his finger on the elegant figured satin vest that Adolph was
sporting, “seems to me that’s vest.”
“O! Master, this vest all stained with wine; of course, a gentleman in
Master’s standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to
take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow, like me.”
And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through his scented hair,
with a grace.
“So, that’s it, is it?” said St. Clare, carelessly.
“Well, here, I’m going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then
you take him to the kitchen; and mind you don’t put on any of your airs
to him. He’s worth two such puppies as you.”
“Master always will have his joke,” said Adolph, laughing.
“I’m delighted to see Master in such spirits.”
“Here, Tom,” said St. Clare, beckoning.
Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets, and the before
unimagined splendors of mirrors, pictures, statues, and curtains, and, like the
Queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no more spirit in him. He looked
afraid even to set his feet down.
“See here, Marie,” said St. Clare to his wife, “I’ve
bought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he’s a regular
hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you
want. Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don’t say I never think
about you when I’m gone.”
Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising.
“I know he’ll get drunk,” she said.
“No, he’s warranted a pious and sober article.”
“Well, I hope he may turn out well,” said the lady;
“it’s more than I expect, though.”
“Dolph,” said St. Clare, “show Tom down stairs; and, mind
yourself,” he added; “remember what I told you.”
Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumbering tread, went after.
“He’s a perfect behemoth!” said Marie.
“Come, now, Marie,” said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool
beside her sofa, “be gracious, and say something pretty to a
fellow.”
“You’ve been gone a fortnight beyond the time,” said the
lady, pouting.
“Well, you know I wrote you the reason.”
“Such a short, cold letter!” said the lady.
“Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or
nothing.”
“That’s just the way, always,” said the lady; “always
something to make your journeys long, and letters short.”
“See here, now,” he added, drawing an elegant velvet case out of
his pocket, and opening it, “here’s a present I got for you in New
York.”
It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, representing Eva and
her father sitting hand in hand.
Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.
“What made you sit in such an awkward position?” she said.
“Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you think of
the likeness?”
“If you don’t think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose
you wouldn’t in another,” said the lady, shutting the
daguerreotype.
“Hang the woman!” said St. Clare, mentally; but aloud he added,
“Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don’t be
nonsensical, now.”
“It’s very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare,” said the lady,
“to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know I’ve been
lying all day with the sick-headache; and there’s been such a tumult made
ever since you came, I’m half dead.”
“You’re subject to the sick-headache, ma’am!” said Miss
Ophelia, suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, where she had
sat quietly, taking an inventory of the furniture, and calculating its expense.
“Yes, I’m a perfect martyr to it,” said the lady.
“Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache,” said Miss Ophelia;
“at least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry’s wife, used to say so;
and she was a great nurse.”
“I’ll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by
the lake brought in for that special purpose,” said St. Clare, gravely
pulling the bell as he did so; “meanwhile, cousin, you must be wanting to
retire to your apartment, and refresh yourself a little, after your journey.
Dolph,” he added, “tell Mammy to come here.” The decent
mulatto woman whom Eva had caressed so rapturously soon entered; she was
dressed neatly, with a high red and yellow turban on her head, the recent gift
of Eva, and which the child had been arranging on her head.
“Mammy,” said St. Clare, “I put this lady under your care;
she is tired, and wants rest; take her to her chamber, and be sure she is made
comfortable,” and Miss Ophelia disappeared in the rear of Mammy.
CHAPTER XVI
Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions
“And now, Marie,” said St. Clare, “your golden days are
dawning. Here is our practical, business-like New England cousin, who will take
the whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to refresh
yourself, and grow young and handsome. The ceremony of delivering the keys had
better come off forthwith.”
This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few mornings after Miss Ophelia
had arrived.
“I’m sure she’s welcome,” said Marie, leaning her head
languidly on her hand. “I think she’ll find one thing, if she does,
and that is, that it’s we mistresses that are the slaves, down
here.”
“O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome truths
besides, no doubt,” said St. Clare.
“Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our
,” said Marie. “I’m sure, if we consulted
, we might let them all go at once.”
Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother’s face, with an
earnest and perplexed expression, and said, simply, “What do you keep
them for, mamma?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, except for a plague; they are the
plague of my life. I believe that more of my ill health is caused by them than
by any one thing; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody was
plagued with.”
“O, come, Marie, you’ve got the blues, this morning,” said
St. Clare. “You know ’t isn’t so. There’s Mammy, the
best creature living,—what could you do without her?”
“Mammy is the best I ever knew,” said Marie; “and yet Mammy,
now, is selfish—dreadfully selfish; it’s the fault of the whole
race.”
“Selfishness a dreadful fault,” said St. Clare, gravely.
“Well, now, there’s Mammy,” said Marie, “I think
it’s selfish of her to sleep so sound nights; she knows I need little
attentions almost every hour, when my worst turns are on, and yet she’s
so hard to wake. I absolutely am worse, this very morning, for the efforts I
had to make to wake her last night.”
“Hasn’t she sat up with you a good many nights, lately,
mamma?” said Eva.
“How should you know that?” said Marie, sharply; “she’s
been complaining, I suppose.”
“She didn’t complain; she only told me what bad nights you’d
had,—so many in succession.”
“Why don’t you let Jane or Rosa take her place, a night or
two,” said St. Clare, “and let her rest?”
“How can you propose it?” said Marie. “St. Clare, you really
are inconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me; and a
strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt the
interest in me she ought to, she’d wake easier,—of course, she
would. I’ve heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never
was luck;” and Marie sighed.
Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd, observant
gravity; and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, as if determined fully
to ascertain her longitude and position, before she committed herself.
“Now, Mammy has a of goodness,” said Marie;
“she’s smooth and respectful, but she’s selfish at heart.
Now, she never will be done fidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers.
You see, when I was married and came to live here, of course, I had to bring
her with me, and her husband my father couldn’t spare. He was a
blacksmith, and, of course, very necessary; and I thought and said, at the
time, that Mammy and he had better give each other up, as it wasn’t
likely to be convenient for them ever to live together again. I wish, now,
I’d insisted on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolish
and indulgent, and didn’t want to insist. I told Mammy, at the time, that
she mustn’t ever expect to see him more than once or twice in her life
again, for the air of father’s place doesn’t agree with my health,
and I can’t go there; and I advised her to take up with somebody else;
but no—she wouldn’t. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in
spots, that everybody don’t see as I do.”
“Has she children?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Yes; she has two.”
“I suppose she feels the separation from them?”
“Well, of course, I couldn’t bring them. They were little dirty
things—I couldn’t have them about; and, besides, they took up too
much of her time; but I believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort of
sulkiness about this. She won’t marry anybody else; and I do believe,
now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my health is,
she would go back to her husband tomorrow, if she only could. I ,
indeed,” said Marie; “they are just so selfish, now, the best of
them.”
“It’s distressing to reflect upon,” said St. Clare, dryly.
Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of mortification and
repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of the lip, as he spoke.
“Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me,” said Marie. “I
wish some of your northern servants could look at her closets of
dresses,—silks and muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging
there. I’ve worked sometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and
getting her ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don’t know what it
is. She never was whipped more than once or twice in her whole life. She has
her strong coffee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It’s
abominable, to be sure; but St. Clare will have high life below-stairs, and
they every one of them live just as they please. The fact is, our servants are
over-indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish, and act
like spoiled children; but I’ve talked to St. Clare till I am
tired.”
“And I, too,” said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper.
Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother, with that expression
of deep and mystic earnestness which was peculiar to her. She walked softly
round to her mother’s chair, and put her arms round her neck.
“Well, Eva, what now?” said Marie.
“Mamma, couldn’t I take care of you one night—just one? I
know I shouldn’t make you nervous, and I shouldn’t sleep. I often
lie awake nights, thinking—”
“O, nonsense, child—nonsense!” said Marie; “you are
such a strange child!”
“But may I, mamma? I think,” she said, timidly, “that Mammy
isn’t well. She told me her head ached all the time, lately.”
“O, that’s just one of Mammy’s fidgets! Mammy is just like
all the rest of them—makes such a fuss about every little headache or
finger-ache; it’ll never do to encourage it—never! I’m
principled about this matter,” said she, turning to Miss Ophelia;
“you’ll find the necessity of it. If you encourage servants in
giving way to every little disagreeable feeling, and complaining of every
little ailment, you’ll have your hands full. I never complain
myself—nobody knows what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly,
and I do.”
Miss Ophelia’s round eyes expressed an undisguised amazement at this
peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely ludicrous, that he burst
into a loud laugh.
“St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill
health,” said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. “I only
hope the day won’t come when he’ll remember it!” and Marie
put her handkerchief to her eyes.
Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally, St. Clare got up,
looked at his watch, and said he had an engagement down street. Eva tripped
away after him, and Miss Ophelia and Marie remained at the table alone.
“Now, that’s just like St. Clare!” said the latter,
withdrawing her handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish when the
criminal to be affected by it was no longer in sight. “He never realizes,
never can, never will, what I suffer, and have, for years. If I was one of the
complaining sort, or ever made any fuss about my ailments, there would be some
reason for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining wife. But
I’ve kept things to myself, and borne, and borne, till St. Clare has got
in the way of thinking I can bear anything.”
Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected to answer to this.
While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped away her tears, and
smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way, as a dove might be supposed to
make toilet after a shower, and began a housewifely chat with Miss Ophelia,
concerning cupboards, closets, linen-presses, store-rooms, and other matters,
of which the latter was, by common understanding, to assume the
direction,—giving her so many cautious directions and charges, that a
head less systematic and business-like than Miss Ophelia’s would have
been utterly dizzied and confounded.
“And now,” said Marie, “I believe I’ve told you
everything; so that, when my next sick turn comes on, you’ll be able to
go forward entirely, without consulting me;—only about Eva,—she
requires watching.”
“She seems to be a good child, very,” said Miss Ophelia; “I
never saw a better child.”
“Eva’s peculiar,” said her mother, “very. There are
things about her so singular; she isn’t like me, now, a particle;”
and Marie sighed, as if this was a truly melancholy consideration.
Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, “I hope she isn’t,” but
had prudence enough to keep it down.
“Eva always was disposed to be with servants; and I think that well
enough with some children. Now, I always played with father’s little
negroes—it never did me any harm. But Eva somehow always seems to put
herself on an equality with every creature that comes near her. It’s a
strange thing about the child. I never have been able to break her of it. St.
Clare, I believe, encourages her in it. The fact is, St. Clare indulges every
creature under this roof but his own wife.”
Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.
“Now, there’s no way with servants,” said Marie, “but
to , and keep them down. It was always natural to me, from
a child. Eva is enough to spoil a whole house-full. What she will do when she
comes to keep house herself, I’m sure I don’t know. I hold to being
to servants—I always am; but you must make ’em . Eva never does; there’s no getting into the
child’s head the first beginning of an idea what a servant’s place
is! You heard her offering to take care of me nights, to let Mammy sleep!
That’s just a specimen of the way the child would be doing all the time,
if she was left to herself.”
“Why,” said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, “I suppose you think your
servants are human creatures, and ought to have some rest when they are
tired.”
“Certainly, of course. I’m very particular in letting them have
everything that comes convenient,—anything that doesn’t put one at
all out of the way, you know. Mammy can make up her sleep, some time or other;
there’s no difficulty about that. She’s the sleepiest concern that
ever I saw; sewing, standing, or sitting, that creature will go to sleep, and
sleep anywhere and everywhere. No danger but Mammy gets sleep enough. But this
treating servants as if they were exotic flowers, or china vases, is really
ridiculous,” said Marie, as she plunged languidly into the depths of a
voluminous and pillowy lounge, and drew towards her an elegant cut-glass
vinaigrette.
“You see,” she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, like the
last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something equally ethereal,
“you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don’t often speak of myself. It
isn’t my ; ’t isn’t agreeable to me. In fact, I
haven’t strength to do it. But there are points where St. Clare and I
differ. St. Clare never understood me, never appreciated me. I think it lies at
the root of all my ill health. St. Clare means well, I am bound to believe; but
men are constitutionally selfish and inconsiderate to woman. That, at least, is
my impression.”
Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New England caution, and
a very particular horror of being drawn into family difficulties, now began to
foresee something of this kind impending; so, composing her face into a grim
neutrality, and drawing out of her pocket about a yard and a quarter of
stocking, which she kept as a specific against what Dr. Watts asserts to be a
personal habit of Satan when people have idle hands, she proceeded to knit most
energetically, shutting her lips together in a way that said, as plain as words
could, “You needn’t try to make me speak. I don’t want
anything to do with your affairs,”—in fact, she looked about as
sympathizing as a stone lion. But Marie didn’t care for that. She had got
somebody to talk to, and she felt it her duty to talk, and that was enough; and
reinforcing herself by smelling again at her vinaigrette, she went on.
“You see, I brought my own property and servants into the connection,
when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled to manage them my own way.
St. Clare had his fortune and his servants, and I’m well enough content
he should manage them his way; but St. Clare will be interfering. He has wild,
extravagant notions about things, particularly about the treatment of servants.
He really does act as if he set his servants before me, and before himself,
too; for he lets them make him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a finger.
Now, about some things, St. Clare is really frightful—he frightens
me—good-natured as he looks, in general. Now, he has set down his foot
that, come what will, there shall not be a blow struck in this house, except
what he or I strike; and he does it in a way that I really dare not cross him.
Well, you may see what that leads to; for St. Clare wouldn’t raise his
hand, if every one of them walked over him, and I—you see how cruel it
would be to require me to make the exertion. Now, you know these servants are
nothing but grown-up children.”
“I don’t know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I
don’t!” said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
“Well, but you will have to know something, and know it to your cost, if
you stay here. You don’t know what a provoking, stupid, careless,
unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set of wretches they are.”
Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got upon this topic; and
she now opened her eyes, and seemed quite to forget her languor.
“You don’t know, and you can’t, the daily, hourly trials that
beset a housekeeper from them, everywhere and every way. But it’s no use
to complain to St. Clare. He talks the strangest stuff. He says we have made
them what they are, and ought to bear with them. He says their faults are all
owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault and punish it too. He
says we shouldn’t do any better, in their place; just as if one could
reason from them to us, you know.”
“Don’t you believe that the Lord made them of one blood with
us?” said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
“No, indeed not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a degraded
race.”
“Don’t you think they’ve got immortal souls?” said Miss
Ophelia, with increasing indignation.
“O, well,” said Marie, yawning, “that, of course—nobody
doubts that. But as to putting them on any sort of equality with us, you know,
as if we could be compared, why, it’s impossible! Now, St. Clare really
has talked to me as if keeping Mammy from her husband was like keeping me from
mine. There’s no comparing in this way. Mammy couldn’t have the
feelings that I should. It’s a different thing altogether,—of
course, it is,—and yet St. Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if
Mammy could love her little dirty babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare once
really and soberly tried to persuade me that it was my duty, with my weak
health, and all I suffer, to let Mammy go back, and take somebody else in her
place. That was a little too much even for to bear. I don’t
often show my feelings, I make it a principle to endure everything in silence;
it’s a wife’s hard lot, and I bear it. But I did break out, that
time; so that he has never alluded to the subject since. But I know by his
looks, and little things that he says, that he thinks so as much as ever; and
it’s so trying, so provoking!”
Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she should say something;
but she rattled away with her needles in a way that had volumes of meaning in
it, if Marie could only have understood it.
“So, you just see,” she continued, “what you’ve got to
manage. A household without any rule; where servants have it all their own way,
do what they please, and have what they please, except so far as I, with my
feeble health, have kept up government. I keep my cowhide about, and sometimes
I do lay it on; but the exertion is always too much for me. If St. Clare would
only have this thing done as others do—”
“And how’s that?”
“Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other places to be
flogged. That’s the only way. If I wasn’t such a poor, feeble
piece, I believe I should manage with twice the energy that St. Clare
does.”
“And how does St. Clare contrive to manage?” said Miss Ophelia.
“You say he never strikes a blow.”
“Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it is easier for them;
besides, if you ever looked full in his eye, it’s peculiar,—that
eye,—and if he speaks decidedly, there’s a kind of flash. I’m
afraid of it, myself; and the servants know they must mind. I couldn’t do
as much by a regular storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of his
eye, if once he is in earnest. O, there’s no trouble about St. Clare;
that’s the reason he’s no more feeling for me. But you’ll
find, when you come to manage, that there’s no getting along without
severity,—they are so bad, so deceitful, so lazy.”
“The old tune,” said St. Clare, sauntering in. “What an awful
account these wicked creatures will have to settle, at last, especially for
being lazy! You see, cousin,” said he, as he stretched himself at full
length on a lounge opposite to Marie, “it’s wholly inexcusable in
them, in the light of the example that Marie and I set them,—this
laziness.”
“Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad!” said Marie.
“Am I, now? Why, I thought I was talking good, quite remarkably for me. I
try to enforce your remarks, Marie, always.”
“You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare,” said Marie.
“O, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my dear, for setting me
right.”
“You do really try to be provoking,” said Marie.
“O, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have just had a long
quarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me excessively; so, pray be agreeable,
now, and let a fellow repose in the light of your smile.”
“What’s the matter about Dolph?” said Marie. “That
fellow’s impudence has been growing to a point that is perfectly
intolerable to me. I only wish I had the undisputed management of him a while.
I’d bring him down!”
“What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acuteness and good
sense,” said St. Clare. “As to Dolph, the case is this: that he has
so long been engaged in imitating my graces and perfections, that he has, at
last, really mistaken himself for his master; and I have been obliged to give
him a little insight into his mistake.”
“How?” said Marie.
“Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that I preferred to
keep of my clothes for my own personal wearing; also, I put his
magnificence upon an allowance of cologne-water, and actually was so cruel as
to restrict him to one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. Dolph was
particularly huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like a father, to bring
him round.”
“O! St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your servants? It’s
abominable, the way you indulge them!” said Marie.
“Why, after all, what’s the harm of the poor dog’s wanting to
be like his master; and if I haven’t brought him up any better than to
find his chief good in cologne and cambric handkerchiefs, why shouldn’t I
give them to him?”
“And why haven’t you brought him up better?” said Miss
Ophelia, with blunt determination.
“Too much trouble,—laziness, cousin, laziness,—which ruins
more souls than you can shake a stick at. If it weren’t for laziness, I
should have been a perfect angel, myself. I’m inclined to think that
laziness is what your old Dr. Botherem, up in Vermont, used to call the
‘essence of moral evil.’ It’s an awful consideration,
certainly.”
“I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility upon you,”
said Miss Ophelia. “I wouldn’t have it, for a thousand worlds. You
ought to educate your slaves, and treat them like reasonable
creatures,—like immortal creatures, that you’ve got to stand before
the bar of God with. That’s my mind,” said the good lady, breaking
suddenly out with a tide of zeal that had been gaining strength in her mind all
the morning.
“O! come, come,” said St. Clare, getting up quickly; “what do
you know about us?” And he sat down to the piano, and rattled a lively
piece of music. St. Clare had a decided genius for music. His touch was
brilliant and firm, and his fingers flew over the keys with a rapid and
bird-like motion, airy, and yet decided. He played piece after piece, like a
man who is trying to play himself into a good humor. After pushing the music
aside, he rose up, and said, gayly, “Well, now, cousin, you’ve
given us a good talk and done your duty; on the whole, I think the better of
you for it. I make no manner of doubt that you threw a very diamond of truth at
me, though you see it hit me so directly in the face that it wasn’t
exactly appreciated, at first.”
“For my part, I don’t see any use in such sort of talk,” said
Marie. “I’m sure, if anybody does more for servants than we do,
I’d like to know who; and it don’t do ’em a bit
good,—not a particle,—they get worse and worse. As to talking to
them, or anything like that, I’m sure I have talked till I was tired and
hoarse, telling them their duty, and all that; and I’m sure they can go
to church when they like, though they don’t understand a word of the
sermon, more than so many pigs,—so it isn’t of any great use for
them to go, as I see; but they do go, and so they have every chance; but, as I
said before, they are a degraded race, and always will be, and there
isn’t any help for them; you can’t make anything of them, if you
try. You see, Cousin Ophelia, I’ve tried, and you haven’t; I was
born and bred among them, and I know.”
Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat silent. St. Clare
whistled a tune.
“St. Clare, I wish you wouldn’t whistle,” said Marie;
“it makes my head worse.”
“I won’t,” said St. Clare. “Is there anything else you
wouldn’t wish me to do?”
“I wish you have some kind of sympathy for my trials; you
never have any feeling for me.”
“My dear accusing angel!” said St. Clare.
“It’s provoking to be talked to in that way.”
“Then, how will you be talked to? I’ll talk to order,—any way
you’ll mention,—only to give satisfaction.”
A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains of the verandah.
St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the curtain, laughed too.
“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.
There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of his
button-holes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva, gayly laughing, was
hanging a wreath of roses round his neck; and then she sat down on his knee,
like a chip-sparrow, still laughing.
“O, Tom, you look so funny!”
Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way, to be enjoying
the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He lifted his eyes, when he saw
his master, with a half-deprecating, apologetic air.
“How can you let her?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Why not?” said St. Clare.
“Why, I don’t know, it seems so dreadful!”
“You would think no harm in a child’s caressing a large dog, even
if he was black; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, and is
immortal, you shudder at; confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among some of
you northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our not
having it; but custom with us does what Christianity ought to
do,—obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I have often noticed,
in my travels north, how much stronger this was with you than with us. You
loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet you are indignant at their
wrongs. You would not have them abused; but you don’t want to have
anything to do with them yourselves. You would send them to Africa, out of your
sight and smell, and then send a missionary or two to do up all the self-denial
of elevating them compendiously. Isn’t that it?”
“Well, cousin,” said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, “there may
be some truth in this.”
“What would the poor and lowly do, without children?” said St.
Clare, leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as she tripped off, leading
Tom with her. “Your little child is your only true democrat. Tom, now is
a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes, his songs and Methodist
hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and little bits of trash in his
pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful Tom that ever wore a black
skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that the Lord has dropped down expressly
for the poor and lowly, who get few enough of any other kind.”
“It’s strange, cousin,” said Miss Ophelia, “one might
almost think you were a , to hear you talk.”
“A professor?” said St. Clare.
“Yes; a professor of religion.”
“Not at all; not a professor, as your town-folks have it; and, what is
worse, I’m afraid, not a , either.”
“What makes you talk so, then?”
“Nothing is easier than talking,” said St. Clare. “I believe
Shakespeare makes somebody say, ’I could sooner show twenty what were
good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow my own showing.‘
Nothing like division of labor. My forte lies in talking, and yours, cousin,
lies in doing.”
[1]
, Act 1, scene 2, lines 17-18.
In Tom’s external situation, at this time, there was, as the world says,
nothing to complain of Little Eva’s fancy for him—the instinctive
gratitude and loveliness of a noble nature—had led her to petition her
father that he might be her especial attendant, whenever she needed the escort
of a servant, in her walks or rides; and Tom had general orders to let
everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva whenever she wanted
him,—orders which our readers may fancy were far from disagreeable to
him. He was kept well dressed, for St. Clare was fastidiously particular on
this point. His stable services were merely a sinecure, and consisted simply in
a daily care and inspection, and directing an under-servant in his duties; for
Marie St. Clare declared that she could not have any smell of the horses about
him when he came near her, and that he must positively not be put to any
service that would make him unpleasant to her, as her nervous system was
entirely inadequate to any trial of that nature; one snuff of anything
disagreeable being, according to her account, quite sufficient to close the
scene, and put an end to all her earthly trials at once. Tom, therefore, in his
well-brushed broadcloth suit, smooth beaver, glossy boots, faultless wristbands
and collar, with his grave, good-natured black face, looked respectable enough
to be a Bishop of Carthage, as men of his color were, in other ages.
Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to which his sensitive
race was never indifferent; and he did enjoy with a quiet joy the birds, the
flowers, the fountains, the perfume, and light and beauty of the court, the
silken hangings, and pictures, and lustres, and statuettes, and gilding, that
made the parlors within a kind of Aladdin’s palace to him.
If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race,—and come it
must, some time, her turn to figure in the great drama of human
improvement.—life will awake there with a gorgeousness and splendor of
which our cold western tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic
land of gold, and gems, and spices, and waving palms, and wondrous flowers, and
miraculous fertility, will awake new forms of art, new styles of splendor; and
the negro race, no longer despised and trodden down, will, perhaps, show forth
some of the latest and most magnificent revelations of human life. Certainly
they will, in their gentleness, their lowly docility of heart, their aptitude
to repose on a superior mind and rest on a higher power, their childlike
simplicity of affection, and facility of forgiveness. In all these they will
exhibit the highest form of the peculiarly , and, perhaps,
as God chasteneth whom he loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace of
affliction, to make her the highest and noblest in that kingdom which he will
set up, when every other kingdom has been tried, and failed; for the first
shall be last, and the last first.
Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood, gorgeously
dressed, on the verandah, on Sunday morning, clasping a diamond bracelet on her
slender wrist? Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn’t that, it was
something else; for Marie patronized good things, and she was going now, in
full force,—diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels, and all,—to a
fashionable church, to be very religious. Marie always made a point to be very
pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant, so airy and
undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping her like a mist. She
looked a graceful creature, and she felt very good and very elegant indeed.
Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect contrast. It was not that she had not
as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and as fine a pocket-handkerchief; but
stiffness and squareness, and bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as
indefinite yet appreciable a presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; not
the grace of God, however,—that is quite another thing!
“Where’s Eva?” said Marie.
“The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to Mammy.”
And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs? Listen, reader, and you will
hear, though Marie does not.
“Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully.”
“Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately. You don’t
need to worry.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re going out; and here,”—and
the little girl threw her arms around her,—“Mammy, you shall take
my vinaigrette.”
“What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds! Lor, Miss,
’t wouldn’t be proper, no ways.”
“Why not? You need it, and I don’t. Mamma always uses it for
headache, and it’ll make you feel better. No, you shall take it, to
please me, now.”
“Do hear the darlin talk!” said Mammy, as Eva thrust it into her
bosom, and kissing her, ran down stairs to her mother.
“What were you stopping for?”
“I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take to church with
her.”
“Eva” said Marie, stamping impatiently,—“your gold
vinaigrette to When will you learn what’s ? Go
right and take it back this moment!”
Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.
“I say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she pleases,”
said St. Clare.
“St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?” said Marie.
“The Lord knows,” said St. Clare, “but she’ll get along
in heaven better than you or I.”
“O, papa, don’t,” said Eva, softly touching his elbow;
“it troubles mother.”
“Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?” said Miss Ophelia,
turning square about on St. Clare.
“I’m not going, thank you.”
“I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church,” said Marie;
“but he hasn’t a particle of religion about him. It really
isn’t respectable.”
“I know it,” said St. Clare. “You ladies go to church to
learn how to get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety sheds
respectability on us. If I did go at all, I would go where Mammy goes;
there’s something to keep a fellow awake there, at least.”
“What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible!” said Marie.
“Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie.
Positively, it’s too much to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go? Come,
stay at home and play with me.”
“Thank you, papa; but I’d rather go to church.”
“Isn’t it dreadful tiresome?” said St. Clare.
“I think it is tiresome, some,” said Eva, “and I am sleepy,
too, but I try to keep awake.”
“What do you go for, then?”
“Why, you know, papa,” she said, in a whisper, “cousin told
me that God wants to have us; and he gives us everything, you know; and it
isn’t much to do it, if he wants us to. It isn’t so very tiresome
after all.”
“You sweet, little obliging soul!” said St. Clare, kissing her;
“go along, that’s a good girl, and pray for me.”
“Certainly, I always do,” said the child, as she sprang after her
mother into the carriage.
St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her, as the carriage drove
away; large tears were in his eyes.
“O, Evangeline! rightly named,” he said; “hath not God made
thee an evangel to me?”
So he felt a moment; and then he smoked a cigar, and read the Picayune, and
forgot his little gospel. Was he much unlike other folks?
“You see, Evangeline,” said her mother, “it’s always
right and proper to be kind to servants, but it isn’t proper to treat
them as we would our relations, or people in our own class of life.
Now, if Mammy was sick, you wouldn’t want to put her in your own
bed.”
“I should feel just like it, mamma,” said Eva, “because then
it would be handier to take care of her, and because, you know, my bed is
better than hers.”
Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral perception evinced in
this reply.
“What can I do to make this child understand me?” she said.
“Nothing,” said Miss Ophelia, significantly.
Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment; but children, luckily, do not
keep to one impression long, and in a few moments she was merrily laughing at
various things which she saw from the coach-windows, as it rattled along.
“Well, ladies,” said St. Clare, as they were comfortably seated at
the dinner-table, “and what was the bill of fare at church today?”
“O, Dr. G—— preached a splendid sermon,” said Marie.
“It was just such a sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed all my
views exactly.”
“It must have been very improving,” said St. Clare. “The
subject must have been an extensive one.”
“Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things,” said
Marie. “The text was, ‘He hath made everything beautiful in its
season;’ and he showed how all the orders and distinctions in society
came from God; and that it was so appropriate, you know, and beautiful, that
some should be high and some low, and that some were born to rule and some to
serve, and all that, you know; and he applied it so well to all this ridiculous
fuss that is made about slavery, and he proved distinctly that the Bible was on
our side, and supported all our institutions so convincingly. I only wish
you’d heard him.”
“O, I didn’t need it,” said St. Clare. “I can learn
what does me as much good as that from the Picayune, any time, and smoke a
cigar besides; which I can’t do, you know, in a church.”
“Why,” said Miss Ophelia, “don’t you believe in these
views?”
“Who,—I? You know I’m such a graceless dog that these
religious aspects of such subjects don’t edify me much. If I was to say
anything on this slavery matter, I would say out, fair and square,
‘We’re in for it; we’ve got ’em, and mean to keep
’em,—it’s for our convenience and our interest;’ for
that’s the long and short of it,—that’s just the whole of
what all this sanctified stuff amounts to, after all; and I think that it will
be intelligible to everybody, everywhere.”
“I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!” said Marie.
“I think it’s shocking to hear you talk.”
“Shocking! it’s the truth. This religious talk on such
matters,—why don’t they carry it a little further, and show the
beauty, in its season, of a fellow’s taking a glass too much, and sitting
a little too late over his cards, and various providential arrangements of that
sort, which are pretty frequent among us young men;—we’d like to
hear that those are right and godly, too.”
“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, “do you think slavery right or
wrong?”
“I’m not going to have any of your horrid New England directness,
cousin,” said St. Clare, gayly. “If I answer that question, I know
you’ll be at me with half a dozen others, each one harder than the last;
and I’m not a going to define my position. I am one of the sort that
lives by throwing stones at other people’s glass houses, but I never mean
to put up one for them to stone.”
“That’s just the way he’s always talking,” said Marie;
“you can’t get any satisfaction out of him. I believe it’s
just because he don’t like religion, that he’s always running out
in this way he’s been doing.”
“Religion!” said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies look at
him. “Religion! Is what you hear at church, religion? Is that which can
bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to fit every crooked phase of selfish,
worldly society, religion? Is that religion which is less scrupulous, less
generous, less just, less considerate for man, than even my own ungodly,
worldly, blinded nature? No! When I look for a religion, I must look for
something above me, and not something beneath.”
“Then you don’t believe that the Bible justifies slavery,”
said Miss Ophelia.
“The Bible was my book,” said St. Clare.
“By it she lived and died, and I would be very sorry to think it did.
I’d as soon desire to have it proved that my mother could drink brandy,
chew tobacco, and swear, by way of satisfying me that I did right in doing the
same. It wouldn’t make me at all more satisfied with these things in
myself, and it would take from me the comfort of respecting her; and it really
is a comfort, in this world, to have anything one can respect. In short, you
see,” said he, suddenly resuming his gay tone, “all I want is that
different things be kept in different boxes. The whole frame-work of society,
both in Europe and America, is made up of various things which will not stand
the scrutiny of any very ideal standard of morality. It’s pretty
generally understood that men don’t aspire after the absolute right, but
only to do about as well as the rest of the world. Now, when any one speaks up,
like a man, and says slavery is necessary to us, we can’t get along
without it, we should be beggared if we give it up, and, of course, we mean to
hold on to it,—this is strong, clear, well-defined language; it has the
respectability of truth to it; and, if we may judge by their practice, the
majority of the world will bear us out in it. But when he begins to put on a
long face, and snuffle, and quote Scripture, I incline to think he isn’t
much better than he should be.”
“You are very uncharitable,” said Marie.
“Well,” said St. Clare, “suppose that something should bring
down the price of cotton once and forever, and make the whole slave property a
drug in the market, don’t you think we should soon have another version
of the Scripture doctrine? What a flood of light would pour into the church,
all at once, and how immediately it would be discovered that everything in the
Bible and reason went the other way!”
“Well, at any rate,” said Marie, as she reclined herself on a
lounge, “I’m thankful I’m born where slavery exists; and I
believe it’s right,—indeed, I feel it must be; and, at any rate,
I’m sure I couldn’t get along without it.”
“I say, what do you think, Pussy?” said her father to Eva, who came
in at this moment, with a flower in her hand.
“What about, papa?”
“Why, which do you like the best,—to live as they do at your
uncle’s, up in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we
do?”
“O, of course, our way is the pleasantest,” said Eva.
“Why so?” said St. Clare, stroking her head.
“Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you know,” said Eva,
looking up earnestly.
“Now, that’s just like Eva,” said Marie; “just one of
her odd speeches.”
“Is it an odd speech, papa?” said Eva, whisperingly, as she got
upon his knee.
“Rather, as this world goes, Pussy,” said St. Clare. “But
where has my little Eva been, all dinner-time?”
“O, I’ve been up in Tom’s room, hearing him sing, and Aunt
Dinah gave me my dinner.”
“Hearing Tom sing, hey?”
“O, yes! he sings such beautiful things about the New Jerusalem, and
bright angels, and the land of Canaan.”
“I dare say; it’s better than the opera, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and he’s going to teach them to me.”
“Singing lessons, hey?—you coming on.”
“Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible; and he explains
what it means, you know.”
“On my word,” said Marie, laughing, “that is the latest joke
of the season.”
“Tom isn’t a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I’ll
dare swear,” said St. Clare. “Tom has a natural genius for
religion. I wanted the horses out early, this morning, and I stole up to
Tom’s cubiculum there, over the stables, and there I heard him holding a
meeting by himself; and, in fact, I haven’t heard anything quite so
savory as Tom’s prayer, this some time. He put in for me, with a zeal
that was quite apostolic.”
“Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I’ve heard of that trick
before.”
“If he did, he wasn’t very polite; for he gave the Lord his opinion
of me, pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there was decidedly room for
improvement in me, and seemed very earnest that I should be converted.”
“I hope you’ll lay it to heart,” said Miss Ophelia.
“I suppose you are much of the same opinion,” said St. Clare.
“Well, we shall see,—shan’t we, Eva?”
CHAPTER XVII
The Freeman’s Defence
There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as the afternoon drew to a
close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly to and fro, collecting from her household
stores such needments as could be arranged in the smallest compass, for the
wanderers who were to go forth that night. The afternoon shadows stretched
eastward, and the round red sun stood thoughtfully on the horizon, and his
beams shone yellow and calm into the little bed-room where George and his wife
were sitting. He was sitting with his child on his knee, and his wife’s
hand in his. Both looked thoughtful and serious and traces of tears were on
their cheeks.
“Yes, Eliza,” said George, “I know all you say is true. You
are a good child,—a great deal better than I am; and I will try to do as
you say. I’ll try to act worthy of a free man. I’ll try to feel
like a Christian. God Almighty knows that I’ve meant to do
well,—tried hard to do well,—when everything has been against me;
and now I’ll forget all the past, and put away every hard and bitter
feeling, and read my Bible, and learn to be a good man.”
“And when we get to Canada,” said Eliza, “I can help you. I
can do dress-making very well; and I understand fine washing and ironing; and
between us we can find something to live on.”
“Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. O! Eliza, if
these people only knew what a blessing it is for a man to feel that his wife
and child belong to ! I’ve often wondered to see men that could
call their wives and children fretting and worrying about
anything else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but our bare
hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for any more. Yes, though
I’ve worked hard every day, till I am twenty-five years old, and have not
a cent of money, nor a roof to cover me, nor a spot of land to call my own,
yet, if they will only let me alone now, I will be satisfied,—thankful; I
will work, and send back the money for you and my boy. As to my old master, he
has been paid five times over for all he ever spent for me. I don’t owe
him anything.”
“But yet we are not quite out of danger,” said Eliza; “we are
not yet in Canada.”
“True,” said George, “but it seems as if I smelt the free
air, and it makes me strong.”
At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment, in earnest
conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the door. Eliza started and
opened it.
Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whom he introduced as
Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall and lathy, red-haired, with an expression of
great acuteness and shrewdness in his face. He had not the placid, quiet,
unworldly air of Simeon Halliday; on the contrary, a particularly wide-awake
and appearance, like a man who rather prides himself on knowing
what he is about, and keeping a bright lookout ahead; peculiarities which
sorted rather oddly with his broad brim and formal phraseology.
“Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of importance to the
interests of thee and thy party, George,” said Simeon; “it were
well for thee to hear it.”
“That I have,” said Phineas, “and it shows the use of a
man’s always sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as I’ve
always said. Last night I stopped at a little lone tavern, back on the road.
Thee remembers the place, Simeon, where we sold some apples, last year, to that
fat woman, with the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving; and,
after my supper I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the corner, and
pulled a buffalo over me, to wait till my bed was ready; and what does I do,
but get fast asleep.”
“With one ear open, Phineas?” said Simeon, quietly.
“No; I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was pretty well
tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found that there were some men in
the room, sitting round a table, drinking and talking; and I thought, before I
made much muster, I’d just see what they were up to, especially as I
heard them say something about the Quakers. ‘So,’ says one,
‘they are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt,’ says he. Then I
listened with both ears, and I found that they were talking about this very
party. So I lay and heard them lay off all their plans. This young man, they
said, was to be sent back to Kentucky, to his master, who was going to make an
example of him, to keep all niggers from running away; and his wife two of them
were going to run down to New Orleans to sell, on their own account, and they
calculated to get sixteen or eighteen hundred dollars for her; and the child,
they said, was going to a trader, who had bought him; and then there was the
boy, Jim, and his mother, they were to go back to their masters in Kentucky.
They said that there were two constables, in a town a little piece ahead, who
would go in with ’em to get ’em taken up, and the young woman was
to be taken before a judge; and one of the fellows, who is small and
smooth-spoken, was to swear to her for his property, and get her delivered over
to him to take south. They’ve got a right notion of the track we are
going tonight; and they’ll be down after us, six or eight strong. So now,
what’s to be done?”
The group that stood in various attitudes, after this communication, were
worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who had taken her hands out of a batch of
biscuit, to hear the news, stood with them upraised and floury, and with a face
of the deepest concern. Simeon looked profoundly thoughtful; Eliza had thrown
her arms around her husband, and was looking up to him. George stood with
clenched hands and glowing eyes, and looking as any other man might look, whose
wife was to be sold at auction, and son sent to a trader, all under the shelter
of a Christian nation’s laws.
“What we do, George?” said Eliza faintly.
“I know what shall do,” said George, as he stepped into
the little room, and began examining pistols.
“Ay, ay,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; “thou
seest, Simeon, how it will work.”
“I see,” said Simeon, sighing; “I pray it come not to
that.”
“I don’t want to involve any one with or for me,” said
George. “If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I will drive
alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in strength, and brave as death and
despair, and so am I.”
“Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, “but thee’ll need a
driver, for all that. Thee’s quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee
knows; but I know a thing or two about the road, that thee
doesn’t.”
“But I don’t want to involve you,” said George.
“Involve,” said Phineas, with a curious and keen expression of
face, “When thee does involve me, please to let me know.”
“Phineas is a wise and skilful man,” said Simeon. “Thee does
well, George, to abide by his judgment; and,” he added, laying his hand
kindly on George’s shoulder, and pointing to the pistols, “be not
over hasty with these,—young blood is hot.”
“I will attack no man,” said George. “All I ask of this
country is to be let alone, and I will go out peaceably; but,”—he
paused, and his brow darkened and his face worked,—“I’ve had
a sister sold in that New Orleans market. I know what they are sold for; and am
I going to stand by and see them take my wife and sell her, when God has given
me a pair of strong arms to defend her? No; God help me! I’ll fight to
the last breath, before they shall take my wife and son. Can you blame
me?”
“Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood could not do
otherwise,” said Simeon. “Woe unto the world because of offences,
but woe unto them through whom the offence cometh.”
“Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?”
“I pray that I be not tried,” said Simeon; “the flesh is
weak.”
“I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in such a
case,” said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the sails of a
windmill. “I an’t sure, friend George, that I shouldn’t hold
a fellow for thee, if thee had any accounts to settle with him.”
“If man should resist evil,” said Simeon, “then
George should feel free to do it now: but the leaders of our people taught a
more excellent way; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God;
but it goes sorely against the corrupt will of man, and none can receive it
save they to whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not
tempted.”
“And so do,” said Phineas; “but if we are tempted
too much—why, let them look out, that’s all.”
“It’s quite plain thee wasn’t born a Friend,” said
Simeon, smiling. “The old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong as
yet.”
To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted backwoodsman, a
vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck; but, having wooed a pretty
Quakeress, had been moved by the power of her charms to join the society in his
neighborhood; and though he was an honest, sober, and efficient member, and
nothing particular could be alleged against him, yet the more spiritual among
them could not but discern an exceeding lack of savor in his developments.
“Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said Rachel
Halliday, smiling; “but we all think that his heart is in the right
place, after all.”
“Well,” said George, “isn’t it best that we hasten our
flight?”
“I got up at four o’clock, and came on with all speed, full two or
three hours ahead of them, if they start at the time they planned. It
isn’t safe to start till dark, at any rate; for there are some evil
persons in the villages ahead, that might be disposed to meddle with us, if
they saw our wagon, and that would delay us more than the waiting; but in two
hours I think we may venture. I will go over to Michael Cross, and engage him
to come behind on his swift nag, and keep a bright lookout on the road, and
warn us if any company of men come on. Michael keeps a horse that can soon get
ahead of most other horses; and he could shoot ahead and let us know, if there
were any danger. I am going out now to warn Jim and the old woman to be in
readiness, and to see about the horse. We have a pretty fair start, and stand a
good chance to get to the stand before they can come up with us. So, have good
courage, friend George; this isn’t the first ugly scrape that I’ve
been in with thy people,” said Phineas, as he closed the door.
“Phineas is pretty shrewd,” said Simeon. “He will do the best
that can be done for thee, George.”
“All I am sorry for,” said George, “is the risk to
you.”
“Thee’ll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more about that.
What we do we are conscience bound to do; we can do no other way. And now,
mother,” said he, turning to Rachel, “hurry thy preparations for
these friends, for we must not send them away fasting.”
And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake, and cooking ham
and chicken, and hurrying on the of the evening meal, George
and his wife sat in their little room, with their arms folded about each other,
in such talk as husband and wife have when they know that a few hours may part
them forever.
“Eliza,” said George, “people that have friends, and houses,
and lands, and money, and all those things love as we do,
who have nothing but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature had loved
me, but my poor, heart-broken mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that morning
the trader carried her off. She came to the corner where I was lying asleep,
and said, ’Poor George, your last friend is going. What will become of
you, poor boy?’ And I got up and threw my arms round her, and cried and
sobbed, and she cried too; and those were the last kind words I got for ten
long years; and my heart all withered up, and felt as dry as ashes, till I met
you. And your loving me,—why, it was almost like raising one from the
dead! I’ve been a new man ever since! And now, Eliza, I’ll give my
last drop of blood, but they take you from me. Whoever gets
you must walk over my dead body.”
“O, Lord, have mercy!” said Eliza, sobbing. “If he will only
let us get out of this country together, that is all we ask.”
“Is God on their side?” said George, speaking less to his wife than
pouring out his own bitter thoughts. “Does he see all they do? Why does
he let such things happen? And they tell us that the Bible is on their side;
certainly all the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and happy; they are
members of churches, expecting to go to heaven; and they get along so easy in
the world, and have it all their own way; and poor, honest, faithful
Christians,—Christians as good or better than they,—are lying in
the very dust under their feet. They buy ’em and sell ’em, and make
trade of their heart’s blood, and groans and tears,—and God
them.”
“Friend George,” said Simeon, from the kitchen, “listen to
this Psalm; it may do thee good.”
George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her tears, came forward
also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:
“But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well-nigh slipped.
For I was envious of the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. They
are not in trouble like other men, neither are they plagued like other men.
Therefore, pride compasseth them as a chain; violence covereth them as a
garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness; they have more than heart could
wish. They are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerning oppression; they speak
loftily. Therefore his people return, and the waters of a full cup are wrung
out to them, and they say, How doth God know? and is there knowledge in the
Most High?”
“Is not that the way thee feels, George?”
“It is so indeed,” said George,—“as well as I could
have written it myself.”
“Then, hear,” said Simeon: “When I thought to know this, it
was too painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of God. Then understood
I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou castedst them
down to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so, oh Lord, when thou
awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless I am continually with
thee; thou hast holden me by my right hand. Thou shalt guide me by thy counsel,
and afterwards receive me to glory. It is good for me to draw near unto God. I
have put my trust in the Lord God.”
[1]
Ps. 73, “The End of the Wicked contrasted with that of the
Righteous.”
The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, stole like sacred
music over the harassed and chafed spirit of George; and after he ceased, he
sat with a gentle and subdued expression on his fine features.
“If this world were all, George,” said Simeon, “thee might,
indeed, ask where is the Lord? But it is often those who have least of all in
this life whom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him and, no matter
what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter.”
If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent exhorter, from
whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and rhetorical flourish,
proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps they might not have had much
effect; but coming from one who daily and calmly risked fine and imprisonment
for the cause of God and man, they had a weight that could not but be felt, and
both the poor, desolate fugitives found calmness and strength breathing into
them from it.
And now Rachel took Eliza’s hand kindly, and led the way to the
supper-table. As they were sitting down, a light tap sounded at the door, and
Ruth entered.
“I just ran in,” she said, “with these little stockings for
the boy,—three pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so cold, thee
knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza?” she added,
tripping round to Eliza’s side of the table, and shaking her warmly by
the hand, and slipping a seed-cake into Harry’s hand. “I brought a
little parcel of these for him,” she said, tugging at her pocket to get
out the package. “Children, thee knows, will always be eating.”
“O, thank you; you are too kind,” said Eliza.
“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,” said Rachel.
“I couldn’t, any way. I left John with the baby, and some biscuits
in the oven; and I can’t stay a moment, else John will burn up all the
biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar in the bowl. That’s the way he
does,” said the little Quakeress, laughing. “So, good-by, Eliza;
good-by, George; the Lord grant thee a safe journey;” and, with a few
tripping steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.
A little while after supper, a large covered-wagon drew up before the door; the
night was clear starlight; and Phineas jumped briskly down from his seat to
arrange his passengers. George walked out of the door, with his child on one
arm and his wife on the other. His step was firm, his face settled and
resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them.
“You get out, a moment,” said Phineas to those inside, “and
let me fix the back of the wagon, there, for the women-folks and the
boy.”
“Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. “Make the seats as
comfortable as may be; it’s hard riding all night.”
Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who clung to his
arm, and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the pursuer every moment.
“Jim, are your pistols all in order?” said George, in a low, firm
voice.
“Yes, indeed,” said Jim.
“And you’ve no doubt what you shall do, if they come?”
“I rather think I haven’t,” said Jim, throwing open his broad
chest, and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I’ll let them get
mother again?”
During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leave of her kind friend,
Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by Simeon, and, creeping into the back
part with her boy, sat down among the buffalo-skins. The old woman was next
handed in and seated and George and Jim placed on a rough board seat front of
them, and Phineas mounted in front.
“Farewell, my friends,” said Simeon, from without.
“God bless you!” answered all from within.
And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road.
There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the roughness of the
way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle, therefore, rumbled on, through
long, dark stretches of woodland,—over wide dreary plains,—up
hills, and down valleys,—and on, on, on they jogged, hour after hour. The
child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother’s lap. The poor,
frightened old woman at last forgot her fears; and, even Eliza, as the night
waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes from closing.
Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of the company, and beguiled his
long drive with whistling certain very unquaker-like songs, as he went on.
But about three o’clock George’s ear caught the hasty and decided
click of a horse’s hoof coming behind them at some distance and jogged
Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses, and listened.
“That must be Michael,” he said; “I think I know the sound of
his gallop;” and he rose up and stretched his head anxiously back over
the road.
A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a distant hill.
“There he is, I do believe!” said Phineas. George and Jim both
sprang out of the wagon before they knew what they were doing. All stood
intensely silent, with their faces turned towards the expected messenger. On he
came. Now he went down into a valley, where they could not see him; but they
heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and nearer; at last they saw him
emerge on the top of an eminence, within hail.
“Yes, that’s Michael!” said Phineas; and, raising his voice,
“Halloa, there, Michael!”
“Phineas! is that thee?”
“Yes; what news—they coming?”
“Right on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, swearing and
foaming like so many wolves.”
And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of galloping horsemen
towards them.
“In with you,—quick, boys, ” said Phineas.
“If you must fight, wait till I get you a piece ahead.” And, with
the word, both jumped in, and Phineas lashed the horses to a run, the horseman
keeping close beside them. The wagon rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the
frozen ground; but plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of pursuing
horsemen behind. The women heard it, and, looking anxiously out, saw, far in
the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party of men looming up against the
red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their pursuers had evidently
caught sight of their wagon, whose white cloth-covered top made it conspicuous
at some distance, and a loud yell of brutal triumph came forward on the wind.
Eliza sickened, and strained her child closer to her bosom; the old woman
prayed and groaned, and George and Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of
despair. The pursuers gained on them fast; the carriage made a sudden turn, and
brought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that rose in an isolated
ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all around it, quite clear and
smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose up black and heavy against
the brightening sky, and seemed to promise shelter and concealment. It was a
place well known to Phineas, who had been familiar with the spot in his hunting
days; and it was to gain this point he had been racing his horses.
“Now for it!” said he, suddenly checking his horses, and springing
from his seat to the ground. “Out with you, in a twinkling, every one,
and up into these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon, and
drive ahead to Amariah’s and get him and his boys to come back and talk
to these fellows.”
In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.
“There,” said Phineas, catching up Harry, “you, each of you,
see to the women; and run, if you ever run!”
They needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, the whole party were
over the fence, making with all speed for the rocks, while Michael, throwing
himself from his horse, and fastening the bridle to the wagon, began driving it
rapidly away.
“Come ahead,” said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, and saw in
the mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly marked
foot-path leading up among them; “this is one of our old hunting-dens.
Come up!”
Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the boy in his
arms. Jim came second, bearing his trembling old mother over his shoulder, and
George and Eliza brought up the rear. The party of horsemen came up to the
fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were dismounting, to prepare to
follow them. A few moments’ scrambling brought them to the top of the
ledge; the path then passed between a narrow defile, where only one could walk
at a time, till suddenly they came to a rift or chasm more than a yard in
breadth, and beyond which lay a pile of rocks, separate from the rest of the
ledge, standing full thirty feet high, with its sides steep and perpendicular
as those of a castle. Phineas easily leaped the chasm, and sat down the boy on
a smooth, flat platform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the rock.
“Over with you!” he called; “spring, now, once, for your
lives!” said he, as one after another sprang across. Several fragments of
loose stone formed a kind of breast-work, which sheltered their position from
the observation of those below.
“Well, here we all are,” said Phineas, peeping over the stone
breast-work to watch the assailants, who were coming tumultuously up under the
rocks. “Let ’em get us, if they can. Whoever comes here has to walk
single file between those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys,
d’ye see?”
“I do see,” said George! “and now, as this matter is ours,
let us take all the risk, and do all the fighting.”
“Thee’s quite welcome to do the fighting, George,” said
Phineas, chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke; “but I may have
the fun of looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows are kinder debating
down there, and looking up, like hens when they are going to fly up on to the
roost. Hadn’t thee better give ’em a word of advice, before they
come up, just to tell ’em handsomely they’ll be shot if they
do?”
The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the dawn, consisted of our
old acquaintances, Tom Loker and Marks, with two constables, and a posse
consisting of such rowdies at the last tavern as could be engaged by a little
brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of niggers.
“Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed,” said one.
“Yes, I see ’em go up right here,” said Tom; “and
here’s a path. I’m for going right up. They can’t jump down
in a hurry, and it won’t take long to ferret ’em out.”
“But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks,” said
Marks. “That would be ugly, you know.”
“Ugh!” said Tom, with a sneer. “Always for saving your skin,
Marks! No danger! niggers are too plaguy scared!”
“I don’t know why I save my skin,”
said Marks. “It’s the best I’ve got; and niggers
fight like the devil, sometimes.”
At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock above them, and, speaking
in a calm, clear voice, said,
“Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you want?”
“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker. “One
George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim Selden, and an old
woman. We’ve got the officers, here, and a warrant to take ’em; and
we’re going to have ’em, too. D’ye hear? An’t you
George Harris, that belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?”
“I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did call me his property.
But now I’m a free man, standing on God’s free soil; and my wife
and my child I claim as mine. Jim and his mother are here. We have arms to
defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can come up, if you like; but the
first one of you that comes within the range of our bullets is a dead man, and
the next, and the next; and so on till the last.”
“O, come! come!” said a short, puffy man, stepping forward, and
blowing his nose as he did so. “Young man, this an’t no kind of
talk at all for you. You see, we’re officers of justice. We’ve got
the law on our side, and the power, and so forth; so you’d better give up
peaceably, you see; for you’ll certainly have to give up, at last.”
“I know very well that you’ve got the law on your side, and the
power,” said George, bitterly. “You mean to take my wife to sell in
New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf in a trader’s pen, and send
Jim’s old mother to the brute that whipped and abused her before, because
he couldn’t abuse her son. You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped
and tortured, and ground down under the heels of them that you call masters;
and your laws bear you out in it,—more shame for you and
them! But you haven’t got us. We don’t own your laws; we
don’t own your country; we stand here as free, under God’s sky, as
you are; and, by the great God that made us, we’ll fight for our liberty
till we die.”
George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as he made his
declaration of independence; the glow of dawn gave a flush to his swarthy
cheek, and bitter indignation and despair gave fire to his dark eye; and, as if
appealing from man to the justice of God, he raised his hand to heaven as he
spoke.
If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely defending in some mountain
fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping from Austria into America, this
would have been sublime heroism; but as it was a youth of African descent,
defending the retreat of fugitives through America into Canada, of course we
are too well instructed and patriotic to see any heroism in it; and if any of
our readers do, they must do it on their own private responsibility. When
despairing Hungarian fugitives make their way, against all the search-warrants
and authorities of their lawful government, to America, press and political
cabinet ring with applause and welcome. When despairing African fugitives do
the same thing,—it is—what it?
Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice, manner, of the
speaker for a moment struck the party below to silence. There is something in
boldness and determination that for a time hushes even the rudest nature. Marks
was the only one who remained wholly untouched. He was deliberately cocking his
pistol, and, in the momentary silence that followed George’s speech, he
fired at him.
THE FREEMAN’S DEFENCE.
“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky,” he
said coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve.
George sprang backward,—Eliza uttered a shriek,—the ball had passed
close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of his wife, and struck in the
tree above.
“It’s nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly.
“Thee’d better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying,”
said Phineas; “they’re mean scamps.”
“Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are all
right, and watch that pass with me. The first man that shows himself I fire at;
you take the second, and so on. It won’t do, you know, to waste two shots
on one.”
“But what if you don’t hit?”
“I hit,” said George, coolly.
“Good! now, there’s stuff in that fellow,” muttered Phineas,
between his teeth.
The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment, rather undecided.
“I think you must have hit some on ’em,” said one of the men.
“I heard a squeal!”
“I’m going right up for one,” said Tom. “I never was
afraid of niggers, and I an’t going to be now. Who goes after?” he
said, springing up the rocks.
George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol, examined it, pointed
it towards that point in the defile where the first man would appear.
One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and, the way being thus
made, the whole party began pushing up the rock,—the hindermost pushing
the front ones faster than they would have gone of themselves. On they came,
and in a moment the burly form of Tom appeared in sight, almost at the verge of
the chasm.
George fired,—the shot entered his side,—but, though wounded, he
would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a mad bull, he was leaping
right across the chasm into the party.
“Friend,” said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting
him with a push from his long arms, “thee isn’t wanted here.”
Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, bushes, logs, loose
stones, till he lay bruised and groaning thirty feet below. The fall might have
killed him, had it not been broken and moderated by his clothes catching in the
branches of a large tree; but he came down with some force, however,—more
than was at all agreeable or convenient.
“Lord help us, they are perfect devils!” said Marks, heading the
retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than he had joined the ascent,
while all the party came tumbling precipitately after him,—the fat
constable, in particular, blowing and puffing in a very energetic manner.
“I say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick up
Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse to go back for
help,—that’s you;” and, without minding the hootings and
jeers of his company, Marks was as good as his word, and was soon seen
galloping away.
“Was ever such a sneaking varmint?” said one of the men; “to
come on his business, and he clear out and leave us this yer way!”
“Well, we must pick up that feller,” said another. “Cuss me
if I much care whether he is dead or alive.”
The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled through stumps, logs
and bushes, to where that hero lay groaning and swearing with alternate
vehemence.
“Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. “Ye much
hurt?”
“Don’t know. Get me up, can’t ye? Blast that infernal Quaker!
If it hadn’t been for him, I’d a pitched some on ’em down
here, to see how they liked it.”
With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted to rise; and, with
one holding him up under each shoulder, they got him as far as the horses.
“If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me a
handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, and stop this infernal
bleeding.”
George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly form of Tom
into the saddle. After two or three ineffectual attempts, he reeled, and fell
heavily to the ground.
“O, I hope he isn’t killed!” said Eliza, who, with all the
party, stood watching the proceeding.
“Why not?” said Phineas; “serves him right.”
“Because after death comes the judgment,” said Eliza.
“Yes,” said the old woman, who had been groaning and praying, in
her Methodist fashion, during all the encounter, “it’s an awful
case for the poor crittur’s soul.”
“On my word, they’re leaving him, I do believe,” said
Phineas.
It was true; for after some appearance of irresolution and consultation, the
whole party got on their horses and rode away. When they were quite out of
sight, Phineas began to bestir himself.
“Well, we must go down and walk a piece,” he said. “I told
Michael to go forward and bring help, and be along back here with the wagon;
but we shall have to walk a piece along the road, I reckon, to meet them. The
Lord grant he be along soon! It’s early in the day; there won’t be
much travel afoot yet a while; we an’t much more than two miles from our
stopping-place. If the road hadn’t been so rough last night, we could
have outrun ’em entirely.”
As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the distance, along the road,
their own wagon coming back, accompanied by some men on horseback.
“Well, now, there’s Michael, and Stephen and Amariah,”
exclaimed Phineas, joyfully. “Now we made—as safe as if
we’d got there.”
“Well, do stop, then,” said Eliza, “and do something for that
poor man; he’s groaning dreadfully.”
“It would be no more than Christian,” said George;
“let’s take him up and carry him on.”
“And doctor him up among the Quakers!” said Phineas; “pretty
well, that! Well, I don’t care if we do. Here, let’s have a look at
him;” and Phineas, who in the course of his hunting and backwoods life
had acquired some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded man,
and began a careful examination of his condition.
“Marks,” said Tom, feebly, “is that you, Marks?”
“No; I reckon ’tan’t friend,” said Phineas. “Much
Marks cares for thee, if his own skin’s safe. He’s off, long
ago.”
“I believe I’m done for,” said Tom. “The cussed
sneaking dog, to leave me to die alone! My poor old mother always told me
’t would be so.”
“La sakes! jist hear the poor crittur. He’s got a mammy,
now,” said the old negress. “I can’t help kinder
pityin’ on him.”
“Softly, softly; don’t thee snap and snarl, friend,” said
Phineas, as Tom winced and pushed his hand away. “Thee has no chance,
unless I stop the bleeding.” And Phineas busied himself with making some
off-hand surgical arrangements with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as
could be mustered in the company.
“You pushed me down there,” said Tom, faintly.
“Well if I hadn’t thee would have pushed us down, thee sees,”
said Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. “There,
there,—let me fix this bandage. We mean well to thee; we bear no malice.
Thee shall be taken to a house where they’ll nurse thee first rate, well
as thy own mother could.”
Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigor and resolution are
entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the flowing of the blood; and the
gigantic fellow really looked piteous in his helplessness.
The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of the wagon. The
buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread all along one side, and four men,
with great difficulty, lifted the heavy form of Tom into it. Before he was
gotten in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, in the abundance of her
compassion, sat down on the bottom, and took his head in her lap. Eliza, George
and Jim, bestowed themselves, as well as they could, in the remaining space and
the whole party set forward.
“What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by Phineas in
front.
“Well it’s only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then, tumbling and
scratching down that place didn’t help him much. It has bled pretty
freely,—pretty much drained him out, courage and all,—but
he’ll get over it, and may be learn a thing or two by it.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said George. “It would
always be a heavy thought to me, if I’d caused his death, even in a just
cause.”
“Yes,” said Phineas, “killing is an ugly operation, any way
they’ll fix it,—man or beast. I’ve seen a buck that was shot
down and a dying, look that way on a feller with his eye, that it reely most
made a feller feel wicked for killing on him; and human creatures is a more
serious consideration yet, bein’, as thy wife says, that the judgment
comes to ’em after death. So I don’t know as our people’s
notions on these matters is too strict; and, considerin’ how I was
raised, I fell in with them pretty considerably.”
“What shall you do with this poor fellow?” said George.
“O, carry him along to Amariah’s. There’s old Grandmam
Stephens there,—Dorcas, they call her,—she’s most an
amazin’ nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and an’t never
better suited than when she gets a sick body to tend. We may reckon on turning
him over to her for a fortnight or so.”
A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farmhouse, where the
weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom Loker was soon
carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed than he had ever been in
the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully dressed and bandaged, and he
lay languidly opening and shutting his eyes on the white window-curtains and
gently-gliding figures of his sick room, like a weary child. And here, for the
present, we shall take our leave of one party.
CHAPTER XVIII
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions
Our friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared his more fortunate
lot, in the bondage into which he was cast, with that of Joseph in Egypt; and,
in fact, as time went on, and he developed more and more under the eye of his
master, the strength of the parallel increased.
St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Hitherto the providing and
marketing had been principally done by Adolph, who was, to the full, as
careless and extravagant as his master; and, between them both, they had
carried on the dispersing process with great alacrity. Accustomed, for many
years, to regard his master’s property as his own care, Tom saw, with an
uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the wasteful expenditure of the
establishment; and, in the quiet, indirect way which his class often acquire,
would sometimes make his own suggestions.
St. Clare at first employed him occasionally; but, struck with his soundness of
mind and good business capacity, he confided in him more and more, till
gradually all the marketing and providing for the family were intrusted to him.
“No, no, Adolph,” he said, one day, as Adolph was deprecating the
passing of power out of his hands; “let Tom alone. You only understand
what you want; Tom understands cost and come to; and there may be some end to
money, bye and bye if we don’t let somebody do that.”
Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, who handed him a bill
without looking at it, and pocketed the change without counting it, Tom had
every facility and temptation to dishonesty; and nothing but an impregnable
simplicity of nature, strengthened by Christian faith, could have kept him from
it. But, to that nature, the very unbounded trust reposed in him was bond and
seal for the most scrupulous accuracy.
With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless and self-indulgent, and
unrestrained by a master who found it easier to indulge than to regulate, he
had fallen into an absolute confusion as to with regard to
himself and his master, which sometimes troubled even St. Clare. His own good
sense taught him that such a training of his servants was unjust and dangerous.
A sort of chronic remorse went with him everywhere, although not strong enough
to make any decided change in his course; and this very remorse reacted again
into indulgence. He passed lightly over the most serious faults, because he
told himself that, if he had done his part, his dependents had not fallen into
them.
Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an odd mixture of
fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That he never read the Bible; never
went to church; that he jested and made free with any and every thing that came
in the way of his wit; that he spent his Sunday evenings at the opera or
theatre; that he went to wine parties, and clubs, and suppers, oftener than was
at all expedient,—were all things that Tom could see as plainly as
anybody, and on which he based a conviction that “Mas’r
wasn’t a Christian;”—a conviction, however, which he would
have been very slow to express to any one else, but on which he founded many
prayers, in his own simple fashion, when he was by himself in his little
dormitory. Not that Tom had not his own way of speaking his mind occasionally,
with something of the tact often observable in his class; as, for example, the
very day after the Sabbath we have described, St. Clare was invited out to a
convivial party of choice spirits, and was helped home, between one and two
o’clock at night, in a condition when the physical had decidedly attained
the upper hand of the intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted to get him composed
for the night, the latter in high spirits, evidently regarding the matter as a
good joke, and laughing heartily at the rusticity of Tom’s horror, who
really was simple enough to lie awake most of the rest of the night, praying
for his young master.
“Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?” said St. Clare, the next
day, as he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers. St. Clare had
just been entrusting Tom with some money, and various commissions.
“Isn’t all right there, Tom?” he added, as Tom still stood
waiting.
“I’m ’fraid not, Mas’r,” said Tom, with a grave
face.
St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked at Tom.
“Why Tom, what’s the case? You look as solemn as a coffin.”
“I feel very bad, Mas’r. I allays have thought that Mas’r
would be good to everybody.”
“Well, Tom, haven’t I been? Come, now, what do you want?
There’s something you haven’t got, I suppose, and this is the
preface.”
“Mas’r allays been good to me. I haven’t nothing to complain
of on that head. But there is one that Mas’r isn’t good to.”
“Why, Tom, what’s got into you? Speak out; what do you mean?”
“Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the matter
then. Mas’r isn’t good to .”
Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on the door-knob. St.
Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he laughed.
“O, that’s all, is it?” he said, gayly.
“All!” said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees.
“O, my dear young Mas’r; I’m ’fraid it will be —body and soul. The good Book says, ’it biteth
like a serpent and stingeth like an adder!’ my dear Mas’r!”
Tom’s voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks.
“You poor, silly fool!” said St. Clare, with tears in his own eyes.
“Get up, Tom. I’m not worth crying over.”
But Tom wouldn’t rise, and looked imploring.
“Well, I won’t go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom,”
said St. Clare; “on my honor, I won’t. I don’t know why I
haven’t stopped long ago. I’ve always despised , and
myself for it,—so now, Tom, wipe up your eyes, and go about your errands.
Come, come,” he added, “no blessings. I’m not so wonderfully
good, now,” he said, as he gently pushed Tom to the door. “There,
I’ll pledge my honor to you, Tom, you don’t see me so again,”
he said; and Tom went off, wiping his eyes, with great satisfaction.
“I’ll keep my faith with him, too,” said St. Clare, as he
closed the door.
And St. Clare did so,—for gross sensualism, in any form, was not the
peculiar temptation of his nature.
But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations manifold of our friend
Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labors of a Southern housekeeper?
There is all the difference in the world in the servants of Southern
establishments, according to the character and capacity of the mistresses who
have brought them up.
South as well as north, there are women who have an extraordinary talent for
command, and tact in educating. Such are enabled, with apparent ease, and
without severity, to subject to their will, and bring into harmonious and
systematic order, the various members of their small estate,—to regulate
their peculiarities, and so balance and compensate the deficiencies of one by
the excess of another, as to produce a harmonious and orderly system.
Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have already described; and such
our readers may remember to have met with. If they are not common at the South,
it is because they are not common in the world. They are to be found there as
often as anywhere; and, when existing, find in that peculiar state of society a
brilliant opportunity to exhibit their domestic talent.
Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare was not, nor her mother before her. Indolent
and childish, unsystematic and improvident, it was not to be expected that
servants trained under her care should not be so likewise; and she had very
justly described to Miss Ophelia the state of confusion she would find in the
family, though she had not ascribed it to the proper cause.
The first morning of her regency, Miss Ophelia was up at four o’clock;
and having attended to all the adjustments of her own chamber, as she had done
ever since she came there, to the great amazement of the chambermaid, she
prepared for a vigorous onslaught on the cupboards and closets of the
establishment of which she had the keys.
The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the kitchen and cellar,
that day, all went under an awful review. Hidden things of darkness were
brought to light to an extent that alarmed all the principalities and powers of
kitchen and chamber, and caused many wonderings and murmurings about
“dese yer northern ladies” from the domestic cabinet.
Old Dinah, the head cook, and principal of all rule and authority in the
kitchen department, was filled with wrath at what she considered an invasion of
privilege. No feudal baron in times could have more
thoroughly resented some incursion of the crown.
Dinah was a character in her own way, and it would be injustice to her memory
not to give the reader a little idea of her. She was a native and essential
cook, as much as Aunt Chloe,—cooking being an indigenous talent of the
African race; but Chloe was a trained and methodical one, who moved in an
orderly domestic harness, while Dinah was a self-taught genius, and, like
geniuses in general, was positive, opinionated and erratic, to the last degree.
Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly scorned logic and
reason in every shape, and always took refuge in intuitive certainty; and here
she was perfectly impregnable. No possible amount of talent, or authority, or
explanation, could ever make her believe that any other way was better than her
own, or that the course she had pursued in the smallest matter could be in the
least modified. This had been a conceded point with her old mistress,
Marie’s mother; and “Miss Marie,” as Dinah always called her
young mistress, even after her marriage, found it easier to submit than
contend; and so Dinah had ruled supreme. This was the easier, in that she was
perfect mistress of that diplomatic art which unites the utmost subservience of
manner with the utmost inflexibility as to measure.
Dinah was mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-making, in all its
branches. Indeed, it was an axiom with her that the cook can do no wrong; and a
cook in a Southern kitchen finds abundance of heads and shoulders on which to
lay off every sin and frailty, so as to maintain her own immaculateness entire.
If any part of the dinner was a failure, there were fifty indisputably good
reasons for it; and it was the fault undeniably of fifty other people, whom
Dinah berated with unsparing zeal.
But it was very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah’s last
results. Though her mode of doing everything was peculiarly meandering and
circuitous, and without any sort of calculation as to time and
place,—though her kitchen generally looked as if it had been arranged by
a hurricane blowing through it, and she had about as many places for each
cooking utensil as there were days in the year,—yet, if one would have
patience to wait her own good time, up would come her dinner in perfect order,
and in a style of preparation with which an epicure could find no fault.
It was now the season of incipient preparation for dinner. Dinah, who required
large intervals of reflection and repose, and was studious of ease in all her
arrangements, was seated on the kitchen floor, smoking a short, stumpy pipe, to
which she was much addicted, and which she always kindled up, as a sort of
censer, whenever she felt the need of an inspiration in her arrangements. It
was Dinah’s mode of invoking the domestic Muses.
Seated around her were various members of that rising race with which a
Southern household abounds, engaged in shelling peas, peeling potatoes, picking
pin-feathers out of fowls, and other preparatory arrangements,—Dinah
every once in a while interrupting her meditations to give a poke, or a rap on
the head, to some of the young operators, with the pudding-stick that lay by
her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of the younger members
with a rod of iron, and seemed to consider them born for no earthly purpose but
to “save her steps,” as she phrased it. It was the spirit of the
system under which she had grown up, and she carried it out to its full extent.
Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through all the other parts
of the establishment, now entered the kitchen. Dinah had heard, from various
sources, what was going on, and resolved to stand on defensive and conservative
ground,—mentally determined to oppose and ignore every new measure,
without any actual observable contest.
The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a great old-fashioned
fireplace stretching along one side of it,—an arrangement which St. Clare
had vainly tried to persuade Dinah to exchange for the convenience of a modern
cook-stove. Not she. No Puseyite,
or conservative of any school, was ever more inflexibly attached to
time-honored inconveniences than Dinah.
[1]
Edward Bouverie Pusey (1800-1882), champion of the orthodoxy of revealed
religion, defender of the Oxford movement, and Regius professor of Hebrew and
Canon of Christ Church, Oxford.
When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressed with the system and
order of his uncle’s kitchen arrangements, he had largely provided his
own with an array of cupboards, drawers, and various apparatus, to induce
systematic regulation, under the sanguine illusion that it would be of any
possible assistance to Dinah in her arrangements. He might as well have
provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The more drawers and closets there
were, the more hiding-holes could Dinah make for the accommodation of old rags,
hair-combs, old shoes, ribbons, cast-off artificial flowers, and other articles
of , wherein her soul delighted.
When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen Dinah did not rise, but smoked on in
sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements obliquely out of the corner of
her eye, but apparently intent only on the operations around her.
Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.
“What is this drawer for, Dinah?” she said.
“It’s handy for most anything, Missis,” said Dinah. So it
appeared to be. From the variety it contained, Miss Ophelia pulled out first a
fine damask table-cloth stained with blood, having evidently been used to
envelop some raw meat.
“What’s this, Dinah? You don’t wrap up meat in your
mistress’ best table-cloths?”
“O Lor, Missis, no; the towels was all a missin’—so I jest
did it. I laid out to wash that a,—that’s why I put it thar.”
“Shif’less!” said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to
tumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two or three
nutmegs, a Methodist hymn-book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some
yarn and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or
two gilded china-saucers with some pomade in them, one or two thin old shoes, a
piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing some small white onions, several
damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some twine and darning-needles,
and several broken papers, from which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the
drawer.
“Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?” said Miss Ophelia, with
the air of one who prayed for patience.
“Most anywhar, Missis; there’s some in that cracked tea-cup, up
there, and there’s some over in that ar cupboard.”
“Here are some in the grater,” said Miss Ophelia, holding them up.
“Laws, yes, I put ’em there this morning,—I likes to keep my
things handy,” said Dinah. “You, Jake! what are you stopping for!
You’ll cotch it! Be still, thar!” she added, with a dive of her
stick at the criminal.
“What’s this?” said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of
pomade.
“Laws, it’s my har ;—I put it thar to have it
handy.”
“Do you use your mistress’ best saucers for that?”
“Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry;—I was gwine to
change it this very day.”
“Here are two damask table-napkins.”
“Them table-napkins I put thar, to get ’em washed out, some
day.”
“Don’t you have some place here on purpose for things to be
washed?”
“Well, Mas’r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I
likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it
an’t handy a liftin’ up the lid.”
“Why don’t you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there?”
“Law, Missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another,
der an’t no room, noway—”
“But you should your dishes, and clear them away.”
“Wash my dishes!” said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to
rise over her habitual respect of manner; “what does ladies know
’bout work, I want to know? When ’d Mas’r ever get his
dinner, if I vas to spend all my time a washin’ and a puttin’ up
dishes? Miss Marie never telled me so, nohow.”
“Well, here are these onions.”
“Laws, yes!” said Dinah; “thar whar I put
’em, now. I couldn’t ’member. Them ’s particular onions
I was a savin’ for dis yer very stew. I’d forgot they was in dat ar
old flannel.”
Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs.
“I wish Missis wouldn’t touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things
where I knows whar to go to ’em,” said Dinah, rather decidedly.
“But you don’t want these holes in the papers.”
“Them ’s handy for siftin’ on ’t out,” said
Dinah.
“But you see it spills all over the drawer.”
“Laws, yes! if Missis will go a tumblin’ things all up so, it will.
Missis has spilt lots dat ar way,” said Dinah, coming uneasily to the
drawers. “If Missis only will go up stars till my clarin’ up time
comes, I’ll have everything right; but I can’t do nothin’
when ladies is round, a henderin’. You, Sam, don’t you gib the baby
dat ar sugar-bowl! I’ll crack ye over, if ye don’t mind!”
“I’m going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in
order, , Dinah; and then I’ll expect you to it
so.”
“Lor, now! Miss Phelia; dat ar an’t no way for ladies to do. I
never did see ladies doin’ no sich; my old Missis nor Miss Marie never
did, and I don’t see no kinder need on ’t;” and Dinah stalked
indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens
of scattering bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths,
and towels, for washing; washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands, and
with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.
“Lor now! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey an’t ladies,
nohow,” she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing
distance. “I has things as straight as anybody, when my clarin’ up
times comes; but I don’t want ladies round, a henderin’, and
getting my things all where I can’t find ’em.”
To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxyms of reformation and
arrangement, which she called “clarin’ up times,” when she
would begin with great zeal, and turn every drawer and closet wrong side
outward, on to the floor or tables, and make the ordinary confusion seven-fold
more confounded. Then she would light her pipe, and leisurely go over her
arrangements, looking things over, and discoursing upon them; making all the
young fry scour most vigorously on the tin things, and keeping up for several
hours a most energetic state of confusion, which she would explain to the
satisfaction of all inquirers, by the remark that she was a
“clarin’ up.” “She couldn’t hev things a gwine on
so as they had been, and she was gwine to make these yer young ones keep better
order;” for Dinah herself, somehow, indulged the illusion that she,
herself, was the soul of order, and it was only the , and the
everybody else in the house, that were the cause of anything that fell short of
perfection in this respect. When all the tins were scoured, and the tables
scrubbed snowy white, and everything that could offend tucked out of sight in
holes and corners, Dinah would dress herself up in a smart dress, clean apron,
and high, brilliant Madras turban, and tell all marauding “young
uns” to keep out of the kitchen, for she was gwine to have things kept
nice. Indeed, these periodic seasons were often an inconvenience to the whole
household; for Dinah would contract such an immoderate attachment to her
scoured tin, as to insist upon it that it shouldn’t be used again for any
possible purpose,—at least, till the ardor of the “clarin’
up” period abated.
Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every department of the house
to a systematic pattern; but her labors in all departments that depended on the
cooperation of servants were like those of Sisyphus or the Danaides. In
despair, she one day appealed to St. Clare.
“There is no such thing as getting anything like a system in this
family!”
“To be sure, there isn’t,” said St. Clare.
“Such shiftless management, such waste, such confusion, I never
saw!”
“I dare say you didn’t.”
“You would not take it so coolly, if you were housekeeper.”
“My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for all, that we
masters are divided into two classes, oppressors and oppressed. We who are
good-natured and hate severity make up our minds to a good deal of
inconvenience. If we a shambling, loose, untaught set in the
community, for our convenience, why, we must take the consequence. Some rare
cases I have seen, of persons, who, by a peculiar tact, can produce order and
system without severity; but I’m not one of them,—and so I made up
my mind, long ago, to let things go just as they do. I will not have the poor
devils thrashed and cut to pieces, and they know it,—and, of course, they
know the staff is in their own hands.”
“But to have no time, no place, no order,—all going on in this
shiftless way!”
“My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North Pole set an extravagant
value on time! What on earth is the use of time to a fellow who has twice as
much of it as he knows what to do with? As to order and system, where there is
nothing to be done but to lounge on the sofa and read, an hour sooner or later
in breakfast or dinner isn’t of much account. Now, there’s Dinah
gets you a capital dinner,—soup, ragout, roast fowl, dessert, ice-creams
and all,—and she creates it all out of chaos and old night down there, in
that kitchen. I think it really sublime, the way she manages. But, Heaven bless
us! if we are to go down there, and view all the smoking and squatting about,
and hurryscurryation of the preparatory process, we should never eat more! My
good cousin, absolve yourself from that! It’s more than a Catholic
penance, and does no more good. You’ll only lose your own temper, and
utterly confound Dinah. Let her go her own way.”
“But, Augustine, you don’t know how I found things.”
“Don’t I? Don’t I know that the rolling-pin is under her bed,
and the nutmeg-grater in her pocket with her tobacco,—that there are
sixty-five different sugar-bowls, one in every hole in the house,—that
she washes dishes with a dinner-napkin one day, and with a fragment of an old
petticoat the next? But the upshot is, she gets up glorious dinners, makes
superb coffee; and you must judge her as warriors and statesmen are judged,
.”
“But the waste,—the expense!”
“O, well! Lock everything you can, and keep the key. Give out by
driblets, and never inquire for odds and ends,—it isn’t
best.”
“That troubles me, Augustine. I can’t help feeling as if these
servants were not . Are you sure they can be relied
on?”
Augustine laughed immoderately at the grave and anxious face with which Miss
Ophelia propounded the question.
“O, cousin, that’s too good,——as if
that’s a thing to be expected! Honest!—why, of course, they
arn’t. Why should they be? What upon earth is to make them so?”
“Why don’t you instruct?”
“Instruct! O, fiddlestick! What instructing do you think I should do? I
look like it! As to Marie, she has spirit enough, to be sure, to kill off a
whole plantation, if I’d let her manage; but she wouldn’t get the
cheatery out of them.”
“Are there no honest ones?”
“Well, now and then one, whom Nature makes so impracticably simple,
truthful and faithful, that the worst possible influence can’t destroy
it. But, you see, from the mother’s breast the colored child feels and
sees that there are none but underhand ways open to it. It can get along no
other way with its parents, its mistress, its young master and missie
play-fellows. Cunning and deception become necessary, inevitable habits. It
isn’t fair to expect anything else of him. He ought not to be punished
for it. As to honesty, the slave is kept in that dependent, semi-childish
state, that there is no making him realize the rights of property, or feel that
his master’s goods are not his own, if he can get them. For my part, I
don’t see how they be honest. Such a fellow as Tom, here,
is,—is a moral miracle!”
“And what becomes of their souls?” said Miss Ophelia.
“That isn’t my affair, as I know of,” said St. Clare;
“I am only dealing in facts of the present life. The fact is, that the
whole race are pretty generally understood to be turned over to the devil, for
our benefit, in this world, however it may turn out in another!”
“This is perfectly horrible!” said Miss Ophelia; “you ought
to be ashamed of yourselves!”
“I don’t know as I am. We are in pretty good company, for all
that,” said St. Clare, “as people in the broad road generally are.
Look at the high and the low, all the world over, and it’s the same
story,—the lower class used up, body, soul and spirit, for the good of
the upper. It is so in England; it is so everywhere; and yet all Christendom
stands aghast, with virtuous indignation, because we do the thing in a little
different shape from what they do it.”
“It isn’t so in Vermont.”
“Ah, well, in New England, and in the free States, you have the better of
us, I grant. But there’s the bell; so, Cousin, let us for a while lay
aside our sectional prejudices, and come out to dinner.”
As Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen in the latter part of the afternoon, some of
the sable children called out, “La, sakes! thar’s Prue a coming,
grunting along like she allers does.”
A tall, bony colored woman now entered the kitchen, bearing on her head a
basket of rusks and hot rolls.
“Ho, Prue! you’ve come,” said Dinah.
Prue had a peculiar scowling expression of countenance, and a sullen, grumbling
voice. She set down her basket, squatted herself down, and resting her elbows
on her knees said,
“O Lord! I wish’t I ’s dead!”
“Why do you wish you were dead?” said Miss Ophelia.
“I’d be out o’ my misery,” said the woman, gruffly,
without taking her eyes from the floor.
“What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up, Prue?” said a
spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as she spoke, a pair of coral ear-drops.
The woman looked at her with a sour surly glance.
“Maybe you’ll come to it, one of these yer days. I’d be glad
to see you, I would; then you’ll be glad of a drop, like me, to forget
your misery.”
“Come, Prue,” said Dinah, “let’s look at your rusks.
Here’s Missis will pay for them.”
Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen.
“Thar’s some tickets in that ar old cracked jug on the top
shelf,” said Dinah. “You, Jake, climb up and get it down.”
“Tickets,—what are they for?” said Miss Ophelia.
“We buy tickets of her Mas’r, and she gives us bread for
’em.”
“And they counts my money and tickets, when I gets home, to see if I
’s got the change; and if I han’t, they half kills me.”
“And serves you right,” said Jane, the pert chambermaid, “if
you will take their money to get drunk on. That’s what she does,
Missis.”
“And that’s what I do,—I can’t live no
other ways,—drink and forget my misery.”
“You are very wicked and very foolish,” said Miss Ophelia,
“to steal your master’s money to make yourself a brute with.”
“It’s mighty likely, Missis; but I will do it,—yes, I will. O
Lord! I wish I ’s dead, I do,—I wish I ’s dead, and out of my
misery!” and slowly and stiffly the old creature rose, and got her basket
on her head again; but before she went out, she looked at the quadroon girl,
who still stood playing with her ear-drops.
“Ye think ye’re mighty fine with them ar, a frolickin’ and a
tossin’ your head, and a lookin’ down on everybody. Well, never
mind,—you may live to be a poor, old, cut-up crittur, like me. Hope to
the Lord ye will, I do; then see if ye won’t
drink,—drink,—drink,—yerself into torment; and sarve ye
right, too—ugh!” and, with a malignant howl, the woman left the
room.
“Disgusting old beast!” said Adolph, who was getting his
master’s shaving-water. “If I was her master, I’d cut her up
worse than she is.”
“Ye couldn’t do that ar, no ways,” said Dinah. “Her
back’s a far sight now,—she can’t never get a dress together
over it.”
“I think such low creatures ought not to be allowed to go round to
genteel families,” said Miss Jane. “What do you think, Mr. St.
Clare?” she said, coquettishly tossing her head at Adolph.
It must be observed that, among other appropriations from his master’s
stock, Adolph was in the habit of adopting his name and address; and that the
style under which he moved, among the colored circles of New Orleans, was that
of .
“I’m certainly of your opinion, Miss Benoir,” said Adolph.
Benoir was the name of Marie St. Clare’s family, and Jane was one of her
servants.
“Pray, Miss Benoir, may I be allowed to ask if those drops are for the
ball, tomorrow night? They are certainly bewitching!”
“I wonder, now, Mr. St. Clare, what the impudence of you men will come
to!” said Jane, tossing her pretty head ’til the ear-drops twinkled
again. “I shan’t dance with you for a whole evening, if you go to
asking me any more questions.”
“O, you couldn’t be so cruel, now! I was just dying to know whether
you would appear in your pink tarletane,” said Adolph.
“What is it?” said Rosa, a bright, piquant little quadroon who came
skipping down stairs at this moment.
“Why, Mr. St. Clare’s so impudent!”
“On my honor,” said Adolph, “I’ll leave it to Miss Rosa
now.”
“I know he’s always a saucy creature,” said Rosa, poising
herself on one of her little feet, and looking maliciously at Adolph.
“He’s always getting me so angry with him.”
“O! ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart, between
you,” said Adolph. “I shall be found dead in my bed, some morning,
and you’ll have it to answer for.”
“Do hear the horrid creature talk!” said both ladies, laughing
immoderately.
“Come,—clar out, you! I can’t have you cluttering up the
kitchen,” said Dinah; “in my way, foolin’ round here.”
“Aunt Dinah’s glum, because she can’t go to the ball,”
said Rosa.
“Don’t want none o’ your light-colored balls,” said
Dinah; “cuttin’ round, makin’ b’lieve you’s white
folks. Arter all, you’s niggers, much as I am.”
“Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiff, every day, to make it lie
straight,” said Jane.
“And it will be wool, after all,” said Rosa, maliciously shaking
down her long, silky curls.
“Well, in the Lord’s sight, an’t wool as good as har, any
time?” said Dinah. “I’d like to have Missis say which is
worth the most,—a couple such as you, or one like me. Get out wid ye, ye
trumpery,—I won’t have ye round!”
Here the conversation was interrupted in a two-fold manner. St. Clare’s
voice was heard at the head of the stairs, asking Adolph if he meant to stay
all night with his shaving-water; and Miss Ophelia, coming out of the
dining-room, said,
“Jane and Rosa, what are you wasting your time for, here? Go in and
attend to your muslins.”
Our friend Tom, who had been in the kitchen during the conversation with the
old rusk-woman, had followed her out into the street. He saw her go on, giving
every once in a while a suppressed groan. At last she set her basket down on a
doorstep, and began arranging the old, faded shawl which covered her shoulders.
“I’ll carry your basket a piece,” said Tom, compassionately.
“Why should ye?” said the woman. “I don’t want no
help.”
“You seem to be sick, or in trouble, or somethin’,” said Tom.
“I an’t sick,” said the woman, shortly.
“I wish,” said Tom, looking at her earnestly,—“I wish I
could persuade you to leave off drinking. Don’t you know it will be the
ruin of ye, body and soul?”
“I knows I’m gwine to torment,” said the woman, sullenly.
“Ye don’t need to tell me that ar. I ’s ugly, I ’s
wicked,—I ’s gwine straight to torment. O, Lord! I wish I ’s
thar!”
Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with a sullen, impassioned
earnestness.
“O, Lord have mercy on ye! poor crittur. Han’t ye never heard of
Jesus Christ?”
“Jesus Christ,—who’s he?”
“Why, he’s ,” said Tom.
“I think I’ve hearn tell o’ the Lord, and the judgment and
torment. I’ve heard o’ that.”
“But didn’t anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus, that loved us
poor sinners, and died for us?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that,” said the woman;
“nobody han’t never loved me, since my old man died.”
“Where was you raised?” said Tom.
“Up in Kentuck. A man kept me to breed chil’en for market, and sold
’em as fast as they got big enough; last of all, he sold me to a
speculator, and my Mas’r got me o’ him.”
“What set you into this bad way of drinkin’?”
“To get shet o’ my misery. I had one child after I come here; and I
thought then I’d have one to raise, cause Mas’r wasn’t a
speculator. It was de peartest little thing! and Missis she seemed to think a
heap on ’t, at first; it never cried,—it was likely and fat. But
Missis tuck sick, and I tended her; and I tuck the fever, and my milk all left
me, and the child it pined to skin and bone, and Missis wouldn’t buy milk
for it. She wouldn’t hear to me, when I telled her I hadn’t milk.
She said she knowed I could feed it on what other folks eat; and the child
kinder pined, and cried, and cried, and cried, day and night, and got all gone
to skin and bones, and Missis got sot agin it and she said ’t wan’t
nothin’ but crossness. She wished it was dead, she said; and she
wouldn’t let me have it o’ nights, cause, she said, it kept me
awake, and made me good for nothing. She made me sleep in her room; and I had
to put it away off in a little kind o’ garret, and thar it cried itself
to death, one night. It did; and I tuck to drinkin’, to keep its crying
out of my ears! I did,—and I will drink! I will, if I do go to torment
for it! Mas’r says I shall go to torment, and I tell him I’ve got
thar now!”
“O, ye poor crittur!” said Tom, “han’t nobody never
telled ye how the Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye? Han’t they telled
ye that he’ll help ye, and ye can go to heaven, and have rest, at
last?”
“I looks like gwine to heaven,” said the woman; “an’t
thar where white folks is gwine? S’pose they’d have me thar?
I’d rather go to torment, and get away from Mas’r and Missis. I had
,” she said, as with her usual groan, she got her basket on her
head, and walked sullenly away.
Tom turned, and walked sorrowfully back to the house. In the court he met
little Eva,—a crown of tuberoses on her head, and her eyes radiant with
delight.
“O, Tom! here you are. I’m glad I’ve found you. Papa says you
may get out the ponies, and take me in my little new carriage,” she said,
catching his hand. “But what’s the matter Tom?—you look
sober.”
“I feel bad, Miss Eva,” said Tom, sorrowfully. “But
I’ll get the horses for you.”
“But do tell me, Tom, what is the matter. I saw you talking to cross old
Prue.”
Tom, in simple, earnest phrase, told Eva the woman’s history. She did not
exclaim or wonder, or weep, as other children do. Her cheeks grew pale, and a
deep, earnest shadow passed over her eyes. She laid both hands on her bosom,
and sighed heavily.
VOLUME II
CHAPTER XIX
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions Continued
“Tom, you needn’t get me the horses. I don’t want to
go,” she said.
“Why not, Miss Eva?”
“These things sink into my heart, Tom,” said Eva,—“they
sink into my heart,” she repeated, earnestly. “I don’t want
to go;” and she turned from Tom, and went into the house.
A few days after, another woman came, in old Prue’s place, to bring the
rusks; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen.
“Lor!” said Dinah, “what’s got Prue?”
“Prue isn’t coming any more,” said the woman, mysteriously.
“Why not?” said Dinah, “she an’t dead, is she?”
“We doesn’t exactly know. She’s down cellar,” said the
woman, glancing at Miss Ophelia.
After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Dinah followed the woman to the door.
“What got Prue, any how?” she said.
The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and answered, in low,
mysterious tone.
“Well, you mustn’t tell nobody, Prue, she got drunk agin,—and
they had her down cellar,—and thar they left her all day,—and I
hearn ’em saying that the ,—and
!”
Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her side the spirit-like
form of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyes dilated with horror, and every drop
of blood driven from her lips and cheeks.
“Lor bless us! Miss Eva’s gwine to faint away! What go us all, to
let her har such talk? Her pa’ll be rail mad.”
“I shan’t faint, Dinah,” said the child, firmly; “and
why shouldn’t I hear it? It an’t so much for me to hear it, as for
poor Prue to suffer it.”
“! it isn’t for sweet, delicate young ladies, like
you,—these yer stories isn’t; it’s enough to kill
’em!”
Eva sighed again, and walked up stairs with a slow and melancholy step.
Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman’s story. Dinah gave a very
garrulous version of it, to which Tom added the particulars which he had drawn
from her that morning.
“An abominable business,—perfectly horrible!” she exclaimed,
as she entered the room where St. Clare lay reading his paper.
“Pray, what iniquity has turned up now?” said he.
“What now? why, those folks have whipped Prue to death!” said Miss
Ophelia, going on, with great strength of detail, into the story, and enlarging
on its most shocking particulars.
“I thought it would come to that, some time,” said St. Clare, going
on with his paper.
“Thought so!—an’t you going to anything about
it?” said Miss Ophelia. “Haven’t you got any
, or anybody, to interfere and look after such matters?”
“It’s commonly supposed that the interest is a
sufficient guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin their own
possessions, I don’t know what’s to be done. It seems the poor
creature was a thief and a drunkard; and so there won’t be much hope to
get up sympathy for her.”
“It is perfectly outrageous,—it is horrid, Augustine! It will
certainly bring down vengeance upon you.”
“My dear cousin, I didn’t do it, and I can’t help it; I
would, if I could. If low-minded, brutal people will act like themselves, what
am I to do? they have absolute control; they are irresponsible despots. There
would be no use in interfering; there is no law that amounts to anything
practically, for such a case. The best we can do is to shut our eyes and ears,
and let it alone. It’s the only resource left us.”
“How can you shut your eyes and ears? How can you let such things
alone?”
“My dear child, what do you expect? Here is a whole class,—debased,
uneducated, indolent, provoking,—put, without any sort of terms or
conditions, entirely into the hands of such people as the majority in our world
are; people who have neither consideration nor self-control, who haven’t
even an enlightened regard to their own interest,—for that’s the
case with the largest half of mankind. Of course, in a community so organized,
what can a man of honorable and humane feelings do, but shut his eyes all he
can, and harden his heart? I can’t buy every poor wretch I see. I
can’t turn knight-errant, and undertake to redress every individual case
of wrong in such a city as this. The most I can do is to try and keep out of
the way of it.”
St. Clare’s fine countenance was for a moment overcast; he said,
“Come, cousin, don’t stand there looking like one of the Fates;
you’ve only seen a peep through the curtain,—a specimen of what is
going on, the world over, in some shape or other. If we are to be prying and
spying into all the dismals of life, we should have no heart to anything.
’T is like looking too close into the details of Dinah’s
kitchen;” and St. Clare lay back on the sofa, and busied himself with his
paper.
Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-work, and sat there grim
with indignation. She knit and knit, but while she mused the fire burned; at
last she broke out—“I tell you, Augustine, I can’t get over
things so, if you can. It’s a perfect abomination for you to defend such
a system,—that’s mind!”
“What now?” said St. Clare, looking up. “At it again,
hey?”
“I say it’s perfectly abominable for you to defend such a
system!” said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth.
“ defend it, my dear lady? Who ever said I did defend it?”
said St. Clare.
“Of course, you defend it,—you all do,—all you Southerners.
What do you have slaves for, if you don’t?”
“Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in this world ever
does what they don’t think is right? Don’t you, or didn’t you
ever, do anything that you did not think quite right?”
“If I do, I repent of it, I hope,” said Miss Ophelia, rattling her
needles with energy.
“So do I,” said St. Clare, peeling his orange; “I’m
repenting of it all the time.”
“What do you keep on doing it for?”
“Didn’t you ever keep on doing wrong, after you’d repented,
my good cousin?”
“Well, only when I’ve been very much tempted,” said Miss
Ophelia.
“Well, I’m very much tempted,” said St. Clare;
“that’s just my difficulty.”
“But I always resolve I won’t and I try to break off.”
“Well, I have been resolving I won’t, off and on, these ten
years,” said St. Clare; “but I haven’t, some how, got clear.
Have you got clear of all your sins, cousin?”
“Cousin Augustine,” said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and laying down
her knitting-work, “I suppose I deserve that you should reprove my
short-comings. I know all you say is true enough; nobody else feels them more
than I do; but it does seem to me, after all, there is some difference between
me and you. It seems to me I would cut off my right hand sooner than keep on,
from day to day, doing what I thought was wrong. But, then, my conduct is so
inconsistent with my profession, I don’t wonder you reprove me.”
“O, now, cousin,” said Augustine, sitting down on the floor, and
laying his head back in her lap, “don’t take on so awfully serious!
You know what a good-for-nothing, saucy boy I always was. I love to poke you
up,—that’s all,—just to see you get earnest. I do think you
are desperately, distressingly good; it tires me to death to think of
it.”
“But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste,” said Miss
Ophelia, laying her hand on his forehead.
“Dismally so,” said he; “and I—well, I never want to
talk seriously in hot weather. What with mosquitos and all, a fellow
can’t get himself up to any very sublime moral flights; and I
believe,” said St. Clare, suddenly rousing himself up,
“there’s a theory, now! I understand now why northern nations are
always more virtuous than southern ones,—I see into that whole
subject.”
“O, Augustine, you are a sad rattle-brain!”
“Am I? Well, so I am, I suppose; but for once I will be serious, now; but
you must hand me that basket of oranges;—you see, you’ll have to
‘stay me with flagons and comfort me with apples,’ if I’m
going to make this effort. Now,” said Augustine, drawing the basket up,
“I’ll begin: When, in the course of human events, it becomes
necessary for a fellow to hold two or three dozen of his fellow-worms in
captivity, a decent regard to the opinions of society requires—”
“I don’t see that you are growing more serious,” said Miss
Ophelia.
“Wait,—I’m coming on,—you’ll hear. The short of
the matter is, cousin,” said he, his handsome face suddenly settling into
an earnest and serious expression, “on this abstract question of slavery
there can, as I think, be but one opinion. Planters, who have money to make by
it,—clergymen, who have planters to please,—politicians, who want
to rule by it,—may warp and bend language and ethics to a degree that
shall astonish the world at their ingenuity; they can press nature and the
Bible, and nobody knows what else, into the service; but, after all, neither
they nor the world believe in it one particle the more. It comes from the
devil, that’s the short of it;—and, to my mind, it’s a pretty
respectable specimen of what he can do in his own line.”
Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised, and St. Clare,
apparently enjoying her astonishment, went on.
“You seem to wonder; but if you will get me fairly at it, I’ll make
a clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed of God and man, what is
it? Strip it of all its ornament, run it down to the root and nucleus of the
whole, and what is it? Why, because my brother Quashy is ignorant and weak, and
I am intelligent and strong,—because I know how, and do
it,—therefore, I may steal all he has, keep it, and give him only such
and so much as suits my fancy. Whatever is too hard, too dirty, too
disagreeable, for me, I may set Quashy to doing. Because I don’t like
work, Quashy shall work. Because the sun burns me, Quashy shall stay in the
sun. Quashy shall earn the money, and I will spend it. Quashy shall lie down in
every puddle, that I may walk over dry-shod. Quashy shall do my will, and not
his, all the days of his mortal life, and have such chance of getting to
heaven, at last, as I find convenient. This I take to be about what slavery
. I defy anybody on earth to read our slave-code, as it stands in our
law-books, and make anything else of it. Talk of the of slavery!
Humbug! The is the essence of all abuse! And the only
reason why the land don’t sink under it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is
because it is in a way infinitely better than it is. For
pity’s sake, for shame’s sake, because we are men born of women,
and not savage beasts, many of us do not, and dare not,—we would
to use the full power which our savage laws put into our hands.
And he who goes the furthest, and does the worst, only uses within limits the
power that the law gives him.”
St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when excited, was walking,
with hurried steps, up and down the floor. His fine face, classic as that of a
Greek statue, seemed actually to burn with the fervor of his feelings. His
large blue eyes flashed, and he gestured with an unconscious eagerness. Miss
Ophelia had never seen him in this mood before, and she sat perfectly silent.
“I declare to you,” said he, suddenly stopping before his cousin
“(It’s no sort of use to talk or to feel on this subject), but I
declare to you, there have been times when I have thought, if the whole country
would sink, and hide all this injustice and misery from the light, I would
willingly sink with it. When I have been travelling up and down on our boats,
or about on my collecting tours, and reflected that every brutal, disgusting,
mean, low-lived fellow I met, was allowed by our laws to become absolute despot
of as many men, women and children, as he could cheat, steal, or gamble money
enough to buy,—when I have seen such men in actual ownership of helpless
children, of young girls and women,—I have been ready to curse my
country, to curse the human race!”
“Augustine! Augustine!” said Miss Ophelia, “I’m sure
you’ve said enough. I never, in my life, heard anything like this, even
at the North.”
“At the North!” said St. Clare, with a sudden change of expression,
and resuming something of his habitual careless tone. “Pooh! your
northern folks are cold-blooded; you are cool in everything! You can’t
begin to curse up hill and down as we can, when we get fairly at it.”
“Well, but the question is,” said Miss Ophelia.
“O, yes, to be sure, the ,—and a deuce of a
question it is! How came in this state of sin and misery? Well, I
shall answer in the good old words you used to teach me, Sundays. I came so by
ordinary generation. My servants were my father’s, and, what is more, my
mother’s; and now they are mine, they and their increase, which bids fair
to be a pretty considerable item. My father, you know, came first from New
England; and he was just such another man as your father,—a regular old
Roman,—upright, energetic, noble-minded, with an iron will. Your father
settled down in New England, to rule over rocks and stones, and to force an
existence out of Nature; and mine settled in Louisiana, to rule over men and
women, and force existence out of them. My mother,” said St. Clare,
getting up and walking to a picture at the end of the room, and gazing upward
with a face fervent with veneration, “ Don’t
look at me so!—you know what I mean! She probably was of mortal birth;
but, as far as ever I could observe, there was no trace of any human weakness
or error about her; and everybody that lives to remember her, whether bond or
free, servant, acquaintance, relation, all say the same. Why, cousin, that
mother has been all that has stood between me and utter unbelief for years. She
was a direct embodiment and personification of the New Testament,—a
living fact, to be accounted for, and to be accounted for in no other way than
by its truth. O, mother! mother!” said St. Clare, clasping his hands, in
a sort of transport; and then suddenly checking himself, he came back, and
seating himself on an ottoman, he went on:
“My brother and I were twins; and they say, you know, that twins ought to
resemble each other; but we were in all points a contrast. He had black, fiery
eyes, coal-black hair, a strong, fine Roman profile, and a rich brown
complexion. I had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline, and fair complexion.
He was active and observing, I dreamy and inactive. He was generous to his
friends and equals, but proud, dominant, overbearing, to inferiors, and utterly
unmerciful to whatever set itself up against him. Truthful we both were; he
from pride and courage, I from a sort of abstract ideality. We loved each other
about as boys generally do,—off and on, and in general;—he was my
father’s pet, and I my mother’s.
“There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling in me on all
possible subjects, of which he and my father had no kind of understanding, and
with which they could have no possible sympathy. But mother did; and so, when I
had quarreled with Alfred, and father looked sternly on me, I used to go off to
mother’s room, and sit by her. I remember just how she used to look, with
her pale cheeks, her deep, soft, serious eyes, her white dress,—she
always wore white; and I used to think of her whenever I read in Revelations
about the saints that were arrayed in fine linen, clean and white. She had a
great deal of genius of one sort and another, particularly in music; and she
used to sit at her organ, playing fine old majestic music of the Catholic
church, and singing with a voice more like an angel than a mortal woman; and I
would lay my head down on her lap, and cry, and dream, and feel,—oh,
immeasurably!—things that I had no language to say!
“In those days, this matter of slavery had never been canvassed as it has
now; nobody dreamed of any harm in it.
“My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in some preexistent state, he
must have been in the higher circles of spirits, and brought all his old court
pride along with him; for it was ingrain, bred in the bone, though he was
originally of poor and not in any way of noble family. My brother was begotten
in his image.
“Now, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no human sympathies,
beyond a certain line in society. In England the line is in one place, in
Burmah in another, and in America in another; but the aristocrat of all these
countries never goes over it. What would be hardship and distress and injustice
in his own class, is a cool matter of course in another one. My father’s
dividing line was that of color. , never was a man more
just and generous; but he considered the negro, through all possible gradations
of color, as an intermediate link between man and animals, and graded all his
ideas of justice or generosity on this hypothesis. I suppose, to be sure, if
anybody had asked him, plump and fair, whether they had human immortal souls,
he might have hemmed and hawed, and said yes. But my father was not a man much
troubled with spiritualism; religious sentiment he had none, beyond a
veneration for God, as decidedly the head of the upper classes.
“Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes; he was an inflexible,
driving, punctilious business man; everything was to move by system,—to
be sustained with unfailing accuracy and precision. Now, if you take into
account that all this was to be worked out by a set of lazy, twaddling,
shiftless laborers, who had grown up, all their lives, in the absence of every
possible motive to learn how to do anything but ‘shirk,’ as you
Vermonters say, and you’ll see that there might naturally be, on his
plantation, a great many things that looked horrible and distressing to a
sensitive child, like me.
“Besides all, he had an overseer,—great, tall, slab-sided,
two-fisted renegade son of Vermont—(begging your pardon),—who had
gone through a regular apprenticeship in hardness and brutality and taken his
degree to be admitted to practice. My mother never could endure him, nor I; but
he obtained an entire ascendency over my father; and this man was the absolute
despot of the estate.
“I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love that I have now for
all kinds of human things,—a kind of passion for the study of humanity,
come in what shape it would. I was found in the cabins and among the
field-hands a great deal, and, of course, was a great favorite; and all sorts
of complaints and grievances were breathed in my ear; and I told them to
mother, and we, between us, formed a sort of committee for a redress of
grievances. We hindered and repressed a great deal of cruelty, and
congratulated ourselves on doing a vast deal of good, till, as often happens,
my zeal overacted. Stubbs complained to my father that he couldn’t manage
the hands, and must resign his position. Father was a fond, indulgent husband,
but a man that never flinched from anything that he thought necessary; and so
he put down his foot, like a rock, between us and the field-hands. He told my
mother, in language perfectly respectful and deferential, but quite explicit,
that over the house-servants she should be entire mistress, but that with the
field-hands he could allow no interference. He revered and respected her above
all living beings; but he would have said it all the same to the virgin Mary
herself, if she had come in the way of his system.
“I used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases with
him,—endeavoring to excite his sympathies. He would listen to the most
pathetic appeals with the most discouraging politeness and equanimity.
‘It all resolves itself into this,’ he would say; ‘must I
part with Stubbs, or keep him? Stubbs is the soul of punctuality, honesty, and
efficiency,—a thorough business hand, and as humane as the general run.
We can’t have perfection; and if I keep him, I must sustain his
administration as a , even if there are, now and then, things that
are exceptionable. All government includes some necessary hardness. General
rules will bear hard on particular cases.’ This last maxim my father
seemed to consider a settler in most alleged cases of cruelty. After he had
said , he commonly drew up his feet on the sofa, like a man that has
disposed of a business, and betook himself to a nap, or the newspaper, as the
case might be.
“The fact is my father showed the exact sort of talent for a statesman.
He could have divided Poland as easily as an orange, or trod on Ireland as
quietly and systematically as any man living. At last my mother gave up, in
despair. It never will be known, till the last account, what noble and
sensitive natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly helpless, into what seems
to them an abyss of injustice and cruelty, and which seems so to nobody about
them. It has been an age of long sorrow of such natures, in such a
hell-begotten sort of world as ours. What remained for her, but to train her
children in her own views and sentiments? Well, after all you say about
training, children will grow up substantially what they by nature,
and only that. From the cradle, Alfred was an aristocrat; and as he grew up,
instinctively, all his sympathies and all his reasonings were in that line, and
all mother’s exhortations went to the winds. As to me, they sunk deep
into me. She never contradicted, in form, anything my father said, or seemed
directly to differ from him; but she impressed, burnt into my very soul, with
all the force of her deep, earnest nature, an idea of the dignity and worth of
the meanest human soul. I have looked in her face with solemn awe, when she
would point up to the stars in the evening, and say to me, ’See there,
Auguste! the poorest, meanest soul on our place will be living, when all these
stars are gone forever,—will live as long as God lives!’
“She had some fine old paintings; one, in particular, of Jesus healing a
blind man. They were very fine, and used to impress me strongly. ‘See
there, Auguste,’ she would say; ‘the blind man was a beggar, poor
and loathsome; therefore, he would not heal him He called him
to him, and put Remember this, my boy.’ If I had
lived to grow up under her care, she might have stimulated me to I know not
what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint, reformer, martyr,—but,
alas! alas! I went from her when I was only thirteen, and I never saw her
again!”
St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speak for some minutes.
After a while, he looked up, and went on:
“What poor, mean trash this whole business of human virtue is! A mere
matter, for the most part, of latitude and longitude, and geographical
position, acting with natural temperament. The greater part is nothing but an
accident! Your father, for example, settles in Vermont, in a town where all
are, in fact, free and equal; becomes a regular church member and deacon, and
in due time joins an Abolition society, and thinks us all little better than
heathens. Yet he is, for all the world, in constitution and habit, a duplicate
of my father. I can see it leaking out in fifty different ways,—just the
same strong, overbearing, dominant spirit. You know very well how impossible it
is to persuade some of the folks in your village that Squire Sinclair does not
feel above them. The fact is, though he has fallen on democratic times, and
embraced a democratic theory, he is to the heart an aristocrat, as much as my
father, who ruled over five or six hundred slaves.”
Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil at this picture, and was laying down
her knitting to begin, but St. Clare stopped her.
“Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do not say they
alike, in fact. One fell into a condition where everything acted
against the natural tendency, and the other where everything acted for it; and
so one turned out a pretty wilful, stout, overbearing old democrat, and the
other a wilful, stout old despot. If both had owned plantations in Louisiana,
they would have been as like as two old bullets cast in the same mould.”
“What an undutiful boy you are!” said Miss Ophelia.
“I don’t mean them any disrespect,” said St. Clare.
“You know reverence is not my forte. But, to go back to my history:
“When father died, he left the whole property to us twin boys, to be
divided as we should agree. There does not breathe on God’s earth a
nobler-souled, more generous fellow, than Alfred, in all that concerns his
equals; and we got on admirably with this property question, without a single
unbrotherly word or feeling. We undertook to work the plantation together; and
Alfred, whose outward life and capabilities had double the strength of mine,
became an enthusiastic planter, and a wonderfully successful one.
“But two years’ trial satisfied me that I could not be a partner in
that matter. To have a great gang of seven hundred, whom I could not know
personally, or feel any individual interest in, bought and driven, housed, fed,
worked like so many horned cattle, strained up to military precision,—the
question of how little of life’s commonest enjoyments would keep them in
working order being a constantly recurring problem,—the necessity of
drivers and overseers,—the ever-necessary whip, first, last, and only
argument,—the whole thing was insufferably disgusting and loathsome to
me; and when I thought of my mother’s estimate of one poor human soul, it
became even frightful!
“It’s all nonsense to talk to me about slaves all
this! To this day, I have no patience with the unutterable trash that some of
your patronizing Northerners have made up, as in their zeal to apologize for
our sins. We all know better. Tell me that any man living wants to work all his
days, from day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye of a master, without the
power of putting forth one irresponsible volition, on the same dreary,
monotonous, unchanging toil, and all for two pairs of pantaloons and a pair of
shoes a year, with enough food and shelter to keep him in working order! Any
man who thinks that human beings can, as a general thing, be made about as
comfortable that way as any other, I wish he might try it. I’d buy the
dog, and work him, with a clear conscience!”
“I always have supposed,” said Miss Ophelia, “that you, all
of you, approved of these things, and thought them —according
to Scripture.”
“Humbug! We are not quite reduced to that yet. Alfred who is as
determined a despot as ever walked, does not pretend to this kind of
defence;—no, he stands, high and haughty, on that good old respectable
ground, ; and he says, and I think quite
sensibly, that the American planter is ‘only doing, in another form, what
the English aristocracy and capitalists are doing by the lower classes;’
that is, I take it, them, body and bone, soul and spirit,
to their use and convenience. He defends both,—and I think, at least,
. He says that there can be no high civilization without
enslavement of the masses, either nominal or real. There must, he says, be a
lower class, given up to physical toil and confined to an animal nature; and a
higher one thereby acquires leisure and wealth for a more expanded intelligence
and improvement, and becomes the directing soul of the lower. So he reasons,
because, as I said, he is born an aristocrat;—so I don’t believe,
because I was born a democrat.”
“How in the world can the two things be compared?” said Miss
Ophelia. “The English laborer is not sold, traded, parted from his
family, whipped.”
“He is as much at the will of his employer as if he were sold to him. The
slave-owner can whip his refractory slave to death,—the capitalist can
starve him to death. As to family security, it is hard to say which is the
worst,—to have one’s children sold, or see them starve to death at
home.”
“But it’s no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it
isn’t worse than some other bad thing.”
“I didn’t give it for one,—nay, I’ll say, besides, that
ours is the more bold and palpable infringement of human rights; actually
buying a man up, like a horse,—looking at his teeth, cracking his joints,
and trying his paces and then paying down for him,—having speculators,
breeders, traders, and brokers in human bodies and souls,—sets the thing
before the eyes of the civilized world in a more tangible form, though the
thing done be, after all, in its nature, the same; that is, appropriating one
set of human beings to the use and improvement of another without any regard to
their own.”
“I never thought of the matter in this light,” said Miss Ophelia.
“Well, I’ve travelled in England some, and I’ve looked over a
good many documents as to the state of their lower classes; and I really think
there is no denying Alfred, when he says that his slaves are better off than a
large class of the population of England. You see, you must not infer, from
what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a hard master; for he
isn’t. He is despotic, and unmerciful to insubordination; he would shoot
a fellow down with as little remorse as he would shoot a buck, if he opposed
him. But, in general, he takes a sort of pride in having his slaves comfortably
fed and accommodated.
“When I was with him, I insisted that he should do something for their
instruction; and, to please me, he did get a chaplain, and used to have them
catechized Sunday, though, I believe, in his heart, that he thought it would do
about as much good to set a chaplain over his dogs and horses. And the fact is,
that a mind stupefied and animalized by every bad influence from the hour of
birth, spending the whole of every week-day in unreflecting toil, cannot be
done much with by a few hours on Sunday. The teachers of Sunday-schools among
the manufacturing population of England, and among plantation-hands in our
country, could perhaps testify to the same result, . Yet
some striking exceptions there are among us, from the fact that the negro is
naturally more impressible to religious sentiment than the white.”
“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, “how came you to give up your
plantation life?”
“Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw plainly that I
was no planter. He thought it absurd, after he had reformed, and altered, and
improved everywhere, to suit my notions, that I still remained unsatisfied. The
fact was, it was, after all, the THING that I hated—the using these men
and women, the perpetuation of all this ignorance, brutality and
vice,—just to make money for me!
“Besides, I was always interfering in the details. Being myself one of
the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too much fellow-feeling for the lazy;
and when poor, shiftless dogs put stones at the bottom of their cotton-baskets
to make them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with dirt, with cotton at the
top, it seemed so exactly like what I should do if I were they, I
couldn’t and wouldn’t have them flogged for it. Well, of course,
there was an end of plantation discipline; and Alf and I came to about the same
point that I and my respected father did, years before. So he told me that I
was a womanish sentimentalist, and would never do for business life; and
advised me to take the bank-stock and the New Orleans family mansion, and go to
writing poetry, and let him manage the plantation. So we parted, and I came
here.”
“But why didn’t you free your slaves?”
“Well, I wasn’t up to that. To hold them as tools for money-making,
I could not;—have them to help spend money, you know, didn’t look
quite so ugly to me. Some of them were old house-servants, to whom I was much
attached; and the younger ones were children to the old. All were well
satisfied to be as they were.” He paused, and walked reflectively up and
down the room.
“There was,” said St. Clare, “a time in my life when I had
plans and hopes of doing something in this world, more than to float and drift.
I had vague, indistinct yearnings to be a sort of emancipator,—to free my
native land from this spot and stain. All young men have had such fever-fits, I
suppose, some time,—but then—”
“Why didn’t you?” said Miss Ophelia;—“you ought
not to put your hand to the plough, and look back.”
“O, well, things didn’t go with me as I expected, and I got the
despair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was a necessary incident to
wisdom in us both; but, some how or other, instead of being actor and
regenerator in society, I became a piece of driftwood, and have been floating
and eddying about, ever since. Alfred scolds me, every time we meet; and he has
the better of me, I grant,—for he really does something; his life is a
logical result of his opinions and mine is a contemptible .”
“My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of spending your
probation?”
“Satisfied! Was I not just telling you I despised it? But, then, to come
back to this point,—we were on this liberation business. I don’t
think my feelings about slavery are peculiar. I find many men who, in their
hearts, think of it just as I do. The land groans under it; and, bad as it is
for the slave, it is worse, if anything, for the master. It takes no spectacles
to see that a great class of vicious, improvident, degraded people, among us,
are an evil to us, as well as to themselves. The capitalist and aristocrat of
England cannot feel that as we do, because they do not mingle with the class
they degrade as we do. They are in our homes; they are the associates of our
children, and they form their minds faster than we can; for they are a race
that children always will cling to and assimilate with. If Eva, now, was not
more angel than ordinary, she would be ruined. We might as well allow the
small-pox to run among them, and think our children would not take it, as to
let them be uninstructed and vicious, and think our children will not be
affected by that. Yet our laws positively and utterly forbid any efficient
general educational system, and they do it wisely, too; for, just begin and
thoroughly educate one generation, and the whole thing would be blown sky high.
If we did not give them liberty, they would take it.”
“And what do you think will be the end of this?” said Miss Ophelia.
“I don’t know. One thing is certain,—that there is a
mustering among the masses, the world over; and there is a coming on, sooner or later. The same thing is working in Europe,
in England, and in this country. My mother used to tell me of a millennium that
was coming, when Christ should reign, and all men should be free and happy. And
she taught me, when I was a boy, to pray, ’thy kingdom come.’
Sometimes I think all this sighing, and groaning, and stirring among the dry
bones foretells what she used to tell me was coming. But who may abide the day
of His appearing?”
“Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the kingdom,”
said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, and looking anxiously at her
cousin.
“Thank you for your good opinion, but it’s up and down with
me,—up to heaven’s gate in theory, down in earth’s dust in
practice. But there’s the teabell,—do let’s go,—and
don’t say, now, I haven’t had one downright serious talk, for once
in my life.”
At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. “I suppose you’ll
think, cousin,” she said, “that we are all barbarians.”
“I think that’s a barbarous thing,” said Miss Ophelia,
“but I don’t think you are all barbarians.”
“Well, now,” said Marie, “I know it’s impossible to get
along with some of these creatures. They are so bad they ought not to live. I
don’t feel a particle of sympathy for such cases. If they’d only
behave themselves, it would not happen.”
“But, mamma,” said Eva, “the poor creature was unhappy;
that’s what made her drink.”
“O, fiddlestick! as if that were any excuse! I’m unhappy, very
often. I presume,” she said, pensively, “that I’ve had
greater trials than ever she had. It’s just because they are so bad.
There’s some of them that you cannot break in by any kind of severity. I
remember father had a man that was so lazy he would run away just to get rid of
work, and lie round in the swamps, stealing and doing all sorts of horrid
things. That man was caught and whipped, time and again, and it never did him
any good; and the last time he crawled off, though he couldn’t but just
go, and died in the swamp. There was no sort of reason for it, for
father’s hands were always treated kindly.”
“I broke a fellow in, once,” said St. Clare, “that all the
overseers and masters had tried their hands on in vain.”
“You!” said Marie; “well, I’d be glad to know when
ever did anything of the sort.”
“Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow,—a native-born African;
and he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom in him to an uncommon
degree. He was a regular African lion. They called him Scipio. Nobody could do
anything with him; and he was sold round from overseer to overseer, till at
last Alfred bought him, because he thought he could manage him. Well, one day
he knocked down the overseer, and was fairly off into the swamps. I was on a
visit to Alf’s plantation, for it was after we had dissolved partnership.
Alfred was greatly exasperated; but I told him that it was his own fault, and
laid him any wager that I could break the man; and finally it was agreed that,
if I caught him, I should have him to experiment on. So they mustered out a
party of some six or seven, with guns and dogs, for the hunt. People, you know,
can get up as much enthusiasm in hunting a man as a deer, if it is only
customary; in fact, I got a little excited myself, though I had only put in as
a sort of mediator, in case he was caught.
“Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and scampered, and finally
we started him. He ran and bounded like a buck, and kept us well in the rear
for some time; but at last he got caught in an impenetrable thicket of cane;
then he turned to bay, and I tell you he fought the dogs right gallantly. He
dashed them to right and left, and actually killed three of them with only his
naked fists, when a shot from a gun brought him down, and he fell, wounded and
bleeding, almost at my feet. The poor fellow looked up at me with manhood and
despair both in his eye. I kept back the dogs and the party, as they came
pressing up, and claimed him as my prisoner. It was all I could do to keep them
from shooting him, in the flush of success; but I persisted in my bargain, and
Alfred sold him to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in one fortnight I had him
tamed down as submissive and tractable as heart could desire.”
“What in the world did you do to him?” said Marie.
“Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my own room, had a
good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and tended him myself, until he got
fairly on his feet again. And, in process of time, I had free papers made out
for him, and told him he might go where he liked.”
“And did he go?” said Miss Ophelia.
“No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and absolutely refused to
leave me. I never had a braver, better fellow,—trusty and true as steel.
He embraced Christianity afterwards, and became as gentle as a child. He used
to oversee my place on the lake, and did it capitally, too. I lost him the
first cholera season. In fact, he laid down his life for me. For I was sick,
almost to death; and when, through the panic, everybody else fled, Scipio
worked for me like a giant, and actually brought me back into life again. But,
poor fellow! he was taken, right after, and there was no saving him. I never
felt anybody’s loss more.”
Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as he told the
story,—her small lips apart, her eyes wide and earnest with absorbing
interest.
As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst into tears,
and sobbed convulsively.
“Eva, dear child! what is the matter?” said St. Clare, as the
child’s small frame trembled and shook with the violence of her feelings.
“This child,” he added, “ought not to hear any of this kind
of thing,—she’s nervous.”
“No, papa, I’m not nervous,” said Eva, controlling herself,
suddenly, with a strength of resolution singular in such a child.
“I’m not nervous, but these things .”
“What do you mean, Eva?”
“I can’t tell you, papa, I think a great many thoughts. Perhaps
some day I shall tell you.”
“Well, think away, dear,—only don’t cry and worry your
papa,” said St. Clare, “Look here,—see what a beautiful peach
I have got for you.”
Eva took it and smiled, though there was still a nervous twiching about the
corners of her mouth.
“Come, look at the gold-fish,” said St. Clare, taking her hand and
stepping on to the verandah. A few moments, and merry laughs were heard through
the silken curtains, as Eva and St. Clare were pelting each other with roses,
and chasing each other among the alleys of the court.
There is danger that our humble friend Tom be neglected amid the adventures of
the higher born; but, if our readers will accompany us up to a little loft over
the stable, they may, perhaps, learn a little of his affairs. It was a decent
room, containing a bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, where lay
Tom’s Bible and hymn-book; and where he sits, at present, with his slate
before him, intent on something that seems to cost him a great deal of anxious
thought.
The fact was, that Tom’s home-yearnings had become so strong that he had
begged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva, and, mustering up all his small stock
of literary attainment acquired by Mas’r George’s instructions, he
conceived the bold idea of writing a letter; and he was busy now, on his slate,
getting out his first draft. Tom was in a good deal of trouble, for the forms
of some of the letters he had forgotten entirely; and of what he did remember,
he did not know exactly which to use. And while he was working, and breathing
very hard, in his earnestness, Eva alighted, like a bird, on the round of his
chair behind him, and peeped over his shoulder.
“O, Uncle Tom! what funny things you making, there!”
“I’m trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva, and my little
chil’en,” said Tom, drawing the back of his hand over his eyes;
“but, some how, I’m feard I shan’t make it out.”
“I wish I could help you, Tom! I’ve learnt to write some. Last year
I could make all the letters, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”
So Eva put her golden head close to his, and the two commenced a grave and
anxious discussion, each one equally earnest, and about equally ignorant; and,
with a deal of consulting and advising over every word, the composition began,
as they both felt very sanguine, to look quite like writing.
“Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful,” said Eva,
gazing delightedly on it. “How pleased your wife’ll be, and the
poor little children! O, it’s a shame you ever had to go away from them!
I mean to ask papa to let you go back, some time.”
“Missis said that she would send down money for me, as soon as they could
get it together,” said Tom. “I’m ’spectin, she will.
Young Mas’r George, he said he’d come for me; and he gave me this
yer dollar as a sign;” and Tom drew from under his clothes the precious
dollar.
“O, he’ll certainly come, then!” said Eva. “I’m
so glad!”
“And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let ’em know whar I
was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off,—cause she felt so drefful,
poor soul!”
“I say Tom!” said St. Clare’s voice, coming in the door at
this moment.
Tom and Eva both started.
“What’s here?” said St. Clare, coming up and looking at the
slate.
“O, it’s Tom’s letter. I’m helping him to write
it,” said Eva; “isn’t it nice?”
“I wouldn’t discourage either of you,” said St. Clare,
“but I rather think, Tom, you’d better get me to write your letter
for you. I’ll do it, when I come home from my ride.”
“It’s very important he should write,” said Eva,
“because his mistress is going to send down money to redeem him, you
know, papa; he told me they told him so.”
St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably only one of those
things which good-natured owners say to their servants, to alleviate their
horror of being sold, without any intention of fulfilling the expectation thus
excited. But he did not make any audible comment upon it,—only ordered
Tom to get the horses out for a ride.
Tom’s letter was written in due form for him that evening, and safely
lodged in the post-office.
Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labors in the housekeeping line. It was
universally agreed, among all the household, from Dinah down to the youngest
urchin, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly “curis,”—a term by
which a southern servant implies that his or her betters don’t exactly
suit them.
The higher circle in the family—to wit, Adolph, Jane and
Rosa—agreed that she was no lady; ladies never keep working about as she
did,—that she had no at all; and they were surprised that she
should be any relation of the St. Clares. Even Marie declared that it was
absolutely fatiguing to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in fact, Miss
Ophelia’s industry was so incessant as to lay some foundation for the
complaint. She sewed and stitched away, from daylight till dark, with the
energy of one who is pressed on by some immediate urgency; and then, when the
light faded, and the work was folded away, with one turn out came the
ever-ready knitting-work, and there she was again, going on as briskly as ever.
It really was a labor to see her.
CHAPTER XX
Topsy
One morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of her domestic cares, St.
Clare’s voice was heard, calling her at the foot of the stairs.
“Come down here, Cousin, I’ve something to show you.”
“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with her sewing in
her hand.
“I’ve made a purchase for your department,—see here,”
said St. Clare; and, with the word, he pulled along a little negro girl, about
eight or nine years of age.
She was one of the blackest of her race; and her round shining eyes, glittering
as glass beads, moved with quick and restless glances over everything in the
room. Her mouth, half open with astonishment at the wonders of the new
Mas’r’s parlor, displayed a white and brilliant set of teeth. Her
woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, which stuck out in every
direction. The expression of her face was an odd mixture of shrewdness and
cunning, over which was oddly drawn, like a kind of veil, an expression of the
most doleful gravity and solemnity. She was dressed in a single filthy, ragged
garment, made of bagging; and stood with her hands demurely folded before her.
Altogether, there was something odd and goblin-like about her
appearance,—something, as Miss Ophelia afterwards said, “so
heathenish,” as to inspire that good lady with utter dismay; and turning
to St. Clare, she said,
“Augustine, what in the world have you brought that thing here
for?”
“For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way she should go. I
thought she was rather a funny specimen in the Jim Crow line. Here,
Topsy,” he added, giving a whistle, as a man would to call the attention
of a dog, “give us a song, now, and show us some of your dancing.”
The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wicked drollery, and the thing
struck up, in a clear shrill voice, an odd negro melody, to which she kept time
with her hands and feet, spinning round, clapping her hands, knocking her knees
together, in a wild, fantastic sort of time, and producing in her throat all
those odd guttural sounds which distinguish the native music of her race; and
finally, turning a summerset or two, and giving a prolonged closing note, as
odd and unearthly as that of a steam-whistle, she came suddenly down on the
carpet, and stood with her hands folded, and a most sanctimonious expression of
meekness and solemnity over her face, only broken by the cunning glances which
she shot askance from the corners of her eyes.
Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with amazement. St. Clare, like
a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared to enjoy her astonishment; and,
addressing the child again, said,
“Topsy, this is your new mistress. I’m going to give you up to her;
see now that you behave yourself.”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Topsy, with sanctimonious gravity, her
wicked eyes twinkling as she spoke.
“You’re going to be good, Topsy, you understand,” said St.
Clare.
“O yes, Mas’r,” said Topsy, with another twinkle, her hands
still devoutly folded.
“Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Your house is so full of these little plagues, now, that a body
can’t set down their foot without treading on ’em. I get up in the
morning, and find one asleep behind the door, and see one black head poking out
from under the table, one lying on the door-mat,—and they are mopping and
mowing and grinning between all the railings, and tumbling over the kitchen
floor! What on earth did you want to bring this one for?”
“For you to educate—didn’t I tell you? You’re always
preaching about educating. I thought I would make you a present of a
fresh-caught specimen, and let you try your hand on her, and bring her up in
the way she should go.”
“ don’t want her, I am sure;—I have more to do with
’em now than I want to.”
“That’s you Christians, all over!—you’ll get up a
society, and get some poor missionary to spend all his days among just such
heathen. But let me see one of you that would take one into your house with
you, and take the labor of their conversion on yourselves! No; when it comes to
that, they are dirty and disagreeable, and it’s too much care, and so
on.”
“Augustine, you know I didn’t think of it in that light,”
said Miss Ophelia, evidently softening. “Well, it might be a real
missionary work,” said she, looking rather more favorably on the child.
St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia’s conscientiousness
was ever on the alert. “But,” she added, “I really
didn’t see the need of buying this one;—there are enough now, in
your house, to take all my time and skill.”
“Well, then, Cousin,” said St. Clare, drawing her aside, “I
ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing speeches. You are so good,
after all, that there’s no sense in them. Why, the fact is, this concern
belonged to a couple of drunken creatures that keep a low restaurant that I
have to pass by every day, and I was tired of hearing her screaming, and them
beating and swearing at her. She looked bright and funny, too, as if something
might be made of her;—so I bought her, and I’ll give her to you.
Try, now, and give her a good orthodox New England bringing up, and see what
it’ll make of her. You know I haven’t any gift that way; but
I’d like you to try.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can,” said Miss Ophelia; and she
approached her new subject very much as a person might be supposed to approach
a black spider, supposing them to have benevolent designs toward it.
“She’s dreadfully dirty, and half naked,” she said.
“Well, take her down stairs, and make some of them clean and clothe her
up.”
Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions.
“Don’t see what Mas’r St. Clare wants of ’nother
nigger!” said Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no friendly air.
“Won’t have her around under feet, know!”
“Pah!” said Rosa and Jane, with supreme disgust; “let her
keep out of our way! What in the world Mas’r wanted another of these low
niggers for, I can’t see!”
“You go long! No more nigger dan you be, Miss Rosa,” said Dinah,
who felt this last remark a reflection on herself. “You seem to tink
yourself white folks. You an’t nerry one, black white,
I’d like to be one or turrer.”
Miss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp that would undertake to
oversee the cleansing and dressing of the new arrival; and so she was forced to
do it herself, with some very ungracious and reluctant assistance from Jane.
It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of the first toilet of a
neglected, abused child. In fact, in this world, multitudes must live and die
in a state that it would be too great a shock to the nerves of their
fellow-mortals even to hear described. Miss Ophelia had a good, strong,
practical deal of resolution; and she went through all the disgusting details
with heroic thoroughness, though, it must be confessed, with no very gracious
air,—for endurance was the utmost to which her principles could bring
her. When she saw, on the back and shoulders of the child, great welts and
calloused spots, ineffaceable marks of the system under which she had grown up
thus far, her heart became pitiful within her.
“See there!” said Jane, pointing to the marks, “don’t
that show she’s a limb? We’ll have fine works with her, I reckon. I
hate these nigger young uns! so disgusting! I wonder that Mas’r would buy
her!”
The “young un” alluded to heard all these comments with the subdued
and doleful air which seemed habitual to her, only scanning, with a keen and
furtive glance of her flickering eyes, the ornaments which Jane wore in her
ears. When arrayed at last in a suit of decent and whole clothing, her hair
cropped short to her head, Miss Ophelia, with some satisfaction, said she
looked more Christian-like than she did, and in her own mind began to mature
some plans for her instruction.
Sitting down before her, she began to question her.
“How old are you, Topsy?”
“Dun no, Missis,” said the image, with a grin that showed all her
teeth.
“Don’t know how old you are? Didn’t anybody ever tell you?
Who was your mother?”
“Never had none!” said the child, with another grin.
“Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where were you born?”
“Never was born!” persisted Topsy, with another grin, that looked
so goblin-like, that, if Miss Ophelia had been at all nervous, she might have
fancied that she had got hold of some sooty gnome from the land of Diablerie;
but Miss Ophelia was not nervous, but plain and business-like, and she said,
with some sternness,
“You mustn’t answer me in that way, child; I’m not playing
with you. Tell me where you were born, and who your father and mother
were.”
“Never was born,” reiterated the creature, more emphatically;
“never had no father nor mother, nor nothin’. I was raised by a
speculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used to take car on us.”
The child was evidently sincere, and Jane, breaking into a short laugh, said,
“Laws, Missis, there’s heaps of ’em. Speculators buys
’em up cheap, when they’s little, and gets ’em raised for
market.”
“How long have you lived with your master and mistress?”
“Dun no, Missis.”
“Is it a year, or more, or less?”
“Dun no, Missis.”
“Laws, Missis, those low negroes,—they can’t tell; they
don’t know anything about time,” said Jane; “they don’t
know what a year is; they don’t know their own ages.
“Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy?”
The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual.
“Do you know who made you?”
“Nobody, as I knows on,” said the child, with a short laugh.
The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for her eyes twinkled, and she
added,
“I spect I grow’d. Don’t think nobody never made me.”
“Do you know how to sew?” said Miss Ophelia, who thought she would
turn her inquiries to something more tangible.
“No, Missis.”
“What can you do?—what did you do for your master and
mistress?”
“Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and wait on folks.”
“Were they good to you?”
“Spect they was,” said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia cunningly.
Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy; St. Clare was leaning over
the back of her chair.
“You find virgin soil there, Cousin; put in your own ideas,—you
won’t find many to pull up.”
Miss Ophelia’s ideas of education, like all her other ideas, were very
set and definite; and of the kind that prevailed in New England a century ago,
and which are still preserved in some very retired and unsophisticated parts,
where there are no railroads. As nearly as could be expressed, they could be
comprised in very few words: to teach them to mind when they were spoken to; to
teach them the catechism, sewing, and reading; and to whip them if they told
lies. And though, of course, in the flood of light that is now poured on
education, these are left far away in the rear, yet it is an undisputed fact
that our grandmothers raised some tolerably fair men and women under this
regime, as many of us can remember and testify. At all events, Miss Ophelia
knew of nothing else to do; and, therefore, applied her mind to her heathen
with the best diligence she could command.
The child was announced and considered in the family as Miss Ophelia’s
girl; and, as she was looked upon with no gracious eye in the kitchen, Miss
Ophelia resolved to confine her sphere of operation and instruction chiefly to
her own chamber. With a self-sacrifice which some of our readers will
appreciate, she resolved, instead of comfortably making her own bed, sweeping
and dusting her own chamber,—which she had hitherto done, in utter scorn
of all offers of help from the chambermaid of the establishment,—to
condemn herself to the martyrdom of instructing Topsy to perform these
operations,—ah, woe the day! Did any of our readers ever do the same,
they will appreciate the amount of her self-sacrifice.
Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her chamber, the first
morning, and solemnly commencing a course of instruction in the art and mystery
of bed-making.
Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all the little braided tails wherein
her heart had delighted, arrayed in a clean gown, with well-starched apron,
standing reverently before Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well
befitting a funeral.
“Now, Topsy, I’m going to show you just how my bed is to be made. I
am very particular about my bed. You must learn exactly how to do it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face of
woful earnestness.
“Now, Topsy, look here;—this is the hem of the sheet,—this is
the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong;—will you
remember?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Topsy, with another sigh.
“Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over the
bolster,—so—and tuck it clear down under the mattress nice and
smooth,—so,—do you see?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Topsy, with profound attention.
“But the upper sheet,” said Miss Ophelia, “must be brought
down in this way, and tucked under firm and smooth at the
foot,—so,—the narrow hem at the foot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Topsy, as before;—but we will add,
what Miss Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when the good lady’s
back was turned in the zeal of her manipulations, the young disciple had
contrived to snatch a pair of gloves and a ribbon, which she had adroitly
slipped into her sleeves, and stood with her hands dutifully folded, as before.
“Now, Topsy, let’s see do this,” said Miss
Ophelia, pulling off the clothes, and seating herself.
Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through the exercise completely
to Miss Ophelia’s satisfaction; smoothing the sheets, patting out every
wrinkle, and exhibiting, through the whole process, a gravity and seriousness
with which her instructress was greatly edified. By an unlucky slip, however, a
fluttering fragment of the ribbon hung out of one of her sleeves, just as she
was finishing, and caught Miss Ophelia’s attention. Instantly, she
pounced upon it. “What’s this? You naughty, wicked
child,—you’ve been stealing this!”
The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy’s own sleeve, yet was she not in the
least disconcerted; she only looked at it with an air of the most surprised and
unconscious innocence.
“Laws! why, that ar’s Miss Feely’s ribbon, an’t it? How
could it a got caught in my sleeve?
“Topsy, you naughty girl, don’t you tell me a lie,—you stole
that ribbon!”
“Missis, I declar for ’t, I didn’t;—never seed it till
dis yer blessed minnit.”
“Topsy,” said Miss Ophelia, “don’t you know it’s
wicked to tell lies?”
“I never tell no lies, Miss Feely,” said Topsy, with virtuous
gravity; “it’s jist the truth I’ve been a tellin now, and
an’t nothin else.”
“Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so.”
“Laws, Missis, if you’s to whip all day, couldn’t say no
other way,” said Topsy, beginning to blubber. “I never seed dat
ar,—it must a got caught in my sleeve. Miss Feeley must have left it on
the bed, and it got caught in the clothes, and so got in my sleeve.”
Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that she caught the child
and shook her.
“Don’t you tell me that again!”
The shake brought the glove on to the floor, from the other sleeve.
“There, you!” said Miss Ophelia, “will you tell me now, you
didn’t steal the ribbon?”
Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted in denying the ribbon.
“Now, Topsy,” said Miss Ophelia, “if you’ll confess all
about it, I won’t whip you this time.” Thus adjured, Topsy
confessed to the ribbon and gloves, with woful protestations of penitence.
“Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other things since you
have been in the house, for I let you run about all day yesterday. Now, tell me
if you took anything, and I shan’t whip you.”
“Laws, Missis! I took Miss Eva’s red thing she wars on her
neck.”
“You did, you naughty child!—Well, what else?”
“I took Rosa’s yer-rings,—them red ones.”
“Go bring them to me this minute, both of ’em.”
“Laws, Missis! I can’t,—they ’s burnt up!”
“Burnt up!—what a story! Go get ’em, or I’ll whip
you.”
Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, declared that she
not. “They ’s burnt up,—they was.”
“What did you burn ’em for?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Cause I ’s wicked,—I is. I ’s mighty wicked, any how.
I can’t help it.”
Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the room, with the identical
coral necklace on her neck.
“Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Get it? Why, I’ve had it on all day,” said Eva.
“Did you have it on yesterday?”
“Yes; and what is funny, Aunty, I had it on all night. I forgot to take
it off when I went to bed.”
Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered; the more so, as Rosa, at that
instant, came into the room, with a basket of newly-ironed linen poised on her
head, and the coral ear-drops shaking in her ears!
“I’m sure I can’t tell anything what to do with such a
child!” she said, in despair. “What in the world did you tell me
you took those things for, Topsy?”
“Why, Missis said I must ’fess; and I couldn’t think of
nothin’ else to ’fess,” said Topsy, rubbing her eyes.
“But, of course, I didn’t want you to confess things you
didn’t do,” said Miss Ophelia; “that’s telling a lie,
just as much as the other.”
“Laws, now, is it?” said Topsy, with an air of innocent wonder.
“La, there an’t any such thing as truth in that limb,” said
Rosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. “If I was Mas’r St. Clare,
I’d whip her till the blood run. I would,—I’d let her catch
it!”
“No, no Rosa,” said Eva, with an air of command, which the child
could assume at times; “you mustn’t talk so, Rosa. I can’t
bear to hear it.”
“La sakes! Miss Eva, you ’s so good, you don’t know nothing
how to get along with niggers. There’s no way but to cut ’em well
up, I tell ye.”
“Rosa!” said Eva, “hush! Don’t you say another word of
that sort!” and the eye of the child flashed, and her cheek deepened its
color.
Rosa was cowed in a moment.
“Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that’s plain. She can
speak, for all the world, just like her papa,” she said, as she passed
out of the room.
Eva stood looking at Topsy.
There stood the two children representatives of the two extremes of society.
The fair, high-bred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes, her spiritual,
noble brow, and prince-like movements; and her black, keen, subtle, cringing,
yet acute neighbor. They stood the representatives of their races. The Saxon,
born of ages of cultivation, command, education, physical and moral eminence;
the Afric, born of ages of oppression, submission, ignorance, toil and vice!
Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled through Eva’s mind. But a
child’s thoughts are rather dim, undefined instincts; and in Eva’s
noble nature many such were yearning and working, for which she had no power of
utterance. When Miss Ophelia expatiated on Topsy’s naughty, wicked
conduct, the child looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said, sweetly.
“Poor Topsy, why need you steal? You’re going to be taken good care
of now. I’m sure I’d rather give you anything of mine, than have
you steal it.”
It was the first word of kindness the child had ever heard in her life; and the
sweet tone and manner struck strangely on the wild, rude heart, and a sparkle
of something like a tear shone in the keen, round, glittering eye; but it was
followed by the short laugh and habitual grin. No! the ear that has never heard
anything but abuse is strangely incredulous of anything so heavenly as
kindness; and Topsy only thought Eva’s speech something funny and
inexplicable,—she did not believe it.
But what was to be done with Topsy? Miss Ophelia found the case a puzzler; her
rules for bringing up didn’t seem to apply. She thought she would take
time to think of it; and, by the way of gaining time, and in hopes of some
indefinite moral virtues supposed to be inherent in dark closets, Miss Ophelia
shut Topsy up in one till she had arranged her ideas further on the subject.
“I don’t see,” said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, “how
I’m going to manage that child, without whipping her.”
“Well, whip her, then, to your heart’s content; I’ll give you
full power to do what you like.”
“Children always have to be whipped,” said Miss Ophelia; “I
never heard of bringing them up without.”
“O, well, certainly,” said St. Clare; “do as you think best.
Only I’ll make one suggestion: I’ve seen this child whipped with a
poker, knocked down with the shovel or tongs, whichever came handiest, &c.;
and, seeing that she is used to that style of operation, I think your whippings
will have to be pretty energetic, to make much impression.”
“What is to be done with her, then?” said Miss Ophelia.
“You have started a serious question,” said St. Clare; “I
wish you’d answer it. What is to be done with a human being that can be
governed only by the lash,— fails,—it’s a very
common state of things down here!”
“I’m sure I don’t know; I never saw such a child as
this.”
“Such children are very common among us, and such men and women, too. How
are they to be governed?” said St. Clare.
“I’m sure it’s more than I can say,” said Miss Ophelia.
“Or I either,” said St. Clare. “The horrid cruelties and
outrages that once and a while find their way into the papers,—such cases
as Prue’s, for example,—what do they come from? In many cases, it
is a gradual hardening process on both sides,—the owner growing more and
more cruel, as the servant more and more callous. Whipping and abuse are like
laudanum; you have to double the dose as the sensibilities decline. I saw this
very early when I became an owner; and I resolved never to begin, because I did
not know when I should stop,—and I resolved, at least, to protect my own
moral nature. The consequence is, that my servants act like spoiled children;
but I think that better than for us both to be brutalized together. You have
talked a great deal about our responsibilities in educating, Cousin. I really
wanted you to with one child, who is a specimen of thousands among
us.”
“It is your system makes such children,” said Miss Ophelia.
“I know it; but they are ,—they exist,—and what
to be done with them?”
“Well, I can’t say I thank you for the experiment. But, then, as it
appears to be a duty, I shall persevere and try, and do the best I can,”
said Miss Ophelia; and Miss Ophelia, after this, did labor, with a commendable
degree of zeal and energy, on her new subject. She instituted regular hours and
employments for her, and undertook to teach her to read and sew.
In the former art, the child was quick enough. She learned her letters as if by
magic, and was very soon able to read plain reading; but the sewing was a more
difficult matter. The creature was as lithe as a cat, and as active as a
monkey, and the confinement of sewing was her abomination; so she broke her
needles, threw them slyly out of the window, or down in chinks of the walls;
she tangled, broke, and dirtied her thread, or, with a sly movement, would
throw a spool away altogether. Her motions were almost as quick as those of a
practised conjurer, and her command of her face quite as great; and though Miss
Ophelia could not help feeling that so many accidents could not possibly happen
in succession, yet she could not, without a watchfulness which would leave her
no time for anything else, detect her.
Topsy was soon a noted character in the establishment. Her talent for every
species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry,—for dancing, tumbling,
climbing, singing, whistling, imitating every sound that hit her
fancy,—seemed inexhaustible. In her play-hours, she invariably had every
child in the establishment at her heels, open-mouthed with admiration and
wonder,—not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be fascinated by her wild
diablerie, as a dove is sometimes charmed by a glittering serpent. Miss Ophelia
was uneasy that Eva should fancy Topsy’s society so much, and implored
St. Clare to forbid it.
“Poh! let the child alone,” said St. Clare. “Topsy will do
her good.”
“But so depraved a child,—are you not afraid she will teach her
some mischief?”
“She can’t teach her mischief; she might teach it to some children,
but evil rolls off Eva’s mind like dew off a cabbage-leaf,—not a
drop sinks in.”
“Don’t be too sure,” said Miss Ophelia. “I know
I’d never let a child of mine play with Topsy.”
“Well, your children needn’t,” said St. Clare, “but
mine may; if Eva could have been spoiled, it would have been done years
ago.”
Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the upper servants. They soon
found reason to alter their opinion. It was very soon discovered that whoever
cast an indignity on Topsy was sure to meet with some inconvenient accident
shortly after;—either a pair of ear-rings or some cherished trinket would
be missing, or an article of dress would be suddenly found utterly ruined, or
the person would stumble accidently into a pail of hot water, or a libation of
dirty slop would unaccountably deluge them from above when in full gala
dress;-and on all these occasions, when investigation was made, there was
nobody found to stand sponsor for the indignity. Topsy was cited, and had up
before all the domestic judicatories, time and again; but always sustained her
examinations with most edifying innocence and gravity of appearance. Nobody in
the world ever doubted who did the things; but not a scrap of any direct
evidence could be found to establish the suppositions, and Miss Ophelia was too
just to feel at liberty to proceed to any length without it.
The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, as further to shelter the
aggressor. Thus, the times for revenge on Rosa and Jane, the two chamber maids,
were always chosen in those seasons when (as not unfrequently happened) they
were in disgrace with their mistress, when any complaint from them would of
course meet with no sympathy. In short, Topsy soon made the household
understand the propriety of letting her alone; and she was let alone,
accordingly.
Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations, learning everything
that was taught her with surprising quickness. With a few lessons, she had
learned to do the proprieties of Miss Ophelia’s chamber in a way with
which even that particular lady could find no fault. Mortal hands could not lay
spread smoother, adjust pillows more accurately, sweep and dust and arrange
more perfectly, than Topsy, when she chose,—but she didn’t very
often choose. If Miss Ophelia, after three or four days of careful patient
supervision, was so sanguine as to suppose that Topsy had at last fallen into
her way, could do without over-looking, and so go off and busy herself about
something else, Topsy would hold a perfect carnival of confusion, for some one
or two hours. Instead of making the bed, she would amuse herself with pulling
off the pillowcases, butting her woolly head among the pillows, till it would
sometimes be grotesquely ornamented with feathers sticking out in various
directions; she would climb the posts, and hang head downward from the tops;
flourish the sheets and spreads all over the apartment; dress the bolster up in
Miss Ophelia’s night-clothes, and enact various performances with
that,—singing and whistling, and making grimaces at herself in the
looking-glass; in short, as Miss Ophelia phrased it, “raising Cain”
generally.
On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her very best scarlet India
Canton crape shawl wound round her head for a turban, going on with her
rehearsals before the glass in great style,—Miss Ophelia having, with
carelessness most unheard-of in her, left the key for once in her drawer.
“Topsy!” she would say, when at the end of all patience,
“what does make you act so?”
“Dunno, Missis,—I spects cause I ’s so wicked!”
“I don’t know anything what I shall do with you, Topsy.”
“Law, Missis, you must whip me; my old Missis allers whipped me. I
an’t used to workin’ unless I gets whipped.”
“Why, Topsy, I don’t want to whip you. You can do well, if
you’ve a mind to; what is the reason you won’t?”
“Laws, Missis, I ’s used to whippin’; I spects it’s
good for me.”
Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably made a terrible commotion,
screaming, groaning and imploring, though half an hour afterwards, when roosted
on some projection of the balcony, and surrounded by a flock of admiring
“young uns,” she would express the utmost contempt of the whole
affair.
“Law, Miss Feely whip!—wouldn’t kill a skeeter, her whippins.
Oughter see how old Mas’r made the flesh fly; old Mas’r
know’d how!”
Topsy always made great capital of her own sins and enormities, evidently
considering them as something peculiarly distinguishing.
“Law, you niggers,” she would say to some of her auditors,
“does you know you ’s all sinners? Well, you is—everybody is.
White folks is sinners too,—Miss Feely says so; but I spects niggers is
the biggest ones; but lor! ye an’t any on ye up to me. I ’s so
awful wicked there can’t nobody do nothin’ with me. I used to keep
old Missis a swarin’ at me half de time. I spects I ’s the
wickedest critter in the world;” and Topsy would cut a summerset, and
come up brisk and shining on to a higher perch, and evidently plume herself on
the distinction.
Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays, teaching Topsy the
catechism. Topsy had an uncommon verbal memory, and committed with a fluency
that greatly encouraged her instructress.
“What good do you expect it is going to do her?” said St. Clare.
“Why, it always has done children good. It’s what children always
have to learn, you know,” said Miss Ophelia.
“Understand it or not,” said St. Clare.
“O, children never understand it at the time; but, after they are grown
up, it’ll come to them.”
“Mine hasn’t come to me yet,” said St. Clare, “though
I’ll bear testimony that you put it into me pretty thoroughly when I was
a boy.”’
“Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. I used to have great
hopes of you,” said Miss Ophelia.
“Well, haven’t you now?” said St. Clare.
“I wish you were as good as you were when you were a boy,
Augustine.”
“So do I, that’s a fact, Cousin,” said St. Clare.
“Well, go ahead and catechize Topsy; may be you’ll make out
something yet.”
Topsy, who had stood like a black statue during this discussion, with hands
decently folded, now, at a signal from Miss Ophelia, went on:
“Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their own will, fell
from the state wherein they were created.”
Topsy’s eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly.
“What is it, Topsy?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Please, Missis, was dat ar state Kintuck?”
“What state, Topsy?”
“Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear Mas’r tell how we came
down from Kintuck.”
St. Clare laughed.
“You’ll have to give her a meaning, or she’ll make
one,” said he. “There seems to be a theory of emigration suggested
there.”
“O! Augustine, be still,” said Miss Ophelia; “how can I do
anything, if you will be laughing?”
“Well, I won’t disturb the exercises again, on my honor;” and
St. Clare took his paper into the parlor, and sat down, till Topsy had finished
her recitations. They were all very well, only that now and then she would
oddly transpose some important words, and persist in the mistake, in spite of
every effort to the contrary; and St. Clare, after all his promises of
goodness, took a wicked pleasure in these mistakes, calling Topsy to him
whenever he had a mind to amuse himself, and getting her to repeat the
offending passages, in spite of Miss Ophelia’s remonstrances.
“How do you think I can do anything with the child, if you will go on so,
Augustine?” she would say.
“Well, it is too bad,—I won’t again; but I do like to hear
the droll little image stumble over those big words!”
“But you confirm her in the wrong way.”
“What’s the odds? One word is as good as another to her.”
“You wanted me to bring her up right; and you ought to remember she is a
reasonable creature, and be careful of your influence over her.”
“O, dismal! so I ought; but, as Topsy herself says, ’I ’s so
wicked!’”
In very much this way Topsy’s training proceeded, for a year or
two,—Miss Ophelia worrying herself, from day to day, with her, as a kind
of chronic plague, to whose inflictions she became, in time, as accustomed, as
persons sometimes do to the neuralgia or sick headache.
St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the child that a man might in the
tricks of a parrot or a pointer. Topsy, whenever her sins brought her into
disgrace in other quarters, always took refuge behind his chair; and St. Clare,
in one way or other, would make peace for her. From him she got many a stray
picayune, which she laid out in nuts and candies, and distributed, with
careless generosity, to all the children in the family; for Topsy, to do her
justice, was good-natured and liberal, and only spiteful in self-defence. She
is fairly introduced into our , and will figure, from
time to time, in her turn, with other performers.
CHAPTER XXI
Kentuck
Our readers may not be unwilling to glance back, for a brief interval, at Uncle
Tom’s Cabin, on the Kentucky farm, and see what has been transpiring
among those whom he had left behind.
It was late in the summer afternoon, and the doors and windows of the large
parlor all stood open, to invite any stray breeze, that might feel in a good
humor, to enter. Mr. Shelby sat in a large hall opening into the room, and
running through the whole length of the house, to a balcony on either end.
Leisurely tipped back on one chair, with his heels in another, he was enjoying
his after-dinner cigar. Mrs. Shelby sat in the door, busy about some fine
sewing; she seemed like one who had something on her mind, which she was
seeking an opportunity to introduce.
“Do you know,” she said, “that Chloe has had a letter from
Tom?”
“Ah! has she? Tom ’s got some friend there, it seems. How is the
old boy?”
“He has been bought by a very fine family, I should think,” said
Mrs. Shelby,—“is kindly treated, and has not much to do.”
“Ah! well, I’m glad of it,—very glad,” said Mr. Shelby,
heartily. “Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a Southern
residence;—hardly want to come up here again.”
“On the contrary he inquires very anxiously,” said Mrs. Shelby,
“when the money for his redemption is to be raised.”
“I’m sure don’t know,” said Mr. Shelby.
“Once get business running wrong, there does seem to be no end to it.
It’s like jumping from one bog to another, all through a swamp; borrow of
one to pay another, and then borrow of another to pay one,—and these
confounded notes falling due before a man has time to smoke a cigar and turn
round,—dunning letters and dunning messages,—all scamper and
hurry-scurry.”
“It does seem to me, my dear, that something might be done to straighten
matters. Suppose we sell off all the horses, and sell one of your farms, and
pay up square?”
“O, ridiculous, Emily! You are the finest woman in Kentucky; but still
you haven’t sense to know that you don’t understand
business;—women never do, and never can.
“But, at least,” said Mrs. Shelby, “could not you give me
some little insight into yours; a list of all your debts, at least, and of all
that is owed to you, and let me try and see if I can’t help you to
economize.”
“O, bother! don’t plague me, Emily!—I can’t tell
exactly. I know somewhere about what things are likely to be; but there’s
no trimming and squaring my affairs, as Chloe trims crust off her pies. You
don’t know anything about business, I tell you.”
And Mr. Shelby, not knowing any other way of enforcing his ideas, raised his
voice,—a mode of arguing very convenient and convincing, when a gentleman
is discussing matters of business with his wife.
Mrs. Shelby ceased talking, with something of a sigh. The fact was, that though
her husband had stated she was a woman, she had a clear, energetic, practical
mind, and a force of character every way superior to that of her husband; so
that it would not have been so very absurd a supposition, to have allowed her
capable of managing, as Mr. Shelby supposed. Her heart was set on performing
her promise to Tom and Aunt Chloe, and she sighed as discouragements thickened
around her.
“Don’t you think we might in some way contrive to raise that money?
Poor Aunt Chloe! her heart is so set on it!”
“I’m sorry, if it is. I think I was premature in promising.
I’m not sure, now, but it’s the best way to tell Chloe, and let her
make up her mind to it. Tom’ll have another wife, in a year or two; and
she had better take up with somebody else.”
“Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their marriages are as sacred
as ours. I never could think of giving Chloe such advice.”
“It’s a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a morality
above their condition and prospects. I always thought so.”
“It’s only the morality of the Bible, Mr. Shelby.”
“Well, well, Emily, I don’t pretend to interfere with your
religious notions; only they seem extremely unfitted for people in that
condition.”
“They are, indeed,” said Mrs. Shelby, “and that is why, from
my soul, I hate the whole thing. I tell you, my dear, cannot absolve
myself from the promises I make to these helpless creatures. If I can get the
money no other way I will take music-scholars;—I could get enough, I
know, and earn the money myself.”
“You wouldn’t degrade yourself that way, Emily? I never could
consent to it.”
“Degrade! would it degrade me as much as to break my faith with the
helpless? No, indeed!”
“Well, you are always heroic and transcendental,” said Mr. Shelby,
“but I think you had better think before you undertake such a piece of
Quixotism.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Aunt Chloe, at the
end of the verandah.
“If you please, Missis,” said she.
“Well, Chloe, what is it?” said her mistress, rising, and going to
the end of the balcony.
“If Missis would come and look at dis yer lot o’ poetry.”
Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry,—an application
of language in which she always persisted, notwithstanding frequent corrections
and advisings from the young members of the family.
“La sakes!” she would say, “I can’t see; one jis good
as turry,—poetry suthin good, any how;” and so poetry Chloe
continued to call it.
Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickens and ducks, over which
Chloe stood, with a very grave face of consideration.
“I’m a thinkin whether Missis would be a havin a chicken pie
o’ dese yer.”
“Really, Aunt Chloe, I don’t much care;—serve them any way
you like.”
Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly; it was quite evident that the
chickens were not what she was thinking of. At last, with the short laugh with
which her tribe often introduce a doubtful proposal, she said,
“Laws me, Missis! what should Mas’r and Missis be a troublin
theirselves ’bout de money, and not a usin what’s right in der
hands?” and Chloe laughed again.
“I don’t understand you, Chloe,” said Mrs. Shelby, nothing
doubting, from her knowledge of Chloe’s manner, that she had heard every
word of the conversation that had passed between her and her husband.
“Why, laws me, Missis!” said Chloe, laughing again, “other
folks hires out der niggers and makes money on ’em! Don’t keep sich
a tribe eatin ’em out of house and home.”
“Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire out?”
“Laws! I an’t a proposin nothin; only Sam he said der was one of
dese yer , dey calls ’em, in Louisville, said he
wanted a good hand at cake and pastry; and said he’d give four dollars a
week to one, he did.”
“Well, Chloe.”
“Well, laws, I ’s a thinkin, Missis, it’s time Sally was put
along to be doin’ something. Sally ’s been under my care, now, dis
some time, and she does most as well as me, considerin; and if Missis would
only let me go, I would help fetch up de money. I an’t afraid to put my
cake, nor pies nother, ’long side no .
“Confectioner’s, Chloe.”
“Law sakes, Missis! ’tan’t no odds;—words is so curis,
can’t never get ’em right!”
“But, Chloe, do you want to leave your children?”
“Laws, Missis! de boys is big enough to do day’s works; dey does
well enough; and Sally, she’ll take de baby,—she’s such a
peart young un, she won’t take no lookin arter.”
“Louisville is a good way off.”
“Law sakes! who’s afeard?—it’s down river, somer near
my old man, perhaps?” said Chloe, speaking the last in the tone of a
question, and looking at Mrs. Shelby.
“No, Chloe; it’s many a hundred miles off,” said Mrs. Shelby.
Chloe’s countenance fell.
“Never mind; your going there shall bring you nearer, Chloe. Yes, you may
go; and your wages shall every cent of them be laid aside for your
husband’s redemption.”
As when a bright sunbeam turns a dark cloud to silver, so Chloe’s dark
face brightened immediately,—it really shone.
“Laws! if Missis isn’t too good! I was thinking of dat ar very
thing; cause I shouldn’t need no clothes, nor shoes, nor nothin,—I
could save every cent. How many weeks is der in a year, Missis?”
“Fifty-two,” said Mrs. Shelby.
“Laws! now, dere is? and four dollars for each on em. Why, how much
’d dat ar be?”
“Two hundred and eight dollars,” said Mrs. Shelby.
“Why-e!” said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and delight;
“and how long would it take me to work it out, Missis?”
“Some four or five years, Chloe; but, then, you needn’t do it
all,—I shall add something to it.”
“I wouldn’t hear to Missis’ givin lessons nor nothin.
Mas’r’s quite right in dat ar;—‘t wouldn’t do, no
ways. I hope none our family ever be brought to dat ar, while I ’s got
hands.”
“Don’t fear, Chloe; I’ll take care of the honor of the
family,” said Mrs. Shelby, smiling. “But when do you expect to
go?”
“Well, I want spectin nothin; only Sam, he’s a gwine to de river
with some colts, and he said I could go ’long with him; so I jes put my
things together. If Missis was willin, I’d go with Sam tomorrow morning,
if Missis would write my pass, and write me a commendation.”
“Well, Chloe, I’ll attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no objections. I
must speak to him.”
Mrs. Shelby went up stairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, went out to her cabin,
to make her preparation.
“Law sakes, Mas’r George! ye didn’t know I ’s a gwine
to Louisville tomorrow!” she said to George, as entering her cabin, he
found her busy in sorting over her baby’s clothes. “I thought
I’d jis look over sis’s things, and get ’em straightened up.
But I’m gwine, Mas’r George,—gwine to have four dollars a
week; and Missis is gwine to lay it all up, to buy back my old man agin!”
“Whew!” said George, “here’s a stroke of business, to
be sure! How are you going?”
“Tomorrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas’r George, I knows you’ll jis
sit down and write to my old man, and tell him all about it,—won’t
ye?”
“To be sure,” said George; “Uncle Tom’ll be right glad
to hear from us. I’ll go right in the house, for paper and ink; and then,
you know, Aunt Chloe, I can tell about the new colts and all.”
“Sartin, sartin, Mas’r George; you go ’long, and I’ll
get ye up a bit o’ chicken, or some sich; ye won’t have many more
suppers wid yer poor old aunty.”
CHAPTER XXII
“The Grass Withereth—the Flower Fadeth”
Life passes, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed with our friend Tom,
till two years were gone. Though parted from all his soul held dear, and though
often yearning for what lay beyond, still was he never positively and
consciously miserable; for, so well is the harp of human feeling strung, that
nothing but a crash that breaks every string can wholly mar its harmony; and,
on looking back to seasons which in review appear to us as those of deprivation
and trial, we can remember that each hour, as it glided, brought its diversions
and alleviations, so that, though not happy wholly, we were not, either, wholly
miserable.
Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had “learned in
whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content.” It seemed to him good
and reasonable doctrine, and accorded well with the settled and thoughtful
habit which he had acquired from the reading of that same book.
His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was in due time
answered by Master George, in a good, round, school-boy hand, that Tom said
might be read “most acrost the room.” It contained various
refreshing items of home intelligence, with which our reader is fully
acquainted: stated how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner in
Louisville, where her skill in the pastry line was gaining wonderful sums of
money, all of which, Tom was informed, was to be laid up to go to make up the
sum of his redemption money; Mose and Pete were thriving, and the baby was
trotting all about the house, under the care of Sally and the family generally.
Tom’s cabin was shut up for the present; but George expatiated
brilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it when Tom came back.
The rest of this letter gave a list of George’s school studies, each one
headed by a flourishing capital; and also told the names of four new colts that
appeared on the premises since Tom left; and stated, in the same connection,
that father and mother were well. The style of the letter was decidedly concise
and terse; but Tom thought it the most wonderful specimen of composition that
had appeared in modern times. He was never tired of looking at it, and even
held a council with Eva on the expediency of getting it framed, to hang up in
his room. Nothing but the difficulty of arranging it so that both sides of the
page would show at once stood in the way of this undertaking.
The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child’s growth. It
would be hard to say what place she held in the soft, impressible heart of her
faithful attendant. He loved her as something frail and earthly, yet almost
worshipped her as something heavenly and divine. He gazed on her as the Italian
sailor gazes on his image of the child Jesus,—with a mixture of reverence
and tenderness; and to humor her graceful fancies, and meet those thousand
simple wants which invest childhood like a many-colored rainbow, was
Tom’s chief delight. In the market, at morning, his eyes were always on
the flower-stalls for rare bouquets for her, and the choicest peach or orange
was slipped into his pocket to give to her when he came back; and the sight
that pleased him most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his distant
approach, and her childish questions,—“Well, Uncle Tom, what have
you got for me today?”
Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though a child, she was a
beautiful reader;—a fine musical ear, a quick poetic fancy, and an
instinctive sympathy with what’s grand and noble, made her such a reader
of the Bible as Tom had never before heard. At first, she read to please her
humble friend; but soon her own earnest nature threw out its tendrils, and
wound itself around the majestic book; and Eva loved it, because it woke in her
strange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions, such as impassioned, imaginative
children love to feel.
The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and the
Prophecies,—parts whose dim and wondrous imagery, and fervent language,
impressed her the more, that she questioned vainly of their meaning;—and
she and her simple friend, the old child and the young one, felt just alike
about it. All that they knew was, that they spoke of a glory to be
revealed,—a wondrous something yet to come, wherein their soul rejoiced,
yet knew not why; and though it be not so in the physical, yet in moral science
that which cannot be understood is not always profitless. For the soul awakes,
a trembling stranger, between two dim eternities,—the eternal past, the
eternal future. The light shines only on a small space around her; therefore,
she needs must yearn towards the unknown; and the voices and shadowy movings
which come to her from out the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one
echoes and answers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic imagery are so many
talismans and gems inscribed with unknown hieroglyphics; she folds them in her
bosom, and expects to read them when she passes beyond the veil.
LITTLE EVA READING THE BIBLE TO UNCLE TOM IN THE ARBOR.
At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is, for the time
being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchartrain. The heats of summer had
driven all who were able to leave the sultry and unhealthy city, to seek the
shores of the lake, and its cool sea-breezes.
St. Clare’s villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded by light
verandahs of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into gardens and
pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room opened on to a large garden, fragrant
with every picturesque plant and flower of the tropics, where winding paths ran
down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery sheet of water lay there,
rising and falling in the sunbeams,—a picture never for an hour the same,
yet every hour more beautiful.
It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which kindles the whole horizon
into one blaze of glory, and makes the water another sky. The lake lay in rosy
or golden streaks, save where white-winged vessels glided hither and thither,
like so many spirits, and little golden stars twinkled through the glow, and
looked down at themselves as they trembled in the water.
Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an arbor, at the foot of the
garden. It was Sunday evening, and Eva’s Bible lay open on her knee. She
read,—“And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire.”
“Tom,” said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake,
“there ’t is.”
“What, Miss Eva?”
“Don’t you see,—there?” said the child, pointing to the
glassy water, which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden glow of the sky.
“There’s a ’sea of glass, mingled with fire.’”
“True enough, Miss Eva,” said Tom; and Tom sang—
“O, had I the wings of the morning,
I’d fly away to Canaan’s shore;
Bright angels should convey me home,
To the new Jerusalem.”
“Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?” said Eva.
“O, up in the clouds, Miss Eva.”
“Then I think I see it,” said Eva. “Look in those
clouds!—they look like great gates of pearl; and you can see beyond
them—far, far off—it’s all gold. Tom, sing about
’spirits bright.’”
Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn,
“I see a band of spirits bright,
That taste the glories there;
They all are robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear.”
“Uncle Tom, I’ve seen ,” said Eva.
Tom had no doubt of it at all; it did not surprise him in the least. If Eva had
told him she had been to heaven, he would have thought it entirely probable.
“They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;” and
Eva’s eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice,
“They are all robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear.”
“Uncle Tom,” said Eva, “I’m going there.”
“Where, Miss Eva?”
The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky; the glow of evening lit
her golden hair and flushed cheek with a kind of unearthly radiance, and her
eyes were bent earnestly on the skies.
“I’m going ,” she said, “to the spirits
bright, Tom; .”
The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom thought how often he had
noticed, within six months, that Eva’s little hands had grown thinner,
and her skin more transparent, and her breath shorter; and how, when she ran or
played in the garden, as she once could for hours, she became soon so tired and
languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak often of a cough, that all her
medicaments could not cure; and even now that fervent cheek and little hand
were burning with hectic fever; and yet the thought that Eva’s words
suggested had never come to him till now.
Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there have been; but their names are
always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles, their heavenly eyes, their
singular words and ways, are among the buried treasures of yearning hearts. In
how many families do you hear the legend that all the goodness and graces of
the living are nothing to the peculiar charms of one who . It is
as if heaven had an especial band of angels, whose office it was to sojourn for
a season here, and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might bear
it upward with them in their homeward flight. When you see that deep, spiritual
light in the eye,—when the little soul reveals itself in words sweeter
and wiser than the ordinary words of children,—hope not to retain that
child; for the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks out
from its eyes.
Even so, beloved Eva! fair star of thy dwelling! Thou art passing away; but
they that love thee dearest know it not.
The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call from Miss
Ophelia.
“Eva—Eva!—why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn’t
be out there!”
Eva and Tom hastened in.
Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was from New
England, and knew well the first guileful footsteps of that soft, insidious
disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before
one fibre of life seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death.
She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek; nor could the
lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy born of fever, deceive her.
She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back her
suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his usual careless good-humor.
“Don’t be croaking, Cousin,—I hate it!” he would say;
“don’t you see that the child is only growing. Children always lose
strength when they grow fast.”
“But she has that cough!”
“O! nonsense of that cough!—it is not anything. She has taken a
little cold, perhaps.”
“Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and Ellen and Maria
Sanders.”
“O! stop these hobgoblin’ nurse legends. You old hands got so wise,
that a child cannot cough, or sneeze, but you see desperation and ruin at hand.
Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and don’t let
her play too hard, and she’ll do well enough.”
So St. Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless. He watched Eva feverishly
day by day, as might be told by the frequency with which he repeated over that
“the child was quite well”—that there wasn’t anything
in that cough,—it was only some little stomach affection, such as
children often had. But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener to
ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt or strengthening
mixture,—“not,” he said, “that the child
it, but then it would not do her any harm.”
If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart than
anything else was the daily increasing maturity of the child’s mind and
feelings. While still retaining all a child’s fanciful graces, yet she
often dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought, and strange
unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such times, St.
Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as if that fond
clasp could save her; and his heart rose up with wild determination to keep
her, never to let her go.
The child’s whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love and
kindness. Impulsively generous she had always been; but there was a touching
and womanly thoughtfulness about her now, that every one noticed. She still
loved to play with Topsy, and the various colored children; but she now seemed
rather a spectator than an actor of their plays, and she would sit for half an
hour at a time, laughing at the odd tricks of Topsy,—and then a shadow
would seem to pass across her face, her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were
afar.
“Mamma,” she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, “why
don’t we teach our servants to read?”
“What a question child! People never do.”
“Why don’t they?” said Eva.
“Because it is no use for them to read. It don’t help them to work
any better, and they are not made for anything else.”
“But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God’s
will.”
“O! they can get that read to them all need.”
“It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read themselves.
They need it a great many times when there is nobody to read it.”
“Eva, you are an odd child,” said her mother.
“Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read,” continued Eva.
“Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the worst creature I
ever saw!”
“Here’s poor Mammy!” said Eva. “She does love the Bible
so much, and wishes so she could read! And what will she do when I can’t
read to her?”
Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as she answered,
“Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other things to think of
besides reading the Bible round to servants. Not but that is very proper;
I’ve done it myself, when I had health. But when you come to be dressing
and going into company, you won’t have time. See here!” she added,
“these jewels I’m going to give you when you come out. I wore them
to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensation.”
Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond necklace. Her large,
thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was plain her thoughts were elsewhere.
“How sober you look child!” said Marie.
“Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma?”
“To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them. They are worth a
small fortune.”
“I wish I had them,” said Eva, “to do what I pleased
with!”
“What would you do with them?”
“I’d sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take all
our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read and write.”
Eva was cut short by her mother’s laughing.
“Set up a boarding-school! Wouldn’t you teach them to play on the
piano, and paint on velvet?”
“I’d teach them to read their own Bible, and write their own
letters, and read letters that are written to them,” said Eva, steadily.
“I know, mamma, it does come very hard on them that they can’t do
these things. Tom feels it—Mammy does,—a great many of them do. I
think it’s wrong.”
“Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You don’t know anything
about these things,” said Marie; “besides, your talking makes my
head ache.”
Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation that did not exactly
suit her.
Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously gave Mammy reading lessons.
CHAPTER XXIII
Henrique
About this time, St. Clare’s brother Alfred, with his eldest son, a boy
of twelve, spent a day or two with the family at the lake.
No sight could be more singular and beautiful than that of these twin brothers.
Nature, instead of instituting resemblances between them, had made them
opposites on every point; yet a mysterious tie seemed to unite them in a closer
friendship than ordinary.
They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys and walks of the
garden. Augustine, with his blue eyes and golden hair, his ethereally flexible
form and vivacious features; and Alfred, dark-eyed, with haughty Roman profile,
firmly-knit limbs, and decided bearing. They were always abusing each
other’s opinions and practices, and yet never a whit the less absorbed in
each other’s society; in fact, the very contrariety seemed to unite them,
like the attraction between opposite poles of the magnet.
Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed, princely boy, full
of vivacity and spirit; and, from the first moment of introduction, seemed to
be perfectly fascinated by the spirituelle graces of his cousin Evangeline.
Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It was easy as a cradle, and
as gentle as its little mistress; and this pony was now brought up to the back
verandah by Tom, while a little mulatto boy of about thirteen led along a small
black Arabian, which had just been imported, at a great expense, for Henrique.
Henrique had a boy’s pride in his new possession; and, as he advanced and
took the reins out of the hands of his little groom, he looked carefully over
him, and his brow darkened.
“What’s this, Dodo, you little lazy dog! you haven’t rubbed
my horse down, this morning.”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Dodo, submissively; “he got that
dust on his own self.”
“You rascal, shut your mouth!” said Henrique, violently raising his
riding-whip. “How dare you speak?”
The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of just Henrique’s size, and
his curling hair hung round a high, bold forehead. He had white blood in his
veins, as could be seen by the quick flush in his cheek, and the sparkle of his
eye, as he eagerly tried to speak.
“Mas’r Henrique!—” he began.
Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip, and, seizing one of
his arms, forced him on to his knees, and beat him till he was out of breath.
“There, you impudent dog! Now will you learn not to answer back when I
speak to you? Take the horse back, and clean him properly. I’ll teach you
your place!”
“Young Mas’r,” said Tom, “I specs what he was gwine to
say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringing him up from the stable;
he’s so full of spirits,—that’s the way he got that dirt on
him; I looked to his cleaning.”
“You hold your tongue till you’re asked to speak!” said
Henrique, turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to speak to Eva, who
stood in her riding-dress.
“Dear Cousin, I’m sorry this stupid fellow has kept you
waiting,” he said. “Let’s sit down here, on this seat till
they come. What’s the matter, Cousin?—you look sober.”
“How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo?” asked Eva.
“Cruel,—wicked!” said the boy, with unaffected surprise.
“What do you mean, dear Eva?”
“I don’t want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so,” said
Eva.
“Dear Cousin, you don’t know Dodo; it’s the only way to
manage him, he’s so full of lies and excuses. The only way is to put him
down at once,—not let him open his mouth; that’s the way papa
manages.”
“But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never tells what
isn’t true.”
“He’s an uncommon old nigger, then!” said Henrique.
“Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak.”
“You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so.”
“Why, Eva, you’ve really taken such a fancy to Dodo, that I shall
be jealous.”
“But you beat him,—and he didn’t deserve it.”
“O, well, it may go for some time when he does, and don’t get it. A
few cuts never come amiss with Dodo,—he’s a regular spirit, I can
tell you; but I won’t beat him again before you, if it troubles
you.”
Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make her handsome cousin
understand her feelings.
Dodo soon appeared, with the horses.
“Well, Dodo, you’ve done pretty well, this time,” said his
young master, with a more gracious air. “Come, now, and hold Miss
Eva’s horse while I put her on to the saddle.”
Dodo came and stood by Eva’s pony. His face was troubled; his eyes looked
as if he had been crying.
Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroitness in all matters of
gallantry, soon had his fair cousin in the saddle, and, gathering the reins,
placed them in her hands.
But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo was standing, and said,
as he relinquished the reins,—“That’s a good boy,
Dodo;—thank you!”
Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face; the blood rushed to his
cheeks, and the tears to his eyes.
“Here, Dodo,” said his master, imperiously.
Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted.
“There’s a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo,” said
Henrique; “go get some.”
And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo stood looking after the two
children. One had given him money; and one had given him what he wanted far
more,—a kind word, kindly spoken. Dodo had been only a few months away
from his mother. His master had bought him at a slave warehouse, for his
handsome face, to be a match to the handsome pony; and he was now getting his
breaking in, at the hands of his young master.
The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two brothers St. Clare, from
another part of the garden.
Augustine’s cheek flushed; but he only observed, with his usual sarcastic
carelessness.
“I suppose that’s what we may call republican education,
Alfred?”
“Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood’s up,” said
Alfred, carelessly.
“I suppose you consider this an instructive practice for him,” said
Augustine, drily.
“I couldn’t help it, if I didn’t. Henrique is a regular
little tempest;—his mother and I have given him up, long ago. But, then,
that Dodo is a perfect sprite,—no amount of whipping can hurt him.”
“And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a
republican’s catechism, ’All men are born free and
equal!’”
“Poh!” said Alfred; “one of Tom Jefferson’s pieces of
French sentiment and humbug. It’s perfectly ridiculous to have that going
the rounds among us, to this day.”
“I think it is,” said St. Clare, significantly.
“Because,” said Alfred, “we can see plainly enough that all
men are born free, nor born equal; they are born anything else. For
my part, I think half this republican talk sheer humbug. It is the educated,
the intelligent, the wealthy, the refined, who ought to have equal rights and
not the canaille.”
“If you can keep the canaille of that opinion,” said Augustine.
“They took turn once, in France.”
“Of course, they must be , consistently, steadily, as I
,” said Alfred, setting his foot hard down as if he were
standing on somebody.
“It makes a terrible slip when they get up,” said
Augustine,—“in St. Domingo, for instance.”
“Poh!” said Alfred, “we’ll take care of that, in this
country. We must set our face against all this educating, elevating talk, that
is getting about now; the lower class must not be educated.”
“That is past praying for,” said Augustine; “educated they
will be, and we have only to say how. Our system is educating them in barbarism
and brutality. We are breaking all humanizing ties, and making them brute
beasts; and, if they get the upper hand, such we shall find them.”
“They shall never get the upper hand!” said Alfred.
“That’s right,” said St. Clare; “put on the steam,
fasten down the escape-valve, and sit on it, and see where you’ll
land.”
“Well,” said Alfred, “we see. I’m not
afraid to sit on the escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and the
machinery works well.”
“The nobles in Louis XVI.‘s time thought just so; and Austria and
Pius IX. think so now; and, some pleasant morning, you may all be caught up to
meet each other in the air, .”
“,” said Alfred, laughing.
“I tell you,” said Augustine, “if there is anything that is
revealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it is that the masses
are to rise, and the under class become the upper one.”
“That’s one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine! Why
didn’t you ever take to the stump;—you’d make a famous stump
orator! Well, I hope I shall be dead before this millennium of your greasy
masses comes on.”
“Greasy or not greasy, they will govern , when their time
comes,” said Augustine; “and they will be just such rulers as you
make them. The French noblesse chose to have the people ’,’ and they had ’’ governors
to their hearts’ content. The people of Hayti—”
“O, come, Augustine! as if we hadn’t had enough of that abominable,
contemptible Hayti
The Haytiens were not Anglo Saxons; if they had been there would have been
another story. The Anglo Saxon is the dominant race of the world, and .”
[1]
In August 1791, as a consequence of the French Revolution, the black slaves
and mulattoes on Haiti rose in revolt against the whites, and in the period of
turmoil that followed enormous cruelties were practised by both sides. The
“Emperor” Dessalines, come to power in 1804, massacred all the
whites on the island. Haitian bloodshed became an argument to show the
barbarous nature of the Negro, a doctrine Wendell Phillips sought to combat in
his celebrated lecture on Toussaint L’Ouverture.
“Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo Saxon blood among our
slaves, now,” said Augustine. “There are plenty among them who have
only enough of the African to give a sort of tropical warmth and fervor to our
calculating firmness and foresight. If ever the San Domingo hour comes, Anglo
Saxon blood will lead on the day. Sons of white fathers, with all our haughty
feelings burning in their veins, will not always be bought and sold and traded.
They will rise, and raise with them their mother’s race.”
“Stuff!—nonsense!”
“Well,” said Augustine, “there goes an old saying to this
effect, ’As it was in the days of Noah so shall it be;—they ate,
they drank, they planted, they builded, and knew not till the flood came and
took them.’”
“On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do for a circuit
rider,” said Alfred, laughing. “Never you fear for us; possession
is our nine points. We’ve got the power. This subject race,” said
he, stamping firmly, “is down and shall down! We have energy
enough to manage our own powder.”
“Sons trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians of your
powder-magazines,” said Augustine,—“so cool and
self-possessed! The proverb says, ’They that cannot govern themselves
cannot govern others.’”
“There is a trouble there” said Alfred, thoughtfully;
“there’s no doubt that our system is a difficult one to train
children under. It gives too free scope to the passions, altogether, which, in
our climate, are hot enough. I find trouble with Henrique. The boy is generous
and warm-hearted, but a perfect fire-cracker when excited. I believe I shall
send him North for his education, where obedience is more fashionable, and
where he will associate more with equals, and less with dependents.”
“Since training children is the staple work of the human race,”
said Augustine, “I should think it something of a consideration that our
system does not work well there.”
“It does not for some things,” said Alfred; “for others,
again, it does. It makes boys manly and courageous; and the very vices of an
abject race tend to strengthen in them the opposite virtues. I think Henrique,
now, has a keener sense of the beauty of truth, from seeing lying and deception
the universal badge of slavery.”
“A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly!” said Augustine.
“It’s true, Christian-like or not; and is about as Christian-like
as most other things in the world,” said Alfred.
“That may be,” said St. Clare.
“Well, there’s no use in talking, Augustine. I believe we’ve
been round and round this old track five hundred times, more or less. What do
you say to a game of backgammon?”
The two brothers ran up the verandah steps, and were soon seated at a light
bamboo stand, with the backgammon-board between them. As they were setting
their men, Alfred said,
“I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I should do
something.”
“I dare say you would,—you are one of the doing sort,—but
what?”
“Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen,” said Alfred, with
a half-scornful smile.
“You might as well set Mount Ætna on them flat, and tell them to
stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants under all the
superincumbent mass of society upon them. One man can do nothing, against the
whole action of a community. Education, to do anything, must be a state
education; or there must be enough agreed in it to make a current.”
“You take the first throw,” said Alfred; and the brothers were soon
lost in the game, and heard no more till the scraping of horses’ feet was
heard under the verandah.
“There come the children,” said Augustine, rising. “Look
here, Alf! Did you ever see anything so beautiful?” And, in truth, it
a beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold brow, and dark, glossy
curls, and glowing cheek, was laughing gayly as he bent towards his fair
cousin, as they came on. She was dressed in a blue riding dress, with a cap of
the same color. Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her cheeks, and
heightened the effect of her singularly transparent skin, and golden hair.
“Good heavens! what perfectly dazzling beauty!” said Alfred.
“I tell you, Auguste, won’t she make some hearts ache, one of these
days?”
“She will, too truly,—God knows I’m afraid so!” said
St. Clare, in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to take her off
her horse.
“Eva darling! you’re not much tired?” he said, as he clasped
her in his arms.
“No, papa,” said the child; but her short, hard breathing alarmed
her father.
“How could you ride so fast, dear?—you know it’s bad for
you.”
“I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot.”
St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlor, and laid her on the sofa.
“Henrique, you must be careful of Eva,” said he; “you
mustn’t ride fast with her.”
“I’ll take her under my care,” said Henrique, seating himself
by the sofa, and taking Eva’s hand.
Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncle resumed their game,
and the children were left together.
“Do you know, Eva, I’m sorry papa is only going to stay two days
here, and then I shan’t see you again for ever so long! If I stay with
you, I’d try to be good, and not be cross to Dodo, and so on. I
don’t mean to treat Dodo ill; but, you know, I’ve got such a quick
temper. I’m not really bad to him, though. I give him a picayune, now and
then; and you see he dresses well. I think, on the whole, Dodo ’s pretty
well off.”
“Would you think you were well off, if there were not one creature in the
world near you to love you?”
“I?—Well, of course not.”
“And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he ever had, and now
he has not a creature to love him;—nobody can be good that way.”
“Well, I can’t help it, as I know of. I can’t get his mother
and I can’t love him myself, nor anybody else, as I know of.”
“Why can’t you?” said Eva.
“ Dodo! Why, Eva, you wouldn’t have me! I may
him well enough; but you don’t your
servants.”
“I do, indeed.”
“How odd!”
“Don’t the Bible say we must love everybody?”
“O, the Bible! To be sure, it says a great many such things; but, then,
nobody ever thinks of doing them,—you know, Eva, nobody does.”
Eva did not speak; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful for a few moments.
“At any rate,” she said, “dear Cousin, do love poor Dodo, and
be kind to him, for my sake!”
“I could love anything, for your sake, dear Cousin; for I really think
you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw!” And Henrique spoke with
an earnestness that flushed his handsome face. Eva received it with perfect
simplicity, without even a change of feature; merely saying, “I’m
glad you feel so, dear Henrique! I hope you will remember.”
The dinner-bell put an end to the interview.
CHAPTER XXIV
Foreshadowings
Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine parted; and Eva, who had
been stimulated, by the society of her young cousin, to exertions beyond her
strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was at last willing to call in
medical advice,—a thing from which he had always shrunk, because it was
the admission of an unwelcome truth.
But, for a day or two, Eva was so unwell as to be confined to the house; and
the doctor was called.
Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child’s gradually decaying
health and strength, because she was completely absorbed in studying out two or
three new forms of disease to which she believed she herself was a victim. It
was the first principle of Marie’s belief that nobody ever was or could
be so great a sufferer as ; and, therefore, she always repelled
quite indignantly any suggestion that any one around her could be sick. She was
always sure, in such a case, that it was nothing but laziness, or want of
energy; and that, if they had had the suffering had, they would soon
know the difference.
Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternal fears about Eva;
but to no avail.
“I don’t see as anything ails the child,” she would say;
“she runs about, and plays.”
“But she has a cough.”
“Cough! you don’t need to tell about a cough. I’ve
always been subject to a cough, all my days. When I was of Eva’s age,
they thought I was in a consumption. Night after night, Mammy used to sit up
with me. O! Eva’s cough is not anything.”
“But she gets weak, and is short-breathed.”
“Law! I’ve had that, years and years; it’s only a nervous
affection.”
“But she sweats so, nights!”
“Well, I have, these ten years. Very often, night after night, my clothes
will be wringing wet. There won’t be a dry thread in my night-clothes and
the sheets will be so that Mammy has to hang them up to dry! Eva doesn’t
sweat anything like that!”
Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But, now that Eva was fairly and
visibly prostrated, and a doctor called, Marie, all on a sudden, took a new
turn.
“She knew it,” she said; “she always felt it, that she was
destined to be the most miserable of mothers. Here she was, with her wretched
health, and her only darling child going down to the grave before her
eyes;”—and Marie routed up Mammy nights, and rumpussed and scolded,
with more energy than ever, all day, on the strength of this new misery.
“My dear Marie, don’t talk so!” said St. Clare. “You
ought not to give up the case so, at once.”
“You have not a mother’s feelings, St. Clare! You never could
understand me!—you don’t now.”
“But don’t talk so, as if it were a gone case!”
“I can’t take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare. If
don’t feel when your only child is in this alarming state, I
do. It’s a blow too much for me, with all I was bearing before.”
“It’s true,” said St. Clare, “that Eva is very
delicate, I always knew; and that she has grown so rapidly as to
exhaust her strength; and that her situation is critical. But just now she is
only prostrated by the heat of the weather, and by the excitement of her
cousin’s visit, and the exertions she made. The physician says there is
room for hope.”
“Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray do; it’s
a mercy if people haven’t sensitive feelings, in this world. I am sure I
wish I didn’t feel as I do; it only makes me completely wretched! I wish
I be as easy as the rest of you!”
And the “rest of them” had good reason to breathe the same prayer,
for Marie paraded her new misery as the reason and apology for all sorts of
inflictions on every one about her. Every word that was spoken by anybody,
everything that was done or was not done everywhere, was only a new proof that
she was surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings, who were unmindful of
her peculiar sorrows. Poor Eva heard some of these speeches; and nearly cried
her little eyes out, in pity for her mamma, and in sorrow that she should make
her so much distress.
In a week or two, there was a great improvement of symptoms,—one of those
deceitful lulls, by which her inexorable disease so often beguiles the anxious
heart, even on the verge of the grave. Eva’s step was again in the
garden,—in the balconies; she played and laughed again,—and her
father, in a transport, declared that they should soon have her as hearty as
anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt no encouragement from this
illusive truce. There was one other heart, too, that felt the same certainty,
and that was the little heart of Eva. What is it that sometimes speaks in the
soul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is short? Is it the secret
instinct of decaying nature, or the soul’s impulsive throb, as
immortality draws on? Be it what it may, it rested in the heart of Eva, a calm,
sweet, prophetic certainty that Heaven was near; calm as the light of sunset,
sweet as the bright stillness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only
troubled by sorrow for those who loved her so dearly.
For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life was unfolding before
her with every brightness that love and wealth could give, had no regret for
herself in dying.
In that book which she and her simple old friend had read so much together, she
had seen and taken to her young heart the image of one who loved the little
child; and, as she gazed and mused, He had ceased to be an image and a picture
of the distant past, and come to be a living, all-surrounding reality. His love
enfolded her childish heart with more than mortal tenderness; and it was to
Him, she said, she was going, and to his home.
But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she was to leave behind.
Her father most,—for Eva, though she never distinctly thought so, had an
instinctive perception that she was more in his heart than any other. She loved
her mother because she was so loving a creature, and all the selfishness that
she had seen in her only saddened and perplexed her; for she had a
child’s implicit trust that her mother could not do wrong. There was
something about her that Eva never could make out; and she always smoothed it
over with thinking that, after all, it was mamma, and she loved her very dearly
indeed.
She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she was as daylight
and sunshine. Children do not usually generalize; but Eva was an uncommonly
mature child, and the things that she had witnessed of the evils of the system
under which they were living had fallen, one by one, into the depths of her
thoughtful, pondering heart. She had vague longings to do something for
them,—to bless and save not only them, but all in their
condition,—longings that contrasted sadly with the feebleness of her
little frame.
“Uncle Tom,” she said, one day, when she was reading to her friend,
“I can understand why Jesus to die for us.”
“Why, Miss Eva?”
“Because I’ve felt so, too.”
“What is it Miss Eva?—I don’t understand.”
“I can’t tell you; but, when I saw those poor creatures on the
boat, you know, when you came up and I,—some had lost their mothers, and
some their husbands, and some mothers cried for their little children—and
when I heard about poor Prue,—oh, wasn’t that dreadful!—and a
great many other times, I’ve felt that I would be glad to die, if my
dying could stop all this misery. die for them, Tom, if I
could,” said the child, earnestly, laying her little thin hand on his.
Tom looked at the child with awe; and when she, hearing her father’s
voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times, as he looked after her.
“It’s jest no use tryin’ to keep Miss Eva here,” he
said to Mammy, whom he met a moment after. “She’s got the
Lord’s mark in her forehead.”
“Ah, yes, yes,” said Mammy, raising her hands; “I’ve
allers said so. She wasn’t never like a child that’s to
live—there was allers something deep in her eyes. I’ve told Missis
so, many the time; it’s a comin’ true,—we all sees
it,—dear, little, blessed lamb!”
Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. It was late in the
afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed a kind of glory behind her, as she
came forward in her white dress, with her golden hair and glowing cheeks, her
eyes unnaturally bright with the slow fever that burned in her veins.
St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had been buying for her;
but her appearance, as she came on, impressed him suddenly and painfully. There
is a kind of beauty so intense, yet so fragile, that we cannot bear to look at
it. Her father folded her suddenly in his arms, and almost forgot what he was
going to tell her.
“Eva, dear, you are better now-a-days,—are you not?”
“Papa,” said Eva, with sudden firmness “I’ve had things
I wanted to say to you, a great while. I want to say them now, before I get
weaker.”
St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She laid her head on his
bosom, and said,
“It’s all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The time
is coming that I am going to leave you. I am going, and never to come
back!” and Eva sobbed.
“O, now, my dear little Eva!” said St. Clare, trembling as he
spoke, but speaking cheerfully, “you’ve got nervous and
low-spirited; you mustn’t indulge such gloomy thoughts. See here,
I’ve bought a statuette for you!”
“No, papa,” said Eva, putting it gently away, “don’t
deceive yourself!—I am any better, I know it perfectly
well,—and I am going, before long. I am not nervous,—I am not
low-spirited. If it were not for you, papa, and my friends, I should be
perfectly happy. I want to go,—I long to go!”
“Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad? You have
had everything, to make you happy, that could be given you.”
“I had rather be in heaven; though, only for my friends’ sake, I
would be willing to live. There are a great many things here that make me sad,
that seem dreadful to me; I had rather be there; but I don’t want to
leave you,—it almost breaks my heart!”
“What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva?”
“O, things that are done, and done all the time. I feel sad for our poor
people; they love me dearly, and they are all good and kind to me. I wish,
papa, they were all .”
“Why, Eva, child, don’t you think they are well enough off
now?”
“O, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would become of
them? There are very few men like you, papa. Uncle Alfred isn’t like you,
and mamma isn’t; and then, think of poor old Prue’s owners! What
horrid things people do, and can do!” and Eva shuddered.
“My dear child, you are too sensitive. I’m sorry I ever let you
hear such stories.”
“O, that’s what troubles me, papa. You want me to live so happy,
and never to have any pain,—never suffer anything,—not even hear a
sad story, when other poor creatures have nothing but pain and sorrow, all
their lives;—it seems selfish. I ought to know such things, I ought to
feel about them! Such things always sunk into my heart; they went down deep;
I’ve thought and thought about them. Papa, isn’t there any way to
have all slaves made free?”
“That’s a difficult question, dearest. There’s no doubt that
this way is a very bad one; a great many people think so; I do myself; I
heartily wish that there were not a slave in the land; but, then, I don’t
know what is to be done about it!”
“Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind, and you always
have a way of saying things that is so pleasant, couldn’t you go all
round and try to persuade people to do right about this? When I am dead, papa,
then you will think of me, and do it for my sake. I would do it, if I
could.”
“When you are dead, Eva,” said St. Clare, passionately. “O,
child, don’t talk to me so! You are all I have on earth.”
“Poor old Prue’s child was all that she had,—and yet she had
to hear it crying, and she couldn’t help it! Papa, these poor creatures
love their children as much as you do me. O! do something for them!
There’s poor Mammy loves her children; I’ve seen her cry when she
talked about them. And Tom loves his children; and it’s dreadful, papa,
that such things are happening, all the time!”
“There, there, darling,” said St. Clare, soothingly; “only
don’t distress yourself, don’t talk of dying, and I will do
anything you wish.”
“And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom as soon
as”—she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone—“I am
gone!”
“Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world,—anything you could ask
me to.”
“Dear papa,” said the child, laying her burning cheek against his,
“how I wish we could go together!”
“Where, dearest?” said St. Clare.
“To our Saviour’s home; it’s so sweet and peaceful
there—it is all so loving there!” The child spoke unconsciously, as
of a place where she had often been. “Don’t you want to go,
papa?” she said.
St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent.
“You will come to me,” said the child, speaking in a voice of calm
certainty which she often used unconsciously.
“I shall come after you. I shall not forget you.”
The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them deeper and deeper, as St.
Clare sat silently holding the little frail form to his bosom. He saw no more
the deep eyes, but the voice came over him as a spirit voice, and, as in a sort
of judgment vision, his whole past life rose in a moment before his eyes: his
mother’s prayers and hymns; his own early yearnings and aspirings for
good; and, between them and this hour, years of worldliness and scepticism, and
what man calls respectable living. We can think , very much, in a
moment. St. Clare saw and felt many things, but spoke nothing; and, as it grew
darker, he took his child to her bed-room; and, when she was prepared for rest;
he sent away the attendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sung to her till
she was asleep.
CHAPTER XXV
The Little Evangelist
It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo lounge in the
verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite
the window opening on the verandah, closely secluded, under an awning of
transparent gauze, from the outrages of the mosquitos, and languidly holding in
her hand an elegantly bound prayer-book. She was holding it because it was
Sunday, and she imagined she had been reading it,—though, in fact, she
had been only taking a succession of short naps, with it open in her hand.
Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a small Methodist
meeting within riding distance, had gone out, with Tom as driver, to attend it;
and Eva had accompanied them.
“I say, Augustine,” said Marie after dozing a while, “I must
send to the city after my old Doctor Posey; I’m sure I’ve got the
complaint of the heart.”
“Well; why need you send for him? This doctor that attends Eva seems
skilful.”
“I would not trust him in a critical case,” said Marie; “and
I think I may say mine is becoming so! I’ve been thinking of it, these
two or three nights past; I have such distressing pains, and such strange
feelings.”
“O, Marie, you are blue; I don’t believe it’s heart
complaint.”
“I dare say don’t,” said Marie; “I was
prepared to expect . You can be alarmed enough, if Eva coughs, or
has the least thing the matter with her; but you never think of me.”
“If it’s particularly agreeable to you to have heart disease, why,
I’ll try and maintain you have it,” said St. Clare; “I
didn’t know it was.”
“Well, I only hope you won’t be sorry for this, when it’s too
late!” said Marie; “but, believe it or not, my distress about Eva,
and the exertions I have made with that dear child, have developed what I have
long suspected.”
What the were which Marie referred to, it would have been
difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentary to himself, and went
on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man as he was, till a carriage
drove up before the verandah, and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted.
Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put away her bonnet and
shawl, as was always her manner, before she spoke a word on any subject; while
Eva came, at St. Clare’s call, and was sitting on his knee, giving him an
account of the services they had heard.
They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia’s room, which, like
the one in which they were sitting, opened on to the verandah and violent
reproof addressed to somebody.
“What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing?” asked St. Clare.
“That commotion is of her raising, I’ll be bound!”
And, in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, came dragging the
culprit along.
“Come out here, now!” she said. “I tell your
master!”
“What’s the case now?” asked Augustine.
“The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child, any longer!
It’s past all bearing; flesh and blood cannot endure it! Here, I locked
her up, and gave her a hymn to study; and what does she do, but spy out where I
put my key, and has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet-trimming, and cut it
all to pieces to make dolls’ jackets! I never saw anything like it, in my
life!”
“I told you, Cousin,” said Marie, “that you’d find out
that these creatures can’t be brought up without severity. If I had
way, now,” she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare,
“I’d send that child out, and have her thoroughly whipped;
I’d have her whipped till she couldn’t stand!”
“I don’t doubt it,” said St. Clare. “Tell me of the
lovely rule of woman! I never saw above a dozen women that wouldn’t half
kill a horse, or a servant, either, if they had their own way with
them!—let alone a man.”
“There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. Clare!”
said Marie. “Cousin is a woman of sense, and she sees it now, as plain as
I do.”
Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that belongs to the
thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been pretty actively roused by the
artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many of my lady readers must
own that they should have felt just so in her circumstances; but Marie’s
words went beyond her, and she felt less heat.
“I wouldn’t have the child treated so, for the world,” she
said; “but, I am sure, Augustine, I don’t know what to do.
I’ve taught and taught; I’ve talked till I’m tired;
I’ve whipped her; I’ve punished her in every way I can think of,
and she’s just what she was at first.”
“Come here, Tops, you monkey!” said St. Clare, calling the child up
to him.
Topsy came up; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking with a mixture of
apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery.
“What makes you behave so?” said St. Clare, who could not help
being amused with the child’s expression.
“Spects it’s my wicked heart,” said Topsy, demurely;
“Miss Feely says so.”
“Don’t you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you? She says she
has done everything she can think of.”
“Lor, yes, Mas’r! old Missis used to say so, too. She whipped me a
heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my head agin the door; but it
didn’t do me no good! I spects, if they ’s to pull every spire
o’ har out o’ my head, it wouldn’t do no good,
neither,—I ’s so wicked! Laws! I ’s nothin but a nigger, no
ways!”
“Well, I shall have to give her up,” said Miss Ophelia; “I
can’t have that trouble any longer.”
“Well, I’d just like to ask one question,” said St. Clare.
“What is it?”
“Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen child, that
you can have at home here, all to yourself, what’s the use of sending one
or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just such? I suppose
this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen are.”
Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer; and Eva, who had stood a silent
spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow her.
There was a little glass-room at the corner of the verandah, which St. Clare
used as a sort of reading-room; and Eva and Topsy disappeared into this place.
“What’s Eva going about, now?” said St. Clare; “I mean
to see.”
And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the glass-door,
and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips, he made a silent
gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the two children on the
floor, with their side faces towards them. Topsy, with her usual air of
careless drollery and unconcern; but, opposite to her, Eva, her whole face
fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes.
“What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won’t you try and be good?
Don’t you love , Topsy?”
“Donno nothing ’bout love; I loves candy and sich, that’s
all,” said Topsy.
“But you love your father and mother?”
“Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva.”
“O, I know,” said Eva, sadly; “but hadn’t you any
brother, or sister, or aunt, or—”
“No, none on ’em,—never had nothing nor nobody.”
“But, Topsy, if you’d only try to be good, you might—”
“Couldn’t never be nothin’ but a nigger, if I was ever so
good,” said Topsy. “If I could be skinned, and come white,
I’d try then.”
“But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia would
love you, if you were good.”
Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of expressing
incredulity.
“Don’t you think so?” said Eva.
“No; she can’t bar me, ’cause I’m a
nigger!—she’d ’s soon have a toad touch her! There
can’t nobody love niggers, and niggers can’t do nothin’!
don’t care,” said Topsy, beginning to whistle.
“O, Topsy, poor child, love you!” said Eva, with a sudden
burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy’s
shoulder; “I love you, because you haven’t had any father, or
mother, or friends;—because you’ve been a poor, abused child! I
love you, and I want you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I
shan’t live a great while; and it really grieves me, to have you be so
naughty. I wish you would try to be good, for my sake;—it’s only a
little while I shall be with you.”
The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears;—large,
bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little white
hand. Yes, in that moment, a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly love, had
penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul! She laid her head down between her
knees, and wept and sobbed,—while the beautiful child, bending over her,
looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner.
“Poor Topsy!” said Eva, “don’t you know that Jesus
loves all alike? He is just as willing to love you, as me. He loves you just as
I do,—only more, because he is better. He will help you to be good; and
you can go to Heaven at last, and be an angel forever, just as much as if you
were white. Only think of it, Topsy!— can be one of those
spirits bright, Uncle Tom sings about.”
“O, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!” said the child; “I will
try, I will try; I never did care nothin’ about it before.”
St. Clare, at this instant, dropped the curtain. “It puts me in mind of
mother,” he said to Miss Ophelia. “It is true what she told me; if
we want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ
did,—call them to us, and .”
“I’ve always had a prejudice against negroes,” said Miss
Ophelia, “and it’s a fact, I never could bear to have that child
touch me; but, I don’t think she knew it.”
“Trust any child to find that out,” said St. Clare;
“there’s no keeping it from them. But I believe that all the trying
in the world to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you can do
them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude, while that feeling of
repugnance remains in the heart;—it’s a queer kind of a
fact,—but so it is.”
“I don’t know how I can help it,” said Miss Ophelia;
“they disagreeable to me,—this child in
particular,—how can I help feeling so?”
“Eva does, it seems.”
“Well, she’s so loving! After all, though, she’s no more than
Christ-like,” said Miss Ophelia; “I wish I were like her. She might
teach me a lesson.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a little child had been used to
instruct an old disciple, if it so,” said St. Clare.
CHAPTER XXVI
Death
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life’s early morning, hath hid from our eyes.
[1]
“Weep Not for Those,” a poem by Thomas Moore (1779-1852).
Eva’s bed-room was a spacious apartment, which, like all the other rooms
in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. The room communicated, on one
side, with her father and mother’s apartment; on the other, with that
appropriated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own eye and taste, in
furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar keeping with the character
of her for whom it was intended. The windows were hung with curtains of
rose-colored and white muslin, the floor was spread with a matting which had
been ordered in Paris, to a pattern of his own device, having round it a border
of rose-buds and leaves, and a centre-piece with full-flown roses. The
bedstead, chairs, and lounges, were of bamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful
and fanciful patterns. Over the head of the bed was an alabaster bracket, on
which a beautiful sculptured angel stood, with drooping wings, holding out a
crown of myrtle-leaves. From this depended, over the bed, light curtains of
rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, supplying that protection from
mosquitos which is an indispensable addition to all sleeping accommodation in
that climate. The graceful bamboo lounges were amply supplied with cushions of
rose-colored damask, while over them, depending from the hands of sculptured
figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. A light, fanciful
bamboo table stood in the middle of the room, where a Parian vase, wrought in
the shape of a white lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled with flowers. On
this table lay Eva’s books and little trinkets, with an elegantly wrought
alabaster writing-stand, which her father had supplied to her when he saw her
trying to improve herself in writing. There was a fireplace in the room, and on
the marble mantle above stood a beautifully wrought statuette of Jesus
receiving little children, and on either side marble vases, for which it was
Tom’s pride and delight to offer bouquets every morning. Two or three
exquisite paintings of children, in various attitudes, embellished the wall. In
short, the eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood, of
beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never opened, in the morning light,
without falling on something which suggested to the heart soothing and
beautiful thoughts.
The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a little while was fast
passing away; seldom and more seldom her light footstep was heard in the
verandah, and oftener and oftener she was found reclined on a little lounge by
the open window, her large, deep eyes fixed on the rising and falling waters of
the lake.
It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so reclining,—her
Bible half open, her little transparent fingers lying listlessly between the
leaves,—suddenly she heard her mother’s voice, in sharp tones, in
the verandah.
“What now, you baggage!—what new piece of mischief! You’ve
been picking the flowers, hey?” and Eva heard the sound of a smart slap.
“Law, Missis! they ’s for Miss Eva,” she heard a voice say,
which she knew belonged to Topsy.
“Miss Eva! A pretty excuse!—you suppose she wants
flowers, you good-for-nothing nigger! Get along off with you!”
In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, and in the verandah.
“O, don’t, mother! I should like the flowers; do give them to me; I
want them!”
“Why, Eva, your room is full now.”
“I can’t have too many,” said Eva. “Topsy, do bring
them here.”
Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, now came up and offered
her flowers. She did it with a look of hesitation and bashfulness, quite unlike
the eldrich boldness and brightness which was usual with her.
“It’s a beautiful bouquet!” said Eva, looking at it.
It was rather a singular one,—a brilliant scarlet geranium, and one
single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It was tied up with an evident
eye to the contrast of color, and the arrangement of every leaf had carefully
been studied.
Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said,—“Topsy, you arrange flowers very
prettily. Here,” she said, “is this vase I haven’t any
flowers for. I wish you’d arrange something every day for it.”
“Well, that’s odd!” said Marie. “What in the world do
you want that for?”
“Never mind, mamma; you’d as lief as not Topsy should do
it,—had you not?”
“Of course, anything you please, dear! Topsy, you hear your young
mistress;—see that you mind.”
Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down; and, as she turned away, Eva saw
a tear roll down her dark cheek.
“You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do something for me,”
said Eva to her mother.
“O, nonsense! it’s only because she likes to do mischief. She knows
she mustn’t pick flowers,—so she does it; that’s all there is
to it. But, if you fancy to have her pluck them, so be it.”
“Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to be; she’s
trying to be a good girl.”
“She’ll have to try a good while before gets to be
good,” said Marie, with a careless laugh.
“Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy! everything has always been against
her.”
“Not since she’s been here, I’m sure. If she hasn’t
been talked to, and preached to, and every earthly thing done that anybody
could do;—and she’s just so ugly, and always will be; you
can’t make anything of the creature!”
“But, mamma, it’s so different to be brought up as I’ve been,
with so many friends, so many things to make me good and happy; and to be
brought up as she’s been, all the time, till she came here!”
“Most likely,” said Marie, yawning,—“dear me, how hot
it is!”
“Mamma, you believe, don’t you, that Topsy could become an angel,
as well as any of us, if she were a Christian?”
“Topsy! what a ridiculous idea! Nobody but you would ever think of it. I
suppose she could, though.”
“But, mamma, isn’t God her father, as much as ours? Isn’t
Jesus her Saviour?”
“Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody,” said Marie.
“Where is my smelling-bottle?”
“It’s such a pity,—oh! a pity!” said Eva,
looking out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself.
“What’s a pity?” said Marie.
“Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live with angels,
should go all down, down down, and nobody help them!—oh dear!”
“Well, we can’t help it; it’s no use worrying, Eva! I
don’t know what’s to be done; we ought to be thankful for our own
advantages.”
“I hardly can be,” said Eva, “I’m so sorry to think of
poor folks that haven’t any.”
“That’s odd enough,” said Marie;—“I’m sure
my religion makes me thankful for my advantages.”
“Mamma,” said Eva, “I want to have some of my hair cut
off,—a good deal of it.”
“What for?” said Marie.
“Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I am able to give
it to them myself. Won’t you ask aunty to come and cut it for me?”
Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the other room.
The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and, shaking down her long
golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully, “Come aunty, shear the
sheep!”
“What’s that?” said St. Clare, who just then entered with
some fruit he had been out to get for her.
“Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair;—there’s
too much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I want to give some of it
away.”
Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors.
“Take care,—don’t spoil the looks of it!” said her
father; “cut underneath, where it won’t show. Eva’s curls are
my pride.”
“O, papa!” said Eva, sadly.
“Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time I take you up to
your uncle’s plantation, to see Cousin Henrique,” said St. Clare,
in a gay tone.
“I shall never go there, papa;—I am going to a better country. O,
do believe me! Don’t you see, papa, that I get weaker, every day?”
“Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing, Eva?”
said her father.
“Only because it is , papa: and, if you will believe it now,
perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do.”
St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the long, beautiful curls,
which, as they were separated from the child’s head, were laid, one by
one, in her lap. She raised them up, looked earnestly at them, twined them
around her thin fingers, and looked from time to time, anxiously at her father.
“It’s just what I’ve been foreboding!” said Marie;
“it’s just what has been preying on my health, from day to day,
bringing me downward to the grave, though nobody regards it. I have seen this,
long. St. Clare, you will see, after a while, that I was right.”
“Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt!” said St.
Clare, in a dry, bitter tone.
Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with her cambric handkerchief.
Eva’s clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other. It was the
calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from its earthly bonds; it was
evident she saw, felt, and appreciated, the difference between the two.
She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came and sat down by her.
“Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I must go. There are
some things I want to say and do,—that I ought to do; and you are so
unwilling to have me speak a word on this subject. But it must come;
there’s no putting it off. Do be willing I should speak now!”
“My child, I willing!” said St. Clare, covering his eyes
with one hand, and holding up Eva’s hand with the other.
“Then, I want to see all our people together. I have some things I
say to them,” said Eva.
“,” said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance.
Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole of the servants were
convened in the room.
Eva lay back on her pillows; her hair hanging loosely about her face, her
crimson cheeks contrasting painfully with the intense whiteness of her
complexion and the thin contour of her limbs and features, and her large,
soul-like eyes fixed earnestly on every one.
The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The spiritual face, the long
locks of hair cut off and lying by her, her father’s averted face, and
Marie’s sobs, struck at once upon the feelings of a sensitive and
impressible race; and, as they came in, they looked one on another, sighed, and
shook their heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a funeral.
Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at every one. All
looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the women hid their faces in their aprons.
“I sent for you all, my dear friends,” said Eva, “because I
love you. I love you all; and I have something to say to you, which I want you
always to remember. . . . I am going to leave you. In a few more weeks you will
see me no more—”
Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, and lamentations,
which broke from all present, and in which her slender voice was lost entirely.
She waited a moment, and then, speaking in a tone that checked the sobs of all,
she said,
“If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to what I say. I
want to speak to you about your souls. . . . Many of you, I am afraid, are very
careless. You are thinking only about this world. I want you to remember that
there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am going there, and you can go
there. It is for you, as much as me. But, if you want to go there, you must not
live idle, careless, thoughtless lives. You must be Christians. You must
remember that each one of you can become angels, and be angels forever. . . .
If you want to be Christians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to him; you
must read—”
The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and said, sorrowfully,
“O dear! you read—poor souls!” and she hid
her face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob from those she
was addressing, who were kneeling on the floor, aroused her.
“Never mind,” she said, raising her face and smiling brightly
through her tears, “I have prayed for you; and I know Jesus will help
you, even if you can’t read. Try all to do the best you can; pray every
day; ask Him to help you, and get the Bible read to you whenever you can; and I
think I shall see you all in heaven.”
“Amen,” was the murmured response from the lips of Tom and Mammy,
and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the Methodist church. The younger
and more thoughtless ones, for the time completely overcome, were sobbing, with
their heads bowed upon their knees.
“I know,” said Eva, “you all love me.”
“Yes; oh, yes! indeed we do! Lord bless her!” was the involuntary
answer of all.
“Yes, I know you do! There isn’t one of you that hasn’t
always been very kind to me; and I want to give you something that, when you
look at, you shall always remember me, I’m going to give all of you a
curl of my hair; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you and am gone
to heaven, and that I want to see you all there.”
It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs, they gathered
round the little creature, and took from her hands what seemed to them a last
mark of her love. They fell on their knees; they sobbed, and prayed, and kissed
the hem of her garment; and the elder ones poured forth words of endearment,
mingled in prayers and blessings, after the manner of their susceptible race.
As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was apprehensive for the effect
of all this excitement on her little patient, signed to each one to pass out of
the apartment.
At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy.
“Here, Uncle Tom,” said Eva, “is a beautiful one for you. O,
I am so happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in heaven,—for
I’m sure I shall; and Mammy,—dear, good, kind Mammy!” she
said, fondly throwing her arms round her old nurse,—“I know
you’ll be there, too.”
“O, Miss Eva, don’t see how I can live without ye, no how!”
said the faithful creature. “‘Pears like it’s just taking
everything off the place to oncet!” and Mammy gave way to a passion of
grief.
Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment, and thought they
were all gone; but, as she turned, Topsy was standing there.
“Where did you start up from?” she said, suddenly.
“I was here,” said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes. “O,
Miss Eva, I’ve been a bad girl; but won’t you give one,
too?”
“Yes, poor Topsy! to be sure, I will. There—every time you look at
that, think that I love you, and wanted you to be a good girl!”
“O, Miss Eva, I tryin!” said Topsy, earnestly;
“but, Lor, it’s so hard to be good! ’Pears like I an’t
used to it, no ways!”
“Jesus knows it, Topsy; he is sorry for you; he will help you.”
Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed from the apartment
by Miss Ophelia; but, as she went, she hid the precious curl in her bosom.
All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy lady had wiped away
many tears of her own, during the scene; but concern for the consequence of
such an excitement to her young charge was uppermost in her mind.
St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his hand shading his
eyes, in the same attitude.
When they were all gone, he sat so still.
“Papa!” said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his.
He gave a sudden start and shiver; but made no answer.
“Dear papa!” said Eva.
“,” said St. Clare, rising, “I
have it so! The Almighty hath dealt with me!” and
St. Clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed.
“Augustine! has not God a right to do what he will with his own?”
said Miss Ophelia.
“Perhaps so; but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear,”
said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away.
“Papa, you break my heart!” said Eva, rising and throwing herself
into his arms; “you must not feel so!” and the child sobbed and
wept with a violence which alarmed them all, and turned her father’s
thoughts at once to another channel.
“There, Eva,—there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was wrong; I was wicked.
I will feel any way, do any way,—only don’t distress yourself;
don’t sob so. I will be resigned; I was wicked to speak as I did.”
Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father’s arms; and he, bending
over her, soothed her by every tender word he could think of.
Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her own, when she fell
into violent hysterics.
“You didn’t give me a curl, Eva,” said her father, smiling
sadly.
“They are all yours, papa,” said she, smiling—“yours
and mamma’s; and you must give dear aunty as many as she wants. I only
gave them to our poor people myself, because you know, papa, they might be
forgotten when I am gone, and because I hoped it might help them remember. . .
. You are a Christian, are you not, papa?” said Eva, doubtfully.
“Why do you ask me?”
“I don’t know. You are so good, I don’t see how you can help
it.”
“What is being a Christian, Eva?”
“Loving Christ most of all,” said Eva.
“Do you, Eva?”
“Certainly I do.”
“You never saw him,” said St. Clare.
“That makes no difference,” said Eva. “I believe him, and in
a few days I shall him;” and the young face grew fervent,
radiant with joy.
St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen before in his
mother; but no chord within vibrated to it.
Eva, after this, declined rapidly; there was no more any doubt of the event;
the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick
room; and Miss Ophelia day and night performed the duties of a nurse,—and
never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that capacity. With so
well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect adroitness and practice in every art
which could promote neatness and comfort, and keep out of sight every
disagreeable incident of sickness,—with such a perfect sense of time,
such a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering every
prescription and direction of the doctors,—she was everything to him.
They who had shrugged their shoulders at her little peculiarities and
setnesses, so unlike the careless freedom of southern manners, acknowledged
that now she was the exact person that was wanted.
Uncle Tom was much in Eva’s room. The child suffered much from nervous
restlessness, and it was a relief to her to be carried; and it was Tom’s
greatest delight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting on a
pillow, now up and down her room, now out into the verandah; and when the fresh
sea-breezes blew from the lake,—and the child felt freshest in the
morning,—he would sometimes walk with her under the orange-trees in the
garden, or, sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to her their favorite
old hymns.
Her father often did the same thing; but his frame was slighter, and when he
was weary, Eva would say to him,
“O, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him; and you know
it’s all he can do now, and he wants to do something!”
“So do I, Eva!” said her father.
“Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. You read to
me,—you sit up nights,—and Tom has only this one thing, and his
singing; and I know, too, he does it easier than you can. He carries me so
strong!”
The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servant in the
establishment showed the same feeling, and in their way did what they could.
Poor Mammy’s heart yearned towards her darling; but she found no
opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that the state of her mind was
such, it was impossible for her to rest; and, of course, it was against her
principles to let any one else rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy would be
roused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket-handkerchief, to
see what the noise was in Eva’s room, to let down a curtain because it
was too light, or to put it up because it was too dark; and, in the daytime,
when she longed to have some share in the nursing of her pet, Marie seemed
unusually ingenious in keeping her busy anywhere and everywhere all over the
house, or about her own person; so that stolen interviews and momentary
glimpses were all she could obtain.
“I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself, now,” she
would say, “feeble as I am, and with the whole care and nursing of that
dear child upon me.”
“Indeed, my dear,” said St. Clare, “I thought our cousin
relieved you of that.”
“You talk like a man, St. Clare,—just as if a mother
be relieved of the care of a child in that state; but, then, it’s all
alike,—no one ever knows what I feel! I can’t throw things off, as
you do.”
St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he couldn’t help it,—for St.
Clare could smile yet. For so bright and placid was the farewell voyage of the
little spirit,—by such sweet and fragrant breezes was the small bark
borne towards the heavenly shores,—that it was impossible to realize that
it was death that was approaching. The child felt no pain,—only a
tranquil, soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly increasing; and she was so
beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so happy, that one could not resist the
soothing influence of that air of innocence and peace which seemed to breathe
around her. St. Clare found a strange calm coming over him. It was not
hope,—that was impossible; it was not resignation; it was only a calm
resting in the present, which seemed so beautiful that he wished to think of no
future. It was like that hush of spirit which we feel amid the bright, mild
woods of autumn, when the bright hectic flush is on the trees, and the last
lingering flowers by the brook; and we joy in it all the more, because we know
that soon it will all pass away.
The friend who knew most of Eva’s own imaginings and foreshadowings was
her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said what she would not disturb her father
by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul
feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay forever.
Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in the outer
verandah, ready to rouse at every call.
“Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and
everywhere, like a dog, for?” said Miss Ophelia. “I thought you was
one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed in a Christian way.”
“I do, Miss Feely,” said Tom, mysteriously. “I do, but
now—”
“Well, what now?”
“We mustn’t speak loud; Mas’r St. Clare won’t hear on
’t; but Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody watchin’ for
the bridegroom.”
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“You know it says in Scripture, ‘At midnight there was a great cry
made. Behold, the bridegroom cometh.’ That’s what I’m spectin
now, every night, Miss Feely,—and I couldn’t sleep out o’
hearin, no ways.”
“Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so?”
“Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messenger in the soul.
I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed child goes into the
kingdom, they’ll open the door so wide, we’ll all get a look in at
the glory, Miss Feely.”
“Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than usual
tonight?”
“No; but she telled me, this morning, she was coming
nearer,—thar’s them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely.
It’s the angels,—‘it’s the trumpet sound afore the
break o’ day,’” said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn.
This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, between ten and eleven, one
evening, after her arrangements had all been made for the night, when, on going
to bolt her outer door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer
verandah.
She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heart-felt manner struck
her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful, that afternoon, and had sat
raised in her bed, and looked over all her little trinkets and precious things,
and designated the friends to whom she would have them given; and her manner
was more animated, and her voice more natural, than they had known it for
weeks. Her father had been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared
more like her former self than ever she had done since her sickness; and when
he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophelia,—“Cousin, we
may keep her with us, after all; she is certainly better;” and he had
retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he had had there for weeks.
But at midnight,—strange, mystic hour!—when the veil between the
frail present and the eternal future grows thin,—then came the messenger!
There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped quickly. It was
Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all night with her little charge, and
who, at the turn of the night, had discerned what experienced nurses
significantly call “a change.” The outer door was quickly opened,
and Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert, in a moment.
“Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment,” said Miss Ophelia;
and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare’s door.
“Cousin,” she said, “I wish you would come.”
Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why did they? He was up
and in the room in an instant, and bending over Eva, who still slept.
What was it he saw that made his heart stand still? Why was no word spoken
between the two? Thou canst say, who hast seen that same expression on the face
dearest to thee;—that look indescribable, hopeless, unmistakable, that
says to thee that thy beloved is no longer thine.
On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly imprint,—only a
high and almost sublime expression,—the overshadowing presence of
spiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in that childish soul.
They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the ticking of the watch
seemed too loud. In a few moments, Tom returned, with the doctor. He entered,
gave one look, and stood silent as the rest.
“When did this change take place?” said he, in a low whisper, to
Miss Ophelia.
“About the turn of the night,” was the reply.
Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared, hurriedly, from the next
room.
“Augustine! Cousin!—O!—what!” she hurriedly began.
“Hush!” said St. Clare, hoarsely;
Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. The house was soon
roused,—lights were seen, footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged the
verandah, and looked tearfully through the glass doors; but St. Clare heard and
said nothing,—he saw only on the face of the little
sleeper.
“O, if she would only wake, and speak once more!” he said; and,
stooping over her, he spoke in her ear,—“Eva, darling!”
The large blue eyes unclosed—a smile passed over her face;—she
tried to raise her head, and to speak.
“Do you know me, Eva?”
“Dear papa,” said the child, with a last effort, throwing her arms
about his neck. In a moment they dropped again; and, as St. Clare raised his
head, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face,—she struggled
for breath, and threw up her little hands.
“O, God, this is dreadful!” he said, turning away in agony, and
wringing Tom’s hand, scarce conscious what he was doing. “O, Tom,
my boy, it is killing me!”
Tom had his master’s hands between his own; and, with tears streaming
down his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he had always been used to look.
“Pray that this may be cut short!” said St.
Clare,—“this wrings my heart.”
“O, bless the Lord! it’s over,—it’s over, dear
Master!” said Tom; “look at her.”
The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted,—the large clear
eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those eyes, that spoke so much of
heaven! Earth was past,—and earthly pain; but so solemn, so mysterious,
was the triumphant brightness of that face, that it checked even the sobs of
sorrow. They pressed around her, in breathless stillness.
“Eva,” said St. Clare, gently.
She did not hear.
“O, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?” said her father.
A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she said,
brokenly,—“O! love,—joy,—peace!” gave one sigh
and passed from death unto life!
“Farewell, beloved child! the bright, eternal doors have closed after
thee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. O, woe for them who watched thy
entrance into heaven, when they shall wake and find only the cold gray sky of
daily life, and thou gone forever!”
CHAPTER XXVII
[1]
“This is the last of Earth! I am content,” last words of John
Quincy Adams, uttered February 21, 1848.
The statuettes and pictures in Eva’s room were shrouded in white napkins,
and only hushed breathings and muffled footfalls were heard there, and the
light stole in solemnly through windows partially darkened by closed blinds.
The bed was draped in white; and there, beneath the drooping angel-figure, lay
a little sleeping form,—sleeping never to waken!
There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she had been wont to
wear when living; the rose-colored light through the curtains cast over the icy
coldness of death a warm glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure
cheek; the head was turned a little to one side, as if in natural sleep, but
there was diffused over every lineament of the face that high celestial
expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, which showed it was no earthly
or temporary sleep, but the long, sacred rest which “He giveth to his
beloved.”
There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva! neither darkness nor shadow of
death; only such a bright fading as when the morning star fades in the golden
dawn. Thine is the victory without the battle,—the crown without the
conflict.
So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there gazing. Ah! who
shall say what he did think? for, from the hour that voices had said, in the
dying chamber, “she is gone,” it had been all a dreary mist, a
heavy “dimness of anguish.” He had heard voices around him; he had
had questions asked, and answered them; they had asked him when he would have
the funeral, and where they should lay her; and he had answered, impatiently,
that he cared not.
Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber; volatile, fickle and childish, as
they generally were, they were soft-hearted and full of feeling; and, while
Miss Ophelia presided over the general details of order and neatness, it was
their hands that added those soft, poetic touches to the arrangements, that
took from the death-room the grim and ghastly air which too often marks a New
England funeral.
There were still flowers on the shelves,—all white, delicate and
fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva’s little table, covered
with white, bore on it her favorite vase, with a single white moss rose-bud in
it. The folds of the drapery, the fall of the curtains, had been arranged and
rearranged, by Adolph and Rosa, with that nicety of eye which characterizes
their race. Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinking, little Rosa tripped
softly into the chamber with a basket of white flowers. She stepped back when
she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully; but, seeing that he did not
observe her, she came forward to place them around the dead. St. Clare saw her
as in a dream, while she placed in the small hands a fair cape jessamine, and,
with admirable taste, disposed other flowers around the couch.
The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with crying, appeared,
holding something under her apron. Rosa made a quick forbidding gesture; but
she took a step into the room.
“You must go out,” said Rosa, in a sharp, positive whisper;
“ haven’t any business here!”
“O, do let me! I brought a flower,—such a pretty one!” said
Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud. “Do let me put just one
there.”
“Get along!” said Rosa, more decidedly.
“Let her stay!” said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot.
“She shall come.”
Rosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid her offering at the
feet of the corpse; then suddenly, with a wild and bitter cry, she threw
herself on the floor alongside the bed, and wept, and moaned aloud.
Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and silence her; but in
vain.
“O, Miss Eva! oh, Miss Eva! I wish I ’s dead, too,—I
do!”
There was a piercing wildness in the cry; the blood flushed into St.
Clare’s white, marble-like face, and the first tears he had shed since
Eva died stood in his eyes.
“Get up, child,” said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice;
“don’t cry so. Miss Eva is gone to heaven; she is an angel.”
“But I can’t see her!” said Topsy. “I never shall see
her!” and she sobbed again.
They all stood a moment in silence.
“ said she me,” said Topsy,—“she
did! O, dear! oh, dear! there an’t left now,—there
an’t!”
“That’s true enough” said St. Clare; “but do,” he
said to Miss Ophelia, “see if you can’t comfort the poor
creature.”
“I jist wish I hadn’t never been born,” said Topsy. “I
didn’t want to be born, no ways; and I don’t see no use on
’t.”
Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her from the room; but, as
she did so, some tears fell from her eyes.
“Topsy, you poor child,” she said, as she led her into her room,
“don’t give up! can love you, though I am not like that
dear little child. I hope I’ve learnt something of the love of Christ
from her. I can love you; I do, and I’ll try to help you to grow up a
good Christian girl.”
Miss Ophelia’s voice was more than her words, and more than that were the
honest tears that fell down her face. From that hour, she acquired an influence
over the mind of the destitute child that she never lost.
“O, my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much of good,”
thought St. Clare, “what account have I to give for my long years?”
There were, for a while, soft whisperings and footfalls in the chamber, as one
after another stole in, to look at the dead; and then came the little coffin;
and then there was a funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and strangers
came and were seated; and there were white scarfs and ribbons, and crape bands,
and mourners dressed in black crape; and there were words read from the Bible,
and prayers offered; and St. Clare lived, and walked, and moved, as one who has
shed every tear;—to the last he saw only one thing, that golden head in
the coffin; but then he saw the cloth spread over it, the lid of the coffin
closed; and he walked, when he was put beside the others, down to a little
place at the bottom of the garden, and there, by the mossy seat where she and
Tom had talked, and sung, and read so often, was the little grave. St. Clare
stood beside it,—looked vacantly down; he saw them lower the little
coffin; he heard, dimly, the solemn words, “I am the resurrection and the
Life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;”
and, as the earth was cast in and filled up the little grave, he could not
realize that it was his Eva that they were hiding from his sight.
Nor was it!—not Eva, but only the frail seed of that bright, immortal
form with which she shall yet come forth, in the day of the Lord Jesus!
And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the place which should
know her no more; and Marie’s room was darkened, and she lay on the bed,
sobbing and moaning in uncontrollable grief, and calling every moment for the
attentions of all her servants. Of course, they had no time to cry,—why
should they? the grief was grief, and she was fully convinced that
nobody on earth did, could, or would feel it as she did.
“St. Clare did not shed a tear,” she said; “he didn’t
sympathize with her; it was perfectly wonderful to think how hard-hearted and
unfeeling he was, when he must know how she suffered.”
So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many of the servants
really thought that Missis was the principal sufferer in the case, especially
as Marie began to have hysterical spasms, and sent for the doctor, and at last
declared herself dying; and, in the running and scampering, and bringing up hot
bottles, and heating of flannels, and chafing, and fussing, that ensued, there
was quite a diversion.
Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew him to his master. He
followed him wherever he walked, wistfully and sadly; and when he saw him
sitting, so pale and quiet, in Eva’s room, holding before his eyes her
little open Bible, though seeing no letter or word of what was in it, there was
more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed, tearless eye, than in all
Marie’s moans and lamentations.
In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the city; Augustine, with
the restlessness of grief, longing for another scene, to change the current of
his thoughts. So they left the house and garden, with its little grave, and
came back to New Orleans; and St. Clare walked the streets busily, and strove
to fill up the chasm in his heart with hurry and bustle, and change of place;
and people who saw him in the street, or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss
only by the weed on his hat; for there he was, smiling and talking, and reading
the newspaper, and speculating on politics, and attending to business matters;
and who could see that all this smiling outside was but a hollowed shell over a
heart that was a dark and silent sepulchre?
“Mr. St. Clare is a singular man,” said Marie to Miss Ophelia, in a
complaining tone. “I used to think, if there was anything in the world he
did love, it was our dear little Eva; but he seems to be forgetting her very
easily. I cannot ever get him to talk about her. I really did think he would
show more feeling!”
“Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me,” said Miss
Ophelia, oracularly.
“O, I don’t believe in such things; it’s all talk. If people
have feeling, they will show it,—they can’t help it; but, then,
it’s a great misfortune to have feeling. I’d rather have been made
like St. Clare. My feelings prey upon me so!”
“Sure, Missis, Mas’r St. Clare is gettin’ thin as a shader.
They say, he don’t never eat nothin’,” said Mammy. “I
know he don’t forget Miss Eva; I know there couldn’t
nobody,—dear, little, blessed cretur!” she added, wiping her eyes.
“Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me,” said Marie;
“he hasn’t spoken one word of sympathy, and he must know how much
more a mother feels than any man can.”
“The heart knoweth its own bitterness,” said Miss Ophelia, gravely.
“That’s just what I think. I know just what I feel,—nobody
else seems to. Eva used to, but she is gone!” and Marie lay back on her
lounge, and began to sob disconsolately.
Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, in whose eyes
whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it never had in possession.
Whatever she had, she seemed to survey only to pick flaws in it; but, once
fairly away, there was no end to her valuation of it.
While this conversation was taking place in the parlor another was going on in
St. Clare’s library.
Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about, had seen him go to his
library, some hours before; and, after vainly waiting for him to come out,
determined, at last, to make an errand in. He entered softly. St. Clare lay on
his lounge, at the further end of the room. He was lying on his face, with
Eva’s Bible open before him, at a little distance. Tom walked up, and
stood by the sofa. He hesitated; and, while he was hesitating, St. Clare
suddenly raised himself up. The honest face, so full of grief, and with such an
imploring expression of affection and sympathy, struck his master. He laid his
hand on Tom’s, and bowed down his forehead on it.
“O, Tom, my boy, the whole world is as empty as an egg-shell.”
“I know it, Mas’r,—I know it,” said Tom; “but,
oh, if Mas’r could only look up,—up where our dear Miss Eva
is,—up to the dear Lord Jesus!”
“Ah, Tom! I do look up; but the trouble is, I don’t see anything,
when I do, I wish I could.”
Tom sighed heavily.
“It seems to be given to children, and poor, honest fellows, like you, to
see what we can’t,” said St. Clare. “How comes it?”
“Thou has ’hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto
babes,’” murmured Tom; “‘even so, Father, for so it
seemed good in thy sight.’”
“Tom, I don’t believe,—I can’t
believe,—I’ve got the habit of doubting,” said St. Clare.
“I want to believe this Bible,—and I can’t.”
“Dear Mas’r, pray to the good Lord,—‘Lord, I believe;
help thou my unbelief.’”
“Who knows anything about anything?” said St. Clare, his eyes
wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. “Was all that beautiful love
and faith only one of the ever-shifting phases of human feeling, having nothing
real to rest on, passing away with the little breath? And is there no more
Eva,—no heaven,—no Christ,—nothing?”
“O, dear Mas’r, there is! I know it; I’m sure of it,”
said Tom, falling on his knees. “Do, do, dear Mas’r, believe
it!”
“How do you know there’s any Christ, Tom! You never saw the
Lord.”
“Felt Him in my soul, Mas’r,—feel Him now! O, Mas’r,
when I was sold away from my old woman and the children, I was jest
a’most broke up. I felt as if there warn’t nothin’ left; and
then the good Lord, he stood by me, and he says, ‘Fear not, Tom;’
and he brings light and joy in a poor feller’s soul,—makes all
peace; and I ’s so happy, and loves everybody, and feels willin’
jest to be the Lord’s, and have the Lord’s will done, and be put
jest where the Lord wants to put me. I know it couldn’t come from me,
cause I ’s a poor, complainin’ cretur; it comes from the Lord; and
I know He’s willin’ to do for Mas’r.”
Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St. Clare leaned his head
on his shoulder, and wrung the hard, faithful, black hand.
“Tom, you love me,” he said.
“I ’s willin’ to lay down my life, this blessed day, to see
Mas’r a Christian.”
“Poor, foolish boy!” said St. Clare, half-raising himself.
“I’m not worth the love of one good, honest heart, like
yours.”
“O, Mas’r, dere’s more than me loves you,—the blessed
Lord Jesus loves you.”
“How do you know that Tom?” said St. Clare.
“Feels it in my soul. O, Mas’r! ’the love of Christ, that
passeth knowledge.’”
“Singular!” said St. Clare, turning away, “that the story of
a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can affect people so yet.
But he was no man,” he added, suddenly. “No man ever had such long
and living power! O, that I could believe what my mother taught me, and pray as
I did when I was a boy!”
“If Mas’r pleases,” said Tom, “Miss Eva used to read
this so beautifully. I wish Mas’r’d be so good as read it.
Don’t get no readin’, hardly, now Miss Eva’s gone.”
The chapter was the eleventh of John,—the touching account of the raising
of Lazarus, St. Clare read it aloud, often pausing to wrestle down feelings
which were roused by the pathos of the story. Tom knelt before him, with
clasped hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, trust, adoration, on
his quiet face.
“Tom,” said his Master, “this is all to
you!”
“I can jest fairly it Mas’r,” said Tom.
“I wish I had your eyes, Tom.”
“I wish, to the dear Lord, Mas’r had!”
“But, Tom, you know that I have a great deal more knowledge than you;
what if I should tell you that I don’t believe this Bible?”
“O, Mas’r!” said Tom, holding up his hands, with a
deprecating gesture.
“Wouldn’t it shake your faith some, Tom?”
“Not a grain,” said Tom.
“Why, Tom, you must know I know the most.”
“O, Mas’r, haven’t you jest read how he hides from the wise
and prudent, and reveals unto babes? But Mas’r wasn’t in earnest,
for sartin, now?” said Tom, anxiously.
“No, Tom, I was not. I don’t disbelieve, and I think there is
reason to believe; and still I don’t. It’s a troublesome bad habit
I’ve got, Tom.”
“If Mas’r would only pray!”
“How do you know I don’t, Tom?”
“Does Mas’r?”
“I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when I pray; but it’s all
speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come, Tom, you pray now, and show me
how.”
Tom’s heart was full; he poured it out in prayer, like waters that have
been long suppressed. One thing was plain enough; Tom thought there was
somebody to hear, whether there were or not. In fact, St. Clare felt himself
borne, on the tide of his faith and feeling, almost to the gates of that heaven
he seemed so vividly to conceive. It seemed to bring him nearer to Eva.
“Thank you, my boy,” said St. Clare, when Tom rose. “I like
to hear you, Tom; but go, now, and leave me alone; some other time, I’ll
talk more.”
Tom silently left the room.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Reunion
Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and the waves of life
settled back to their usual flow, where that little bark had gone down. For how
imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one’s feeling, does the
hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on! Still must we eat,
and drink, and sleep, and wake again,—still bargain, buy, sell, ask and
answer questions,—pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, though all
interest in them be over; the cold mechanical habit of living remaining, after
all vital interest in it has fled.
All the interests and hopes of St. Clare’s life had unconsciously wound
themselves around this child. It was for Eva that he had managed his property;
it was for Eva that he had planned the disposal of his time; and, to do this
and that for Eva,—to buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dispose
something for her,—had been so long his habit, that now she was gone,
there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be done.
True, there was another life,—a life which, once believed in, stands as a
solemn, significant figure before the otherwise unmeaning ciphers of time,
changing them to orders of mysterious, untold value. St. Clare knew this well;
and often, in many a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish voice calling
him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing to him the way of life; but
a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him,—he could not arise. He had one of
those natures which could better and more clearly conceive of religious things
from its own perceptions and instincts, than many a matter-of-fact and
practical Christian. The gift to appreciate and the sense to feel the finer
shades and relations of moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose
whole life shows a careless disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe,
often speak words more wisely descriptive of the true religious sentiment, than
another man, whose whole life is governed by it. In such minds, disregard of
religion is a more fearful treason,—a more deadly sin.
St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any religious obligation;
and a certain fineness of nature gave him such an instinctive view of the
extent of the requirements of Christianity, that he shrank, by anticipation,
from what he felt would be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did
resolve to assume them. For, so inconsistent is human nature, especially in the
ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems better than to undertake and
come short.
Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He read his little
Eva’s Bible seriously and honestly; he thought more soberly and
practically of his relations to his servants,—enough to make him
extremely dissatisfied with both his past and present course; and one thing he
did, soon after his return to New Orleans, and that was to commence the legal
steps necessary to Tom’s emancipation, which was to be perfected as soon
as he could get through the necessary formalities. Meantime, he attached
himself to Tom more and more, every day. In all the wide world, there was
nothing that seemed to remind him so much of Eva; and he would insist on
keeping him constantly about him, and, fastidious and unapproachable as he was
with regard to his deeper feelings, he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would
any one have wondered at it, who had seen the expression of affection and
devotion with which Tom continually followed his young master.
“Well, Tom,” said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced the
legal formalities for his enfranchisement, “I’m going to make a
free man of you;—so have your trunk packed, and get ready to set out for
Kentuck.”
The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom’s face as he raised his hands
to heaven, his emphatic “Bless the Lord!” rather discomposed St.
Clare; he did not like it that Tom should be so ready to leave him.
“You haven’t had such very bad times here, that you need be in such
a rapture, Tom,” he said drily.
“No, no, Mas’r! ’tan’t that,—it’s
bein’ a that’s what I’m joyin’
for.”
“Why, Tom, don’t you think, for your own part, you’ve been
better off than to be free?”
“, Mas’r St. Clare,” said Tom, with a flash
of energy. “No, indeed!”
“Why, Tom, you couldn’t possibly have earned, by your work, such
clothes and such living as I have given you.”
“Knows all that, Mas’r St. Clare; Mas’r’s been too
good; but, Mas’r, I’d rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor
everything, and have ’em , than have the best, and have
’em any man’s else,—I had , Mas’r; I think
it’s natur, Mas’r.”
“I suppose so, Tom, and you’ll be going off and leaving me, in a
month or so,” he added, rather discontentedly. “Though why you
shouldn’t, no mortal knows,” he said, in a gayer tone; and, getting
up, he began to walk the floor.
“Not while Mas’r is in trouble,” said Tom. “I’ll
stay with Mas’r as long as he wants me,—so as I can be any
use.”
“Not while I’m in trouble, Tom?” said St. Clare, looking
sadly out of the window. . . . “And when will trouble be
over?”
“When Mas’r St. Clare’s a Christian,” said Tom.
“And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?” said St.
Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid his hand on
Tom’s shoulder. “Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy! I won’t keep
you till that day. Go home to your wife and children, and give my love to
all.”
“I ’s faith to believe that day will come,” said Tom,
earnestly, and with tears in his eyes; “the Lord has a work for
Mas’r.”
“A work, hey?” said St. Clare, “well, now, Tom, give me your
views on what sort of a work it is;—let’s hear.”
“Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord; and
Mas’r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends,—how much
he might do for the Lord!”
“Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done for him,”
said St. Clare, smiling.
“We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs,” said Tom.
“Good theology, Tom; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare swear,”
said St. Clare.
The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of some visitors.
Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could feel anything; and,
as she was a woman that had a great faculty of making everybody unhappy when
she was, her immediate attendants had still stronger reason to regret the loss
of their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle intercessions had so
often been a shield to them from the tyrannical and selfish exactions of her
mother. Poor old Mammy, in particular, whose heart, severed from all natural
domestic ties, had consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost
heart-broken. She cried day and night, and was, from excess of sorrow, less
skilful and alert in her ministrations of her mistress than usual, which drew
down a constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.
Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest heart, it bore fruit
unto everlasting life. She was more softened, more gentle; and, though equally
assiduous in every duty, it was with a chastened and quiet air, as one who
communed with her own heart not in vain. She was more diligent in teaching
Topsy,—taught her mainly from the Bible,—did not any longer shrink
from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none.
She viewed her now through the softened medium that Eva’s hand had first
held before her eyes, and saw in her only an immortal creature, whom God had
sent to be led by her to glory and virtue. Topsy did not become at once a
saint; but the life and death of Eva did work a marked change in her. The
callous indifference was gone; there was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the
striving for good,—a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but
yet renewed again.
One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she came, hastily
thrusting something into her bosom.
“What are you doing there, you limb? You’ve been stealing
something, I’ll be bound,” said the imperious little Rosa, who had
been sent to call her, seizing her, at the same time, roughly by the arm.
“You go ’long, Miss Rosa!” said Topsy, pulling from her;
“‘tan’t none o’ your business!”
“None o’ your sa’ce!” said Rosa, “I saw you
hiding something,—I know yer tricks,” and Rosa seized her arm, and
tried to force her hand into her bosom, while Topsy, enraged, kicked and fought
valiantly for what she considered her rights. The clamor and confusion of the
battle drew Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the spot.
“She’s been stealing!” said Rosa.
“I han’t, neither!” vociferated Topsy, sobbing with passion.
“Give me that, whatever it is!” said Miss Ophelia, firmly.
Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her bosom a little
parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old stockings.
Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, which had been given to
Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of Scripture, arranged for every day in
the year, and in a paper the curl of hair that she had given her on that
memorable day when she had taken her last farewell.
St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; the little book had been
rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from the funeral weeds.
“What did you wrap round the book for?” said St. Clare,
holding up the crape.
“Cause,—cause,—cause ’t was Miss Eva. O, don’t
take ’em away, please!” she said; and, sitting flat down on the
floor, and putting her apron over her head, she began to sob vehemently.
It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,—the little
old stockings,—black crape,—text-book,—fair, soft
curl,—and Topsy’s utter distress.
St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he said,
“Come, come,—don’t cry; you shall have them!” and,
putting them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with
him into the parlor.
“I really think you can make something of that concern,” he said,
pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. “Any mind that is
capable of a is capable of good. You must try and do
something with her.”
“The child has improved greatly,” said Miss Ophelia. “I have
great hopes of her; but, Augustine,” she said, laying her hand on his
arm, “one thing I want to ask; whose is this child to be?—yours or
mine?”
“Why, I gave her to you,” said Augustine.
“But not legally;—I want her to be mine legally,” said Miss
Ophelia.
“Whew! cousin,” said Augustine. “What will the Abolition
Society think? They’ll have a day of fasting appointed for this
backsliding, if you become a slaveholder!”
“O, nonsense! I want her mine, that I may have a right to take her to the
free States, and give her her liberty, that all I am trying to do be not
undone.”
“O, cousin, what an awful ’doing evil that good may come’! I
can’t encourage it.”
“I don’t want you to joke, but to reason,” said Miss Ophelia.
“There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian child,
unless I save her from all the chances and reverses of slavery; and, if you
really are willing I should have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or
some legal paper.”
“Well, well,” said St. Clare, “I will;” and he sat
down, and unfolded a newspaper to read.
“But I want it done now,” said Miss Ophelia.
“What’s your hurry?”
“Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in,” said
Miss Ophelia. “Come, now, here’s paper, pen, and ink; just write a
paper.”
St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated the present
tense of action, generally; and, therefore, he was considerably annoyed by Miss
Ophelia’s downrightness.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said he. “Can’t you
take my word? One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming at a
fellow so!”
“I want to make sure of it,” said Miss Ophelia. “You may die,
or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of all I can
do.”
“Really, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I’m in the hands of
a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;” and St. Clare rapidly
wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed in the forms of law, he
could easily do, and signed his name to it in sprawling capitals, concluding by
a tremendous flourish.
“There, isn’t that black and white, now, Miss Vermont?” he
said, as he handed it to her.
“Good boy,” said Miss Ophelia, smiling. “But must it not be
witnessed?”
“O, bother!—yes. Here,” he said, opening the door into
Marie’s apartment, “Marie, Cousin wants your autograph; just put
your name down here.”
“What’s this?” said Marie, as she ran over the paper.
“Ridiculous! I thought Cousin was too pious for such horrid
things,” she added, as she carelessly wrote her name; “but, if she
has a fancy for that article, I am sure she’s welcome.”
“There, now, she’s yours, body and soul,” said St. Clare,
handing the paper.
“No more mine now than she was before,” Miss Ophelia. “Nobody
but God has a right to give her to me; but I can protect her now.”
“Well, she’s yours by a fiction of law, then,” said St.
Clare, as he turned back into the parlor, and sat down to his paper.
Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie’s company, followed him into
the parlor, having first carefully laid away the paper.
“Augustine,” she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, “have
you ever made any provision for your servants, in case of your death?”
“No,” said St. Clare, as he read on.
“Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great cruelty, by and
by.”
St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he answered,
negligently.
“Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by.”
“When?” said Miss Ophelia.
“O, one of these days.”
“What if you should die first?”
“Cousin, what’s the matter?” said St. Clare, laying down his
paper and looking at her. “Do you think I show symptoms of yellow fever
or cholera, that you are making post mortem arrangements with such zeal?”
“‘In the midst of life we are in death,’” said Miss
Ophelia.
St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly, walked to the door
that stood open on the verandah, to put an end to a conversation that was not
agreeable to him. Mechanically, he repeated the last word
again,——and, as he leaned against the
railings, and watched the sparkling water as it rose and fell in the fountain;
and, as in a dim and dizzy haze, saw flowers and trees and vases of the courts,
he repeated, again the mystic word so common in every mouth, yet of such
fearful power,—“DEATH!” “Strange that there should be
such a word,” he said, “and such a thing, and we ever forget it;
that one should be living, warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires and
wants, one day, and the next be gone, utterly gone, and forever!”
It was a warm, golden evening; and, as he walked to the other end of the
verandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his Bible, pointing, as he did so, with
his finger to each successive word, and whispering them to himself with an
earnest air.
“Want me to read to you, Tom?” said St. Clare, seating himself
carelessly by him.
“If Mas’r pleases,” said Tom, gratefully, “Mas’r
makes it so much plainer.”
St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began reading one of the
passages which Tom had designated by the heavy marks around it. It ran as
follows:
“When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all his holy angels
with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and before him shall
be gathered all nations; and he shall separate them one from another, as a
shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats.” St. Clare read on in an
animated voice, till he came to the last of the verses.
“Then shall the king say unto him on his left hand, Depart from me, ye
cursed, into everlasting fire: for I was an hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I
was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in:
naked, and ye clothed me not: I was sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.
Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst,
or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
Then shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of
these my brethren, ye did it not to me.”
St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it twice,—the
second time slowly, and as if he were revolving the words in his mind.
“Tom,” he said, “these folks that get such hard measure seem
to have been doing just what I have,—living good, easy, respectable
lives; and not troubling themselves to inquire how many of their brethren were
hungry or athirst, or sick, or in prison.”
Tom did not answer.
St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the verandah, seeming to
forget everything in his own thoughts; so absorbed was he, that Tom had to
remind him twice that the teabell had rung, before he could get his attention.
St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After tea, he and Marie and
Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlor almost in silence.
Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain, and was
soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently busied herself with her knitting. St.
Clare sat down to the piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy movement
with the Æolian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep reverie, and to be
soliloquizing to himself by music. After a little, he opened one of the
drawers, took out an old music-book whose leaves were yellow with age, and
began turning it over.
“There,” he said to Miss Ophelia, “this was one of my
mother’s books,—and here is her handwriting,—come and look at
it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart’s Requiem.” Miss
Ophelia came accordingly.
“It was something she used to sing often,” said St. Clare. “I
think I can hear her now.”
He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that grand old Latin piece,
the “Dies Iræ.”
Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by the sound to the
very door, where he stood earnestly. He did not understand the words, of
course; but the music and manner of singing appeared to affect him strongly,
especially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts. Tom would have
sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning of the beautiful
words:—
“Recordare Jesu pie
Quod sum causa tuær viæ
Ne me perdas, illa die
Quærens me sedisti lassus
Redemisti crucem passus
Tantus labor non sit cassus.”
[1]
These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated:
“Think, O Jesus, for what reason
Thou endured’st earth’s spite and treason,
Nor me lose, in that dread season;
Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted,
On the cross thy soul death tasted,
Let not all these toils be wasted.”
[Mrs. Stowe’s note.]
St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the words; for the shadowy
veil of years seemed drawn away, and he seemed to hear his mother’s voice
leading his. Voice and instrument seemed both living, and threw out with vivid
sympathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart first conceived as his own
dying requiem.
When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon his hand a few
moments, and then began walking up and down the floor.
“What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!” said
he,—“a righting of all the wrongs of ages!—a solving of all
moral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom! It is, indeed, a wonderful
image.”
“It is a fearful one to us,” said Miss Ophelia.
“It ought to be to me, I suppose,” said St. Clare stopping,
thoughtfully. “I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that chapter in
Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have been quite struck with it. One
should have expected some terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded
from Heaven, as the reason; but no,—they are condemned for
doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm.”
“Perhaps,” said Miss Ophelia, “it is impossible for a person
who does no good not to do harm.”
“And what,” said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with deep
feeling, “what shall be said of one whose own heart, whose education, and
the wants of society, have called in vain to some noble purpose; who has
floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectator of the struggles, agonies, and wrongs
of man, when he should have been a worker?”
“I should say,” said Miss Ophelia, “that he ought to repent,
and begin now.”
“Always practical and to the point!” said St. Clare, his face
breaking out into a smile. “You never leave me any time for general
reflections, Cousin; you always bring me short up against the actual present;
you have a kind of eternal , always in your mind.”
“ is all the time I have anything to do with,” said Miss
Ophelia.
“Dear little Eva,—poor child!” said St. Clare, “she had
set her little simple soul on a good work for me.”
It was the first time since Eva’s death that he had ever said as many
words as these to her, and he spoke now evidently repressing very strong
feeling.
“My view of Christianity is such,” he added, “that I think no
man can consistently profess it without throwing the whole weight of his being
against this monstrous system of injustice that lies at the foundation of all
our society; and, if need be, sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I
mean that could not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly
had intercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian people who did no
such thing; and I confess that the apathy of religious people on this subject,
their want of perception of wrongs that filled me with horror, have engendered
in me more scepticism than any other thing.”
“If you knew all this,” said Miss Ophelia, “why didn’t
you do it?”
“O, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which consists in
lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy for not being martyrs and
confessors. One can see, you know, very easily, how others ought to be
martyrs.”
“Well, are you going to do differently now?” said Miss Ophelia.
“God only knows the future,” said St. Clare. “I am braver
than I was, because I have lost all; and he who has nothing to lose can afford
all risks.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it out,”
said St. Clare, “beginning with my own servants, for whom I have yet done
nothing; and, perhaps, at some future day, it may appear that I can do
something for a whole class; something to save my country from the disgrace of
that false position in which she now stands before all civilized
nations.”
“Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarily
emancipate?” said Miss Ophelia.
“I don’t know,” said St. Clare. “This is a day of great
deeds. Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and there, in the
earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniary
loss; and, perhaps, among us may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate
honor and justice by dollars and cents.”
“I hardly think so,” said Miss Ophelia.
“But, suppose we should rise up tomorrow and emancipate, who would
educate these millions, and teach them how to use their freedom? They never
would rise to do much among us. The fact is, we are too lazy and unpractical,
ourselves, ever to give them much of an idea of that industry and energy which
is necessary to form them into men. They will have to go north, where labor is
the fashion,—the universal custom; and tell me, now, is there enough
Christian philanthropy, among your northern states, to bear with the process of
their education and elevation? You send thousands of dollars to foreign
missions; but could you endure to have the heathen sent into your towns and
villages, and give your time, and thoughts, and money, to raise them to the
Christian standard? That’s what I want to know. If we emancipate, are you
willing to educate? How many families, in your town, would take a negro man and
woman, teach them, bear with them, and seek to make them Christians? How many
merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to make him a clerk; or mechanics, if
I wanted him taught a trade? If I wanted to put Jane and Rosa to a school, how
many schools are there in the northern states that would take them in? how many
families that would board them? and yet they are as white as many a woman,
north or south. You see, Cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad
position. We are the more oppressors of the negro; but the
unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressor almost equally
severe.”
“Well, Cousin, I know it is so,” said Miss Ophelia,—“I
know it was so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to overcome it; but, I
trust I have overcome it; and I know there are many good people at the north,
who in this matter need only to be what their duty is, to do it.
It would certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen among us, than
to send missionaries to them; but I think we would do it.”
“ would, I know,” said St. Clare. “I’d like
to see anything you wouldn’t do, if you thought it your duty!”
“Well, I’m not uncommonly good,” said Miss Ophelia.
“Others would, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take Topsy home,
when I go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at first; but I think they will be
brought to see as I do. Besides, I know there are many people at the north who
do exactly what you said.”
“Yes, but they are a minority; and, if we should begin to emancipate to
any extent, we should soon hear from you.”
Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some moments; and St.
Clare’s countenance was overcast by a sad, dreamy expression.
“I don’t know what makes me think of my mother so much,
tonight,” he said. “I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she
were near me. I keep thinking of things she used to say. Strange, what brings
these past things so vividly back to us, sometimes!”
St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes more, and then said,
“I believe I’ll go down street, a few moments, and hear the news,
tonight.”
He took his hat, and passed out.
Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and asked if he should
attend him.
“No, my boy,” said St. Clare. “I shall be back in an
hour.”
Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and he sat
watching the rising and falling spray of the fountain, and listening to its
murmur. Tom thought of his home, and that he should soon be a free man, and
able to return to it at will. He thought how he should work to buy his wife and
boys. He felt the muscles of his brawny arms with a sort of joy, as he thought
they would soon belong to himself, and how much they could do to work out the
freedom of his family. Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever
second to that, came the habitual prayer that he had always offered for him;
and then his thoughts passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now thought of
among the angels; and he thought till he almost fancied that that bright face
and golden hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of the fountain. And,
so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding towards him,
just as she used to come, with a wreath of jessamine in her hair, her cheeks
bright, and her eyes radiant with delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to
rise from the ground; her cheeks wore a paler hue,—her eyes had a deep,
divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her head,—and she vanished
from his sight; and Tom was awakened by a loud knocking, and a sound of many
voices at the gate.
He hastened to undo it; and, with smothered voices and heavy tread, came
several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak, and lying on a shutter. The
light of the lamp fell full on the face; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement
and despair, that rung through all the galleries, as the men advanced, with
their burden, to the open parlor door, where Miss Ophelia still sat knitting.
St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening paper. As he was
reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen in the room, who were both
partially intoxicated. St. Clare and one or two others made an effort to
separate them, and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side with a
bowie-knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of them.
The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and screams, servants
frantically tearing their hair, throwing themselves on the ground, or running
distractedly about, lamenting. Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have any
presence of mind; for Marie was in strong hysteric convulsions. At Miss
Ophelia’s direction, one of the lounges in the parlor was hastily
prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it. St. Clare had fainted, through
pain and loss of blood; but, as Miss Ophelia applied restoratives, he revived,
opened his eyes, looked fixedly on them, looked earnestly around the room, his
eyes travelling wistfully over every object, and finally they rested on his
mother’s picture.
The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It was evident, from the
expression of his face, that there was no hope; but he applied himself to
dressing the wound, and he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceeded composedly with
this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries of the affrighted servants,
who had clustered about the doors and windows of the verandah.
“Now,” said the physician, “we must turn all these creatures
out; all depends on his being kept quiet.”
St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressed beings, whom
Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the apartment. “Poor
creatures!” he said, and an expression of bitter self-reproach passed
over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror had deprived him of all
presence of mind; he threw himself along the floor, and nothing could persuade
him to rise. The rest yielded to Miss Ophelia’s urgent representations,
that their master’s safety depended on their stillness and obedience.
St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it was evident
that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After a while, he laid his hand on
Tom’s, who was kneeling beside him, and said, “Tom! poor
fellow!”
“What, Mas’r?” said Tom, earnestly.
“I am dying!” said St. Clare, pressing his hand;
“pray!”
“If you would like a clergyman—” said the physician.
St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, more earnestly,
“Pray!”
And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soul that was
passing,—the soul that seemed looking so steadily and mournfully from
those large, melancholy blue eyes. It was literally prayer offered with strong
crying and tears.
When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand, looking
earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He closed his eyes, but still retained
his hold; for, in the gates of eternity, the black hand and the white hold each
other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at broken intervals,
“Recordare Jesu pie—
- *
Ne me perdas—illa die
Quærens me—sedisti lassus.”
It was evident that the words he had been singing that evening were passing through his mind,—words of entreaty addressed to Infinite Pity. His lips moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly from them.
“His mind is wandering,” said the doctor.
“No! it is coming , at last!” said St. Clare, energetically; “at last! at last!”
The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking paleness of death fell on him; but with it there fell, as if shed from the wings of some pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a wearied child who sleeps.
So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty hand was on him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eyes, with a sudden light, as of joy and recognition, and said and then he was gone!
- *
CHAPTER XXIX
The Unprotected
We hear often of the distress of the negro servants, on the loss of a kind
master; and with good reason, for no creature on God’s earth is left more
utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in these circumstances.
The child who has lost a father has still the protection of friends, and of the
law; he is something, and can do something,—has acknowledged rights and
position; the slave has none. The law regards him, in every respect, as devoid
of rights as a bale of merchandise. The only possible acknowledgment of any of
the longings and wants of a human and immortal creature, which are given to
him, comes to him through the sovereign and irresponsible will of his master;
and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains.
The number of those men who know how to use wholly irresponsible power humanely
and generously is small. Everybody knows this, and the slave knows it best of
all; so that he feels that there are ten chances of his finding an abusive and
tyrannical master, to one of his finding a considerate and kind one. Therefore
is it that the wail over a kind master is loud and long, as well it may be.
When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation took hold of all his
household. He had been stricken down so in a moment, in the flower and strength
of his youth! Every room and gallery of the house resounded with sobs and
shrieks of despair.
Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a constant course of
self-indulgence, had nothing to support the terror of the shock, and, at the
time her husband breathed his last, was passing from one fainting fit to
another; and he to whom she had been joined in the mysterious tie of marriage
passed from her forever, without the possibility of even a parting word.
Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control, had remained with
her kinsman to the last,—all eye, all ear, all attention; doing
everything of the little that could be done, and joining with her whole soul in
the tender and impassioned prayers which the poor slave had poured forth for
the soul of his dying master.
When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found upon his bosom a
small, plain miniature case, opening with a spring. It was the miniature of a
noble and beautiful female face; and on the reverse, under a crystal, a lock of
dark hair. They laid them back on the lifeless breast,—dust to
dust,—poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once made that cold
heart beat so warmly!
Tom’s whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and while he
ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once think that the sudden
stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He felt at peace about his master; for
in that hour, when he had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his Father,
he had found an answer of quietness and assurance springing up within himself.
In the depths of his own affectionate nature, he felt able to perceive
something of the fulness of Divine love; for an old oracle hath thus
written,—“He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in
him.” Tom hoped and trusted, and was at peace.
But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, and prayers, and
solemn faces; and back rolled the cool, muddy waves of every-day life; and up
came the everlasting hard inquiry of “What is to be done next?”
It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-robes, and
surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a great easy-chair, and inspected
samples of crape and bombazine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who began to turn her
thoughts towards her northern home. It rose, in silent terrors, to the minds of
the servants, who well knew the unfeeling, tyrannical character of the mistress
in whose hands they were left. All knew, very well, that the indulgences which
had been accorded to them were not from their mistress, but from their master;
and that, now he was gone, there would be no screen between them and every
tyrannous infliction which a temper soured by affliction might devise.
It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia, busied one day
in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. She opened it, and there
stood Rosa, the pretty young quadroon, whom we have before often noticed, her
hair in disorder, and her eyes swelled with crying.
“O, Miss Feeley,” she said, falling on her knees, and catching the
skirt of her dress, “ to Miss Marie for me! do plead for
me! She’s goin’ to send me out to be whipped—look
there!” And she handed to Miss Ophelia a paper.
It was an order, written in Marie’s delicate Italian hand, to the master
of a whipping-establishment to give the bearer fifteen lashes.
“What have you been doing?” said Miss Ophelia.
“You know, Miss Feely, I’ve got such a bad temper; it’s very
bad of me. I was trying on Miss Marie’s dress, and she slapped my face;
and I spoke out before I thought, and was saucy; and she said that she’d
bring me down, and have me know, once for all, that I wasn’t going to be
so topping as I had been; and she wrote this, and says I shall carry it.
I’d rather she’d kill me, right out.”
Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand.
“You see, Miss Feely,” said Rosa, “I don’t mind the
whipping so much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it; but, to be sent to a
and such a horrid man,—the shame of it, Miss Feely!”
Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom to send women and young
girls to whipping-houses, to the hands of the lowest of men,—men vile
enough to make this their profession,—there to be subjected to brutal
exposure and shameful correction. She had it before; but hitherto
she had never realized it, till she saw the slender form of Rosa almost
convulsed with distress. All the honest blood of womanhood, the strong New
England blood of liberty, flushed to her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in her
indignant heart; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, she mastered
herself, and, crushing the paper firmly in her hand, she merely said to Rosa,
“Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress.”
“Shameful! monstrous! outrageous!” she said to herself, as she was
crossing the parlor.
She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with Mammy standing by her,
combing her hair; Jane sat on the ground before her, busy in chafing her feet.
“How do you find yourself, today?” said Miss Ophelia.
A deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, was the only reply, for a moment; and
then Marie answered, “O, I don’t know, Cousin; I suppose I’m
as well as I ever shall be!” and Marie wiped her eyes with a cambric
handkerchief, bordered with an inch deep of black.
“I came,” said Miss Ophelia, with a short, dry cough, such as
commonly introduces a difficult subject,—“I came to speak with you
about poor Rosa.”
Marie’s eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush rose to her sallow
cheeks, as she answered, sharply,
“Well, what about her?”
“She is very sorry for her fault.”
“She is, is she? She’ll be sorrier, before I’ve done with
her! I’ve endured that child’s impudence long enough; and now
I’ll bring her down,—I’ll make her lie in the dust!”
“But could not you punish her some other way,—some way that would
be less shameful?”
“I mean to shame her; that’s just what I want. She has all her life
presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and her lady-like airs, till she
forgets who she is;—and I’ll give her one lesson that will bring
her down, I fancy!”
“But, Cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy and a sense of shame
in a young girl, you deprave her very fast.”
“Delicacy!” said Marie, with a scornful laugh,—“a fine
word for such as she! I’ll teach her, with all her airs, that she’s
no better than the raggedest black wench that walks the streets! She’ll
take no more airs with me!”
“You will answer to God for such cruelty!” said Miss Ophelia, with
energy.
“Cruelty,—I’d like to know what the cruelty is! I wrote
orders for only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them on lightly. I’m
sure there’s no cruelty there!”
“No cruelty!” said Miss Ophelia. “I’m sure any girl
might rather be killed outright!”
“It might seem so to anybody with your feeling; but all these creatures
get used to it; it’s the only way they can be kept in order. Once let
them feel that they are to take any airs about delicacy, and all that, and
they’ll run all over you, just as my servants always have. I’ve
begun now to bring them under; and I’ll have them all to know that
I’ll send one out to be whipped, as soon as another, if they don’t
mind themselves!” said Marie, looking around her decidedly.
Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if it was particularly
directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment, as if she had swallowed some
explosive mixture, and were ready to burst. Then, recollecting the utter
uselessness of contention with such a nature, she shut her lips resolutely,
gathered herself up, and walked out of the room.
It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do nothing for her; and,
shortly after, one of the man-servants came to say that her mistress had
ordered him to take Rosa with him to the whipping-house, whither she was
hurried, in spite of her tears and entreaties.
A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the balconies, when he was joined
by Adolph, who, since the death of his master, had been entirely crest-fallen
and disconsolate. Adolph knew that he had always been an object of dislike to
Marie; but while his master lived he had paid but little attention to it. Now
that he was gone, he had moved about in daily dread and trembling, not knowing
what might befall him next. Marie had held several consultations with her
lawyer; after communicating with St. Clare’s brother, it was determined
to sell the place, and all the servants, except her own personal property, and
these she intended to take with her, and go back to her father’s
plantation.
“Do ye know, Tom, that we’ve all got to be sold?” said
Adolph.
“How did you hear that?” said Tom.
“I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talking with the
lawyer. In a few days we shall be sent off to auction, Tom.”
“The Lord’s will be done!” said Tom, folding his arms and
sighing heavily.
“We’ll never get another such a master,” said Adolph,
apprehensively; “but I’d rather be sold than take my chance under
Missis.”
Tom turned away; his heart was full. The hope of liberty, the thought of
distant wife and children, rose up before his patient soul, as to the mariner
shipwrecked almost in port rises the vision of the church-spire and loving
roofs of his native village, seen over the top of some black wave only for one
last farewell. He drew his arms tightly over his bosom, and choked back the
bitter tears, and tried to pray. The poor old soul had such a singular,
unaccountable prejudice in favor of liberty, that it was a hard wrench for him;
and the more he said, “Thy will be done,” the worse he felt.
He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva’s death, had treated him with
marked and respectful kindness.
“Miss Feely,” he said, “Mas’r St. Clare promised me my
freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out for me; and now, perhaps,
if Miss Feely would be good enough to speak bout it to Missis, she would feel
like goin’ on with it, was it as Mas’r St. Clare’s
wish.”
“I’ll speak for you, Tom, and do my best,” said Miss Ophelia;
“but, if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can’t hope much for
you;—nevertheless, I will try.”
This incident occurred a few days after that of Rosa, while Miss Ophelia was
busied in preparations to return north.
Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that perhaps she had shown
too hasty a warmth of language in her former interview with Marie; and she
resolved that she would now endeavor to moderate her zeal, and to be as
conciliatory as possible. So the good soul gathered herself up, and, taking her
knitting, resolved to go into Marie’s room, be as agreeable as possible,
and negotiate Tom’s case with all the diplomatic skill of which she was
mistress.
She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, supporting herself on one
elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been out shopping, was displaying before
her certain samples of thin black stuffs.
“That will do,” said Marie, selecting one; “only I’m
not sure about its being properly mourning.”
“Laws, Missis,” said Jane, volubly, “Mrs. General Derbennon
wore just this very thing, after the General died, last summer; it makes up
lovely!”
“What do you think?” said Marie to Miss Ophelia.
“It’s a matter of custom, I suppose,” said Miss Ophelia.
“You can judge about it better than I.”
“The fact is,” said Marie, “that I haven’t a dress in
the world that I can wear; and, as I am going to break up the establishment,
and go off, next week, I must decide upon something.”
“Are you going so soon?”
“Yes. St. Clare’s brother has written, and he and the lawyer think
that the servants and furniture had better be put up at auction, and the place
left with our lawyer.”
“There’s one thing I wanted to speak with you about,” said
Miss Ophelia. “Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began the legal
forms necessary to it. I hope you will use your influence to have it
perfected.”
“Indeed, I shall do no such thing!” said Marie, sharply. “Tom
is one of the most valuable servants on the place,—it couldn’t be
afforded, any way. Besides, what does he want of liberty? He’s a great
deal better off as he is.”
“But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master promised
it,” said Miss Ophelia.
“I dare say he does want it,” said Marie; “they all want it,
just because they are a discontented set,—always wanting what they
haven’t got. Now, I’m principled against emancipating, in any case.
Keep a negro under the care of a master, and he does well enough, and is
respectable; but set them free, and they get lazy, and won’t work, and
take to drinking, and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows, I’ve
seen it tried, hundreds of times. It’s no favor to set them free.”
“But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious.”
“O, you needn’t tell me! I’ve see a hundred like him.
He’ll do very well, as long as he’s taken care
of,—that’s all.”
“But, then, consider,” said Miss Ophelia, “when you set him
up for sale, the chances of his getting a bad master.”
“O, that’s all humbug!” said Marie; “it isn’t one
time in a hundred that a good fellow gets a bad master; most masters are good,
for all the talk that is made. I’ve lived and grown up here, in the
South, and I never yet was acquainted with a master that didn’t treat his
servants well,—quite as well as is worth while. I don’t feel any
fears on that head.”
“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, energetically, “I know it was one
of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should have his liberty; it was one
of the promises that he made to dear little Eva on her death-bed, and I should
not think you would feel at liberty to disregard it.”
Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this appeal, and began
sobbing and using her smelling-bottle, with great vehemence.
“Everybody goes against me!” she said. “Everybody is so
inconsiderate! I shouldn’t have expected that would bring up
all these remembrances of my troubles to me,—it’s so inconsiderate!
But nobody ever does consider,—my trials are so peculiar! It’s so
hard, that when I had only one daughter, she should have been taken!—and
when I had a husband that just exactly suited me,—and I’m so hard
to be suited!—he should be taken! And you seem to have so little feeling
for me, and keep bringing it up to me so carelessly,—when you know how it
overcomes me! I suppose you mean well; but it is very
inconsiderate,—very!” And Marie sobbed, and gasped for breath, and
called Mammy to open the window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to
bathe her head, and unhook her dress. And, in the general confusion that
ensued, Miss Ophelia made her escape to her apartment.
She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say anything more; for Marie had
an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits; and, after this, whenever her
husband’s or Eva’s wishes with regard to the servants were alluded
to, she always found it convenient to set one in operation. Miss Ophelia,
therefore, did the next best thing she could for Tom,—she wrote a letter
to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging them to send to his
relief.
The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen other servants, were
marched down to a slave-warehouse, to await the convenience of the trader, who
was going to make up a lot for auction.
CHAPTER XXX
The Slave Warehouse
A slave warehouse! Perhaps some of my readers conjure up horrible visions of
such a place. They fancy some foul, obscure den, some horrible But no, innocent
friend; in these days men have learned the art of sinning expertly and
genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes and senses of respectable society. Human
property is high in the market; and is, therefore, well fed, well cleaned,
tended, and looked after, that it may come to sale sleek, and strong, and
shining. A slave-warehouse in New Orleans is a house externally not much unlike
many others, kept with neatness; and where every day you may see arranged,
under a sort of shed along the outside, rows of men and women, who stand there
as a sign of the property sold within.
Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and examine, and shall find an
abundance of husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, and young
children, to be “sold separately, or in lots to suit the convenience of
the purchaser;” and that soul immortal, once bought with blood and
anguish by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the rocks rent, and the
graves were opened, can be sold, leased, mortgaged, exchanged for groceries or
dry goods, to suit the phases of trade, or the fancy of the purchaser.
It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie and Miss Ophelia, that
Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen others of the St. Clare estate, were turned
over to the loving kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the keeper of a depot on
—— street, to await the auction, next day.
Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, as had most others of
them. They were ushered, for the night, into a long room, where many other men,
of all ages, sizes, and shades of complexion, were assembled, and from which
roars of laughter and unthinking merriment were proceeding.
“Ah, ha! that’s right. Go it, boys,—go it!” said Mr.
Skeggs, the keeper. “My people are always so merry! Sambo, I see!”
he said, speaking approvingly to a burly negro who was performing tricks of low
buffoonery, which occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard.
As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join these proceedings; and,
therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible from the noisy group, he sat
down on it, and leaned his face against the wall.
The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and systematic efforts to
promote noisy mirth among them, as a means of drowning reflection, and
rendering them insensible to their condition. The whole object of the training
to which the negro is put, from the time he is sold in the northern market till
he arrives south, is systematically directed towards making him callous,
unthinking, and brutal. The slave-dealer collects his gang in Virginia or
Kentucky, and drives them to some convenient, healthy place,—often a
watering place,—to be fattened. Here they are fed full daily; and,
because some incline to pine, a fiddle is kept commonly going among them, and
they are made to dance daily; and he who refuses to be merry—in whose
soul thoughts of wife, or child, or home, are too strong for him to be
gay—is marked as sullen and dangerous, and subjected to all the evils
which the ill will of an utterly irresponsible and hardened man can inflict
upon him. Briskness, alertness, and cheerfulness of appearance, especially
before observers, are constantly enforced upon them, both by the hope of
thereby getting a good master, and the fear of all that the driver may bring
upon them if they prove unsalable.
“What dat ar nigger doin here?” said Sambo, coming up to Tom, after
Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was a full black, of great size, very
lively, voluble, and full of trick and grimace.
“What you doin here?” said Sambo, coming up to Tom, and poking him
facetiously in the side. “Meditatin’, eh?”
“I am to be sold at the auction tomorrow!” said Tom, quietly.
“Sold at auction,—haw! haw! boys, an’t this yer fun? I
wish’t I was gwine that ar way!—tell ye, wouldn’t I make em
laugh? But how is it,—dis yer whole lot gwine tomorrow?” said
Sambo, laying his hand freely on Adolph’s shoulder.
“Please to let me alone!” said Adolph, fiercely, straightening
himself up, with extreme disgust.
“Law, now, boys! dis yer’s one o’ yer white
niggers,—kind o’ cream color, ye know, scented!” said he,
coming up to Adolph and snuffing. “O Lor! he’d do for a
tobaccer-shop; they could keep him to scent snuff! Lor, he’d keep a whole
shope agwine,—he would!”
“I say, keep off, can’t you?” said Adolph, enraged.
“Lor, now, how touchy we is,—we white niggers! Look at us
now!” and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Adolph’s manner;
“here’s de airs and graces. We’s been in a good family, I
specs.”
“Yes,” said Adolph; “I had a master that could have bought
you all for old truck!”
“Laws, now, only think,” said Sambo, “the gentlemens that we
is!”
“I belonged to the St. Clare family,” said Adolph, proudly.
“Lor, you did! Be hanged if they ar’n’t lucky to get shet of
ye. Spects they’s gwine to trade ye off with a lot o’ cracked
tea-pots and sich like!” said Sambo, with a provoking grin.
Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adversary, swearing and
striking on every side of him. The rest laughed and shouted, and the uproar
brought the keeper to the door.
“What now, boys? Order,—order!” he said, coming in and
flourishing a large whip.
All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, presuming on the favor
which the keeper had to him as a licensed wag, stood his ground, ducking his
head with a facetious grin, whenever the master made a dive at him.
“Lor, Mas’r, ’tan’t us,—we ’s reglar
stiddy,—it’s these yer new hands; they ’s real
aggravatin’,—kinder pickin’ at us, all time!”
The keeper, at this, turned upon Tom and Adolph, and distributing a few kicks
and cuffs without much inquiry, and leaving general orders for all to be good
boys and go to sleep, left the apartment.
While this scene was going on in the men’s sleeping-room, the reader may
be curious to take a peep at the corresponding apartment allotted to the women.
Stretched out in various attitudes over the floor, he may see numberless
sleeping forms of every shade of complexion, from the purest ebony to white,
and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now asleep. Here is a fine
bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was sold out yesterday, and who tonight
cried herself to sleep when nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old
negress, whose thin arms and callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be
sold tomorrow, as a cast-off article, for what can be got for her; and some
forty or fifty others, with heads variously enveloped in blankets or articles
of clothing, lie stretched around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from
the rest, are two females of a more interesting appearance than common. One of
these is a respectably-dressed mulatto woman between forty and fifty, with soft
eyes and a gentle and pleasing physiognomy. She has on her head a high-raised
turban, made of a gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first quality, her dress
is neatly fitted, and of good material, showing that she has been provided for
with a careful hand. By her side, and nestling closely to her, is a young girl
of fifteen,—her daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be seen from her
fairer complexion, though her likeness to her mother is quite discernible. She
has the same soft, dark eye, with longer lashes, and her curling hair is of a
luxuriant brown. She also is dressed with great neatness, and her white,
delicate hands betray very little acquaintance with servile toil. These two are
to be sold tomorrow, in the same lot with the St. Clare servants; and the
gentleman to whom they belong, and to whom the money for their sale is to be
transmitted, is a member of a Christian church in New York, who will receive
the money, and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord and theirs, and think
no more of it.
These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had been the personal
attendants of an amiable and pious lady of New Orleans, by whom they had been
carefully and piously instructed and trained. They had been taught to read and
write, diligently instructed in the truths of religion, and their lot had been
as happy an one as in their condition it was possible to be. But the only son
of their protectress had the management of her property; and, by carelessness
and extravagance involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One of the
largest creditors was the respectable firm of B. & Co., in New York. B.
& Co. wrote to their lawyer in New Orleans, who attached the real estate
(these two articles and a lot of plantation hands formed the most valuable part
of it), and wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B., being, as we
have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a free State, felt some
uneasiness on the subject. He didn’t like trading in slaves and souls of
men,—of course, he didn’t; but, then, there were thirty thousand
dollars in the case, and that was rather too much money to be lost for a
principle; and so, after much considering, and asking advice from those that he
knew would advise to suit him, Brother B. wrote to his lawyer to dispose of the
business in the way that seemed to him the most suitable, and remit the
proceeds.
The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan and Emmeline were
attached, and sent to the depot to await a general auction on the following
morning; and as they glimmer faintly upon us in the moonlight which steals
through the grated window, we may listen to their conversation. Both are
weeping, but each quietly, that the other may not hear.
“Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you can’t sleep a
little,” says the girl, trying to appear calm.
“I haven’t any heart to sleep, Em; I can’t; it’s the
last night we may be together!”
“O, mother, don’t say so! perhaps we shall get sold
together,—who knows?”
“If ’t was anybody’s else case, I should say so, too,
Em,” said the woman; “but I’m so feard of losin’ you
that I don’t see anything but the danger.”
“Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and would sell
well.”
Susan remembered the man’s looks and words. With a deadly sickness at her
heart, she remembered how he had looked at Emmeline’s hands, and lifted
up her curly hair, and pronounced her a first-rate article. Susan had been
trained as a Christian, brought up in the daily reading of the Bible, and had
the same horror of her child’s being sold to a life of shame that any
other Christian mother might have; but she had no hope,—no protection.
“Mother, I think we might do first rate, if you could get a place as
cook, and I as chambermaid or seamstress, in some family. I dare say we shall.
Let’s both look as bright and lively as we can, and tell all we can do,
and perhaps we shall,” said Emmeline.
“I want you to brush your hair all back straight, tomorrow,” said
Susan.
“What for, mother? I don’t look near so well, that way.”
“Yes, but you’ll sell better so.”
“I don’t see why!” said the child.
“Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, if they saw you
looked plain and decent, as if you wasn’t trying to look handsome. I know
their ways better ’n you do,” said Susan.
“Well, mother, then I will.”
“And, Emmeline, if we shouldn’t ever see each other again, after
tomorrow,—if I’m sold way up on a plantation somewhere, and you
somewhere else,—always remember how you’ve been brought up, and all
Missis has told you; take your Bible with you, and your hymn-book; and if
you’re faithful to the Lord, he’ll be faithful to you.”
So speaks the poor soul, in sore discouragement; for she knows that tomorrow
any man, however vile and brutal, however godless and merciless, if he only has
money to pay for her, may become owner of her daughter, body and soul; and
then, how is the child to be faithful? She thinks of all this, as she holds her
daughter in her arms, and wishes that she were not handsome and attractive. It
seems almost an aggravation to her to remember how purely and piously, how much
above the ordinary lot, she has been brought up. But she has no resort but to
; and many such prayers to God have gone up from those same trim,
neatly-arranged, respectable slave-prisons,—prayers which God has not
forgotten, as a coming day shall show; for it is written, “Who causeth
one of these little ones to offend, it were better for him that a millstone
were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the
sea.”
The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly, marking the bars of the
grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping forms. The mother and daughter are
singing together a wild and melancholy dirge, common as a funeral hymn among
the slaves:
“O, where is weeping Mary?
O, where is weeping Mary?
’Rived in the goodly land.
She is dead and gone to Heaven;
She is dead and gone to Heaven;
’Rived in the goodly land.”
These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy sweetness, in an air
which seemed like the sighing of earthy despair after heavenly hope, floated
through the dark prison rooms with a pathetic cadence, as verse after verse was
breathed out:
“O, where are Paul and Silas?
O, where are Paul and Silas?
Gone to the goodly land.
They are dead and gone to Heaven;
They are dead and gone to Heaven;
’Rived in the goodly land.”
Sing on poor souls! The night is short, and the morning will part you forever!
But now it is morning, and everybody is astir; and the worthy Mr. Skeggs is
busy and bright, for a lot of goods is to be fitted out for auction. There is a
brisk lookout on the toilet; injunctions passed around to every one to put on
their best face and be spry; and now all are arranged in a circle for a last
review, before they are marched up to the Bourse.
Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his mouth, walks around to
put farewell touches on his wares.
“How’s this?” he said, stepping in front of Susan and
Emmeline. “Where’s your curls, gal?”
The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the smooth adroitness common
among her class, answers,
“I was telling her, last night, to put up her hair smooth and neat, and
not havin’ it flying about in curls; looks more respectable so.”
“Bother!” said the man, peremptorily, turning to the girl;
“you go right along, and curl yourself real smart!” He added,
giving a crack to a rattan he held in his hand, “And be back in quick
time, too!”
“You go and help her,” he added, to the mother. “Them curls
may make a hundred dollars difference in the sale of her.”
Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving to and fro, over the
marble pave. On every side of the circular area were little tribunes, or
stations, for the use of speakers and auctioneers. Two of these, on opposite
sides of the area, were now occupied by brilliant and talented gentlemen,
enthusiastically forcing up, in English and French commingled, the bids of
connoisseurs in their various wares. A third one, on the other side, still
unoccupied, was surrounded by a group, waiting the moment of sale to begin. And
here we may recognize the St. Clare servants,—Tom, Adolph, and others;
and there, too, Susan and Emmeline, awaiting their turn with anxious and
dejected faces. Various spectators, intending to purchase, or not intending,
examining, and commenting on their various points and faces with the same
freedom that a set of jockeys discuss the merits of a horse.
“Hulloa, Alf! what brings you here?” said a young exquisite,
slapping the shoulder of a sprucely-dressed young man, who was examining Adolph
through an eye-glass.
“Well! I was wanting a valet, and I heard that St. Clare’s lot was
going. I thought I’d just look at his—”
“Catch me ever buying any of St. Clare’s people! Spoilt niggers,
every one. Impudent as the devil!” said the other.
“Never fear that!” said the first. “If I get ’em,
I’ll soon have their airs out of them; they’ll soon find that
they’ve another kind of master to deal with than Monsieur St. Clare.
’Pon my word, I’ll buy that fellow. I like the shape of him.”
“You’ll find it’ll take all you’ve got to keep him.
He’s deucedly extravagant!”
“Yes, but my lord will find that he be extravagant
with . Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times, and
thoroughly dressed down! I’ll tell you if it don’t bring him to a
sense of his ways! O, I’ll reform him, up hill and
down,—you’ll see. I buy him, that’s flat!”
Tom had been standing wistfully examining the multitude of faces thronging
around him, for one whom he would wish to call master. And if you should ever
be under the necessity, sir, of selecting, out of two hundred men, one who was
to become your absolute owner and disposer, you would, perhaps, realize, just
as Tom did, how few there were that you would feel at all comfortable in being
made over to. Tom saw abundance of men,—great, burly, gruff men; little,
chirping, dried men; long-favored, lank, hard men; and every variety of
stubbed-looking, commonplace men, who pick up their fellow-men as one picks up
chips, putting them into the fire or a basket with equal unconcern, according
to their convenience; but he saw no St. Clare.
A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, muscular man, in a checked
shirt considerably open at the bosom, and pantaloons much the worse for dirt
and wear, elbowed his way through the crowd, like one who is going actively
into a business; and, coming up to the group, began to examine them
systematically. From the moment that Tom saw him approaching, he felt an
immediate and revolting horror at him, that increased as he came near. He was
evidently, though short, of gigantic strength. His round, bullet head, large,
light-gray eyes, with their shaggy, sandy eyebrows, and stiff, wiry, sun-burned
hair, were rather unprepossessing items, it is to be confessed; his large,
coarse mouth was distended with tobacco, the juice of which, from time to time,
he ejected from him with great decision and explosive force; his hands were
immensely large, hairy, sun-burned, freckled, and very dirty, and garnished
with long nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded to a very free
personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom by the jaw, and pulled open his
mouth to inspect his teeth; made him strip up his sleeve, to show his muscle;
turned him round, made him jump and spring, to show his paces.
“Where was you raised?” he added, briefly, to these investigations.
“In Kintuck, Mas’r,” said Tom, looking about, as if for
deliverance.
“What have you done?”
“Had care of Mas’r’s farm,” said Tom.
“Likely story!” said the other, shortly, as he passed on. He paused
a moment before Dolph; then spitting a discharge of tobacco-juice on his
well-blacked boots, and giving a contemptuous umph, he walked on. Again he
stopped before Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, dirty hand, and drew
the girl towards him; passed it over her neck and bust, felt her arms, looked
at her teeth, and then pushed her back against her mother, whose patient face
showed the suffering she had been going through at every motion of the hideous
stranger.
The girl was frightened, and began to cry.
“Stop that, you minx!” said the salesman; “no whimpering
here,—the sale is going to begin.” And accordingly the sale begun.
Adolph was knocked off, at a good sum, to the young gentlemen who had
previously stated his intention of buying him; and the other servants of the
St. Clare lot went to various bidders.
“Now, up with you, boy! d’ye hear?” said the auctioneer to
Tom.
Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round; all seemed mingled
in a common, indistinct noise,—the clatter of the salesman crying off his
qualifications in French and English, the quick fire of French and English
bids; and almost in a moment came the final thump of the hammer, and the clear
ring on the last syllable of the word as the
auctioneer announced his price, and Tom was made over.—He had a master!
He was pushed from the block;—the short, bullet-headed man seizing him
roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one side, saying, in a harsh voice,
“Stand there, ”
Tom hardly realized anything; but still the bidding went on,—ratting,
clattering, now French, now English. Down goes the hammer again,—Susan is
sold! She goes down from the block, stops, looks wistfully back,—her
daughter stretches her hands towards her. She looks with agony in the face of
the man who has bought her,—a respectable middle-aged man, of benevolent
countenance.
“O, Mas’r, please do buy my daughter!”
“I’d like to, but I’m afraid I can’t afford it!”
said the gentleman, looking, with painful interest, as the young girl mounted
the block, and looked around her with a frightened and timid glance.
The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless cheek, her eye has a
feverish fire, and her mother groans to see that she looks more beautiful than
she ever saw her before. The auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates
volubly in mingled French and English, and bids rise in rapid succession.
“I’ll do anything in reason,” said the benevolent-looking
gentleman, pressing in and joining with the bids. In a few moments they have
run beyond his purse. He is silent; the auctioneer grows warmer; but bids
gradually drop off. It lies now between an aristocratic old citizen and our
bullet-headed acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, contemptuously
measuring his opponent; but the bullet-head has the advantage over him, both in
obstinacy and concealed length of purse, and the controversy lasts but a
moment; the hammer falls,—he has got the girl, body and soul, unless God
help her!
Her master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation on the Red River. She is
pushed along into the same lot with Tom and two other men, and goes off,
weeping as she goes.
The benevolent gentleman is sorry; but, then, the thing happens every day! One
sees girls and mothers crying, at these sales, it can’t be
helped, &c.; and he walks off, with his acquisition, in another direction.
Two days after, the lawyer of the Christian firm of B. & Co., New York,
send on their money to them. On the reverse of that draft, so obtained, let
them write these words of the great Paymaster, to whom they shall make up their
account in a future day:
CHAPTER XXXI
The Middle Passage
“Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look upon
iniquity: wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and holdest
thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is more righteous than
he?”—H. 1: 13.
On the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Red River, Tom
sat,—chains on his wrists, chains on his feet, and a weight heavier than
chains lay on his heart. All had faded from his sky,—moon and star; all
had passed by him, as the trees and banks were now passing, to return no more.
Kentucky home, with wife and children, and indulgent owners; St. Clare home,
with all its refinements and splendors; the golden head of Eva, with its
saint-like eyes; the proud, gay, handsome, seemingly careless, yet ever-kind
St. Clare; hours of ease and indulgent leisure,—all gone! and in place
thereof, remains?
It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery, that the negro,
sympathetic and assimilative, after acquiring, in a refined family, the tastes
and feelings which form the atmosphere of such a place, is not the less liable
to become the bond-slave of the coarsest and most brutal,—just as a chair
or table, which once decorated the superb saloon, comes, at last, battered and
defaced, to the barroom of some filthy tavern, or some low haunt of vulgar
debauchery. The great difference is, that the table and chair cannot feel, and
the can; for even a legal enactment that he shall be “taken,
reputed, adjudged in law, to be a chattel personal,” cannot blot out his
soul, with its own private little world of memories, hopes, loves, fears, and
desires.
Mr. Simon Legree, Tom’s master, had purchased slaves at one place and
another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight, and driven them, handcuffed,
in couples of two and two, down to the good steamer Pirate, which lay at the
levee, ready for a trip up the Red River.
Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he came round, with
that air of efficiency which ever characterized him, to take a review of them.
Stopping opposite to Tom, who had been attired for sale in his best broadcloth
suit, with well-starched linen and shining boots, he briefly expressed himself
as follows:
“Stand up.”
Tom stood up.
“Take off that stock!” and, as Tom, encumbered by his fetters,
proceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with no gentle hand, from
his neck, and putting it in his pocket.
Legree now turned to Tom’s trunk, which, previous to this, he had been
ransacking, and, taking from it a pair of old pantaloons and dilapidated coat,
which Tom had been wont to put on about his stable-work, he said, liberating
Tom’s hands from the handcuffs, and pointing to a recess in among the
boxes,
“You go there, and put these on.”
Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned.
“Take off your boots,” said Mr. Legree.
Tom did so.
“There,” said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse, stout
shoes, such as were common among the slaves, “put these on.”
In Tom’s hurried exchange, he had not forgotten to transfer his cherished
Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so; for Mr. Legree, having refitted
Tom’s handcuffs, proceeded deliberately to investigate the contents of
his pockets. He drew out a silk handkerchief, and put it into his own pocket.
Several little trifles, which Tom had treasured, chiefly because they had
amused Eva, he looked upon with a contemptuous grunt, and tossed them over his
shoulder into the river.
Tom’s Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he had forgotten, he now
held up and turned over.
“Humph! pious, to be sure. So, what’s yer name,—you belong to
the church, eh?”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Tom, firmly.
“Well, I’ll soon have out of you. I have none o’
yer bawling, praying, singing niggers on my place; so remember. Now, mind
yourself,” he said, with a stamp and a fierce glance of his gray eye,
directed at Tom, “ your church now! You
understand,—you’ve got to be as say.”
Something within the silent black man answered and, as if repeated
by an invisible voice, came the words of an old prophetic scroll, as Eva had
often read them to him,—“Fear not! for I have redeemed thee. I have
called thee by name. Thou art MINE!”
But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he never shall hear. He only
glared for a moment on the downcast face of Tom, and walked off. He took
Tom’s trunk, which contained a very neat and abundant wardrobe, to the
forecastle, where it was soon surrounded by various hands of the boat. With
much laughing, at the expense of niggers who tried to be gentlemen, the
articles very readily were sold to one and another, and the empty trunk finally
put up at auction. It was a good joke, they all thought, especially to see how
Tom looked after his things, as they were going this way and that; and then the
auction of the trunk, that was funnier than all, and occasioned abundant
witticisms.
This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up again to his property.
“Now, Tom, I’ve relieved you of any extra baggage, you see. Take
mighty good care of them clothes. It’ll be long enough ’fore you
get more. I go in for making niggers careful; one suit has to do for one year,
on my place.”
Simon next walked up to the place where Emmeline was sitting, chained to
another woman.
“Well, my dear,” he said, chucking her under the chin, “keep
up your spirits.”
The involuntary look of horror, fright and aversion, with which the girl
regarded him, did not escape his eye. He frowned fiercely.
“None o’ your shines, gal! you’s got to keep a pleasant face,
when I speak to ye,—d’ye hear? And you, you old yellow poco
moonshine!” he said, giving a shove to the mulatto woman to whom Emmeline
was chained, “don’t you carry that sort of face! You’s got to
look chipper, I tell ye!”
“I say, all on ye,” he said retreating a pace or two back,
“look at me,—look at me,—look me right in the
eye,—, now!” said he, stamping his foot at every
pause.
As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to the glaring greenish-gray
eye of Simon.
“Now,” said he, doubling his great, heavy fist into something
resembling a blacksmith’s hammer, “d’ye see this fist? Heft
it!” he said, bringing it down on Tom’s hand. “Look at these
yer bones! Well, I tell ye this yer fist has got as hard as iron . I never see the nigger, yet, I couldn’t bring down with
one crack,” said he, bringing his fist down so near to the face of Tom
that he winked and drew back. “I don’t keep none o’ yer
cussed overseers; I does my own overseeing; and I tell you things
seen to. You’s every one on ye got to toe the mark, I tell ye;
quick,—straight,—the moment I speak. That’s the way to keep
in with me. Ye won’t find no soft spot in me, nowhere. So, now, mind
yerselves; for I don’t show no mercy!”
The women involuntarily drew in their breath, and the whole gang sat with
downcast, dejected faces. Meanwhile, Simon turned on his heel, and marched up
to the bar of the boat for a dram.
“That’s the way I begin with my niggers,” he said, to a
gentlemanly man, who had stood by him during his speech. “It’s my
system to begin strong,—just let ’em know what to expect.”
“Indeed!” said the stranger, looking upon him with the curiosity of
a naturalist studying some out-of-the-way specimen.
“Yes, indeed. I’m none o’ yer gentlemen planters, with lily
fingers, to slop round and be cheated by some old cuss of an overseer! Just
feel of my knuckles, now; look at my fist. Tell ye, sir, the flesh on ’t
has come jest like a stone, practising on nigger—feel on it.”
The stranger applied his fingers to the implement in question, and simply said,
“’T is hard enough; and, I suppose,” he added,
“practice has made your heart just like it.”
“Why, yes, I may say so,” said Simon, with a hearty laugh. “I
reckon there’s as little soft in me as in any one going. Tell you, nobody
comes it over me! Niggers never gets round me, neither with squalling nor soft
soap,—that’s a fact.”
“You have a fine lot there.”
“Real,” said Simon. “There’s that Tom, they telled me
he was suthin’ uncommon. I paid a little high for him, tendin’ him
for a driver and a managing chap; only get the notions out that he’s
larnt by bein’ treated as niggers never ought to be, he’ll do
prime! The yellow woman I got took in on. I rayther think she’s sickly,
but I shall put her through for what she’s worth; she may last a year or
two. I don’t go for savin’ niggers. Use up, and buy more, ’s
my way;-makes you less trouble, and I’m quite sure it comes cheaper in
the end;” and Simon sipped his glass.
“And how long do they generally last?” said the stranger.
“Well, donno; ’cordin’ as their constitution is. Stout
fellers last six or seven years; trashy ones gets worked up in two or three. I
used to, when I fust begun, have considerable trouble fussin’ with
’em and trying to make ’em hold out,—doctorin’ on
’em up when they’s sick, and givin’ on ’em clothes and
blankets, and what not, tryin’ to keep ’em all sort o’ decent
and comfortable. Law, ’t wasn’t no sort o’ use; I lost money
on ’em, and ’t was heaps o’ trouble. Now, you see, I just put
’em straight through, sick or well. When one nigger’s dead, I buy
another; and I find it comes cheaper and easier, every way.”
The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gentleman, who had been
listening to the conversation with repressed uneasiness.
“You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of Southern
planters,” said he.
“I should hope not,” said the young gentleman, with emphasis.
“He is a mean, low, brutal fellow!” said the other.
“And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of human beings subject
to his absolute will, without even a shadow of protection; and, low as he is,
you cannot say that there are not many such.”
“Well,” said the other, “there are also many considerate and
humane men among planters.”
“Granted,” said the young man; “but, in my opinion, it is you
considerate, humane men, that are responsible for all the brutality and outrage
wrought by these wretches; because, if it were not for your sanction and
influence, the whole system could not keep foothold for an hour. If there were
no planters except such as that one,” said he, pointing with his finger
to Legree, who stood with his back to them, “the whole thing would go
down like a millstone. It is your respectability and humanity that licenses and
protects his brutality.”
“You certainly have a high opinion of my good nature,” said the
planter, smiling, “but I advise you not to talk quite so loud, as there
are people on board the boat who might not be quite so tolerant to opinion as I
am. You had better wait till I get up to my plantation, and there you may abuse
us all, quite at your leisure.”
The young gentleman colored and smiled, and the two were soon busy in a game of
backgammon. Meanwhile, another conversation was going on in the lower part of
the boat, between Emmeline and the mulatto woman with whom she was confined. As
was natural, they were exchanging with each other some particulars of their
history.
“Who did you belong to?” said Emmeline.
“Well, my Mas’r was Mr. Ellis,—lived on Levee-street.
P’raps you’ve seen the house.”
“Was he good to you?” said Emmeline.
“Mostly, till he tuk sick. He’s lain sick, off and on, more than
six months, and been orful oneasy. ’Pears like he warnt willin’ to
have nobody rest, day or night; and got so curous, there couldn’t nobody
suit him. ’Pears like he just grew crosser, every day; kep me up nights
till I got farly beat out, and couldn’t keep awake no longer; and cause I
got to sleep, one night, Lors, he talk so orful to me, and he tell me
he’d sell me to just the hardest master he could find; and he’d
promised me my freedom, too, when he died.”
“Had you any friends?” said Emmeline.
“Yes, my husband,—he’s a blacksmith. Mas’r gen’ly
hired him out. They took me off so quick, I didn’t even have time to see
him; and I’s got four children. O, dear me!” said the woman,
covering her face with her hands.
It is a natural impulse, in every one, when they hear a tale of distress, to
think of something to say by way of consolation. Emmeline wanted to say
something, but she could not think of anything to say. What was there to be
said? As by a common consent, they both avoided, with fear and dread, all
mention of the horrible man who was now their master.
True, there is religious trust for even the darkest hour. The mulatto woman was
a member of the Methodist church, and had an unenlightened but very sincere
spirit of piety. Emmeline had been educated much more
intelligently,—taught to read and write, and diligently instructed in the
Bible, by the care of a faithful and pious mistress; yet, would it not try the
faith of the firmest Christian, to find themselves abandoned, apparently, of
God, in the grasp of ruthless violence? How much more must it shake the faith
of Christ’s poor little ones, weak in knowledge and tender in years!
The boat moved on,—freighted with its weight of sorrow,—up the red,
muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt tortuous windings of the Red river;
and sad eyes gazed wearily on the steep red-clay banks, as they glided by in
dreary sameness. At last the boat stopped at a small town, and Legree, with his
party, disembarked.
CHAPTER XXXII
Dark Places
“The dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of
cruelty.”
[1]
Ps. 74:20.
Trailing wearily behind a rude wagon, and over a ruder road, Tom and his
associates faced onward.
In the wagon was seated Simon Legree and the two women, still fettered
together, were stowed away with some baggage in the back part of it, and the
whole company were seeking Legree’s plantation, which lay a good distance
off.
It was a wild, forsaken road, now winding through dreary pine barrens, where
the wind whispered mournfully, and now over log causeways, through long cypress
swamps, the doleful trees rising out of the slimy, spongy ground, hung with
long wreaths of funeral black moss, while ever and anon the loathsome form of
the mocassin snake might be seen sliding among broken stumps and shattered
branches that lay here and there, rotting in the water.
It is disconsolate enough, this riding, to the stranger, who, with well-filled
pocket and well-appointed horse, threads the lonely way on some errand of
business; but wilder, drearier, to the man enthralled, whom every weary step
bears further from all that man loves and prays for.
So one should have thought, that witnessed the sunken and dejected expression
on those dark faces; the wistful, patient weariness with which those sad eyes
rested on object after object that passed them in their sad journey.
Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasionally pulling away at a
flask of spirit, which he kept in his pocket.
“I say, ” he said, as he turned back and caught a glance
at the dispirited faces behind him. “Strike up a song,
boys,—come!”
The men looked at each other, and the “” was repeated,
with a smart crack of the whip which the driver carried in his hands. Tom began
a Methodist hymn.
“Jerusalem, my happy home,
Name ever dear to me!
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall—“
[2]
,” anonymous hymn dating from the
latter part of the sixteenth century, sung to the tune of “St.
Stephen.” Words derive from St. Augustine’s .
“Shut up, you black cuss!” roared Legree; “did ye think I
wanted any o’ yer infernal old Methodism? I say, tune up, now, something
real rowdy,—quick!”
One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning songs, common among the
slaves.
“Mas’r see’d me cotch a coon,
High boys, high!
He laughed to split,—d’ye see the moon,
Ho! ho! ho! boys, ho!
Ho! yo! hi—e!
The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleasure, generally hitting
on rhyme, without much attempt at reason; and the party took up the chorus, at
intervals,
“Ho! ho! ho! boys, ho!
High—e—oh! high—e—oh!”
It was sung very boisterouly, and with a forced attempt at merriment; but no
wail of despair, no words of impassioned prayer, could have had such a depth of
woe in them as the wild notes of the chorus. As if the poor, dumb heart,
threatened,—prisoned,—took refuge in that inarticulate sanctuary of
music, and found there a language in which to breathe its prayer to God! There
was a prayer in it, which Simon could not hear. He only heard the boys singing
noisily, and was well pleased; he was making them “keep up their
spirits.”
“Well, my little dear,” said he, turning to Emmeline, and laying
his hand on her shoulder, “we’re almost home!”
When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified; but when he laid his
hand on her, and spoke as he now did, she felt as if she had rather he would
strike her. The expression of his eyes made her soul sick, and her flesh creep.
Involuntarily she clung closer to the mulatto woman by her side, as if she were
her mother.
“You didn’t ever wear ear-rings,” he said, taking hold of her
small ear with his coarse fingers.
“No, Mas’r!” said Emmeline, trembling and looking down.
“Well, I’ll give you a pair, when we get home, if you’re a
good girl. You needn’t be so frightened; I don’t mean to make you
work very hard. You’ll have fine times with me, and live like a
lady,—only be a good girl.”
Legree had been drinking to that degree that he was inclining to be very
gracious; and it was about this time that the enclosures of the plantation rose
to view. The estate had formerly belonged to a gentleman of opulence and taste,
who had bestowed some considerable attention to the adornment of his grounds.
Having died insolvent, it had been purchased, at a bargain, by Legree, who used
it, as he did everything else, merely as an implement for money-making. The
place had that ragged, forlorn appearance, which is always produced by the
evidence that the care of the former owner has been left to go to utter decay.
What was once a smooth-shaven lawn before the house, dotted here and there with
ornamental shrubs, was now covered with frowsy tangled grass, with horseposts
set up, here and there, in it, where the turf was stamped away, and the ground
littered with broken pails, cobs of corn, and other slovenly remains. Here and
there, a mildewed jessamine or honeysuckle hung raggedly from some ornamental
support, which had been pushed to one side by being used as a horse-post. What
once was a large garden was now all grown over with weeds, through which, here
and there, some solitary exotic reared its forsaken head. What had been a
conservatory had now no window-shades, and on the mouldering shelves stood some
dry, forsaken flower-pots, with sticks in them, whose dried leaves showed they
had once been plants.
The wagon rolled up a weedy gravel walk, under a noble avenue of China trees,
whose graceful forms and ever-springing foliage seemed to be the only things
there that neglect could not daunt or alter,—like noble spirits, so
deeply rooted in goodness, as to flourish and grow stronger amid discouragement
and decay.
The house had been large and handsome. It was built in a manner common at the
South; a wide verandah of two stories running round every part of the house,
into which every outer door opened, the lower tier being supported by brick
pillars.
But the place looked desolate and uncomfortable; some windows stopped up with
boards, some with shattered panes, and shutters hanging by a single
hinge,—all telling of coarse neglect and discomfort.
Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, garnished the ground in
all directions; and three or four ferocious-looking dogs, roused by the sound
of the wagon-wheels, came tearing out, and were with difficulty restrained from
laying hold of Tom and his companions, by the effort of the ragged servants who
came after them.
“Ye see what ye’d get!” said Legree, caressing the dogs with
grim satisfaction, and turning to Tom and his companions. “Ye see what
ye’d get, if ye try to run off. These yer dogs has been raised to track
niggers; and they’d jest as soon chaw one on ye up as eat their supper.
So, mind yerself! How now, Sambo!” he said, to a ragged fellow, without
any brim to his hat, who was officious in his attentions. “How have
things been going?”
“Fust rate, Mas’r.”
“Quimbo,” said Legree to another, who was making zealous
demonstrations to attract his attention, “ye minded what I telled
ye?”
“Guess I did, didn’t I?”
These two colored men were the two principal hands on the plantation. Legree
had trained them in savageness and brutality as systematically as he had his
bull-dogs; and, by long practice in hardness and cruelty, brought their whole
nature to about the same range of capacities. It is a common remark, and one
that is thought to militate strongly against the character of the race, that
the negro overseer is always more tyrannical and cruel than the white one. This
is simply saying that the negro mind has been more crushed and debased than the
white. It is no more true of this race than of every oppressed race, the world
over. The slave is always a tyrant, if he can get a chance to be one.
Legree, like some potentates we read of in history, governed his plantation by
a sort of resolution of forces. Sambo and Quimbo cordially hated each other;
the plantation hands, one and all, cordially hated them; and, by playing off
one against another, he was pretty sure, through one or the other of the three
parties, to get informed of whatever was on foot in the place.
Nobody can live entirely without social intercourse; and Legree encouraged his
two black satellites to a kind of coarse familiarity with him,—a
familiarity, however, at any moment liable to get one or the other of them into
trouble; for, on the slightest provocation, one of them always stood ready, at
a nod, to be a minister of his vengeance on the other.
As they stood there now by Legree, they seemed an apt illustration of the fact
that brutal men are lower even than animals. Their coarse, dark, heavy
features; their great eyes, rolling enviously on each other; their barbarous,
guttural, half-brute intonation; their dilapidated garments fluttering in the
wind,—were all in admirable keeping with the vile and unwholesome
character of everything about the place.
“Here, you Sambo,” said Legree, “take these yer boys down to
the quarters; and here’s a gal I’ve got for ,” said
he, as he separated the mulatto woman from Emmeline, and pushed her towards
him;—“I promised to bring you one, you know.”
The woman gave a start, and drawing back, said, suddenly,
“O, Mas’r! I left my old man in New Orleans.”
“What of that, you—; won’t you want one here? None o’
your words,—go long!” said Legree, raising his whip.
“Come, mistress,” he said to Emmeline, “you go in here with
me.”
A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at the window of the house;
and, as Legree opened the door, a female voice said something, in a quick,
imperative tone. Tom, who was looking, with anxious interest, after Emmeline,
as she went in, noticed this, and heard Legree answer, angrily, “You may
hold your tongue! I’ll do as I please, for all you!”
Tom heard no more; for he was soon following Sambo to the quarters. The
quarters was a little sort of street of rude shanties, in a row, in a part of
the plantation, far off from the house. They had a forlorn, brutal, forsaken
air. Tom’s heart sunk when he saw them. He had been comforting himself
with the thought of a cottage, rude, indeed, but one which he might make neat
and quiet, and where he might have a shelf for his Bible, and a place to be
alone out of his laboring hours. He looked into several; they were mere rude
shells, destitute of any species of furniture, except a heap of straw, foul
with dirt, spread confusedly over the floor, which was merely the bare ground,
trodden hard by the tramping of innumerable feet.
“Which of these will be mine?” said he, to Sambo, submissively.
“Dunno; ken turn in here, I spose,” said Sambo; “spects
thar’s room for another thar; thar’s a pretty smart heap o’
niggers to each on ’em, now; sure, I dunno what I ’s to do with
more.”
It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of the shanties came
flocking home,—men and women, in soiled and tattered garments, surly and
uncomfortable, and in no mood to look pleasantly on new-comers. The small
village was alive with no inviting sounds; hoarse, guttural voices contending
at the hand-mills where their morsel of hard corn was yet to be ground into
meal, to fit it for the cake that was to constitute their only supper. From the
earliest dawn of the day, they had been in the fields, pressed to work under
the driving lash of the overseers; for it was now in the very heat and hurry of
the season, and no means was left untried to press every one up to the top of
their capabilities. “True,” says the negligent lounger;
“picking cotton isn’t hard work.” Isn’t it? And it
isn’t much inconvenience, either, to have one drop of water fall on your
head; yet the worst torture of the inquisition is produced by drop after drop,
drop after drop, falling moment after moment, with monotonous succession, on
the same spot; and work, in itself not hard, becomes so, by being pressed, hour
after hour, with unvarying, unrelenting sameness, with not even the
consciousness of free-will to take from its tediousness. Tom looked in vain
among the gang, as they poured along, for companionable faces. He saw only
sullen, scowling, imbruted men, and feeble, discouraged women, or women that
were not women,—the strong pushing away the weak,—the gross,
unrestricted animal selfishness of human beings, of whom nothing good was
expected and desired; and who, treated in every way like brutes, had sunk as
nearly to their level as it was possible for human beings to do. To a late hour
in the night the sound of the grinding was protracted; for the mills were few
in number compared with the grinders, and the weary and feeble ones were driven
back by the strong, and came on last in their turn.
“Ho yo!” said Sambo, coming to the mulatto woman, and throwing down
a bag of corn before her; “what a cuss yo name?”
“Lucy,” said the woman.
“Wal, Lucy, yo my woman now. Yo grind dis yer corn, and get
supper baked, ye har?”
“I an’t your woman, and I won’t be!” said the woman,
with the sharp, sudden courage of despair; “you go long!”
“I’ll kick yo, then!” said Sambo, raising his foot
threateningly.
“Ye may kill me, if ye choose,—the sooner the better! Wish’t
I was dead!” said she.
“I say, Sambo, you go to spilin’ the hands, I’ll tell
Mas’r o’ you,” said Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from
which he had viciously driven two or three tired women, who were waiting to
grind their corn.
“And, I’ll tell him ye won’t let the women come to the mills,
yo old nigger!” said Sambo. “Yo jes keep to yo own row.”
Tom was hungry with his day’s journey, and almost faint for want of food.
“Thar, yo!” said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, which
contained a peck of corn; “thar, nigger, grab, take car on
’t,—yo won’t get no more, yer week.”
Tom waited till a late hour, to get a place at the mills; and then, moved by
the utter weariness of two women, whom he saw trying to grind their corn there,
he ground for them, put together the decaying brands of the fire, where many
had baked cakes before them, and then went about getting his own supper. It was
a new kind of work there,—a deed of charity, small as it was; but it woke
an answering touch in their hearts,—an expression of womanly kindness
came over their hard faces; they mixed his cake for him, and tended its baking;
and Tom sat down by the light of the fire, and drew out his Bible,—for he
had need for comfort.
“What’s that?” said one of the woman.
“A Bible,” said Tom.
“Good Lord! han’t seen un since I was in Kentuck.”
“Was you raised in Kentuck?” said Tom, with interest.
“Yes, and well raised, too; never ’spected to come to dis
yer!” said the woman, sighing.
“What’s dat ar book, any way?” said the other woman.
“Why, the Bible.”
“Laws a me! what’s dat?” said the woman.
“Do tell! you never hearn on ’t?” said the other woman.
“I used to har Missis a readin’ on ’t, sometimes, in Kentuck;
but, laws o’ me! we don’t har nothin’ here but crackin’
and swarin’.”
“Read a piece, anyways!” said the first woman, curiously, seeing
Tom attentively poring over it.
Tom read,—“Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest.”
“Them’s good words, enough,” said the woman; “who says
’em?”
“The Lord,” said Tom.
“I jest wish I know’d whar to find Him,” said the woman.
“I would go; ’pears like I never should get rested again. My flesh
is fairly sore, and I tremble all over, every day, and Sambo’s allers a
jawin’ at me, ’cause I doesn’t pick faster; and nights
it’s most midnight ’fore I can get my supper; and den ’pears
like I don’t turn over and shut my eyes, ’fore I hear de horn blow
to get up, and at it agin in de mornin’. If I knew whar de Lor was,
I’d tell him.”
“He’s here, he’s everywhere,” said Tom.
“Lor, you an’t gwine to make me believe dat ar! I know de Lord
an’t here,” said the woman; “‘tan’t no use
talking, though. I’s jest gwine to camp down, and sleep while I
ken.”
The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, by the smouldering fire,
that flickered up redly in his face.
The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and looked down, calm and
silent, as God looks on the scene of misery and oppression,—looked calmly
on the lone black man, as he sat, with his arms folded, and his Bible on his
knee.
“Is God ?” Ah, how is it possible for the
untaught heart to keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule, and
palpable, unrebuked injustice? In that simple heart waged a fierce conflict;
the crushing sense of wrong, the foreshadowing, of a whole life of future
misery, the wreck of all past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul’s
sight, like dead corpses of wife, and child, and friend, rising from the dark
wave, and surging in the face of the half-drowned mariner! Ah, was it easy
to believe and hold fast the great password of Christian faith,
that “God , and is the of them
that diligently seek Him”?
Tom rose, disconsolate, and stumbled into the cabin that had been allotted to
him. The floor was already strewn with weary sleepers, and the foul air of the
place almost repelled him; but the heavy night-dews were chill, and his limbs
weary, and, wrapping about him a tattered blanket, which formed his only
bed-clothing, he stretched himself in the straw and fell asleep.
In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ear; he was sitting on the mossy seat
in the garden by Lake Pontchartrain, and Eva, with her serious eyes bent
downward, was reading to him from the Bible; and he heard her read.
“When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and the
rivers they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou
shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee; for I am the
Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.”
Gradually the words seemed to melt and fade, as in a divine music; the child
raised her deep eyes, and fixed them lovingly on him, and rays of warmth and
comfort seemed to go from them to his heart; and, as if wafted on the music,
she seemed to rise on shining wings, from which flakes and spangles of gold
fell off like stars, and she was gone.
Tom woke. Was it a dream? Let it pass for one. But who shall say that that
sweet young spirit, which in life so yearned to comfort and console the
distressed, was forbidden of God to assume this ministry after death?
It is a beautiful belief,
That ever round our head
Are hovering, on angel wings,
The spirits of the dead.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Cassy
“And behold, the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no
comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power, but they had no
comforter.”—E. 4:1
It took but a short time to familiarize Tom with all that was to be hoped or
feared in his new way of life. He was an expert and efficient workman in
whatever he undertook; and was, both from habit and principle, prompt and
faithful. Quiet and peaceable in his disposition, he hoped, by unremitting
diligence, to avert from himself at least a portion of the evils of his
condition. He saw enough of abuse and misery to make him sick and weary; but he
determined to toil on, with religious patience, committing himself to Him that
judgeth righteously, not without hope that some way of escape might yet be
opened to him.
Legree took a silent note of Tom’s availability. He rated him as a
first-class hand; and yet he felt a secret dislike to him,—the native
antipathy of bad to good. He saw, plainly, that when, as was often the case,
his violence and brutality fell on the helpless, Tom took notice of it; for, so
subtle is the atmosphere of opinion, that it will make itself felt, without
words; and the opinion even of a slave may annoy a master. Tom in various ways
manifested a tenderness of feeling, a commiseration for his fellow-sufferers,
strange and new to them, which was watched with a jealous eye by Legree. He had
purchased Tom with a view of eventually making him a sort of overseer, with
whom he might, at times, intrust his affairs, in short absences; and, in his
view, the first, second, and third requisite for that place, was
. Legree made up his mind, that, as Tom was not hard to his
hand, he would harden him forthwith; and some few weeks after Tom had been on
the place, he determined to commence the process.
One morning, when the hands were mustered for the field, Tom noticed, with
surprise, a new comer among them, whose appearance excited his attention. It
was a woman, tall and slenderly formed, with remarkably delicate hands and
feet, and dressed in neat and respectable garments. By the appearance of her
face, she might have been between thirty-five and forty; and it was a face
that, once seen, could never be forgotten,—one of those that, at a
glance, seem to convey to us an idea of a wild, painful, and romantic history.
Her forehead was high, and her eyebrows marked with beautiful clearness. Her
straight, well-formed nose, her finely-cut mouth, and the graceful contour of
her head and neck, showed that she must once have been beautiful; but her face
was deeply wrinkled with lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endurance. Her
complexion was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin, her features sharp, and
her whole form emaciated. But her eye was the most remarkable feature,—so
large, so heavily black, overshadowed by long lashes of equal darkness, and so
wildly, mournfully despairing. There was a fierce pride and defiance in every
line of her face, in every curve of the flexible lip, in every motion of her
body; but in her eye was a deep, settled night of anguish,—an expression
so hopeless and unchanging as to contrast fearfully with the scorn and pride
expressed by her whole demeanor.
Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know. The first he did know,
she was walking by his side, erect and proud, in the dim gray of the dawn. To
the gang, however, she was known; for there was much looking and turning of
heads, and a smothered yet apparent exultation among the miserable, ragged,
half-starved creatures by whom she was surrounded.
“Got to come to it, at last,—glad of it!” said one.
“He! he! he!” said another; “you’ll know how good it
is, Misse!”
“We’ll see her work!”
“Wonder if she’ll get a cutting up, at night, like the rest of
us!”
“I’d be glad to see her down for a flogging, I’ll
bound!” said another.
The woman took no notice of these taunts, but walked on, with the same
expression of angry scorn, as if she heard nothing. Tom had always lived among
refined, and cultivated people, and he felt intuitively, from her air and
bearing, that she belonged to that class; but how or why she could be fallen to
those degrading circumstances, he could not tell. The woman neither looked at
him nor spoke to him, though, all the way to the field, she kept close at his
side.
Tom was soon busy at his work; but, as the woman was at no great distance from
him, he often glanced an eye to her, at her work. He saw, at a glance, that a
native adroitness and handiness made the task to her an easier one than it
proved to many. She picked very fast and very clean, and with an air of scorn,
as if she despised both the work and the disgrace and humiliation of the
circumstances in which she was placed.
In the course of the day, Tom was working near the mulatto woman who had been
bought in the same lot with himself. She was evidently in a condition of great
suffering, and Tom often heard her praying, as she wavered and trembled, and
seemed about to fall down. Tom silently as he came near to her, transferred
several handfuls of cotton from his own sack to hers.
“O, don’t, don’t!” said the woman, looking surprised;
“it’ll get you into trouble.”
Just then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special spite against this woman;
and, flourishing his whip, said, in brutal, guttural tones, “What dis
yer, Luce,—foolin’ a’” and, with the word, kicking the
woman with his heavy cowhide shoe, he struck Tom across the face with his whip.
Tom silently resumed his task; but the woman, before at the last point of
exhaustion, fainted.
“I’ll bring her to!” said the driver, with a brutal grin.
“I’ll give her something better than camphire!” and, taking a
pin from his coat-sleeve, he buried it to the head in her flesh. The woman
groaned, and half rose. “Get up, you beast, and work, will yer, or
I’ll show yer a trick more!”
The woman seemed stimulated, for a few moments, to an unnatural strength, and
worked with desperate eagerness.
“See that you keep to dat ar,” said the man, “or yer’ll
wish yer’s dead tonight, I reckin!”
“That I do now!” Tom heard her say; and again he heard her say,
“O, Lord, how long! O, Lord, why don’t you help us?”
At the risk of all that he might suffer, Tom came forward again, and put all
the cotton in his sack into the woman’s.
“O, you mustn’t! you donno what they’ll do to ye!” said
the woman.
“I can bar it!” said Tom, “better ’n you;” and he
was at his place again. It passed in a moment.
Suddenly, the stranger woman whom we have described, and who had, in the course
of her work, come near enough to hear Tom’s last words, raised her heavy
black eyes, and fixed them, for a second, on him; then, taking a quantity of
cotton from her basket, she placed it in his.
“You know nothing about this place,” she said, “or you
wouldn’t have done that. When you’ve been here a month,
you’ll be done helping anybody; you’ll find it hard enough to take
care of your own skin!”
“The Lord forbid, Missis!” said Tom, using instinctively to his
field companion the respectful form proper to the high bred with whom he had
lived.
“The Lord never visits these parts,” said the woman, bitterly, as
she went nimbly forward with her work; and again the scornful smile curled her
lips.
But the action of the woman had been seen by the driver, across the field; and,
flourishing his whip, he came up to her.
“What! what!” he said to the woman, with an air of triumph,
“You a foolin’? Go along! yer under me now,—mind yourself, or
yer’ll cotch it!”
A glance like sheet-lightning suddenly flashed from those black eyes; and,
facing about, with quivering lip and dilated nostrils, she drew herself up, and
fixed a glance, blazing with rage and scorn, on the driver.
“Dog!” she said, “touch , if you dare! I’ve
power enough, yet, to have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut to inches!
I’ve only to say the word!”
“What de devil you here for, den?” said the man, evidently cowed,
and sullenly retreating a step or two. “Didn’t mean no harm, Misse
Cassy!”
“Keep your distance, then!” said the woman. And, in truth, the man
seemed greatly inclined to attend to something at the other end of the field,
and started off in quick time.
The woman suddenly turned to her work, and labored with a despatch that was
perfectly astonishing to Tom. She seemed to work by magic. Before the day was
through, her basket was filled, crowded down, and piled, and she had several
times put largely into Tom’s. Long after dusk, the whole weary train,
with their baskets on their heads, defiled up to the building appropriated to
the storing and weighing the cotton. Legree was there, busily conversing with
the two drivers.
“Dat ar Tom’s gwine to make a powerful deal o’ trouble; kept
a puttin’ into Lucy’s basket.—One o’ these yer dat will
get all der niggers to feelin’ ’bused, if Masir don’t watch
him!” said Sambo.
“Hey-dey! The black cuss!” said Legree. “He’ll have to
get a breakin’ in, won’t he, boys?”
Both negroes grinned a horrid grin, at this intimation.
“Ay, ay! Let Mas’r Legree alone, for breakin’ in! De debil
heself couldn’t beat Mas’r at dat!” said Quimbo.
“Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do, till he gets
over his notions. Break him in!”
“Lord, Mas’r’ll have hard work to get dat out o’
him!”
“It’ll have to come out of him, though!” said Legree, as he
rolled his tobacco in his mouth.
“Now, dar’s Lucy,—de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on de
place!” pursued Sambo.
“Take care, Sam; I shall begin to think what’s the reason for your
spite agin Lucy.”
“Well, Mas’r knows she sot herself up agin Mas’r, and
wouldn’t have me, when he telled her to.”
“I’d a flogged her into ’t,” said Legree, spitting,
“only there’s such a press o’ work, it don’t seem wuth
a while to upset her jist now. She’s slender; but these yer slender gals
will bear half killin’ to get their own way!”
“Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin’ and lazy, sulkin’ round;
wouldn’t do nothin,—and Tom he stuck up for her.”
“He did, eh! Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of flogging her.
It’ll be a good practice for him, and he won’t put it on to the gal
like you devils, neither.”
“Ho, ho! haw! haw! haw!” laughed both the sooty wretches; and the
diabolical sounds seemed, in truth, a not unapt expression of the fiendish
character which Legree gave them.
“Wal, but, Mas’r, Tom and Misse Cassy, and dey among ’em,
filled Lucy’s basket. I ruther guess der weight ’s in it,
Mas’r!”
“” said Legree, emphatically.
Both the drivers again laughed their diabolical laugh.
“So!” he added, “Misse Cassy did her day’s work.”
“She picks like de debil and all his angels!”
“She’s got ’em all in her, I believe!” said Legree;
and, growling a brutal oath, he proceeded to the weighing-room.
Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures, wound their way into the room, and,
with crouching reluctance, presented their baskets to be weighed.
Legree noted on a slate, on the side of which was pasted a list of names, the
amount.
Tom’s basket was weighed and approved; and he looked, with an anxious
glance, for the success of the woman he had befriended.
Tottering with weakness, she came forward, and delivered her basket. It was of
full weight, as Legree well perceived; but, affecting anger, he said,
“What, you lazy beast! short again! stand aside, you’ll catch it,
pretty soon!”
The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down on a board.
The person who had been called Misse Cassy now came forward, and, with a
haughty, negligent air, delivered her basket. As she delivered it, Legree
looked in her eyes with a sneering yet inquiring glance.
She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her lips moved slightly, and she said
something in French. What it was, no one knew; but Legree’s face became
perfectly demoniacal in its expression, as she spoke; he half raised his hand,
as if to strike,—a gesture which she regarded with fierce disdain, as she
turned and walked away.
“And now,” said Legree, “come here, you Tom. You see, I
telled ye I didn’t buy ye jest for the common work; I mean to promote ye,
and make a driver of ye; and tonight ye may jest as well begin to get yer hand
in. Now, ye jest take this yer gal and flog her; ye’ve seen enough
on’t to know how.”
“I beg Mas’r’s pardon,” said Tom; “hopes
Mas’r won’t set me at that. It’s what I an’t used
to,—never did,—and can’t do, no way possible.”
“Ye’ll larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did know,
before I’ve done with ye!” said Legree, taking up a cowhide, and
striking Tom a heavy blow cross the cheek, and following up the infliction by a
shower of blows.
“There!” he said, as he stopped to rest; “now, will ye tell
me ye can’t do it?”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Tom, putting up his hand, to wipe the
blood, that trickled down his face. “I’m willin’ to work,
night and day, and work while there’s life and breath in me; but this yer
thing I can’t feel it right to do;—and, Mas’r, I
shall do it,—!”
Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and a habitually respectful manner,
that had given Legree an idea that he would be cowardly, and easily subdued.
When he spoke these last words, a thrill of amazement went through every one;
the poor woman clasped her hands, and said, “O Lord!” and every one
involuntarily looked at each other and drew in their breath, as if to prepare
for the storm that was about to burst.
Legree looked stupefied and confounded; but at last burst
forth,—“What! ye blasted black beast! tell ye don’t
think it to do what I tell ye! What have any of you cussed cattle
to do with thinking what’s right? I’ll put a stop to it! Why, what
do ye think ye are? May be ye think ye’r a gentleman master, Tom, to be a
telling your master what’s right, and what ain’t! So you pretend
it’s wrong to flog the gal!”
“I think so, Mas’r,” said Tom; “the poor
crittur’s sick and feeble; ’t would be downright cruel, and
it’s what I never will do, nor begin to. Mas’r, if you mean to kill
me, kill me; but, as to my raising my hand agin any one here, I never
shall,—I’ll die first!”
Tom spoke in a mild voice, but with a decision that could not be mistaken.
Legree shook with anger; his greenish eyes glared fiercely, and his very
whiskers seemed to curl with passion; but, like some ferocious beast, that
plays with its victim before he devours it, he kept back his strong impulse to
proceed to immediate violence, and broke out into bitter raillery.
“Well, here’s a pious dog, at last, let down among us
sinners!—a saint, a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us sinners about
our sins! Powerful holy critter, he must be! Here, you rascal, you make believe
to be so pious,—didn’t you never hear, out of yer Bible,
’Servants, obey yer masters’? An’t I yer master? Didn’t
I pay down twelve hundred dollars, cash, for all there is inside yer old cussed
black shell? An’t yer mine, now, body and soul?” he said, giving
Tom a violent kick with his heavy boot; “tell me!”
In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal oppression, this
question shot a gleam of joy and triumph through Tom’s soul. He suddenly
stretched himself up, and, looking earnestly to heaven, while the tears and
blood that flowed down his face mingled, he exclaimed,
“No! no! no! my soul an’t yours, Mas’r! You haven’t
bought it,—ye can’t buy it! It’s been bought and paid for, by
one that is able to keep it;—no matter, no matter, you can’t harm
me!”
“I can’t!” said Legree, with a sneer; “we’ll
see,—we’ll see! Here, Sambo, Quimbo, give this dog such a
breakin’ in as he won’t get over, this month!”
The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, with fiendish exultation in
their faces, might have formed no unapt personification of powers of darkness.
The poor woman screamed with apprehension, and all rose, as by a general
impulse, while they dragged him unresisting from the place.
CHAPTER XXXIV
The Quadroon’s Story
And behold the tears of such as are oppressed; and on the side of their
oppressors there was power. Wherefore I praised the dead that are already dead
more than the living that are yet alive.—E. 4:1.
It was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and bleeding alone, in an old
forsaken room of the gin-house, among pieces of broken machinery, piles of
damaged cotton, and other rubbish which had there accumulated.
The night was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed with myriads of
mosquitos, which increased the restless torture of his wounds; whilst a burning
thirst—a torture beyond all others—filled up the uttermost measure
of physical anguish.
“O, good Lord! look down,—give me the victory!—give
me the victory over all!” prayed poor Tom, in his anguish.
A footstep entered the room, behind him, and the light of a lantern flashed on
his eyes.
“Who’s there? O, for the Lord’s massy, please give me some
water!”
The woman Cassy—for it was she,—set down her lantern, and, pouring
water from a bottle, raised his head, and gave him drink. Another and another
cup were drained, with feverish eagerness.
CASSY MINISTERING TO UNCLE TOM AFTER HIS WHIPPING.
“Drink all ye want,” she said; “I knew how it would be. It
isn’t the first time I’ve been out in the night, carrying water to
such as you.”
“Thank you, Missis,” said Tom, when he had done drinking.
“Don’t call me Missis! I’m a miserable slave, like
yourself,—a lower one than you can ever be!” said she, bitterly;
“but now,” said she, going to the door, and dragging in a small
pallaise, over which she had spread linen cloths wet with cold water,
“try, my poor fellow, to roll yourself on to this.”
Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time in accomplishing this
movement; but, when done, he felt a sensible relief from the cooling
application to his wounds.
The woman, whom long practice with the victims of brutality had made familiar
with many healing arts, went on to make many applications to Tom’s
wounds, by means of which he was soon somewhat relieved.
“Now,” said the woman, when she had raised his head on a roll of
damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, “there’s the best I can
do for you.”
Tom thanked her; and the woman, sitting down on the floor, drew up her knees,
and embracing them with her arms, looked fixedly before her, with a bitter and
painful expression of countenance. Her bonnet fell back, and long wavy streams
of black hair fell around her singular and melancholy-face.
“It’s no use, my poor fellow!” she broke out, at last,
“it’s of no use, this you’ve been trying to do. You were a
brave fellow,—you had the right on your side; but it’s all in vain,
and out of the question, for you to struggle. You are in the devil’s
hands;—he is the strongest, and you must give up!”
Give up! and, had not human weakness and physical agony whispered that, before?
Tom started; for the bitter woman, with her wild eyes and melancholy voice,
seemed to him an embodiment of the temptation with which he had been wrestling.
“O Lord! O Lord!” he groaned, “how can I give up?”
“There’s no use calling on the Lord,—he never hears,”
said the woman, steadily; “there isn’t any God, I believe; or, if
there is, he’s taken sides against us. All goes against us, heaven and
earth. Everything is pushing us into hell. Why shouldn’t we go?”
Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark, atheistic words.
“You see,” said the woman, “ don’t know
anything about it—I do. I’ve been on this place five years, body
and soul, under this man’s foot; and I hate him as I do the devil! Here
you are, on a lone plantation, ten miles from any other, in the swamps; not a
white person here, who could testify, if you were burned alive,—if you
were scalded, cut into inch-pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up and
whipped to death. There’s no law here, of God or man, that can do you, or
any one of us, the least good; and, this man! there’s no earthly thing
that he’s too good to do. I could make any one’s hair rise, and
their teeth chatter, if I should only tell what I’ve seen and been
knowing to, here,—and it’s no use resisting! Did I to
live with him? Wasn’t I a woman delicately bred; and he,—God in
heaven! what was he, and is he? And yet, I’ve lived with him, these five
years, and cursed every moment of my life,—night and day! And now,
he’s got a new one,—a young thing, only fifteen, and she brought
up, she says, piously. Her good mistress taught her to read the Bible; and
she’s brought her Bible here—to hell with her!”—and the
woman laughed a wild and doleful laugh, that rung, with a strange, supernatural
sound, through the old ruined shed.
Tom folded his hands; all was darkness and horror.
“O Jesus! Lord Jesus! have you quite forgot us poor critturs?”
burst forth, at last;—“help, Lord, I perish!”
The woman sternly continued:
“And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, that you should
suffer on their account? Every one of them would turn against you, the first
time they got a chance. They are all of ’em as low and cruel to each
other as they can be; there’s no use in your suffering to keep from
hurting them.”
“Poor critturs!” said Tom,—“what made ’em
cruel?—and, if I give out, I shall get used to ’t, and grow, little
by little, just like ’em! No, no, Missis! I’ve lost
everything,—wife, and children, and home, and a kind
Mas’r,—and he would have set me free, if he’d only lived a
week longer; I’ve lost everything in world, and it’s
clean gone, forever,—and now I lose Heaven, too; no, I
can’t get to be wicked, besides all!”
“But it can’t be that the Lord will lay sin to our account,”
said the woman; “he won’t charge it to us, when we’re forced
to it; he’ll charge it to them that drove us to it.”
“Yes,” said Tom; “but that won’t keep us from growing
wicked. If I get to be as hard-hearted as that ar’ Sambo, and as wicked,
it won’t make much odds to me how I come so; it’s the bein’
so,—that ar’s what I’m a dreadin’.”
The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if a new thought had struck
her; and then, heavily groaning, said,
“O God a’ mercy! you speak the truth!
O—O—O!”—and, with groans, she fell on the floor, like
one crushed and writhing under the extremity of mental anguish.
There was a silence, a while, in which the breathing of both parties could be
heard, when Tom faintly said, “O, please, Missis!”
The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to its usual stern,
melancholy expression.
“Please, Missis, I saw ’em throw my coat in that ar’ corner,
and in my coat-pocket is my Bible;—if Missis would please get it for
me.”
Cassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heavily marked passage, much
worn, of the last scenes in the life of Him by whose stripes we are healed.
“If Missis would only be so good as read that ar’,—it’s
better than water.”
Cassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked over the passage. She
then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with a beauty of intonation that was
peculiar, that touching account of anguish and of glory. Often, as she read,
her voice faltered, and sometimes failed her altogether, when she would stop,
with an air of frigid composure, till she had mastered herself. When she came
to the touching words, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they
do,” she threw down the book, and, burying her face in the heavy masses
of her hair, she sobbed aloud, with a convulsive violence.
Tom was weeping, also, and occasionally uttering a smothered ejaculation.
“If we only could keep up to that ar’!” said
Tom;—“it seemed to come so natural to him, and we have to fight so
hard for ’t! O Lord, help us! O blessed Lord Jesus, do help us!”
“Missis,” said Tom, after a while, “I can see that, some how,
you’re quite ’bove me in everything; but there’s one thing
Missis might learn even from poor Tom. Ye said the Lord took sides against us,
because he lets us be ’bused and knocked round; but ye see what come on
his own Son,—the blessed Lord of Glory,—wan’t he allays poor?
and have we, any on us, yet come so low as he come? The Lord han’t forgot
us,—I’m sartin’ o’ that ar’. If we suffer with
him, we shall also reign, Scripture says; but, if we deny Him, he also will
deny us. Didn’t they all suffer?—the Lord and all his? It tells how
they was stoned and sawn asunder, and wandered about in sheep-skins and
goat-skins, and was destitute, afflicted, tormented. Sufferin’ an’t
no reason to make us think the Lord’s turned agin us; but jest the
contrary, if only we hold on to him, and doesn’t give up to sin.”
“But why does he put us where we can’t help but sin?” said
the woman.
“I think we help it,” said Tom.
“You’ll see,” said Cassy; “what’ll you do?
Tomorrow they’ll be at you again. I know ’em; I’ve seen all
their doings; I can’t bear to think of all they’ll bring you
to;—and they’ll make you give out, at last!”
“Lord Jesus!” said Tom, “you take care of my
soul? O Lord, do!—don’t let me give out!”
“O dear!” said Cassy; “I’ve heard all this crying and
praying before; and yet, they’ve been broken down, and brought under.
There’s Emmeline, she’s trying to hold on, and you’re
trying,—but what use? You must give up, or be killed by inches.”
“Well, then, I die!” said Tom. “Spin it out as
long as they can, they can’t help my dying, some time!—and, after
that, they can’t do no more. I’m clar, I’m set! I
the Lord’ll help me, and bring me through.”
The woman did not answer; she sat with her black eyes intently fixed on the
floor.
“May be it’s the way,” she murmured to herself; “but
those that given up, there’s no hope for them!—none! We
live in filth, and grow loathsome, till we loathe ourselves! And we long to
die, and we don’t dare to kill ourselves!—No hope! no hope! no
hope?—this girl now,—just as old as I was!
“You see me now,” she said, speaking to Tom very rapidly;
“see what I am! Well, I was brought up in luxury; the first I remember
is, playing about, when I was a child, in splendid parlors,—when I was
kept dressed up like a doll, and company and visitors used to praise me. There
was a garden opening from the saloon windows; and there I used to play
hide-and-go-seek, under the orange-trees, with my brothers and sisters. I went
to a convent, and there I learned music, French and embroidery, and what not;
and when I was fourteen, I came out to my father’s funeral. He died very
suddenly, and when the property came to be settled, they found that there was
scarcely enough to cover the debts; and when the creditors took an inventory of
the property, I was set down in it. My mother was a slave woman, and my father
had always meant to set me free; but he had not done it, and so I was set down
in the list. I’d always known who I was, but never thought much about it.
Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man is going to die. My father was a
well man only four hours before he died;—it was one of the first cholera
cases in New Orleans. The day after the funeral, my father’s wife took
her children, and went up to her father’s plantation. I thought they
treated me strangely, but didn’t know. There was a young lawyer who they
left to settle the business; and he came every day, and was about the house,
and spoke very politely to me. He brought with him, one day, a young man, whom
I thought the handsomest I had ever seen. I shall never forget that evening. I
walked with him in the garden. I was lonesome and full of sorrow, and he was so
kind and gentle to me; and he told me that he had seen me before I went to the
convent, and that he had loved me a great while, and that he would be my friend
and protector;—in short, though he didn’t tell me, he had paid two
thousand dollars for me, and I was his property,—I became his willingly,
for I loved him. Loved!” said the woman, stopping. “O, how I
love that man! How I love him now,—and always shall, while I
breathe! He was so beautiful, so high, so noble! He put me into a beautiful
house, with servants, horses, and carriages, and furniture, and dresses.
Everything that money could buy, he gave me; but I didn’t set any value
on all that,—I only cared for him. I loved him better than my God and my
own soul, and, if I tried, I couldn’t do any other way from what he
wanted me to.
“I wanted only one thing—I did want him to me. I
thought, if he loved me as he said he did, and if I was what he seemed to think
I was, he would be willing to marry me and set me free. But he convinced me
that it would be impossible; and he told me that, if we were only faithful to
each other, it was marriage before God. If that is true, wasn’t I that
man’s wife? Wasn’t I faithful? For seven years, didn’t I
study every look and motion, and only live and breathe to please him? He had
the yellow fever, and for twenty days and nights I watched with him. I
alone,—and gave him all his medicine, and did everything for him; and
then he called me his good angel, and said I’d saved his life. We had two
beautiful children. The first was a boy, and we called him Henry. He was the
image of his father,—he had such beautiful eyes, such a forehead, and his
hair hung all in curls around it; and he had all his father’s spirit, and
his talent, too. Little Elise, he said, looked like me. He used to tell me that
I was the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, he was so proud of me and the
children. He used to love to have me dress them up, and take them and me about
in an open carriage, and hear the remarks that people would make on us; and he
used to fill my ears constantly with the fine things that were said in praise
of me and the children. O, those were happy days! I thought I was as happy as
any one could be; but then there came evil times. He had a cousin come to New
Orleans, who was his particular friend,—he thought all the world of
him;—but, from the first time I saw him, I couldn’t tell why, I
dreaded him; for I felt sure he was going to bring misery on us. He got Henry
to going out with him, and often he would not come home nights till two or
three o’clock. I did not dare say a word; for Henry was so high spirited,
I was afraid to. He got him to the gaming-houses; and he was one of the sort
that, when he once got a going there, there was no holding back. And then he
introduced him to another lady, and I saw soon that his heart was gone from me.
He never told me, but I saw it,—I knew it, day after day,—I felt my
heart breaking, but I could not say a word! At this, the wretch offered to buy
me and the children of Henry, to clear off his gambling debts, which stood in
the way of his marrying as he wished;—and . He told me,
one day, that he had business in the country, and should be gone two or three
weeks. He spoke kinder than usual, and said he should come back; but it
didn’t deceive me. I knew that the time had come; I was just like one
turned into stone; I couldn’t speak, nor shed a tear. He kissed me and
kissed the children, a good many times, and went out. I saw him get on his
horse, and I watched him till he was quite out of sight; and then I fell down,
and fainted.
“Then came, the cursed wretch! he came to take possession. He
told me that he had bought me and my children; and showed me the papers. I
cursed him before God, and told him I’d die sooner than live with
him.”
“‘Just as you please,’ said he; ‘but, if you
don’t behave reasonably, I’ll sell both the children, where you
shall never see them again.’ He told me that he always had meant to have
me, from the first time he saw me; and that he had drawn Henry on, and got him
in debt, on purpose to make him willing to sell me. That he got him in love
with another woman; and that I might know, after all that, that he should not
give up for a few airs and tears, and things of that sort.
“I gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children;—whenever I
resisted his will anywhere, he would talk about selling them, and he made me as
submissive as he desired. O, what a life it was! to live with my heart
breaking, every day,—to keep on, on, on, loving, when it was only misery;
and to be bound, body and soul, to one I hated. I used to love to read to
Henry, to play to him, to waltz with him, and sing to him; but everything I did
for this one was a perfect drag,—yet I was afraid to refuse anything. He
was very imperious, and harsh to the children. Elise was a timid little thing;
but Henry was bold and high-spirited, like his father, and he had never been
brought under, in the least, by any one. He was always finding fault, and
quarrelling with him; and I used to live in daily fear and dread. I tried to
make the child respectful;—I tried to keep them apart, for I held on to
those children like death; but it did no good. . He took me to ride, one day, and when I came home, they were
nowhere to be found! He told me he had sold them; he showed me the money, the
price of their blood. Then it seemed as if all good forsook me. I raved and
cursed,—cursed God and man; and, for a while, I believe, he really was
afraid of me. But he didn’t give up so. He told me that my children were
sold, but whether I ever saw their faces again, depended on him; and that, if I
wasn’t quiet, they should smart for it. Well, you can do anything with a
woman, when you’ve got her children. He made me submit; he made me be
peaceable; he flattered me with hopes that, perhaps, he would buy them back;
and so things went on, a week or two. One day, I was out walking, and passed by
the calaboose; I saw a crowd about the gate, and heard a child’s
voice,—and suddenly my Henry broke away from two or three men who were
holding him, and ran, screaming, and caught my dress. They came up to him,
swearing dreadfully; and one man, whose face I shall never forget, told him
that he wouldn’t get away so; that he was going with him into the
calaboose, and he’d get a lesson there he’d never forget. I tried
to beg and plead,—they only laughed; the poor boy screamed and looked
into my face, and held on to me, until, in tearing him off, they tore the skirt
of my dress half away; and they carried him in, screaming ’Mother!
mother! mother!’ There was one man stood there seemed to pity me. I
offered him all the money I had, if he’d only interfere. He shook his
head, and said that the boy had been impudent and disobedient, ever since he
bought him; that he was going to break him in, once for all. I turned and ran;
and every step of the way, I thought that I heard him scream. I got into the
house; ran, all out of breath, to the parlor, where I found Butler. I told him,
and begged him to go and interfere. He only laughed, and told me the boy had
got his deserts. He’d got to be broken in,—the sooner the better;
’what did I expect?’ he asked.
“It seemed to me something in my head snapped, at that moment. I felt
dizzy and furious. I remember seeing a great sharp bowie-knife on the table; I
remember something about catching it, and flying upon him; and then all grew
dark, and I didn’t know any more,—not for days and days.
“When I came to myself, I was in a nice room,—but not mine. An old
black woman tended me; and a doctor came to see me, and there was a great deal
of care taken of me. After a while, I found that he had gone away, and left me
at this house to be sold; and that’s why they took such pains with me.
“I didn’t mean to get well, and hoped I shouldn’t; but, in
spite of me the fever went off and I grew healthy, and finally got up. Then,
they made me dress up, every day; and gentlemen used to come in and stand and
smoke their cigars, and look at me, and ask questions, and debate my price. I
was so gloomy and silent, that none of them wanted me. They threatened to whip
me, if I wasn’t gayer, and didn’t take some pains to make myself
agreeable. At length, one day, came a gentleman named Stuart. He seemed to have
some feeling for me; he saw that something dreadful was on my heart, and he
came to see me alone, a great many times, and finally persuaded me to tell him.
He bought me, at last, and promised to do all he could to find and buy back my
children. He went to the hotel where my Henry was; they told him he had been
sold to a planter up on Pearl River; that was the last that I ever heard. Then
he found where my daughter was; an old woman was keeping her. He offered an
immense sum for her, but they would not sell her. Butler found out that it was
for me he wanted her; and he sent me word that I should never have her. Captain
Stuart was very kind to me; he had a splendid plantation, and took me to it. In
the course of a year, I had a son born. O, that child!—how I loved it!
How just like my poor Henry the little thing looked! But I had made up my
mind,—yes, I had. I would never again let a child live to grow up! I took
the little fellow in my arms, when he was two weeks old, and kissed him, and
cried over him; and then I gave him laudanum, and held him close to my bosom,
while he slept to death. How I mourned and cried over it! and who ever dreamed
that it was anything but a mistake, that had made me give it the laudanum? but
it’s one of the few things that I’m glad of, now. I am not sorry,
to this day; he, at least, is out of pain. What better than death could I give
him, poor child! After a while, the cholera came, and Captain Stuart died;
everybody died that wanted to live,—and I,—I, though I went down to
death’s door,— Then I was sold, and passed from hand
to hand, till I grew faded and wrinkled, and I had a fever; and then this
wretch bought me, and brought me here,—and here I am!”
The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her story, with a wild,
passionate utterance; sometimes seeming to address it to Tom, and sometimes
speaking as in a soliloquy. So vehement and overpowering was the force with
which she spoke, that, for a season, Tom was beguiled even from the pain of his
wounds, and, raising himself on one elbow, watched her as she paced restlessly
up and down, her long black hair swaying heavily about her, as she moved.
“You tell me,” she said, after a pause, “that there is a
God,—a God that looks down and sees all these things. May be it’s
so. The sisters in the convent used to tell me of a day of judgment, when
everything is coming to light;—won’t there be vengeance, then!
“They think it’s nothing, what we suffer,—nothing, what our
children suffer! It’s all a small matter; yet I’ve walked the
streets when it seemed as if I had misery enough in my one heart to sink the
city. I’ve wished the houses would fall on me, or the stones sink under
me. Yes! and, in the judgment day, I will stand up before God, a witness
against those that have ruined me and my children, body and soul!
“When I was a girl, I thought I was religious; I used to love God and
prayer. Now, I’m a lost soul, pursued by devils that torment me day and
night; they keep pushing me on and on—and I’ll do it, too, some of
these days!” she said, clenching her hand, while an insane light glanced
in her heavy black eyes. “I’ll send him where he belongs,—a
short way, too,—one of these nights, if they burn me alive for it!”
A wild, long laugh rang through the deserted room, and ended in a hysteric sob;
she threw herself on the floor, in convulsive sobbing and struggles.
In a few moments, the frenzy fit seemed to pass off; she rose slowly, and
seemed to collect herself.
“Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow?” she said,
approaching where Tom lay; “shall I give you some more water?”
There was a graceful and compassionate sweetness in her voice and manner, as
she said this, that formed a strange contrast with the former wildness.
Tom drank the water, and looked earnestly and pitifully into her face.
“O, Missis, I wish you’d go to him that can give you living
waters!”
“Go to him! Where is he? Who is he?” said Cassy.
“Him that you read of to me,—the Lord.”
“I used to see the picture of him, over the altar, when I was a
girl,” said Cassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in an expression of
mournful reverie; “but, there’s nothing
here, but sin and long, long, long despair! O!” She laid her hand on her
breast and drew in her breath, as if to lift a heavy weight.
Tom looked as if he would speak again; but she cut him short, with a decided
gesture.
“Don’t talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you can.” And,
placing water in his reach, and making whatever little arrangements for his
comforts she could, Cassy left the shed.
CHAPTER XXXV
The Tokens
“And slight, withal, may be the things that bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever; it may be a sound,
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound,—
Striking the electric chain wherewith we’re darkly bound.”
. 4.
The sitting-room of Legree’s establishment was a large, long room, with a
wide, ample fireplace. It had once been hung with a showy and expensive paper,
which now hung mouldering, torn and discolored, from the damp walls. The place
had that peculiar sickening, unwholesome smell, compounded of mingled damp,
dirt and decay, which one often notices in close old houses. The wall-paper was
defaced, in spots, by slops of beer and wine; or garnished with chalk
memorandums, and long sums footed up, as if somebody had been practising
arithmetic there. In the fireplace stood a brazier full of burning charcoal;
for, though the weather was not cold, the evenings always seemed damp and
chilly in that great room; and Legree, moreover, wanted a place to light his
cigars, and heat his water for punch. The ruddy glare of the charcoal displayed
the confused and unpromising aspect of the room,—saddles, bridles,
several sorts of harness, riding-whips, overcoats, and various articles of
clothing, scattered up and down the room in confused variety; and the dogs, of
whom we have before spoken, had encamped themselves among them, to suit their
own taste and convenience.
Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pouring his hot water from a
cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, grumbling, as he did so,
“Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between me and the new
hands! The fellow won’t be fit to work for a week, now,—right in
the press of the season!”
“Yes, just like you,” said a voice, behind his chair. It was the
woman Cassy, who had stolen upon his soliloquy.
“Hah! you she-devil! you’ve come back, have you?”
“Yes, I have,” she said, coolly; “come to have my own way,
too!”
“You lie, you jade! I’ll be up to my word. Either behave yourself,
or stay down to the quarters, and fare and work with the rest.”
“I’d rather, ten thousand times,” said the woman, “live
in the dirtiest hole at the quarters, than be under your hoof!”
“But you under my hoof, for all that,” said he, turning
upon her, with a savage grin; “that’s one comfort. So, sit down
here on my knee, my dear, and hear to reason,” said he, laying hold on
her wrist.
“Simon Legree, take care!” said the woman, with a sharp flash of
her eye, a glance so wild and insane in its light as to be almost appalling.
“You’re afraid of me, Simon,” she said, deliberately;
“and you’ve reason to be! But be careful, for I’ve got the
devil in me!”
The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close to his ear.
“Get out! I believe, to my soul, you have!” said Legree, pushing
her from him, and looking uncomfortably at her. “After all, Cassy,”
he said, “why can’t you be friends with me, as you used to?”
“Used to!” said she, bitterly. She stopped short,—a word of
choking feelings, rising in her heart, kept her silent.
Cassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence that a strong,
impassioned woman can ever keep over the most brutal man; but, of late, she had
grown more and more irritable and restless, under the hideous yoke of her
servitude, and her irritability, at times, broke out into raving insanity; and
this liability made her a sort of object of dread to Legree, who had that
superstitious horror of insane persons which is common to coarse and
uninstructed minds. When Legree brought Emmeline to the house, all the
smouldering embers of womanly feeling flashed up in the worn heart of Cassy,
and she took part with the girl; and a fierce quarrel ensued between her and
Legree. Legree, in a fury, swore she should be put to field service, if she
would not be peaceable. Cassy, with proud scorn, declared she go
to the field. And she worked there one day, as we have described, to show how
perfectly she scorned the threat.
Legree was secretly uneasy, all day; for Cassy had an influence over him from
which he could not free himself. When she presented her basket at the scales,
he had hoped for some concession, and addressed her in a sort of half
conciliatory, half scornful tone; and she had answered with the bitterest
contempt.
The outrageous treatment of poor Tom had roused her still more; and she had
followed Legree to the house, with no particular intention, but to upbraid him
for his brutality.
“I wish, Cassy,” said Legree, “you’d behave yourself
decently.”
“ talk about behaving decently! And what have you been
doing?—you, who haven’t even sense enough to keep from spoiling one
of your best hands, right in the most pressing season, just for your devilish
temper!”
“I was a fool, it’s a fact, to let any such brangle come up,”
said Legree; “but, when the boy set up his will, he had to be broke
in.”
“I reckon you won’t break in!”
“Won’t I?” said Legree, rising, passionately.
“I’d like to know if I won’t? He’ll be the first nigger
that ever came it round me! I’ll break every bone in his body, but he
give up!”
Just then the door opened, and Sambo entered. He came forward, bowing, and
holding out something in a paper.
“What’s that, you dog?” said Legree.
“It’s a witch thing, Mas’r!”
“A what?”
“Something that niggers gets from witches. Keeps ’em from
feelin’ when they ’s flogged. He had it tied round his neck, with a
black string.”
Legree, like most godless and cruel men, was superstitious. He took the paper,
and opened it uneasily.
There dropped out of it a silver dollar, and a long, shining curl of fair
hair,—hair which, like a living thing, twined itself round Legree’s
fingers.
“Damnation!” he screamed, in sudden passion, stamping on the floor,
and pulling furiously at the hair, as if it burned him. “Where did this
come from? Take it off!—burn it up!—burn it up!” he screamed,
tearing it off, and throwing it into the charcoal. “What did you bring it
to me for?”
Sambo stood, with his heavy mouth wide open, and aghast with wonder; and Cassy,
who was preparing to leave the apartment, stopped, and looked at him in perfect
amazement.
“Don’t you bring me any more of your devilish things!” said
he, shaking his fist at Sambo, who retreated hastily towards the door; and,
picking up the silver dollar, he sent it smashing through the window-pane, out
into the darkness.
Sambo was glad to make his escape. When he was gone, Legree seemed a little
ashamed of his fit of alarm. He sat doggedly down in his chair, and began
sullenly sipping his tumbler of punch.
Cassy prepared herself for going out, unobserved by him; and slipped away to
minister to poor Tom, as we have already related.
And what was the matter with Legree? and what was there in a simple curl of
fair hair to appall that brutal man, familiar with every form of cruelty? To
answer this, we must carry the reader backward in his history. Hard and
reprobate as the godless man seemed now, there had been a time when he had been
rocked on the bosom of a mother,—cradled with prayers and pious
hymns,—his now seared brow bedewed with the waters of holy baptism. In
early childhood, a fair-haired woman had led him, at the sound of Sabbath bell,
to worship and to pray. Far in New England that mother had trained her only
son, with long, unwearied love, and patient prayers. Born of a hard-tempered
sire, on whom that gentle woman had wasted a world of unvalued love, Legree had
followed in the steps of his father. Boisterous, unruly, and tyrannical, he
despised all her counsel, and would none of her reproof; and, at an early age,
broke from her, to seek his fortunes at sea. He never came home but once,
after; and then, his mother, with the yearning of a heart that must love
something, and has nothing else to love, clung to him, and sought, with
passionate prayers and entreaties, to win him from a life of sin, to his
soul’s eternal good.
That was Legree’s day of grace; then good angels called him; then he was
almost persuaded, and mercy held him by the hand. His heart inly
relented,—there was a conflict,—but sin got the victory, and he set
all the force of his rough nature against the conviction of his conscience. He
drank and swore,—was wilder and more brutal than ever. And, one night,
when his mother, in the last agony of her despair, knelt at his feet, he
spurned her from him,—threw her senseless on the floor, and, with brutal
curses, fled to his ship. The next Legree heard of his mother was, when, one
night, as he was carousing among drunken companions, a letter was put into his
hand. He opened it, and a lock of long, curling hair fell from it, and twined
about his fingers. The letter told him his mother was dead, and that, dying,
she blest and forgave him.
There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turns things sweetest and
holiest to phantoms of horror and affright. That pale, loving mother,—her
dying prayers, her forgiving love,—wrought in that demoniac heart of sin
only as a damning sentence, bringing with it a fearful looking for of judgment
and fiery indignation. Legree burned the hair, and burned the letter; and when
he saw them hissing and crackling in the flame, inly shuddered as he thought of
everlasting fires. He tried to drink, and revel, and swear away the memory; but
often, in the deep night, whose solemn stillness arraigns the bad soul in
forced communion with herself, he had seen that pale mother rising by his
bedside, and felt the soft twining of that hair around his fingers, till the
cold sweat would roll down his face, and he would spring from his bed in
horror. Ye who have wondered to hear, in the same evangel, that God is love,
and that God is a consuming fire, see ye not how, to the soul resolved in evil,
perfect love is the most fearful torture, the seal and sentence of the direst
despair?
“Blast it!” said Legree to himself, as he sipped his liquor;
“where did he get that? If it didn’t look just like—whoo! I
thought I’d forgot that. Curse me, if I think there’s any such
thing as forgetting anything, any how,—hang it! I’m lonesome! I
mean to call Em. She hates me—the monkey! I don’t
care,—I’ll her come!”
Legree stepped out into a large entry, which went up stairs, by what had
formerly been a superb winding staircase; but the passage-way was dirty and
dreary, encumbered with boxes and unsightly litter. The stairs, uncarpeted,
seemed winding up, in the gloom, to nobody knew where! The pale moonlight
streamed through a shattered fanlight over the door; the air was unwholesome
and chilly, like that of a vault.
Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voice singing. It seemed
strange and ghostlike in that dreary old house, perhaps because of the already
tremulous state of his nerves. Hark! what is it?
A wild, pathetic voice, chants a hymn common among the slaves:
“O there’ll be mourning, mourning, mourning,
O there’ll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!”
“Blast the girl!” said Legree. “I’ll choke
her.—Em! Em!” he called, harshly; but only a mocking echo from the
walls answered him. The sweet voice still sung on:
“Parents and children there shall part!
Parents and children there shall part!
Shall part to meet no more!”
And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the refrain,
“O there’ll be mourning, mourning, mourning,
O there’ll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!”
Legree stopped. He would have been ashamed to tell of it, but large drops of
sweat stood on his forehead, his heart beat heavy and thick with fear; he even
thought he saw something white rising and glimmering in the gloom before him,
and shuddered to think what if the form of his dead mother should suddenly
appear to him.
“I know one thing,” he said to himself, as he stumbled back in the
sitting-room, and sat down; “I’ll let that fellow alone, after
this! What did I want of his cussed paper? I b’lieve I am bewitched, sure
enough! I’ve been shivering and sweating, ever since! Where did he get
that hair? It couldn’t have been I burnt up, I
know I did! It would be a joke, if hair could rise from the dead!”
Ah, Legree! that golden tress charmed; each hair had in it a spell
of terror and remorse for thee, and was used by a mightier power to bind thy
cruel hands from inflicting uttermost evil on the helpless!
“I say,” said Legree, stamping and whistling to the dogs,
“wake up, some of you, and keep me company!” but the dogs only
opened one eye at him, sleepily, and closed it again.
“I’ll have Sambo and Quimbo up here, to sing and dance one of their
hell dances, and keep off these horrid notions,” said Legree; and,
putting on his hat, he went on to the verandah, and blew a horn, with which he
commonly summoned his two sable drivers.
Legree was often wont, when in a gracious humor, to get these two worthies into
his sitting-room, and, after warming them up with whiskey, amuse himself by
setting them to singing, dancing or fighting, as the humor took him.
It was between one and two o’clock at night, as Cassy was returning from
her ministrations to poor Tom, that she heard the sound of wild shrieking,
whooping, halloing, and singing, from the sitting-room, mingled with the
barking of dogs, and other symptoms of general uproar.
She came up on the verandah steps, and looked in. Legree and both the drivers,
in a state of furious intoxication, were singing, whooping, upsetting chairs,
and making all manner of ludicrous and horrid grimaces at each other.
She rested her small, slender hand on the window-blind, and looked fixedly at
them;—there was a world of anguish, scorn, and fierce bitterness, in her
black eyes, as she did so. “Would it be a sin to rid the world of such a
wretch?” she said to herself.
She turned hurriedly away, and, passing round to a back door, glided up stairs,
and tapped at Emmeline’s door.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Emmeline and Cassy
Cassy entered the room, and found Emmeline sitting, pale with fear, in the
furthest corner of it. As she came in, the girl started up nervously; but, on
seeing who it was, rushed forward, and catching her arm, said, “O Cassy,
is it you? I’m so glad you’ve come! I was afraid it was—. O,
you don’t know what a horrid noise there has been, down stairs, all this
evening!”
“I ought to know,” said Cassy, dryly. “I’ve heard it
often enough.”
“O Cassy! do tell me,—couldn’t we get away from this place? I
don’t care where,—into the swamp among the snakes,—anywhere!
we get away from here?”
“Nowhere, but into our graves,” said Cassy.
“Did you ever try?”
“I’ve seen enough of trying and what comes of it,” said
Cassy.
“I’d be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark from
trees. I an’t afraid of snakes! I’d rather have one near me than
him,” said Emmeline, eagerly.
“There have been a good many here of your opinion,” said Cassy;
“but you couldn’t stay in the swamps,—you’d be tracked
by the dogs, and brought back, and then—then—”
“What would he do?” said the girl, looking, with breathless
interest, into her face.
“What he do, you’d better ask,” said
Cassy. “He’s learned his trade well, among the pirates in the West
Indies. You wouldn’t sleep much, if I should tell you things I’ve
seen,—things that he tells of, sometimes, for good jokes. I’ve
heard screams here that I haven’t been able to get out of my head for
weeks and weeks. There’s a place way out down by the quarters, where you
can see a black, blasted tree, and the ground all covered with black ashes. Ask
anyone what was done there, and see if they will dare to tell you.”
“O! what do you mean?”
“I won’t tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you, the Lord
only knows what we may see tomorrow, if that poor fellow holds out as
he’s begun.”
“Horrid!” said Emmeline, every drop of blood receding from her
cheeks. “O, Cassy, do tell me what I shall do!”
“What I’ve done. Do the best you can,—do what you
must,—and make it up in hating and cursing.”
“He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy,” said
Emmeline; “and I hate it so—”
“You’d better drink,” said Cassy. “I hated it, too; and
now I can’t live without it. One must have something;—things
don’t look so dreadful, when you take that.”
“Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing,” said
Emmeline.
“ told you!” said Cassy, with a thrilling and bitter
emphasis on the word mother. “What use is it for mothers to say anything?
You are all to be bought and paid for, and your souls belong to whoever gets
you. That’s the way it goes. I say, brandy; drink all you
can, and it’ll make things come easier.”
“O, Cassy! do pity me!”
“Pity you!—don’t I? Haven’t I a daughter,—Lord
knows where she is, and whose she is, now,—going the way her mother went,
before her, I suppose, and that her children must go, after her! There’s
no end to the curse—forever!”
“I wish I’d never been born!” said Emmeline, wringing her
hands.
“That’s an old wish with me,” said Cassy. “I’ve
got used to wishing that. I’d die, if I dared to,” she said,
looking out into the darkness, with that still, fixed despair which was the
habitual expression of her face when at rest.
“It would be wicked to kill one’s self,” said Emmeline.
“I don’t know why,—no wickeder than things we live and do,
day after day. But the sisters told me things, when I was in the convent, that
make me afraid to die. If it would only be the end of us, why,
then—”
Emmeline turned away, and hid her face in her hands.
While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree, overcome with his
carouse, had sunk to sleep in the room below. Legree was not an habitual
drunkard. His coarse, strong nature craved, and could endure, a continual
stimulation, that would have utterly wrecked and crazed a finer one. But a
deep, underlying spirit of cautiousness prevented his often yielding to
appetite in such measure as to lose control of himself.
This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from his mind those
fearful elements of woe and remorse which woke within him, he had indulged more
than common; so that, when he had discharged his sable attendants, he fell
heavily on a settle in the room, and was sound asleep.
O! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of sleep?—that land
whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to the mystic scene of retribution!
Legree dreamed. In his heavy and feverish sleep, a veiled form stood beside
him, and laid a cold, soft hand upon him. He thought he knew who it was; and
shuddered, with creeping horror, though the face was veiled. Then he thought he
felt twining round his fingers; and then, that it slid
smoothly round his neck, and tightened and tightened, and he could not draw his
breath; and then he thought voices to him,—whispers that
chilled him with horror. Then it seemed to him he was on the edge of a
frightful abyss, holding on and struggling in mortal fear, while dark hands
stretched up, and were pulling him over; and Cassy came behind him laughing,
and pushed him. And then rose up that solemn veiled figure, and drew aside the
veil. It was his mother; and she turned away from him, and he fell down, down,
down, amid a confused noise of shrieks, and groans, and shouts of demon
laughter,—and Legree awoke.
Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room. The morning star stood,
with its solemn, holy eye of light, looking down on the man of sin, from out
the brightening sky. O, with what freshness, what solemnity and beauty, is each
new day born; as if to say to insensate man, “Behold! thou hast one more
chance! for immortal glory!” There is no speech nor
language where this voice is not heard; but the bold, bad man heard it not. He
woke with an oath and a curse. What to him was the gold and purple, the daily
miracle of morning! What to him the sanctity of the star which the Son of God
has hallowed as his own emblem? Brute-like, he saw without perceiving; and,
stumbling forward, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and drank half of it.
“I’ve had a h—l of a night!” he said to Cassy, who just
then entered from an opposite door.
“You’ll get plenty of the same sort, by and by,” said she,
dryly.
“What do you mean, you minx?”
“You’ll find out, one of these days,” returned Cassy, in the
same tone. “Now Simon, I’ve one piece of advice to give you.”
“The devil, you have!”
“My advice is,” said Cassy, steadily, as she began adjusting some
things about the room, “that you let Tom alone.”
“What business is ’t of yours?”
“What? To be sure, I don’t know what it should be. If you want to
pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use him right up in the press of the
season, just to serve your own spite, it’s no business of mine,
I’ve done what I could for him.”
“You have? What business have you meddling in my matters?”
“None, to be sure. I’ve saved you some thousands of dollars, at
different times, by taking care of your hands,—that’s all the
thanks I get. If your crop comes shorter into market than any of theirs, you
won’t lose your bet, I suppose? Tompkins won’t lord it over you, I
suppose,—and you’ll pay down your money like a lady, won’t
you? I think I see you doing it!”
Legree, like many other planters, had but one form of ambition,—to have
in the heaviest crop of the season,—and he had several bets on this very
present season pending in the next town. Cassy, therefore, with woman’s
tact, touched the only string that could be made to vibrate.
“Well, I’ll let him off at what he’s got,” said Legree;
“but he shall beg my pardon, and promise better fashions.”
“That he won’t do,” said Cassy.
“Won’t,—eh?”
“No, he won’t,” said Cassy.
“I’d like to know , Mistress,” said Legree, in the
extreme of scorn.
“Because he’s done right, and he knows it, and won’t say
he’s done wrong.”
“Who a cuss cares what he knows? The nigger shall say what I please,
or—”
“Or, you’ll lose your bet on the cotton crop, by keeping him out of
the field, just at this very press.”
“But he give up,—course, he will; don’t I know
what niggers is? He’ll beg like a dog, this morning.”
“He won’t, Simon; you don’t know this kind. You may kill him
by inches,—you won’t get the first word of confession out of
him.”
“We’ll see,—where is he?” said Legree, going out.
“In the waste-room of the gin-house,” said Cassy.
Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, still sallied forth from the
house with a degree of misgiving which was not common with him. His dreams of
the past night, mingled with Cassy’s prudential suggestions, considerably
affected his mind. He resolved that nobody should be witness of his encounter
with Tom; and determined, if he could not subdue him by bullying, to defer his
vengeance, to be wreaked in a more convenient season.
The solemn light of dawn—the angelic glory of the morning-star—had
looked in through the rude window of the shed where Tom was lying; and, as if
descending on that star-beam, came the solemn words, “I am the root and
offspring of David, and the bright and morning star.” The mysterious
warnings and intimations of Cassy, so far from discouraging his soul, in the
end had roused it as with a heavenly call. He did not know but that the day of
his death was dawning in the sky; and his heart throbbed with solemn throes of
joy and desire, as he thought that the wondrous , of which he had
often pondered,—the great white throne, with its ever radiant rainbow;
the white-robed multitude, with voices as many waters; the crowns, the palms,
the harps,—might all break upon his vision before that sun should set
again. And, therefore, without shuddering or trembling, he heard the voice of
his persecutor, as he drew near.
“Well, my boy,” said Legree, with a contemptuous kick, “how
do you find yourself? Didn’t I tell yer I could larn yer a thing or two?
How do yer like it—eh? How did yer whaling agree with yer, Tom?
An’t quite so crank as ye was last night. Ye couldn’t treat a poor
sinner, now, to a bit of sermon, could ye,—eh?”
Tom answered nothing.
“Get up, you beast!” said Legree, kicking him again.
This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint; and, as Tom made
efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally.
“What makes ye so spry, this morning, Tom? Cotched cold, may be, last
night.”
Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confronting his master with a
steady, unmoved front.
“The devil, you can!” said Legree, looking him over. “I
believe you haven’t got enough yet. Now, Tom, get right down on yer knees
and beg my pardon, for yer shines last night.”
Tom did not move.
“Down, you dog!” said Legree, striking him with his riding-whip.
“Mas’r Legree,” said Tom, “I can’t do it. I did
only what I thought was right. I shall do just so again, if ever the time
comes. I never will do a cruel thing, come what may.”
“Yes, but ye don’t know what may come, Master Tom. Ye think what
you’ve got is something. I tell you ’tan’t
anything,—nothing ’t all. How would ye like to be tied to a tree,
and have a slow fire lit up around ye;—wouldn’t that be
pleasant,—eh, Tom?”
“Mas’r,” said Tom, “I know ye can do dreadful things;
but,”—he stretched himself upward and clasped his
hands,—“but, after ye’ve killed the body, there an’t no
more ye can do. And O, there’s all to come, after
that!”
E,—the word thrilled through the black man’s
soul with light and power, as he spoke; it thrilled through the sinner’s
soul, too, like the bite of a scorpion. Legree gnashed on him with his teeth,
but rage kept him silent; and Tom, like a man disenthralled, spoke, in a clear
and cheerful voice,
“Mas’r Legree, as ye bought me, I’ll be a true and faithful
servant to ye. I’ll give ye all the work of my hands, all my time, all my
strength; but my soul I won’t give up to mortal man. I will hold on to
the Lord, and put his commands before all,—die or live; you may be sure
on ’t. Mas’r Legree, I ain’t a grain afeard to die. I’d
as soon die as not. Ye may whip me, starve me, burn me,—it’ll only
send me sooner where I want to go.”
“I’ll make ye give out, though, ’fore I’ve done!”
said Legree, in a rage.
“I shall have ,” said Tom; “you’ll never do
it.”
“Who the devil’s going to help you?” said Legree, scornfully.
“The Lord Almighty,” said Tom.
“D—n you!” said Legree, as with one blow of his fist he
felled Tom to the earth.
A cold soft hand fell on Legree’s at this moment. He turned,—it was
Cassy’s; but the cold soft touch recalled his dream of the night before,
and, flashing through the chambers of his brain, came all the fearful images of
the night-watches, with a portion of the horror that accompanied them.
“Will you be a fool?” said Cassy, in French. “Let him go! Let
me alone to get him fit to be in the field again. Isn’t it just as I told
you?”
They say the alligator, the rhinoceros, though enclosed in bullet-proof mail,
have each a spot where they are vulnerable; and fierce, reckless, unbelieving
reprobates, have commonly this point in superstitious dread.
Legree turned away, determined to let the point go for the time.
“Well, have it your own way,” he said, doggedly, to Cassy.
“Hark, ye!” he said to Tom; “I won’t deal with ye now,
because the business is pressing, and I want all my hands; but I
forget. I’ll score it against ye, and sometime I’ll have my pay out
o’ yer old black hide,—mind ye!”
Legree turned, and went out.
“There you go,” said Cassy, looking darkly after him; “your
reckoning’s to come, yet!—My poor fellow, how are you?”
“The Lord God hath sent his angel, and shut the lion’s mouth, for
this time,” said Tom.
“For this time, to be sure,” said Cassy; “but now
you’ve got his ill will upon you, to follow you day in, day out, hanging
like a dog on your throat,—sucking your blood, bleeding away your life,
drop by drop. I know the man.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
Liberty
“No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar
of slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the
God sink together in the dust, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and
disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal
emancipation.”—.
[1]
John Philpot Curran (1750-1817), Irish orator and judge who worked for
Catholic emancipation.
A while we must leave Tom in the hands of his persecutors, while we turn to
pursue the fortunes of George and his wife, whom we left in friendly hands, in
a farmhouse on the road-side.
Tom Loker we left groaning and touzling in a most immaculately clean Quaker
bed, under the motherly supervision of Aunt Dorcas, who found him to the full
as tractable a patient as a sick bison.
Imagine a tall, dignified, spiritual woman, whose clear muslin cap shades waves
of silvery hair, parted on a broad, clear forehead, which overarches thoughtful
gray eyes. A snowy handkerchief of lisse crape is folded neatly across her
bosom; her glossy brown silk dress rustles peacefully, as she glides up and
down the chamber.
“The devil!” says Tom Loker, giving a great throw to the
bedclothes.
“I must request thee, Thomas, not to use such language,” says Aunt
Dorcas, as she quietly rearranged the bed.
“Well, I won’t, granny, if I can help it,” says Tom;
“but it is enough to make a fellow swear,—so cursedly hot!”
Dorcas removed a comforter from the bed, straightened the clothes again, and
tucked them in till Tom looked something like a chrysalis; remarking, as she
did so,
“I wish, friend, thee would leave off cursing and swearing, and think
upon thy ways.”
“What the devil,” said Tom, “should I think of
for? Last thing ever want to think of—hang it all!” And
Tom flounced over, untucking and disarranging everything, in a manner frightful
to behold.
“That fellow and gal are here, I s’pose,” said he, sullenly,
after a pause.
“They are so,” said Dorcas.
“They’d better be off up to the lake,” said Tom; “the
quicker the better.”
“Probably they will do so,” said Aunt Dorcas, knitting peacefully.
“And hark ye,” said Tom; “we’ve got correspondents in
Sandusky, that watch the boats for us. I don’t care if I tell, now. I
hope they get away, just to spite Marks,—the cursed
puppy!—d—n him!”
“Thomas!” said Dorcas.
“I tell you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, I shall
split,” said Tom. “But about the gal,—tell ’em to dress
her up some way, so’s to alter her. Her description’s out in
Sandusky.”
“We will attend to that matter,” said Dorcas, with characteristic
composure.
As we at this place take leave of Tom Loker, we may as well say, that, having
lain three weeks at the Quaker dwelling, sick with a rheumatic fever, which set
in, in company with his other afflictions, Tom arose from his bed a somewhat
sadder and wiser man; and, in place of slave-catching, betook himself to life
in one of the new settlements, where his talents developed themselves more
happily in trapping bears, wolves, and other inhabitants of the forest, in
which he made himself quite a name in the land. Tom always spoke reverently of
the Quakers. “Nice people,” he would say; “wanted to convert
me, but couldn’t come it, exactly. But, tell ye what, stranger, they do
fix up a sick fellow first rate,—no mistake. Make jist the tallest kind
o’ broth and knicknacks.”
As Tom had informed them that their party would be looked for in Sandusky, it
was thought prudent to divide them. Jim, with his old mother, was forwarded
separately; and a night or two after, George and Eliza, with their child, were
driven privately into Sandusky, and lodged beneath a hospital roof, preparatory
to taking their last passage on the lake.
Their night was now far spent, and the morning star of liberty rose fair before
them!—electric word! What is it? Is there anything more in it than a
name—a rhetorical flourish? Why, men and women of America, does your
heart’s blood thrill at that word, for which your fathers bled, and your
braver mothers were willing that their noblest and best should die?
Is there anything in it glorious and dear for a nation, that is not also
glorious and dear for a man? What is freedom to a nation, but freedom to the
individuals in it? What is freedom to that young man, who sits there, with his
arms folded over his broad chest, the tint of African blood in his cheek, its
dark fires in his eyes,—what is freedom to George Harris? To your
fathers, freedom was the right of a nation to be a nation. To him, it is the
right of a man to be a man, and not a brute; the right to call the wife of his
bosom his wife, and to protect her from lawless violence; the right to protect
and educate his child; the right to have a home of his own, a religion of his
own, a character of his own, unsubject to the will of another. All these
thoughts were rolling and seething in George’s breast, as he was
pensively leaning his head on his hand, watching his wife, as she was adapting
to her slender and pretty form the articles of man’s attire, in which it
was deemed safest she should make her escape.
“Now for it,” said she, as she stood before the glass, and shook
down her silky abundance of black curly hair. “I say, George, it’s
almost a pity, isn’t it,” she said, as she held up some of it,
playfully,—“pity it’s all got to come off?”
George smiled sadly, and made no answer.
Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered as one long lock after
another was detached from her head.
“There, now, that’ll do,” she said, taking up a hair-brush;
“now for a few fancy touches.”
“There, an’t I a pretty young fellow?” she said, turning
around to her husband, laughing and blushing at the same time.
“You always will be pretty, do what you will,” said George.
“What does make you so sober?” said Eliza, kneeling on one knee,
and laying her hand on his. “We are only within twenty-four hours of
Canada, they say. Only a day and a night on the lake, and then—oh,
then!—”
“O, Eliza!” said George, drawing her towards him; “that is
it! Now my fate is all narrowing down to a point. To come so near, to be almost
in sight, and then lose all. I should never live under it, Eliza.”
“Don’t fear,” said his wife, hopefully. “The good Lord
would not have brought us so far, if he didn’t mean to carry us through.
I seem to feel him with us, George.”
“You are a blessed woman, Eliza!” said George, clasping her with a
convulsive grasp. “But,—oh, tell me! can this great mercy be for
us? Will these years and years of misery come to an end?—shall we be
free?
“I am sure of it, George,” said Eliza, looking upward, while tears
of hope and enthusiasm shone on her long, dark lashes. “I feel it in me,
that God is going to bring us out of bondage, this very day.”
“I will believe you, Eliza,” said George, rising suddenly up,
“I will believe,—come let’s be off. Well, indeed,” said
he, holding her off at arm’s length, and looking admiringly at her,
“you a pretty little fellow. That crop of little, short curls,
is quite becoming. Put on your cap. So—a little to one side. I never saw
you look quite so pretty. But, it’s almost time for the carriage;—I
wonder if Mrs. Smyth has got Harry rigged?”
The door opened, and a respectable, middle-aged woman entered, leading little
Harry, dressed in girl’s clothes.
“What a pretty girl he makes,” said Eliza, turning him round.
“We call him Harriet, you see;—don’t the name come
nicely?”
The child stood gravely regarding his mother in her new and strange attire,
observing a profound silence, and occasionally drawing deep sighs, and peeping
at her from under his dark curls.
“Does Harry know mamma?” said Eliza, stretching her hands toward
him.
The child clung shyly to the woman.
“Come Eliza, why do you try to coax him, when you know that he has got to
be kept away from you?”
“I know it’s foolish,” said Eliza; “yet, I can’t
bear to have him turn away from me. But come,—where’s my cloak?
Here,—how is it men put on cloaks, George?”
“You must wear it so,” said her husband, throwing it over his
shoulders.
“So, then,” said Eliza, imitating the motion,—“and I
must stamp, and take long steps, and try to look saucy.”
“Don’t exert yourself,” said George. “There is, now and
then, a modest young man; and I think it would be easier for you to act that
character.”
“And these gloves! mercy upon us!” said Eliza; “why, my hands
are lost in them.”
“I advise you to keep them on pretty strictly,” said George.
“Your slender paw might bring us all out. Now, Mrs. Smyth, you are to go
under our charge, and be our aunty,—you mind.”
“I’ve heard,” said Mrs. Smyth, “that there have been
men down, warning all the packet captains against a man and woman, with a
little boy.”
“They have!” said George. “Well, if we see any such people,
we can tell them.”
A hack now drove to the door, and the friendly family who had received the
fugitives crowded around them with farewell greetings.
The disguises the party had assumed were in accordance with the hints of Tom
Loker. Mrs. Smyth, a respectable woman from the settlement in Canada, whither
they were fleeing, being fortunately about crossing the lake to return thither,
had consented to appear as the aunt of little Harry; and, in order to attach
him to her, he had been allowed to remain, the two last days, under her sole
charge; and an extra amount of petting, jointed to an indefinite amount of
seed-cakes and candy, had cemented a very close attachment on the part of the
young gentleman.
The hack drove to the wharf. The two young men, as they appeared, walked up the
plank into the boat, Eliza gallantly giving her arm to Mrs. Smyth, and George
attending to their baggage.
George was standing at the captain’s office, settling for his party, when
he overheard two men talking by his side.
“I’ve watched every one that came on board,” said one,
“and I know they’re not on this boat.”
The voice was that of the clerk of the boat. The speaker whom he addressed was
our sometime friend Marks, who, with that valuable perseverance which
characterized him, had come on to Sandusky, seeking whom he might devour.
“You would scarcely know the woman from a white one,” said Marks.
“The man is a very light mulatto; he has a brand in one of his
hands.”
The hand with which George was taking the tickets and change trembled a little;
but he turned coolly around, fixed an unconcerned glance on the face of the
speaker, and walked leisurely toward another part of the boat, where Eliza
stood waiting for him.
Mrs. Smyth, with little Harry, sought the seclusion of the ladies’ cabin,
where the dark beauty of the supposed little girl drew many flattering comments
from the passengers.
George had the satisfaction, as the bell rang out its farewell peal, to see
Marks walk down the plank to the shore; and drew a long sigh of relief, when
the boat had put a returnless distance between them.
It was a superb day. The blue waves of Lake Erie danced, rippling and
sparkling, in the sun-light. A fresh breeze blew from the shore, and the lordly
boat ploughed her way right gallantly onward.
O, what an untold world there is in one human heart! Who thought, as George
walked calmly up and down the deck of the steamer, with his shy companion at
his side, of all that was burning in his bosom? The mighty good that seemed
approaching seemed too good, too fair, even to be a reality; and he felt a
jealous dread, every moment of the day, that something would rise to snatch it
from him.
But the boat swept on. Hours fleeted, and, at last, clear and full rose the
blessed English shores; shores charmed by a mighty spell,—with one touch
to dissolve every incantation of slavery, no matter in what language
pronounced, or by what national power confirmed.
THE FUGITIVES ARE SAVE IN A FREE LAND.
George and his wife stood arm in arm, as the boat neared the small town of
Amherstberg, in Canada. His breath grew thick and short; a mist gathered before
his eyes; he silently pressed the little hand that lay trembling on his arm.
The bell rang; the boat stopped. Scarcely seeing what he did, he looked out his
baggage, and gathered his little party. The little company were landed on the
shore. They stood still till the boat had cleared; and then, with tears and
embracings, the husband and wife, with their wondering child in their arms,
knelt down and lifted up their hearts to God!
“’T was something like the burst from death to life;
From the grave’s cerements to the robes of heaven;
From sin’s dominion, and from passion’s strife,
To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven;
Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven,
And mortal puts on immortality,
When Mercy’s hand hath turned the golden key,
And Mercy’s voice hath said,
The little party were soon guided, by Mrs. Smyth, to the hospitable abode of a
good missionary, whom Christian charity has placed here as a shepherd to the
outcast and wandering, who are constantly finding an asylum on this shore.
Who can speak the blessedness of that first day of freedom? Is not the
of liberty a higher and a finer one than any of the five? To move,
speak and breathe,—go out and come in unwatched, and free from danger!
Who can speak the blessings of that rest which comes down on the free
man’s pillow, under laws which insure to him the rights that God has
given to man? How fair and precious to that mother was that sleeping
child’s face, endeared by the memory of a thousand dangers! How
impossible was it to sleep, in the exuberant possession of such blessedness!
And yet, these two had not one acre of ground,—not a roof that they could
call their own,—they had spent their all, to the last dollar. They had
nothing more than the birds of the air, or the flowers of the field,—yet
they could not sleep for joy. “O, ye who take freedom from man, with what
words shall ye answer it to God?”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The Victory
“Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory.”
[1]
I Cor. 15:57.
Have not many of us, in the weary way of life, felt, in some hours, how far
easier it were to die than to live?
The martyr, when faced even by a death of bodily anguish and horror, finds in
the very terror of his doom a strong stimulant and tonic. There is a vivid
excitement, a thrill and fervor, which may carry through any crisis of
suffering that is the birth-hour of eternal glory and rest.
But to live,—to wear on, day after day, of mean, bitter, low, harassing
servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed, every power of feeling gradually
smothered,—this long and wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow, daily
bleeding away of the inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour,—this is
the true searching test of what there may be in man or woman.
When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor, and heard his threats, and
thought in his very soul that his hour was come, his heart swelled bravely in
him, and he thought he could bear torture and fire, bear anything, with the
vision of Jesus and heaven but just a step beyond; but, when he was gone, and
the present excitement passed off, came back the pain of his bruised and weary
limbs,—came back the sense of his utterly degraded, hopeless, forlorn
estate; and the day passed wearily enough.
Long before his wounds were healed, Legree insisted that he should be put to
the regular field-work; and then came day after day of pain and weariness,
aggravated by every kind of injustice and indignity that the ill-will of a mean
and malicious mind could devise. Whoever, in circumstances, has made
trial of pain, even with all the alleviations which, for us, usually attend it,
must know the irritation that comes with it. Tom no longer wondered at the
habitual surliness of his associates; nay, he found the placid, sunny temper,
which had been the habitude of his life, broken in on, and sorely strained, by
the inroads of the same thing. He had flattered himself on leisure to read his
Bible; but there was no such thing as leisure there. In the height of the
season, Legree did not hesitate to press all his hands through, Sundays and
week-days alike. Why shouldn’t he?—he made more cotton by it, and
gained his wager; and if it wore out a few more hands, he could buy better
ones. At first, Tom used to read a verse or two of his Bible, by the flicker of
the fire, after he had returned from his daily toil; but, after the cruel
treatment he received, he used to come home so exhausted, that his head swam
and his eyes failed when he tried to read; and he was fain to stretch himself
down, with the others, in utter exhaustion.
Is it strange that the religious peace and trust, which had upborne him
hitherto, should give way to tossings of soul and despondent darkness? The
gloomiest problem of this mysterious life was constantly before his
eyes,—souls crushed and ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent. It was
weeks and months that Tom wrestled, in his own soul, in darkness and sorrow. He
thought of Miss Ophelia’s letter to his Kentucky friends, and would pray
earnestly that God would send him deliverance. And then he would watch, day
after day, in the vague hope of seeing somebody sent to redeem him; and, when
nobody came, he would crush back to his soul bitter thoughts,—that it was
vain to serve God, that God had forgotten him. He sometimes saw Cassy; and
sometimes, when summoned to the house, caught a glimpse of the dejected form of
Emmeline, but held very little communion with either; in fact, there was no
time for him to commune with anybody.
One evening, he was sitting, in utter dejection and prostration, by a few
decaying brands, where his coarse supper was baking. He put a few bits of
brushwood on the fire, and strove to raise the light, and then drew his worn
Bible from his pocket. There were all the marked passages, which had thrilled
his soul so often,—words of patriarchs and seers, poets and sages, who
from early time had spoken courage to man,—voices from the great cloud of
witnesses who ever surround us in the race of life. Had the word lost its
power, or could the failing eye and weary sense no longer answer to the touch
of that mighty inspiration? Heavily sighing, he put it in his pocket. A coarse
laugh roused him; he looked up,—Legree was standing opposite to him.
“Well, old boy,” he said, “you find your religion don’t
work, it seems! I thought I should get that through your wool, at last!”
The cruel taunt was more than hunger and cold and nakedness. Tom was silent.
“You were a fool,” said Legree; “for I meant to do well by
you, when I bought you. You might have been better off than Sambo, or Quimbo
either, and had easy times; and, instead of getting cut up and thrashed, every
day or two, ye might have had liberty to lord it round, and cut up the other
niggers; and ye might have had, now and then, a good warming of whiskey punch.
Come, Tom, don’t you think you’d better be reasonable?—heave
that ar old pack of trash in the fire, and join my church!”
“The Lord forbid!” said Tom, fervently.
“You see the Lord an’t going to help you; if he had been, he
wouldn’t have let get you! This yer religion is all a mess of
lying trumpery, Tom. I know all about it. Ye’d better hold to me;
I’m somebody, and can do something!”
“No, Mas’r,” said Tom; “I’ll hold on. The Lord
may help me, or not help; but I’ll hold to him, and believe him to the
last!”
“The more fool you!” said Legree, spitting scornfully at him, and
spurning him with his foot. “Never mind; I’ll chase you down, yet,
and bring you under,—you’ll see!” and Legree turned away.
When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level at which endurance is
possible, there is an instant and desperate effort of every physical and moral
nerve to throw off the weight; and hence the heaviest anguish often precedes a
return tide of joy and courage. So was it now with Tom. The atheistic taunts of
his cruel master sunk his before dejected soul to the lowest ebb; and, though
the hand of faith still held to the eternal rock, it was a numb, despairing
grasp. Tom sat, like one stunned, at the fire. Suddenly everything around him
seemed to fade, and a vision rose before him of one crowned with thorns,
buffeted and bleeding. Tom gazed, in awe and wonder, at the majestic patience
of the face; the deep, pathetic eyes thrilled him to his inmost heart; his soul
woke, as, with floods of emotion, he stretched out his hands and fell upon his
knees,—when, gradually, the vision changed: the sharp thorns became rays
of glory; and, in splendor inconceivable, he saw that same face bending
compassionately towards him, and a voice said, “He that overcometh shall
sit down with me on my throne, even as I also overcome, and am set down with my
Father on his throne.”
How long Tom lay there, he knew not. When he came to himself, the fire was gone
out, his clothes were wet with the chill and drenching dews; but the dread
soul-crisis was past, and, in the joy that filled him, he no longer felt
hunger, cold, degradation, disappointment, wretchedness. From his deepest soul,
he that hour loosed and parted from every hope in life that now is, and offered
his own will an unquestioning sacrifice to the Infinite. Tom looked up to the
silent, ever-living stars,—types of the angelic hosts who ever look down
on man; and the solitude of the night rung with the triumphant words of a hymn,
which he had sung often in happier days, but never with such feeling as now:
“The earth shall be dissolved like snow,
The sun shall cease to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Shall be forever mine.
“And when this mortal life shall fail,
And flesh and sense shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil
A life of joy and peace.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining like the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.”
Those who have been familiar with the religious histories of the slave
population know that relations like what we have narrated are very common among
them. We have heard some from their own lips, of a very touching and affecting
character. The psychologist tells us of a state, in which the affections and
images of the mind become so dominant and overpowering, that they press into
their service the outward imagining. Who shall measure what an all-pervading
Spirit may do with these capabilities of our mortality, or the ways in which He
may encourage the desponding souls of the desolate? If the poor forgotten slave
believes that Jesus hath appeared and spoken to him, who shall contradict him?
Did He not say that his mission, in all ages, was to bind up the
broken-hearted, and set at liberty them that are bruised?
When the dim gray of dawn woke the slumberers to go forth to the field, there
was among those tattered and shivering wretches one who walked with an exultant
tread; for firmer than the ground he trod on was his strong faith in Almighty,
eternal love. Ah, Legree, try all your forces now! Utmost agony, woe,
degradation, want, and loss of all things, shall only hasten on the process by
which he shall be made a king and a priest unto God!
From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed the lowly heart of
the oppressed one,—an ever-present Saviour hallowed it as a temple. Past
now the bleeding of earthly regrets; past its fluctuations of hope, and fear,
and desire; the human will, bent, and bleeding, and struggling long, was now
entirely merged in the Divine. So short now seemed the remaining voyage of
life,—so near, so vivid, seemed eternal blessedness,—that
life’s uttermost woes fell from him unharming.
All noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness and alertness seemed to
return to him, and a quietness which no insult or injury could ruffle seemed to
possess him.
“What the devil’s got into Tom?” Legree said to Sambo.
“A while ago he was all down in the mouth, and now he’s peart as a
cricket.”
“Dunno, Mas’r; gwine to run off, mebbe.”
“Like to see him try that,” said Legree, with a savage grin,
“wouldn’t we, Sambo?”
“Guess we would! Haw! haw! ho!” said the sooty gnome, laughing
obsequiously. “Lord, de fun! To see him stickin’ in de
mud,—chasin’ and tarin’ through de bushes, dogs a
holdin’ on to him! Lord, I laughed fit to split, dat ar time we cotched
Molly. I thought they’d a had her all stripped up afore I could get
’em off. She car’s de marks o’ dat ar spree yet.”
“I reckon she will, to her grave,” said Legree. “But now,
Sambo, you look sharp. If the nigger’s got anything of this sort going,
trip him up.”
“Mas’r, let me lone for dat,” said Sambo, “I’ll
tree de coon. Ho, ho, ho!”
This was spoken as Legree was getting on his horse, to go to the neighboring
town. That night, as he was returning, he thought he would turn his horse and
ride round the quarters, and see if all was safe.
It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the graceful China trees
lay minutely pencilled on the turf below, and there was that transparent
stillness in the air which it seems almost unholy to disturb. Legree was a
little distance from the quarters, when he heard the voice of some one singing.
It was not a usual sound there, and he paused to listen. A musical tenor voice
sang,
“When I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I’ll bid farewell to every fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes
“Should earth against my soul engage,
And hellish darts be hurled,
Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,
And face a frowning world.
“Let cares like a wild deluge come,
And storms of sorrow fall,
May I but safely reach my home,
My God, my Heaven, my All.”
[2]
“On My Journey Home,” hymn by Isaac Watts, found in many of the
southern country songbooks of the ante bellum period.
“So ho!” said Legree to himself, “he thinks so, does he? How
I hate these cursed Methodist hymns! Here, you nigger,” said he, coming
suddenly out upon Tom, and raising his riding-whip, “how dare you be
gettin’ up this yer row, when you ought to be in bed? Shut yer old black
gash, and get along in with you!”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he rose
to go in.
Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom’s evident happiness; and riding
up to him, belabored him over his head and shoulders.
“There, you dog,” he said, “see if you’ll feel so
comfortable, after that!”
But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as before, on the heart.
Tom stood perfectly submissive; and yet Legree could not hide from himself that
his power over his bond thrall was somehow gone. And, as Tom disappeared in his
cabin, and he wheeled his horse suddenly round, there passed through his mind
one of those vivid flashes that often send the lightning of conscience across
the dark and wicked soul. He understood full well that it was
G who was standing between him and his victim, and he
blasphemed him. That submissive and silent man, whom taunts, nor threats, nor
stripes, nor cruelties, could disturb, roused a voice within him, such as of
old his Master roused in the demoniac soul, saying, “What have we to do
with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth?—art thou come to torment us before the
time?”
Tom’s whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy for the poor
wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it seemed as if his life-sorrows
were now over, and as if, out of that strange treasury of peace and joy, with
which he had been endowed from above, he longed to pour out something for the
relief of their woes. It is true, opportunities were scanty; but, on the way to
the fields, and back again, and during the hours of labor, chances fell in his
way of extending a helping-hand to the weary, the disheartened and discouraged.
The poor, worn-down, brutalized creatures, at first, could scarce comprehend
this; but, when it was continued week after week, and month after month, it
began to awaken long-silent chords in their benumbed hearts. Gradually and
imperceptibly the strange, silent, patient man, who was ready to bear every
one’s burden, and sought help from none,—who stood aside for all,
and came last, and took least, yet was foremost to share his little all with
any who needed,—the man who, in cold nights, would give up his tattered
blanket to add to the comfort of some woman who shivered with sickness, and who
filled the baskets of the weaker ones in the field, at the terrible risk of
coming short in his own measure,—and who, though pursued with unrelenting
cruelty by their common tyrant, never joined in uttering a word of reviling or
cursing,—this man, at last, began to have a strange power over them; and,
when the more pressing season was past, and they were allowed again their
Sundays for their own use, many would gather together to hear from him of
Jesus. They would gladly have met to hear, and pray, and sing, in some place,
together; but Legree would not permit it, and more than once broke up such
attempts, with oaths and brutal execrations,—so that the blessed news had
to circulate from individual to individual. Yet who can speak the simple joy
with which some of those poor outcasts, to whom life was a joyless journey to a
dark unknown, heard of a compassionate Redeemer and a heavenly home? It is the
statement of missionaries, that, of all races of the earth, none have received
the Gospel with such eager docility as the African. The principle of reliance
and unquestioning faith, which is its foundation, is more a native element in
this race than any other; and it has often been found among them, that a stray
seed of truth, borne on some breeze of accident into hearts the most ignorant,
has sprung up into fruit, whose abundance has shamed that of higher and more
skilful culture.
The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been well-nigh crushed and
overwhelmed, by the avalanche of cruelty and wrong which had fallen upon her,
felt her soul raised up by the hymns and passages of Holy Writ, which this
lowly missionary breathed into her ear in intervals, as they were going to and
returning from work; and even the half-crazed and wandering mind of Cassy was
soothed and calmed by his simple and unobtrusive influences.
Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of a life, Cassy had often
resolved in her soul an hour of retribution, when her hand should avenge on her
oppressor all the injustice and cruelty to which she had been witness, or which
had in her own person suffered.
One night, after all in Tom’s cabin were sunk in sleep, he was suddenly
aroused by seeing her face at the hole between the logs, that served for a
window. She made a silent gesture for him to come out.
Tom came out the door. It was between one and two o’clock at
night,—broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom remarked, as the light of the
moon fell upon Cassy’s large, black eyes, that there was a wild and
peculiar glare in them, unlike their wonted fixed despair.
“Come here, Father Tom,” she said, laying her small hand on his
wrist, and drawing him forward with a force as if the hand were of steel;
“come here,—I’ve news for you.”
“What, Misse Cassy?” said Tom, anxiously.
“Tom, wouldn’t you like your liberty?”
“I shall have it, Misse, in God’s time,” said Tom. “Ay,
but you may have it tonight,” said Cassy, with a flash of sudden energy.
“Come on.”
Tom hesitated.
“Come!” said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on him.
“Come along! He’s asleep—sound. I put enough into his brandy
to keep him so. I wish I’d had more,—I shouldn’t have wanted
you. But come, the back door is unlocked; there’s an axe there, I put it
there,—his room door is open; I’ll show you the way. I’d a
done it myself, only my arms are so weak. Come along!”
“Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse!” said Tom, firmly, stopping
and holding her back, as she was pressing forward.
“But think of all these poor creatures,” said Cassy. “We
might set them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, and find an island,
and live by ourselves; I’ve heard of its being done. Any life is better
than this.”
“No!” said Tom, firmly. “No! good never comes of wickedness.
I’d sooner chop my right hand off!”
“Then shall do it,” said Cassy, turning.
“O, Misse Cassy!” said Tom, throwing himself before her, “for
the dear Lord’s sake that died for ye, don’t sell your precious
soul to the devil, that way! Nothing but evil will come of it. The Lord
hasn’t called us to wrath. We must suffer, and wait his time.”
“Wait!” said Cassy. “Haven’t I waited?—waited
till my head is dizzy and my heart sick? What has he made me suffer? What has
he made hundreds of poor creatures suffer? Isn’t he wringing the
life-blood out of you? I’m called on; they call me! His time’s
come, and I’ll have his heart’s blood!”
“No, no, no!” said Tom, holding her small hands, which were
clenched with spasmodic violence. “No, ye poor, lost soul, that ye
mustn’t do. The dear, blessed Lord never shed no blood but his own, and
that he poured out for us when we was enemies. Lord, help us to follow his
steps, and love our enemies.”
“Love!” said Cassy, with a fierce glare; “love
enemies! It isn’t in flesh and blood.”
“No, Misse, it isn’t,” said Tom, looking up; “but
gives it to us, and that’s the victory. When we can love and
pray over all and through all, the battle’s past, and the victory’s
come,—glory be to God!” And, with streaming eyes and choking voice,
the black man looked up to heaven.
And this, oh Africa! latest called of nations,—called to the crown of
thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross of agony,—this is to be
victory; by this shalt thou reign with Christ when his kingdom shall
come on earth.
The deep fervor of Tom’s feelings, the softness of his voice, his tears,
fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of the poor woman. A softness
gathered over the lurid fires of her eye; she looked down, and Tom could feel
the relaxing muscles of her hands, as she said,
“Didn’t I tell you that evil spirits followed me? O! Father Tom, I
can’t pray,—I wish I could. I never have prayed since my children
were sold! What you say must be right, I know it must; but when I try to pray,
I can only hate and curse. I can’t pray!”
“Poor soul!” said Tom, compassionately. “Satan desires to
have ye, and sift ye as wheat. I pray the Lord for ye. O! Misse Cassy, turn to
the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind up the broken-hearted, and comfort all
that mourn.”
Cassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from her downcast eyes.
“Misse Cassy,” said Tom, in a hesitating tone, after surveying her
in silence, “if ye only could get away from here,—if the thing was
possible,—I’d ’vise ye and Emmeline to do it; that is, if ye
could go without blood-guiltiness,—not otherwise.”
“Would you try it with us, Father Tom?”
“No,” said Tom; “time was when I would; but the Lord’s
given me a work among these yer poor souls, and I’ll stay with ’em
and bear my cross with ’em till the end. It’s different with you;
it’s a snare to you,—it’s more’n you can
stand,—and you’d better go, if you can.”
“I know no way but through the grave,” said Cassy.
“There’s no beast or bird but can find a home some where; even the
snakes and the alligators have their places to lie down and be quiet; but
there’s no place for us. Down in the darkest swamps, their dogs will hunt
us out, and find us. Everybody and everything is against us; even the very
beasts side against us,—and where shall we go?”
Tom stood silent; at length he said,
“Him that saved Daniel in the den of lions,—that saved the children
in the fiery furnace,—Him that walked on the sea, and bade the winds be
still,—He’s alive yet; and I’ve faith to believe he can
deliver you. Try it, and I’ll pray, with all my might, for you.”
By what strange law of mind is it that an idea long overlooked, and trodden
under foot as a useless stone, suddenly sparkles out in new light, as a
discovered diamond?
Cassy had often revolved, for hours, all possible or probable schemes of
escape, and dismissed them all, as hopeless and impracticable; but at this
moment there flashed through her mind a plan, so simple and feasible in all its
details, as to awaken an instant hope.
“Father Tom, I’ll try it!” she said, suddenly.
“Amen!” said Tom; “the Lord help ye!”
CHAPTER XXXIX
The Stratagem
“The way of the wicked is as darkness; he knoweth not at what he
stumbleth.”
[1]
Prov. 4:19.
The garret of the house that Legree occupied, like most other garrets, was a
great, desolate space, dusty, hung with cobwebs, and littered with cast-off
lumber. The opulent family that had inhabited the house in the days of its
splendor had imported a great deal of splendid furniture, some of which they
had taken away with them, while some remained standing desolate in mouldering,
unoccupied rooms, or stored away in this place. One or two immense
packing-boxes, in which this furniture was brought, stood against the sides of
the garret. There was a small window there, which let in, through its dingy,
dusty panes, a scanty, uncertain light on the tall, high-backed chairs and
dusty tables, that had once seen better days. Altogether, it was a weird and
ghostly place; but, ghostly as it was, it wanted not in legends among the
superstitious negroes, to increase its terrors. Some few years before, a negro
woman, who had incurred Legree’s displeasure, was confined there for
several weeks. What passed there, we do not say; the negroes used to whisper
darkly to each other; but it was known that the body of the unfortunate
creature was one day taken down from there, and buried; and, after that, it was
said that oaths and cursings, and the sound of violent blows, used to ring
through that old garret, and mingled with wailings and groans of despair. Once,
when Legree chanced to overhear something of this kind, he flew into a violent
passion, and swore that the next one that told stories about that garret should
have an opportunity of knowing what was there, for he would chain them up there
for a week. This hint was enough to repress talking, though, of course, it did
not disturb the credit of the story in the least.
Gradually, the staircase that led to the garret, and even the passage-way to
the staircase, were avoided by every one in the house, from every one fearing
to speak of it, and the legend was gradually falling into desuetude. It had
suddenly occurred to Cassy to make use of the superstitious excitability, which
was so great in Legree, for the purpose of her liberation, and that of her
fellow-sufferer.
The sleeping-room of Cassy was directly under the garret. One day, without
consulting Legree, she suddenly took it upon her, with some considerable
ostentation, to change all the furniture and appurtenances of the room to one
at some considerable distance. The under-servants, who were called on to effect
this movement, were running and bustling about with great zeal and confusion,
when Legree returned from a ride.
“Hallo! you Cass!” said Legree, “what’s in the wind
now?”
“Nothing; only I choose to have another room,” said Cassy,
doggedly.
“And what for, pray?” said Legree.
“I choose to,” said Cassy.
“The devil you do! and what for?”
“I’d like to get some sleep, now and then.”
“Sleep! well, what hinders your sleeping?”
“I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear,” said Cassy, dryly.
“Speak out, you minx!” said Legree.
“O! nothing. I suppose it wouldn’t disturb Only groans,
and people scuffing, and rolling round on the garret floor, half the night,
from twelve to morning!”
“People up garret!” said Legree, uneasily, but forcing a laugh;
“who are they, Cassy?”
Cassy raised her sharp, black eyes, and looked in the face of Legree, with an
expression that went through his bones, as she said, “To be sure, Simon,
who are they? I’d like to have tell me. You don’t know,
I suppose!”
With an oath, Legree struck at her with his riding-whip; but she glided to one
side, and passed through the door, and looking back, said, “If
you’ll sleep in that room, you’ll know all about it. Perhaps
you’d better try it!” and then immediately she shut and locked the
door.
Legree blustered and swore, and threatened to break down the door; but
apparently thought better of it, and walked uneasily into the sitting-room.
Cassy perceived that her shaft had struck home; and, from that hour, with the
most exquisite address, she never ceased to continue the train of influences
she had begun.
In a knot-hole of the garret, that had opened, she had inserted the neck of an
old bottle, in such a manner that when there was the least wind, most doleful
and lugubrious wailing sounds proceeded from it, which, in a high wind,
increased to a perfect shriek, such as to credulous and superstitious ears
might easily seem to be that of horror and despair.
These sounds were, from time to time, heard by the servants, and revived in
full force the memory of the old ghost legend. A superstitious creeping horror
seemed to fill the house; and though no one dared to breathe it to Legree, he
found himself encompassed by it, as by an atmosphere.
No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man. The Christian is
composed by the belief of a wise, all-ruling Father, whose presence fills the
void unknown with light and order; but to the man who has dethroned God, the
spirit-land is, indeed, in the words of the Hebrew poet, “a land of
darkness and the shadow of death,” without any order, where the light is
as darkness. Life and death to him are haunted grounds, filled with goblin
forms of vague and shadowy dread.
Legree had had the slumbering moral elements in him roused by his encounters
with Tom,—roused, only to be resisted by the determinate force of evil;
but still there was a thrill and commotion of the dark, inner world, produced
by every word, or prayer, or hymn, that reacted in superstitious dread.
The influence of Cassy over him was of a strange and singular kind. He was her
owner, her tyrant and tormentor. She was, as he knew, wholly, and without any
possibility of help or redress, in his hands; and yet so it is, that the most
brutal man cannot live in constant association with a strong female influence,
and not be greatly controlled by it. When he first bought her, she was, as she
said, a woman delicately bred; and then he crushed her, without scruple,
beneath the foot of his brutality. But, as time, and debasing influences, and
despair, hardened womanhood within her, and waked the fires of fiercer
passions, she had become in a measure his mistress, and he alternately
tyrannized over and dreaded her.
This influence had become more harassing and decided, since partial insanity
had given a strange, weird, unsettled cast to all her words and language.
A night or two after this, Legree was sitting in the old sitting-room, by the
side of a flickering wood fire, that threw uncertain glances round the room. It
was a stormy, windy night, such as raises whole squadrons of nondescript noises
in rickety old houses. Windows were rattling, shutters flapping, and wind
carousing, rumbling, and tumbling down the chimney, and, every once in a while,
puffing out smoke and ashes, as if a legion of spirits were coming after them.
Legree had been casting up accounts and reading newspapers for some hours,
while Cassy sat in the corner; sullenly looking into the fire. Legree laid down
his paper, and seeing an old book lying on the table, which he had noticed
Cassy reading, the first part of the evening, took it up, and began to turn it
over. It was one of those collections of stories of bloody murders, ghostly
legends, and supernatural visitations, which, coarsely got up and illustrated,
have a strange fascination for one who once begins to read them.
Legree poohed and pished, but read, turning page after page, till, finally,
after reading some way, he threw down the book, with an oath.
“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Cass?” said he, taking
the tongs and settling the fire. “I thought you’d more sense than
to let noises scare .”
“No matter what I believe,” said Cassy, sullenly.
“Fellows used to try to frighten me with their yarns at sea,” said
Legree. “Never come it round me that way. I’m too tough for any
such trash, tell ye.”
Cassy sat looking intensely at him in the shadow of the corner. There was that
strange light in her eyes that always impressed Legree with uneasiness.
“Them noises was nothing but rats and the wind,” said Legree.
“Rats will make a devil of a noise. I used to hear ’em sometimes
down in the hold of the ship; and wind,—Lord’s sake! ye can make
anything out o’ wind.”
Cassy knew Legree was uneasy under her eyes, and, therefore, she made no
answer, but sat fixing them on him, with that strange, unearthly expression, as
before.
“Come, speak out, woman,—don’t you think so?” said
Legree.
“Can rats walk down stairs, and come walking through the entry, and open
a door when you’ve locked it and set a chair against it?” said
Cassy; “and come walk, walk, walking right up to your bed, and put out
their hand, so?”
Cassy kept her glittering eyes fixed on Legree, as she spoke, and he stared at
her like a man in the nightmare, till, when she finished by laying her hand,
icy cold, on his, he sprung back, with an oath.
“Woman! what do you mean? Nobody did?”
“O, no,—of course not,—did I say they did?” said Cassy,
with a smile of chilling derision.
“But—did—have you really seen?—Come, Cass, what is it,
now,—speak out!”
“You may sleep there, yourself,” said Cassy, “if you want to
know.”
“Did it come from the garret, Cassy?”
“,—what?” said Cassy.
“Why, what you told of—”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” said Cassy, with dogged
sullenness.
Legree walked up and down the room, uneasily.
“I’ll have this yer thing examined. I’ll look into it, this
very night. I’ll take my pistols—”
“Do,” said Cassy; “sleep in that room. I’d like to see
you doing it. Fire your pistols,—do!”
Legree stamped his foot, and swore violently.
“Don’t swear,” said Cassy; “nobody knows who may be
hearing you. Hark! What was that?”
“What?” said Legree, starting.
A heavy old Dutch clock, that stood in the corner of the room, began, and
slowly struck twelve.
For some reason or other, Legree neither spoke nor moved; a vague horror fell
on him; while Cassy, with a keen, sneering glitter in her eyes, stood looking
at him, counting the strokes.
“Twelve o’clock; well we’ll see,” said she,
turning, and opening the door into the passage-way, and standing as if
listening.
“Hark! What’s that?” said she, raising her finger.
“It’s only the wind,” said Legree. “Don’t you
hear how cursedly it blows?”
“Simon, come here,” said Cassy, in a whisper, laying her hand on
his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs: “do you know what
is? Hark!”
A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came from the garret.
Legree’s knees knocked together; his face grew white with fear.
“Hadn’t you better get your pistols?” said Cassy, with a
sneer that froze Legree’s blood. “It’s time this thing was
looked into, you know. I’d like to have you go up now; .”
“I won’t go!” said Legree, with an oath.
“Why not? There an’t any such thing as ghosts, you know!
Come!” and Cassy flitted up the winding stairway, laughing, and looking
back after him. “Come on.”
“I believe you the devil!” said Legree. “Come back
you hag,—come back, Cass! You shan’t go!”
But Cassy laughed wildly, and fled on. He heard her open the entry doors that
led to the garret. A wild gust of wind swept down, extinguishing the candle he
held in his hand, and with it the fearful, unearthly screams; they seemed to be
shrieked in his very ear.
Legree fled frantically into the parlor, whither, in a few moments, he was
followed by Cassy, pale, calm, cold as an avenging spirit, and with that same
fearful light in her eye.
“I hope you are satisfied,” said she.
“Blast you, Cass!” said Legree.
“What for?” said Cassy. “I only went up and shut the doors.
, Simon, do you suppose?”
said she.
“None of your business!” said Legree.
“O, it an’t? Well,” said Cassy, “at any rate, I’m
glad don’t sleep under it.”
Anticipating the rising of the wind, that very evening, Cassy had been up and
opened the garret window. Of course, the moment the doors were opened, the wind
had drafted down, and extinguished the light.
This may serve as a specimen of the game that Cassy played with Legree, until
he would sooner have put his head into a lion’s mouth than to have
explored that garret. Meanwhile, in the night, when everybody else was asleep,
Cassy slowly and carefully accumulated there a stock of provisions sufficient
to afford subsistence for some time; she transferred, article by article, a
greater part of her own and Emmeline’s wardrobe. All things being
arranged, they only waited a fitting opportunity to put their plan in
execution.
By cajoling Legree, and taking advantage of a good-natured interval, Cassy had
got him to take her with him to the neighboring town, which was situated
directly on the Red River. With a memory sharpened to almost preternatural
clearness, she remarked every turn in the road, and formed a mental estimate of
the time to be occupied in traversing it.
At the time when all was matured for action, our readers may, perhaps, like to
look behind the scenes, and see the final .
It was now near evening, Legree had been absent, on a ride to a neighboring
farm. For many days Cassy had been unusually gracious and accommodating in her
humors; and Legree and she had been, apparently, on the best of terms. At
present, we may behold her and Emmeline in the room of the latter, busy in
sorting and arranging two small bundles.
“There, these will be large enough,” said Cassy. “Now put on
your bonnet, and let’s start; it’s just about the right
time.”
“Why, they can see us yet,” said Emmeline.
“I mean they shall,” said Cassy, coolly. “Don’t you
know that they must have their chase after us, at any rate? The way of the
thing is to be just this:—We will steal out of the back door, and run
down by the quarters. Sambo or Quimbo will be sure to see us. They will give
chase, and we will get into the swamp; then, they can’t follow us any
further till they go up and give the alarm, and turn out the dogs, and so on;
and, while they are blundering round, and tumbling over each other, as they
always do, you and I will slip along to the creek, that runs back of the house,
and wade along in it, till we get opposite the back door. That will put the
dogs all at fault; for scent won’t lie in the water. Every one will run
out of the house to look after us, and then we’ll whip in at the back
door, and up into the garret, where I’ve got a nice bed made up in one of
the great boxes. We must stay in that garret a good while, for, I tell you, he
will raise heaven and earth after us. He’ll muster some of those old
overseers on the other plantations, and have a great hunt; and they’ll go
over every inch of ground in that swamp. He makes it his boast that nobody ever
got away from him. So let him hunt at his leisure.”
“Cassy, how well you have planned it!” said Emmeline. “Who
ever would have thought of it, but you?”
There was neither pleasure nor exultation in Cassy’s eyes,—only a
despairing firmness.
“Come,” she said, reaching her hand to Emmeline.
The two fugitives glided noiselessly from the house, and flitted, through the
gathering shadows of evening, along by the quarters. The crescent moon, set
like a silver signet in the western sky, delayed a little the approach of
night. As Cassy expected, when quite near the verge of the swamps that
encircled the plantation, they heard a voice calling to them to stop. It was
not Sambo, however, but Legree, who was pursuing them with violent execrations.
At the sound, the feebler spirit of Emmeline gave way; and, laying hold of
Cassy’s arm, she said, “O, Cassy, I’m going to faint!”
“If you do, I’ll kill you!” said Cassy, drawing a small,
glittering stiletto, and flashing it before the eyes of the girl.
The diversion accomplished the purpose. Emmeline did not faint, and succeeded
in plunging, with Cassy, into a part of the labyrinth of swamp, so deep and
dark that it was perfectly hopeless for Legree to think of following them,
without assistance.
“Well,” said he, chuckling brutally; “at any rate,
they’ve got themselves into a trap now—the baggage! They’re
safe enough. They shall sweat for it!”
“Hulloa, there! Sambo! Quimbo! All hands!” called Legree, coming to
the quarters, when the men and women were just returning from work.
“There’s two runaways in the swamps. I’ll give five dollars
to any nigger as catches ’em. Turn out the dogs! Turn out Tiger, and
Fury, and the rest!”
The sensation produced by this news was immediate. Many of the men sprang
forward, officiously, to offer their services, either from the hope of the
reward, or from that cringing subserviency which is one of the most baleful
effects of slavery. Some ran one way, and some another. Some were for getting
flambeaux of pine-knots. Some were uncoupling the dogs, whose hoarse, savage
bay added not a little to the animation of the scene.
“Mas’r, shall we shoot ’em, if can’t cotch
’em?” said Sambo, to whom his master brought out a rifle.
“You may fire on Cass, if you like; it’s time she was gone to the
devil, where she belongs; but the gal, not,” said Legree. “And now,
boys, be spry and smart. Five dollars for him that gets ’em; and a glass
of spirits to every one of you, anyhow.”
The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and whoop, and shout, and
savage yell, of man and beast, proceeded down to the swamp, followed, at some
distance, by every servant in the house. The establishment was, of a
consequence, wholly deserted, when Cassy and Emmeline glided into it the back
way. The whooping and shouts of their pursuers were still filling the air; and,
looking from the sitting-room windows, Cassy and Emmeline could see the troop,
with their flambeaux, just dispersing themselves along the edge of the swamp.
“See there!” said Emmeline, pointing to Cassy; “the hunt is
begun! Look how those lights dance about! Hark! the dogs! Don’t you hear?
If we were only , our chances wouldn’t be worth a picayune.
O, for pity’s sake, do let’s hide ourselves. Quick!”
“There’s no occasion for hurry,” said Cassy, coolly;
“they are all out after the hunt,—that’s the amusement of the
evening! We’ll go up stairs, by and by. Meanwhile,” said she,
deliberately taking a key from the pocket of a coat that Legree had thrown down
in his hurry, “meanwhile I shall take something to pay our
passage.”
She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, which she counted over
rapidly.
“O, don’t let’s do that!” said Emmeline.
“Don’t!” said Cassy; “why not? Would you have us starve
in the swamps, or have that that will pay our way to the free states. Money
will do anything, girl.” And, as she spoke, she put the money in her
bosom.
“It would be stealing,” said Emmeline, in a distressed whisper.
“Stealing!” said Cassy, with a scornful laugh. “They who
steal body and soul needn’t talk to us. Every one of these bills is
stolen,—stolen from poor, starving, sweating creatures, who must go to
the devil at last, for his profit. Let talk about stealing! But
come, we may as well go up garret; I’ve got a stock of candles there, and
some books to pass away the time. You may be pretty sure they won’t come
to inquire after us. If they do, I’ll play ghost for
them.”
When Emmeline reached the garret, she found an immense box, in which some heavy
pieces of furniture had once been brought, turned on its side, so that the
opening faced the wall, or rather the eaves. Cassy lit a small lamp, and
creeping round under the eaves, they established themselves in it. It was
spread with a couple of small mattresses and some pillows; a box near by was
plentifully stored with candles, provisions, and all the clothing necessary to
their journey, which Cassy had arranged into bundles of an astonishingly small
compass.
“There,” said Cassy, as she fixed the lamp into a small hook, which
she had driven into the side of the box for that purpose; “this is to be
our home for the present. How do you like it?”
“Are you sure they won’t come and search the garret?”
“I’d like to see Simon Legree doing that,” said Cassy.
“No, indeed; he will be too glad to keep away. As to the servants, they
would any of them stand and be shot, sooner than show their faces here.”
Somewhat reassured, Emmeline settled herself back on her pillow.
“What did you mean, Cassy, by saying you would kill me?” she said,
simply.
“I meant to stop your fainting,” said Cassy, “and I did do
it. And now I tell you, Emmeline, you must make up your mind to
faint, let what will come; there’s no sort of need of it. If I had not
stopped you, that wretch might have had his hands on you now.”
Emmeline shuddered.
The two remained some time in silence. Cassy busied herself with a French book;
Emmeline, overcome with the exhaustion, fell into a doze, and slept some time.
She was awakened by loud shouts and outcries, the tramp of horses’ feet,
and the baying of dogs. She started up, with a faint shriek.
“Only the hunt coming back,” said Cassy, coolly; “never fear.
Look out of this knot-hole. Don’t you see ’em all down there? Simon
has to give up, for this night. Look, how muddy his horse is, flouncing about
in the swamp; the dogs, too, look rather crestfallen. Ah, my good sir,
you’ll have to try the race again and again,—the game isn’t
there.”
“O, don’t speak a word!” said Emmeline; “what if they
should hear you?”
“If they do hear anything, it will make them very particular to keep
away,” said Cassy. “No danger; we may make any noise we please, and
it will only add to the effect.”
At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the house. Legree,
cursing his ill luck, and vowing dire vengeance on the morrow, went to bed.
CHAPTER XL
The Martyr
“Deem not the just by Heaven forgot!
Though life its common gifts deny,—
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,
And spurned of man, he goes to die!
For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every bitter tear,
And heaven’s long years of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.”
B.
[1]
This poem does not appear in the collected works of William Cullen Bryant,
nor in the collected poems of his brother, John Howard Bryant. It was probably
copied from a newspaper or magazine.
The longest way must have its close,—the gloomiest night will wear on to
a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying the day of
the evil to an eternal night, and the night of the just to an eternal day. We
have walked with our humble friend thus far in the valley of slavery; first
through flowery fields of ease and indulgence, then through heart-breaking
separations from all that man holds dear. Again, we have waited with him in a
sunny island, where generous hands concealed his chains with flowers; and,
lastly, we have followed him when the last ray of earthly hope went out in
night, and seen how, in the blackness of earthly darkness, the firmament of the
unseen has blazed with stars of new and significant lustre.
The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains, and gales and
breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unclosing.
The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper of Legree to
the last degree; and his fury, as was to be expected, fell upon the defenceless
head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the tidings among his hands, there was
a sudden light in Tom’s eye, a sudden upraising of his hands, that did
not escape him. He saw that he did not join the muster of the pursuers. He
thought of forcing him to do it; but, having had, of old, experience of his
inflexibility when commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would
not, in his hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.
Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him to pray, and
offered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives.
When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-working hatred of
his soul towards his slave began to gather in a deadly and desperate form. Had
not this man braved him,—steadily, powerfully, resistlessly,—ever
since he bought him? Was there not a spirit in him which, silent as it was,
burned on him like the fires of perdition?
“I him!” said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his
bed; “I him! And isn’t he MINE? Can’t I do what I
like with him? Who’s to hinder, I wonder?” And Legree clenched his
fist, and shook it, as if he had something in his hands that he could rend in
pieces.
But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and, although Legree hated him
the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat of a restraint to
him.
The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; to assemble a party,
from some neighboring plantations, with dogs and guns; to surround the swamp,
and go about the hunt systematically. If it succeeded, well and good; if not,
he would summon Tom before him, and—his teeth clenched and his blood
boiled— he would break the fellow down, or—there was a
dire inward whisper, to which his soul assented.
Ye say that the of the master is a sufficient safeguard for the
slave. In the fury of man’s mad will, he will wittingly, and with open
eye, sell his own soul to the devil to gain his ends; and will he be more
careful of his neighbor’s body?
“Well,” said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she
reconnoitred through the knot-hole, “the hunt’s going to begin
again, today!”
Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the space in front of
the house; and one or two leashes of strange dogs were struggling with the
negroes who held them, baying and barking at each other.
The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the vicinity; and others
were some of Legree’s associates at the tavern-bar of a neighboring city,
who had come for the interest of the sport. A more hard-favored set, perhaps,
could not be imagined. Legree was serving brandy, profusely, round among them,
as also among the negroes, who had been detailed from the various plantations
for this service; for it was an object to make every service of this kind,
among the negroes, as much of a holiday as possible.
Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning air blew directly
towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of the conversation. A grave
sneer overcast the dark, severe gravity of her face, as she listened, and heard
them divide out the ground, discuss the rival merits of the dogs, give orders
about firing, and the treatment of each, in case of capture.
Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, and said, “O,
great Almighty God! we are sinners; but what have done,
more than all the rest of the world, that we should be treated so?”
There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as she spoke.
“If it wasn’t for , child,” she said, looking at
Emmeline, “I’d out to them; and I’d thank any one
of them that shoot me down; for what use will freedom be to me?
Can it give me back my children, or make me what I used to be?”
Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of the dark moods of
Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made no answer. She only took her hand, with a
gentle, caressing movement.
“Don’t!” said Cassy, trying to draw it away;
“you’ll get me to loving you; and I never mean to love anything,
again!”
“Poor Cassy!” said Emmeline, “don’t feel so! If the
Lord gives us liberty, perhaps he’ll give you back your daughter; at any
rate, I’ll be like a daughter to you. I know I’ll never see my poor
old mother again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or not!”
The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her, put her arm
round her neck, stroked her soft, brown hair; and Emmeline then wondered at the
beauty of her magnificent eyes, now soft with tears.
“O, Em!” said Cassy, “I’ve hungered for my children,
and thirsted for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here!
here!” she said, striking her breast, “it’s all desolate, all
empty! If God would give me back my children, then I could pray.”
“You must trust him, Cassy,” said Emmeline; “he is our
Father!”
“His wrath is upon us,” said Cassy; “he has turned away in
anger.”
“No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in Him,” said
Emmeline,—“I always have had hope.”
The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and, with grave,
ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree, as, weary and dispirited, he
alighted from his horse.
“Now, Quimbo,” said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the
sitting-room, “you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away! The old
cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter; and I’ll have it out of
his old black hide, or I’ll know the reason why!”
Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were joined in one mind by a
no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them, at first, that he had
bought him for a general overseer, in his absence; and this had begun an ill
will, on their part, which had increased, in their debased and servile natures,
as they saw him becoming obnoxious to their master’s displeasure. Quimbo,
therefore, departed, with a will, to execute his orders.
Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all the plan of the
fugitives’ escape, and the place of their present concealment;—he
knew the deadly character of the man he had to deal with, and his despotic
power. But he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than betray the
helpless.
He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, “Into thy hands
I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, oh Lord God of truth!” and
then quietly yielded himself to the rough, brutal grasp with which Quimbo
seized him.
“Ay, ay!” said the giant, as he dragged him along;
“ye’ll cotch it, now! I’ll boun’ Mas’r’s
back ’s up No sneaking out, now! Tell ye, ye’ll get
it, and no mistake! See how ye’ll look, now, helpin’
Mas’r’s niggers to run away! See what ye’ll get!”
The savage words none of them reached that ear!—a higher voice there was
saying, “Fear not them that kill the body, and, after that, have no more
that they can do.” Nerve and bone of that poor man’s body vibrated
to those words, as if touched by the finger of God; and he felt the strength of
a thousand souls in one. As he passed along, the trees and bushes, the huts of
his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation, seemed to whirl by him as
the landscape by the rushing ear. His soul throbbed,—his home was in
sight,—and the hour of release seemed at hand.
“Well, Tom!” said Legree, walking up, and seizing him grimly by the
collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of determined
rage, “do you know I’ve made up my mind to KILL YOU?”
“It’s very likely, Mas’r,” said Tom, calmly.
“I ,” said Legree, with a grim, terrible calmness,
“, Tom, unless you’ll
tell me what you know about these yer gals!”
Tom stood silent.
“D’ye hear?” said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of
an incensed lion. “Speak!”
“,” said Tom,
with a slow, firm, deliberate utterance.
“Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t
?” said Legree.
Tom was silent.
“Speak!” thundered Legree, striking him furiously. “Do you
know anything?”
“I know, Mas’r; but I can’t tell anything. ”
Legree drew in a long breath; and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by the arm,
and, approaching his face almost to his, said, in a terrible voice, “Hark
’e, Tom!—ye think, ’cause I’ve let you off before, I
don’t mean what I say; but, this time, ,
and counted the cost. You’ve always stood it out again’ me: now,
—one or t’ other.
I’ll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take ’em, one
by one, till ye give up!”
Tom looked up to his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick,
or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d ye my
heart’s blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body
would save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord
gave his for me. O, Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul!
It will hurt you more than ’t will me! Do the worst you can, my
troubles’ll be over soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours
won’t end!”
Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull of a tempest, this
burst of feeling made a moment’s blank pause. Legree stood aghast, and
looked at Tom; and there was such a silence, that the tick of the old clock
could be heard, measuring, with silent touch, the last moments of mercy and
probation to that hardened heart.
It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause,—one irresolute,
relenting thrill,—and the spirit of evil came back, with seven-fold
vehemence; and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the ground.
Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What man has
nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. What brother-man and brother-Christian
must suffer, cannot be told us, even in our secret chamber, it so harrows the
soul! And yet, oh my country! these things are done under the shadow of thy
laws! O, Christ! thy church sees them, almost in silence!
But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an instrument of torture,
degradation and shame, into a symbol of glory, honor, and immortal life; and,
where His spirit is, neither degrading stripes, nor blood, nor insults, can
make the Christian’s last struggle less than glorious.
Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing up, in
that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes?
Nay! There stood by him O,—seen by him
alone,—“like unto the Son of God.”
The tempter stood by him, too,—blinded by furious, despotic
will,—every moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the
innocent. But the brave, true heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his
Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save; nor could
utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayers and holy trust.
“He’s most gone, Mas’r,” said Sambo, touched, in spite
of himself, by the patience of his victim.
“Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him!—give it to him!”
shouted Legree. “I’ll take every drop of blood he has, unless he
confesses!”
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. “Ye poor miserable
critter!” he said, “there ain’t no more ye can do! I forgive
ye, with all my soul!” and he fainted entirely away.
“I b’lieve, my soul, he’s done for, finally,” said
Legree, stepping forward, to look at him. “Yes, he is! Well, his
mouth’s shut up, at last,—that’s one comfort!”
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul? that soul, past
repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never shall be
quenched is already burning!
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers had struck
upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks, who had been the instruments of cruelty
upon him; and, the instant Legree withdrew, they took him down, and, in their
ignorance, sought to call him back to life,—as if were any
favor to him.
“Sartin, we ’s been doin’ a drefful wicked thing!” said
Sambo; “hopes Mas’r’ll have to ’count for it, and not
we.”
They washed his wounds,—they provided a rude bed, of some refuse cotton,
for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealing up to the house, begged a
drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he was tired, and wanted it for
himself. He brought it back, and poured it down Tom’s throat.
“O, Tom!” said Quimbo, “we’s been awful wicked to
ye!”
“I forgive ye, with all my heart!” said Tom, faintly.
“O, Tom! do tell us who is , anyhow?” said
Sambo;—“Jesus, that’s been a standin’ by you so, all
this night!—Who is he?”
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few energetic
sentences of that wondrous One,—his life, his death, his everlasting
presence, and power to save.
They wept,—both the two savage men.
“Why didn’t I never hear this before?” said Sambo; “but
I do believe!—I can’t help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!”
“Poor critters!” said Tom, “I’d be willing to bar all I
have, if it’ll only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these two more
souls, I pray!”
That prayer was answered!
CHAPTER XLI
The Young Master
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue of China
trees, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out
and inquired for the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby; and, to show how he came to be there, we must go back in
our story.
The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some unfortunate accident,
been detained, for a month or two, at some remote post-office, before it
reached its destination; and, of course, before it was received, Tom was
already lost to view among the distant swamps of the Red River.
Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern; but any immediate
action upon it was an impossibility. She was then in attendance on the sick-bed
of her husband, who lay delirious in the crisis of a fever. Master George
Shelby, who, in the interval, had changed from a boy to a tall young man, was
her constant and faithful assistant, and her only reliance in superintending
his father’s affairs. Miss Ophelia had taken the precaution to send them
the name of the lawyer who did business for the St. Clares; and the most that,
in the emergency, could be done, was to address a letter of inquiry to him. The
sudden death of Mr. Shelby, a few days after, brought, of course, an absorbing
pressure of other interests, for a season.
Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife’s ability, by appointing her
sole executrix upon his estates; and thus immediately a large and complicated
amount of business was brought upon her hands.
Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to the work of
straightening the entangled web of affairs; and she and George were for some
time occupied with collecting and examining accounts, selling property and
settling debts; for Mrs. Shelby was determined that everything should be
brought into tangible and recognizable shape, let the consequences to her prove
what they might. In the mean time, they received a letter from the lawyer to
whom Miss Ophelia had referred them, saying that he knew nothing of the matter;
that the man was sold at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the
money, he knew nothing of the affair.
Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result; and, accordingly,
some six months after, the latter, having business for his mother, down the
river, resolved to visit New Orleans, in person, and push his inquiries, in
hopes of discovering Tom’s whereabouts, and restoring him.
After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest accident, George fell
in with a man, in New Orleans, who happened to be possessed of the desired
information; and with his money in his pocket, our hero took steamboat for Red
River, resolving to find out and re-purchase his old friend.
He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legree in the
sitting-room.
Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.
“I understand,” said the young man, “that you bought, in New
Orleans, a boy, named Tom. He used to be on my father’s place, and I came
to see if I couldn’t buy him back.”
Legree’s brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately: “Yes, I
did buy such a fellow,—and a h—l of a bargain I had of it, too! The
most rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Set up my niggers to run away; got off
two gals, worth eight hundred or a thousand apiece. He owned to that, and, when
I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said he knew, but he wouldn’t
tell; and stood to it, though I gave him the cussedest flogging I ever gave
nigger yet. I b’lieve he’s trying to die; but I don’t know as
he’ll make it out.”
“Where is he?” said George, impetuously. “Let me see
him.” The cheeks of the young man were crimson, and his eyes flashed
fire; but he prudently said nothing, as yet.
“He’s in dat ar shed,” said a little fellow, who stood
holding George’s horse.
Legree kicked the boy, and swore at him; but George, without saying another
word, turned and strode to the spot.
Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night, not suffering, for every
nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the most part, in a
quiet stupor; for the laws of a powerful and well-knit frame would not at once
release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth, there had been there, in the
darkness of the night, poor desolated creatures, who stole from their scanty
hours’ rest, that they might repay to him some of those ministrations of
love in which he had always been so abundant. Truly, those poor disciples had
little to give,—only the cup of cold water; but it was given with full
hearts.
Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face,—tears of late
repentance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying love and patience had
awakened to repentance, and bitter prayers, breathed over him to a late-found
Saviour, of whom they scarce knew more than the name, but whom the yearning
ignorant heart of man never implores in vain.
Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and, by overhearing,
learned the sacrifice that had been made for her and Emmeline, had been there,
the night before, defying the danger of detection; and, moved by the last few
words which the affectionate soul had yet strength to breathe, the long winter
of despair, the ice of years, had given way, and the dark, despairing woman had
wept and prayed.
When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart sick.
“Is it possible,—is it possible?” said he, kneeling down by
him. “Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!”
Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved his head
gently, smiled, and said,
“Jesus can make a dying-bed
Feel soft as down pillows are.”
Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from the young man’s eyes,
as he bent over his poor friend.
“O, dear Uncle Tom! do wake,—do speak once more! Look up!
Here’s Mas’r George,—your own little Mas’r George.
Don’t you know me?”
“Mas’r George!” said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a
feeble voice; “Mas’r George!” He looked bewildered.
Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became fixed and
brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran
down the cheeks.
“Bless the Lord! it is,—it is,—it’s all I wanted! They
haven’t forgot me. It warms my soul; it does my heart good! Now I shall
die content! Bless the Lord, on my soul!”
“You shan’t die! you die, nor think of it!
I’ve come to buy you, and take you home,” said George, with
impetuous vehemence.
“O, Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought me,
and is going to take me home,—and I long to go. Heaven is better than
Kintuck.”
“O, don’t die! It’ll kill me!—it’ll break my
heart to think what you’ve suffered,—and lying in this old shed,
here! Poor, poor fellow!”
“Don’t call me poor fellow!” said Tom, solemnly, “I
been poor fellow; but that’s all past and gone, now.
I’m right in the door, going into glory! O, Mas’r George! I’ve got the victory!—the Lord Jesus has given it to
me! Glory be to His name!”
George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power, with which these
broken sentences were uttered. He sat gazing in silence.
Tom grasped his hand, and continued,—“Ye mustn’t, now, tell
Chloe, poor soul! how ye found me;—‘t would be so drefful to her.
Only tell her ye found me going into glory; and that I couldn’t stay for
no one. And tell her the Lord’s stood by me everywhere and al’ays,
and made everything light and easy. And oh, the poor chil’en, and the
baby;—my old heart’s been most broke for ’em, time and agin!
Tell ’em all to follow me—follow me! Give my love to Mas’r,
and dear good Missis, and everybody in the place! Ye don’t know!
’Pears like I loves ’em all! I loves every creature
everywhar!—it’s nothing love! O, Mas’r George!
what a thing ’t is to be a Christian!”
At this moment, Legree sauntered up to the door of the shed, looked in, with a
dogged air of affected carelessness, and turned away.
“The old Satan!” said George, in his indignation. “It’s
a comfort to think the devil will pay for this, some of these
days!”
“O, don’t!—oh, ye mustn’t!” said Tom, grasping
his hand; “he’s a poor mis’able critter! it’s awful to
think on ’t! Oh, if he only could repent, the Lord would forgive him now;
but I’m ’feared he never will!”
“I hope he won’t!” said George; “I never want to see
in heaven!”
“Hush, Mas’r George!—it worries me! Don’t feel so! He
an’t done me no real harm,—only opened the gate of the kingdom for
me; that’s all!”
At this moment, the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meeting his young
master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him;
he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his
face, that told the approach of other worlds.
He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations; and his broad chest
rose and fell, heavily. The expression of his face was that of a conqueror.
“Who,—who,—who shall separate us from the love of
Christ?” he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and,
with a smile, he fell asleep.
George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that the place was holy;
and, as he closed the lifeless eyes, and rose up from the dead, only one
thought possessed him,—that expressed by his simple old
friend,—“What a thing it is to be a Christian!”
He turned: Legree was standing, sullenly, behind him.
Something in that dying scene had checked the natural fierceness of youthful
passion. The presence of the man was simply loathsome to George; and he felt
only an impulse to get away from him, with as few words as possible.
Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, pointing to the dead,
“You have got all you ever can of him. What shall I pay you for the body?
I will take it away, and bury it decently.”
“I don’t sell dead niggers,” said Legree, doggedly.
“You are welcome to bury him where and when you like.”
“Boys,” said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or three
negroes, who were looking at the body, “help me lift him up, and carry
him to my wagon; and get me a spade.”
One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted George to carry the body to
the wagon.
George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not countermand his
orders, but stood, whistling, with an air of forced unconcern. He sulkily
followed them to where the wagon stood at the door.
George spread his cloak in the wagon, and had the body carefully disposed of in
it,—moving the seat, so as to give it room. Then he turned, fixed his
eyes on Legree, and said, with forced composure,
“I have not, as yet, said to you what I think of this most atrocious
affair;—this is not the time and place. But, sir, this innocent blood
shall have justice. I will proclaim this murder. I will go to the very first
magistrate, and expose you.”
“Do!” said Legree, snapping his fingers, scornfully.
“I’d like to see you doing it. Where you going to get
witnesses?—how you going to prove it?—Come, now!”
George saw, at once, the force of this defiance. There was not a white person
on the place; and, in all southern courts, the testimony of colored blood is
nothing. He felt, at that moment, as if he could have rent the heavens with his
heart’s indignant cry for justice; but in vain.
“After all, what a fuss, for a dead nigger!” said Legree.
The word was as a spark to a powder magazine. Prudence was never a cardinal
virtue of the Kentucky boy. George turned, and, with one indignant blow,
knocked Legree flat upon his face; and, as he stood over him, blazing with
wrath and defiance, he would have formed no bad personification of his great
namesake triumphing over the dragon.
Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked down. If a man lays
them fairly flat in the dust, they seem immediately to conceive a respect for
him; and Legree was one of this sort. As he rose, therefore, and brushed the
dust from his clothes, he eyed the slowly-retreating wagon with some evident
consideration; nor did he open his mouth till it was out of sight.
Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had noticed a dry, sandy knoll,
shaded by a few trees; there they made the grave.
“Shall we take off the cloak, Mas’r?” said the negroes, when
the grave was ready.
“No, no,—bury it with him! It’s all I can give you, now, poor
Tom, and you shall have it.”
They laid him in; and the men shovelled away, silently. They banked it up, and
laid green turf over it.
“You may go, boys,” said George, slipping a quarter into the hand
of each. They lingered about, however.
“If young Mas’r would please buy us—” said one.
“We’d serve him so faithful!” said the other.
“Hard times here, Mas’r!” said the first. “Do,
Mas’r, buy us, please!”
“I can’t!—I can’t!” said George, with difficulty,
motioning them off; “it’s impossible!”
The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence.
“Witness, eternal God!” said George, kneeling on the grave of his
poor friend; “oh, witness, that, from this hour, I will do to drive out this curse of slavery from my land!”
There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend. He needs
none! His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up, immortal, to appear
with him when he shall appear in his glory.
Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity! Not in the riches of
omnipotence is the chief glory of God; but in self-denying, suffering love! And
blessed are the men whom he calls to fellowship with him, bearing their cross
after him with patience. Of such it is written, “Blessed are they that
mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
CHAPTER XLII
An Authentic Ghost Story
For some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncommonly rife, about this
time, among the servants on Legree’s place.
It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in the dead of night, had been
heard descending the garret stairs, and patrolling the house. In vain the doors
of the upper entry had been locked; the ghost either carried a duplicate key in
its pocket, or availed itself of a ghost’s immemorial privilege of coming
through the keyhole, and promenaded as before, with a freedom that was
alarming.
Authorities were somewhat divided, as to the outward form of the spirit, owing
to a custom quite prevalent among negroes,—and, for aught we know, among
whites, too,—of invariably shutting the eyes, and covering up heads under
blankets, petticoats, or whatever else might come in use for a shelter, on
these occasions. Of course, as everybody knows, when the bodily eyes are thus
out of the lists, the spiritual eyes are uncommonly vivacious and perspicuous;
and, therefore, there were abundance of full-length portraits of the ghost,
abundantly sworn and testified to, which, as is often the case with portraits,
agreed with each other in no particular, except the common family peculiarity
of the ghost tribe,—the wearing of a . The poor souls
were not versed in ancient history, and did not know that Shakspeare had
authenticated this costume, by telling how
“The dead
Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome.”
[1]
, Act I, scene 1, lines 115-116
And, therefore, their all hitting upon this is a striking fact in pneumatology,
which we recommend to the attention of spiritual media generally.
Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that a tall figure in a
white sheet did walk, at the most approved ghostly hours, around the Legree
premises,—pass out the doors, glide about the house,—disappear at
intervals, and, reappearing, pass up the silent stairway, into that fatal
garret; and that, in the morning, the entry doors were all found shut and
locked as firm as ever.
Legree could not help overhearing this whispering; and it was all the more
exciting to him, from the pains that were taken to conceal it from him. He
drank more brandy than usual; held up his head briskly, and swore louder than
ever in the daytime; but he had bad dreams, and the visions of his head on his
bed were anything but agreeable. The night after Tom’s body had been
carried away, he rode to the next town for a carouse, and had a high one. Got
home late and tired; locked his door, took out the key, and went to bed.
After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down, a human soul is an
awful ghostly, unquiet possession, for a bad man to have. Who knows the metes
and bounds of it? Who knows all its awful perhapses,—those shudderings
and tremblings, which it can no more live down than it can outlive its own
eternity! What a fool is he who locks his door to keep out spirits, who has in
his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone,—whose voice, smothered
far down, and piled over with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the
forewarning trumpet of doom!
But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it; he set a night-lamp at
the head of his bed; and put his pistols there. He examined the catches and
fastenings of the windows, and then swore he “didn’t care for the
devil and all his angels,” and went to sleep.
Well, he slept, for he was tired,—slept soundly. But, finally, there came
over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehension of something dreadful
hanging over him. It was his mother’s shroud, he thought; but Cassy had
it, holding it up, and showing it to him. He heard a confused noise of screams
and groanings; and, with it all, he knew he was asleep, and he struggled to
wake himself. He was half awake. He was sure something was coming into his
room. He knew the door was opening, but he could not stir hand or foot. At last
he turned, with a start; the door open, and he saw a hand putting
out his light.
It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it!—something white,
gliding in! He heard the still rustle of its ghostly garments. It stood still
by his bed;—a cold hand touched his; a voice said, three times, in a low,
fearful whisper, “Come! come! come!” And, while he lay sweating
with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was gone. He sprang out of bed,
and pulled at the door. It was shut and locked, and the man fell down in a
swoon.
After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever before. He no longer drank
cautiously, prudently, but imprudently and recklessly.
There were reports around the country, soon after that he was sick and dying.
Excess had brought on that frightful disease that seems to throw the lurid
shadows of a coming retribution back into the present life. None could bear the
horrors of that sick room, when he raved and screamed, and spoke of sights
which almost stopped the blood of those who heard him; and, at his dying bed,
stood a stern, white, inexorable figure, saying, “Come! come!
come!”
By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this vision appeared to
Legree, the house-door was found open in the morning, and some of the negroes
had seen two white figures gliding down the avenue towards the high-road.
It was near sunrise when Cassy and Emmeline paused, for a moment, in a little
knot of trees near the town.
Cassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanish ladies,—wholly
in black. A small black bonnet on her head, covered by a veil thick with
embroidery, concealed her face. It had been agreed that, in their escape, she
was to personate the character of a Creole lady, and Emmeline that of her
servant.
Brought up, from early life, in connection with the highest society, the
language, movements and air of Cassy, were all in agreement with this idea; and
she had still enough remaining with her, of a once splendid wardrobe, and sets
of jewels, to enable her to personate the thing to advantage.
She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had noticed trunks for
sale, and purchased a handsome one. This she requested the man to send along
with her. And, accordingly, thus escorted by a boy wheeling her trunk, and
Emmeline behind her, carrying her carpet-bag and sundry bundles, she made her
appearance at the small tavern, like a lady of consideration.
The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was George Shelby, who was
staying there, awaiting the next boat.
Cassy had remarked the young man from her loophole in the garret, and seen him
bear away the body of Tom, and observed with secret exultation, his rencontre
with Legree. Subsequently she had gathered, from the conversations she had
overheard among the negroes, as she glided about in her ghostly disguise, after
nightfall, who he was, and in what relation he stood to Tom. She, therefore,
felt an immediate accession of confidence, when she found that he was, like
herself, awaiting the next boat.
Cassy’s air and manner, address, and evident command of money, prevented
any rising disposition to suspicion in the hotel. People never inquire too
closely into those who are fair on the main point, of paying well,—a
thing which Cassy had foreseen when she provided herself with money.
In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along, and George Shelby
handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness which comes naturally to every
Kentuckian, and exerted himself to provide her with a good state-room.
Cassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, during the whole time they
were on Red River; and was waited on, with obsequious devotion, by her
attendant.
When they arrived at the Mississippi river, George, having learned that the
course of the strange lady was upward, like his own, proposed to take a
state-room for her on the same boat with himself,—good-naturedly
compassionating her feeble health, and desirous to do what he could to assist
her.
Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred to the good steamer
Cincinnati, and sweeping up the river under a powerful head of steam.
Cassy’s health was much better. She sat upon the guards, came to the
table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a lady that must have been very
handsome.
From the moment that George got the first glimpse of her face, he was troubled
with one of those fleeting and indefinite likenesses, which almost every body
can remember, and has been, at times, perplexed with. He could not keep himself
from looking at her, and watching her perpetually. At table, or sitting at her
state-room door, still she would encounter the young man’s eyes fixed on
her, and politely withdrawn, when she showed, by her countenance, that she was
sensible to the observation.
Cassy became uneasy. She began to think that he suspected something; and
finally resolved to throw herself entirely on his generosity, and intrusted him
with her whole history.
George was heartily disposed to sympathize with any one who had escaped from
Legree’s plantation,—a place that he could not remember or speak of
with patience,—and, with the courageous disregard of consequences which
is characteristic of his age and state, he assured her that he would do all in
his power to protect and bring them through.
The next state-room to Cassy’s was occupied by a French lady, named De
Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little daughter, a child of some twelve
summers.
This lady, having gathered, from George’s conversation, that he was from
Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to cultivate his acquaintance; in which
design she was seconded by the graces of her little girl, who was about as
pretty a plaything as ever diverted the weariness of a fortnight’s trip
on a steamboat.
George’s chair was often placed at her state-room door; and Cassy, as she
sat upon the guards, could hear their conversation.
Madame de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to Kentucky, where she said
she had resided in a former period of her life. George discovered, to his
surprise, that her former residence must have been in his own vicinity; and her
inquiries showed a knowledge of people and things in his vicinity, that was
perfectly surprising to him.
“Do you know,” said Madame de Thoux to him, one day, “of any
man, in your neighborhood, of the name of Harris?”
“There is an old fellow, of that name, lives not far from my
father’s place,” said George. “We never have had much
intercourse with him, though.”
“He is a large slave-owner, I believe,” said Madame de Thoux, with
a manner which seemed to betray more interest than she was exactly willing to
show.
“He is,” said George, looking rather surprised at her manner.
“Did you ever know of his having—perhaps, you may have heard of his
having a mulatto boy, named George?”
“O, certainly,—George Harris,—I know him well; he married a
servant of my mother’s, but has escaped, now, to Canada.”
“He has?” said Madame de Thoux, quickly. “Thank God!”
George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing.
Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst into tears.
“He is my brother,” she said.
“Madame!” said George, with a strong accent of surprise.
“Yes,” said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head, proudly, and wiping
her tears, “Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my brother!”
“I am perfectly astonished,” said George, pushing back his chair a
pace or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux.
“I was sold to the South when he was a boy,” said she. “I was
bought by a good and generous man. He took me with him to the West Indies, set
me free, and married me. It is but lately that he died; and I was going up to
Kentucky, to see if I could find and redeem my brother.”
“I heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold South,” said
George.
“Yes, indeed! I am the one,” said Madame de
Thoux;—“tell me what sort of a—”
“A very fine young man,” said George, “notwithstanding the
curse of slavery that lay on him. He sustained a first rate character, both for
intelligence and principle. I know, you see,” he said; “because he
married in our family.”
“What sort of a girl?” said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.
“A treasure,” said George; “a beautiful, intelligent, amiable
girl. Very pious. My mother had brought her up, and trained her as carefully,
almost, as a daughter. She could read and write, embroider and sew,
beautifully; and was a beautiful singer.”
“Was she born in your house?” said Madame de Thoux.
“No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New Orleans, and
brought her up as a present to mother. She was about eight or nine years old,
then. Father would never tell mother what he gave for her; but, the other day,
in looking over his old papers, we came across the bill of sale. He paid an
extravagant sum for her, to be sure. I suppose, on account of her extraordinary
beauty.”
George sat with his back to Cassy, and did not see the absorbed expression of
her countenance, as he was giving these details.
At this point in the story, she touched his arm, and, with a face perfectly
white with interest, said, “Do you know the names of the people he bought
her of?”
“A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the principal in the
transaction. At least, I think that was the name on the bill of sale.”
“O, my God!” said Cassy, and fell insensible on the floor of the
cabin.
George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de Thoux. Though neither of them
could conjecture what was the cause of Cassy’s fainting, still they made
all the tumult which is proper in such cases;—George upsetting a
wash-pitcher, and breaking two tumblers, in the warmth of his humanity; and
various ladies in the cabin, hearing that somebody had fainted, crowded the
state-room door, and kept out all the air they possibly could, so that, on the
whole, everything was done that could be expected.
Poor Cassy! when she recovered, turned her face to the wall, and wept and
sobbed like a child,—perhaps, mother, you can tell what she was thinking
of! Perhaps you cannot,—but she felt as sure, in that hour, that God had
had mercy on her, and that she should see her daughter,—as she did,
months afterwards,—when—but we anticipate.
CHAPTER XLIII
Results
The rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby, interested, as any other
young man might be, by the romance of the incident, no less than by feelings of
humanity, was at the pains to send to Cassy the bill of sale of Eliza; whose
date and name all corresponded with her own knowledge of facts, and felt no
doubt upon her mind as to the identity of her child. It remained now only for
her to trace out the path of the fugitives.
Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the singular coincidence of
their fortunes, proceeded immediately to Canada, and began a tour of inquiry
among the stations, where the numerous fugitives from slavery are located. At
Amherstberg they found the missionary with whom George and Eliza had taken
shelter, on their first arrival in Canada; and through him were enabled to
trace the family to Montreal.
George and Eliza had now been five years free. George had found constant
occupation in the shop of a worthy machinist, where he had been earning a
competent support for his family, which, in the mean time, had been increased
by the addition of another daughter.
Little Harry—a fine bright boy—had been put to a good school, and
was making rapid proficiency in knowledge.
The worthy pastor of the station, in Amherstberg, where George had first
landed, was so much interested in the statements of Madame de Thoux and Cassy,
that he yielded to the solicitations of the former, to accompany them to
Montreal, in their search,—she bearing all the expense of the expedition.
The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in the outskirts of Montreal;
the time, evening. A cheerful fire blazes on the hearth; a tea-table, covered
with a snowy cloth, stands prepared for the evening meal. In one corner of the
room was a table covered with a green cloth, where was an open writing-desk,
pens, paper, and over it a shelf of well-selected books.
This was George’s study. The same zeal for self-improvement, which led
him to steal the much coveted arts of reading and writing, amid all the toil
and discouragements of his early life, still led him to devote all his leisure
time to self-cultivation.
At this present time, he is seated at the table, making notes from a volume of
the family library he has been reading.
“Come, George,” says Eliza, “you’ve been gone all day.
Do put down that book, and let’s talk, while I’m getting
tea,—do.”
And little Eliza seconds the effort, by toddling up to her father, and trying
to pull the book out of his hand, and install herself on his knee as a
substitute.
“O, you little witch!” says George, yielding, as, in such
circumstances, man always must.
“That’s right,” says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of
bread. A little older she looks; her form a little fuller; her air more
matronly than of yore; but evidently contented and happy as woman need be.
“Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum, today?” says
George, as he laid his hand on his son’s head.
Harry has lost his long curls; but he can never lose those eyes and eyelashes,
and that fine, bold brow, that flushes with triumph, as he answers, “I
did it, every bit of it, , father; and helped
me!”
“That’s right,” says his father; “depend on yourself,
my son. You have a better chance than ever your poor father had.”
At this moment, there is a rap at the door; and Eliza goes and opens it. The
delighted—“Why! this you?”—calls up her husband; and
the good pastor of Amherstberg is welcomed. There are two more women with him,
and Eliza asks them to sit down.
Now, if the truth must be told, the honest pastor had arranged a little
programme, according to which this affair was to develop itself; and, on the
way up, all had very cautiously and prudently exhorted each other not to let
things out, except according to previous arrangement.
What was the good man’s consternation, therefore, just as he had motioned
to the ladies to be seated, and was taking out his pocket-handkerchief to wipe
his mouth, so as to proceed to his introductory speech in good order, when
Madame de Thoux upset the whole plan, by throwing her arms around
George’s neck, and letting all out at once, by saying, “O, George!
don’t you know me? I’m your sister Emily.”
Cassy had seated herself more composedly, and would have carried on her part
very well, had not little Eliza suddenly appeared before her in exact shape and
form, every outline and curl, just as her daughter was when she saw her last.
The little thing peered up in her face; and Cassy caught her up in her arms,
pressed her to her bosom, saying, what, at the moment she really believed,
“Darling, I’m your mother!”
In fact, it was a troublesome matter to do up exactly in proper order; but the
good pastor, at last, succeeded in getting everybody quiet, and delivering the
speech with which he had intended to open the exercises; and in which, at last,
he succeeded so well, that his whole audience were sobbing about him in a
manner that ought to satisfy any orator, ancient or modern.
They knelt together, and the good man prayed,—for there are some feelings
so agitated and tumultuous, that they can find rest only by being poured into
the bosom of Almighty love,—and then, rising up, the new-found family
embraced each other, with a holy trust in Him, who from such peril and dangers,
and by such unknown ways, had brought them together.
The note-book of a missionary, among the Canadian fugitives, contains truth
stranger than fiction. How can it be otherwise, when a system prevails which
whirls families and scatters their members, as the wind whirls and scatters the
leaves of autumn? These shores of refuge, like the eternal shore, often unite
again, in glad communion, hearts that for long years have mourned each other as
lost. And affecting beyond expression is the earnestness with which every new
arrival among them is met, if, perchance, it may bring tidings of mother,
sister, child or wife, still lost to view in the shadows of slavery.
Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of romance, when defying
torture, and braving death itself, the fugitive voluntarily threads his way
back to the terrors and perils of that dark land, that he may bring out his
sister, or mother, or wife.
One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice re-captured, and
suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, had escaped again; and, in a letter
which we heard read, tells his friends that he is going back a third time, that
he may, at last, bring away his sister. My good sir, is this man a hero, or a
criminal? Would not you do as much for your sister? And can you blame him?
But, to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their eyes, and recovering
themselves from too great and sudden a joy. They are now seated around the
social board, and are getting decidedly companionable; only that Cassy, who
keeps little Eliza on her lap, occasionally squeezes the little thing, in a
manner that rather astonishes her, and obstinately refuses to have her mouth
stuffed with cake to the extent the little one desires,—alleging, what
the child rather wonders at, that she has got something better than cake, and
doesn’t want it.
And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has passed over Cassy, that
our readers would scarcely know her. The despairing, haggard expression of her
face had given way to one of gentle trust. She seemed to sink, at once, into
the bosom of the family, and take the little ones into her heart, as something
for which it long had waited. Indeed, her love seemed to flow more naturally to
the little Eliza than to her own daughter; for she was the exact image and body
of the child whom she had lost. The little one was a flowery bond between
mother and daughter, through whom grew up acquaintanceship and affection.
Eliza’s steady, consistent piety, regulated by the constant reading of
the sacred word, made her a proper guide for the shattered and wearied mind of
her mother. Cassy yielded at once, and with her whole soul, to every good
influence, and became a devout and tender Christian.
After a day or two, Madame de Thoux told her brother more particularly of her
affairs. The death of her husband had left her an ample fortune, which she
generously offered to share with the family. When she asked George what way she
could best apply it for him, he answered, “Give me an education, Emily;
that has always been my heart’s desire. Then, I can do all the
rest.”
On mature deliberation, it was decided that the whole family should go, for
some years, to France; whither they sailed, carrying Emmeline with them.
The good looks of the latter won the affection of the first mate of the vessel;
and, shortly after entering the port, she became his wife.
George remained four years at a French university, and, applying himself with
an unintermitted zeal, obtained a very thorough education.
Political troubles in France, at last, led the family again to seek an asylum
in this country.
George’s feelings and views, as an educated man, may be best expressed in
a letter to one of his friends.
“I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True, as you have
said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the whites, in this country, my
shade of color is so slight, and that of my wife and family scarce perceptible.
Well, perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to tell you the truth, I have no
wish to.
“My sympathies are not for my father’s race, but for my
mother’s. To him I was no more than a fine dog or horse: to my poor
heart-broken mother I was a ; and, though I never saw her, after
the cruel sale that separated us, till she died, yet I she always
loved me dearly. I know it by my own heart. When I think of all she suffered,
of my own early sufferings, of the distresses and struggles of my heroic wife,
of my sister, sold in the New Orleans slave-market,—though I hope to have
no unchristian sentiments, yet I may be excused for saying, I have no wish to
pass for an American, or to identify myself with them.
“It is with the oppressed, enslaved African race that I cast in my lot;
and, if I wished anything, I would wish myself two shades darker, rather than
one lighter.
“The desire and yearning of my soul is for an African .
I want a people that shall have a tangible, separate existence of its own; and
where am I to look for it? Not in Hayti; for in Hayti they had nothing to start
with. A stream cannot rise above its fountain. The race that formed the
character of the Haytiens was a worn-out, effeminate one; and, of course, the
subject race will be centuries in rising to anything.
“Where, then, shall I look? On the shores of Africa I see a
republic,—a republic formed of picked men, who, by energy and
self-educating force, have, in many cases, individually, raised themselves
above a condition of slavery. Having gone through a preparatory stage of
feebleness, this republic has, at last, become an acknowledged nation on the
face of the earth,—acknowledged by both France and England. There it is
my wish to go, and find myself a people.
“I am aware, now, that I shall have you all against me; but, before you
strike, hear me. During my stay in France, I have followed up, with intense
interest, the history of my people in America. I have noted the struggle
between abolitionist and colonizationist, and have received some impressions,
as a distant spectator, which could never have occurred to me as a
participator.
“I grant that this Liberia may have subserved all sorts of purposes, by
being played off, in the hands of our oppressors, against us. Doubtless the
scheme may have been used, in unjustifiable ways, as a means of retarding our
emancipation. But the question to me is, Is there not a God above all
man’s schemes? May He not have over-ruled their designs, and founded for
us a nation by them?
“In these days, a nation is born in a day. A nation starts, now, with all
the great problems of republican life and civilization wrought out to its
hand;—it has not to discover, but only to apply. Let us, then, all take
hold together, with all our might, and see what we can do with this new
enterprise, and the whole splendid continent of Africa opens before us and our
children. shall roll the tide of civilization and
Christianity along its shores, and plant there mighty republics, that, growing
with the rapidity of tropical vegetation, shall be for all coming ages.
“Do you say that I am deserting my enslaved brethren? I think not. If I
forget them one hour, one moment of my life, so may God forget me! But, what
can I do for them, here? Can I break their chains? No, not as an individual;
but, let me go and form part of a nation, which shall have a voice in the
councils of nations, and then we can speak. A nation has a right to argue,
remonstrate, implore, and present the cause of its race,—which an
individual has not.
“If Europe ever becomes a grand council of free nations,—as I trust
in God it will,—if, there, serfdom, and all unjust and oppressive social
inequalities, are done away; and if they, as France and England have done,
acknowledge our position,—then, in the great congress of nations, we will
make our appeal, and present the cause of our enslaved and suffering race; and
it cannot be that free, enlightened America will not then desire to wipe from
her escutcheon that bar sinister which disgraces her among nations, and is as
truly a curse to her as to the enslaved.
“But, you will tell me, our race have equal rights to mingle in the
American republic as the Irishman, the German, the Swede. Granted, they have.
We to be free to meet and mingle,—to rise by our individual
worth, without any consideration of caste or color; and they who deny us this
right are false to their own professed principles of human equality. We ought,
in particular, to be allowed . We have than the rights
of common men;—we have the claim of an injured race for reparation. But,
then, ; I want a country, a nation, of my own. I think
that the African race has peculiarities, yet to be unfolded in the light of
civilization and Christianity, which, if not the same with those of the
Anglo-Saxon, may prove to be, morally, of even a higher type.
“To the Anglo-Saxon race has been intrusted the destinies of the world,
during its pioneer period of struggle and conflict. To that mission its stern,
inflexible, energetic elements, were well adapted; but, as a Christian, I look
for another era to arise. On its borders I trust we stand; and the throes that
now convulse the nations are, to my hope, but the birth-pangs of an hour of
universal peace and brotherhood.
“I trust that the development of Africa is to be essentially a Christian
one. If not a dominant and commanding race, they are, at least, an
affectionate, magnanimous, and forgiving one. Having been called in the furnace
of injustice and oppression, they have need to bind closer to their hearts that
sublime doctrine of love and forgiveness, through which alone they are to
conquer, which it is to be their mission to spread over the continent of
Africa.
“In myself, I confess, I am feeble for this,—full half the blood in
my veins is the hot and hasty Saxon; but I have an eloquent preacher of the
Gospel ever by my side, in the person of my beautiful wife. When I wander, her
gentler spirit ever restores me, and keeps before my eyes the Christian calling
and mission of our race. As a Christian patriot, as a teacher of Christianity,
I go to ,—my chosen, my glorious Africa!—and to
her, in my heart, I sometimes apply those splendid words of prophecy:
’Whereas thou hast been forsaken and hated, so that no man went through
thee; will make thee an eternal excellence, a joy of many
generations!’
“You will call me an enthusiast: you will tell me that I have not well
considered what I am undertaking. But I have considered, and counted the cost.
I go to , not as an Elysium of romance, but as to . I expect to work with both hands,—to work ; to work
against all sorts of difficulties and discouragements; and to work till I die.
This is what I go for; and in this I am quite sure I shall not be disappointed.
“Whatever you may think of my determination, do not divorce me from your
confidence; and think that, in whatever I do, I act with a heart wholly given
to my people.
“G H.”
George, with his wife, children, sister and mother, embarked for Africa, some
few weeks after. If we are not mistaken, the world will yet hear from him
there.
Of our other characters we have nothing very particular to write, except a word
relating to Miss Ophelia and Topsy, and a farewell chapter, which we shall
dedicate to George Shelby.
Miss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, much to the surprise of the
grave deliberative body whom a New Englander recognizes under the term
“.” “Our folks,” at first, thought it
an odd and unnecessary addition to their well-trained domestic establishment;
but, so thoroughly efficient was Miss Ophelia in her conscientious endeavor to
do her duty by her , that the child rapidly grew in grace and in
favor with the family and neighborhood. At the age of womanhood, she was, by
her own request, baptized, and became a member of the Christian church in the
place; and showed so much intelligence, activity and zeal, and desire to do
good in the world, that she was at last recommended, and approved as a
missionary to one of the stations in Africa; and we have heard that the same
activity and ingenuity which, when a child, made her so multiform and restless
in her developments, is now employed, in a safer and wholesomer manner, in
teaching the children of her own country.
P.S.—It will be a satisfaction to some mother, also, to state, that some
inquiries, which were set on foot by Madame de Thoux, have resulted recently in
the discovery of Cassy’s son. Being a young man of energy, he had
escaped, some years before his mother, and been received and educated by
friends of the oppressed in the north. He will soon follow his family to
Africa.
CHAPTER XLIV
The Liberator
George Shelby had written to his mother merely a line, stating the day that she
might expect him home. Of the death scene of his old friend he had not the
heart to write. He had tried several times, and only succeeded in half choking
himself; and invariably finished by tearing up the paper, wiping his eyes, and
rushing somewhere to get quiet.
There was a pleased bustle all through the Shelby mansion, that day, in
expectation of the arrival of young Mas’r George.
Mrs. Shelby was seated in her comfortable parlor, where a cheerful hickory fire
was dispelling the chill of the late autumn evening. A supper-table, glittering
with plate and cut glass, was set out, on whose arrangements our former friend,
old Chloe, was presiding.
Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean, white apron, and high, well-starched
turban, her black polished face glowing with satisfaction, she lingered, with
needless punctiliousness, around the arrangements of the table, merely as an
excuse for talking a little to her mistress.
“Laws, now! won’t it look natural to him?” she said.
“Thar,—I set his plate just whar he likes it round by the fire.
Mas’r George allers wants de warm seat. O, go way!—why didn’t
Sally get out de tea-pot,—de little new one, Mas’r
George got for Missis, Christmas? I’ll have it out! And Missis has heard
from Mas’r George?” she said, inquiringly.
“Yes, Chloe; but only a line, just to say he would be home tonight, if he
could,—that’s all.”
“Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout my old man,
s’pose?” said Chloe, still fidgeting with the tea-cups.
“No, he didn’t. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. He said he
would tell all, when he got home.”
“Jes like Mas’r George,—he’s allers so ferce for
tellin’ everything hisself. I allers minded dat ar in Mas’r George.
Don’t see, for my part, how white people gen’lly can bar to hev to
write things much as they do, writin’ ’s such slow, oneasy kind
o’ work.”
Mrs. Shelby smiled.
“I’m a thinkin’ my old man won’t know de boys and de
baby. Lor’! she’s de biggest gal, now,—good she is, too, and
peart, Polly is. She’s out to the house, now, watchin’ de hoe-cake.
I ’s got jist de very pattern my old man liked so much, a bakin’.
Jist sich as I gin him the mornin’ he was took off. Lord bless us! how I
felt, dat ar morning!”
Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her heart, at this allusion. She
had felt uneasy, ever since she received her son’s letter, lest something
should prove to be hidden behind the veil of silence which he had drawn.
“Missis has got dem bills?” said Chloe, anxiously.
“Yes, Chloe.”
“‘Cause I wants to show my old man dem very bills de
gave me. ‘And,’ say he, ‘Chloe, I wish
you’d stay longer.’ ‘Thank you, Mas’r,’ says I,
‘I would, only my old man’s coming home, and Missis,—she
can’t do without me no longer.’ There’s jist what I telled
him. Berry nice man, dat Mas’r Jones was.”
Chloe had pertinaciously insisted that the very bills in which her wages had
been paid should be preserved, to show her husband, in memorial of her
capability. And Mrs. Shelby had readily consented to humor her in the request.
“He won’t know Polly,—my old man won’t. Laws,
it’s five year since they tuck him! She was a baby
den,—couldn’t but jist stand. Remember how tickled he used to be,
cause she would keep a fallin’ over, when she sot out to walk. Laws a
me!”
The rattling of wheels now was heard.
“Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, starting to the window.
Mrs. Shelby ran to the entry door, and was folded in the arms of her son. Aunt
Chloe stood anxiously straining her eyes out into the darkness.
“O, Aunt Chloe!” said George, stopping compassionately,
and taking her hard, black hand between both his; “I’d have given
all my fortune to have brought him with me, but he’s gone to a better
country.”
There was a passionate exclamation from Mrs. Shelby, but Aunt Chloe said
nothing.
The party entered the supper-room. The money, of which Chloe was so proud, was
still lying on the table.
“Thar,” said she, gathering it up, and holding it, with a trembling
hand, to her mistress, “don’t never want to see nor hear on
’t again. Jist as I knew ’t would be,—sold, and murdered on
dem ar’ old plantations!”
Chloe turned, and was walking proudly out of the room. Mrs. Shelby followed her
softly, and took one of her hands, drew her down into a chair, and sat down by
her.
“My poor, good Chloe!” said she.
Chloe leaned her head on her mistress’ shoulder, and sobbed out, “O
Missis! ’scuse me, my heart’s broke,—dat’s all!”
“I know it is,” said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast;
“and cannot heal it, but Jesus can. He healeth the broken
hearted, and bindeth up their wounds.”
There was a silence for some time, and all wept together. At last, George,
sitting down beside the mourner, took her hand, and, with simple pathos,
repeated the triumphant scene of her husband’s death, and his last
messages of love.
About a month after this, one morning, all the servants of the Shelby estate
were convened together in the great hall that ran through the house, to hear a
few words from their young master.
To the surprise of all, he appeared among them with a bundle of papers in his
hand, containing a certificate of freedom to every one on the place, which he
read successively, and presented, amid the sobs and tears and shouts of all
present.
Many, however, pressed around him, earnestly begging him not to send them away;
and, with anxious faces, tendering back their free papers.
“We don’t want to be no freer than we are. We’s allers had
all we wanted. We don’t want to leave de ole place, and Mas’r and
Missis, and de rest!”
“My good friends,” said George, as soon as he could get a silence,
“there’ll be no need for you to leave me. The place wants as many
hands to work it as it did before. We need the same about the house that we did
before. But, you are now free men and free women. I shall pay you wages for
your work, such as we shall agree on. The advantage is, that in case of my
getting in debt, or dying,—things that might happen,—you cannot now
be taken up and sold. I expect to carry on the estate, and to teach you what,
perhaps, it will take you some time to learn,—how to use the rights I
give you as free men and women. I expect you to be good, and willing to learn;
and I trust in God that I shall be faithful, and willing to teach. And now, my
friends, look up, and thank God for the blessing of freedom.”
An aged, partriarchal negro, who had grown gray and blind on the estate, now
rose, and, lifting his trembling hand said, “Let us give thanks unto the
Lord!” As all kneeled by one consent, a more touching and hearty never ascended to heaven, though borne on the peal of organ, bell and
cannon, than came from that honest old heart.
On rising, another struck up a Methodist hymn, of which the burden was,
“The year of Jubilee is come,—
Return, ye ransomed sinners, home.”
“One thing more,” said George, as he stopped the congratulations of
the throng; “you all remember our good old Uncle Tom?”
George here gave a short narration of the scene of his death, and of his loving
farewell to all on the place, and added,
“It was on his grave, my friends, that I resolved, before God, that I
would never own another slave, while it was possible to free him; that nobody,
through me, should ever run the risk of being parted from home and friends, and
dying on a lonely plantation, as he died. So, when you rejoice in your freedom,
think that you owe it to that good old soul, and pay it back in kindness to his
wife and children. Think of your freedom, every time you see
U T C; and let
it be a memorial to put you all in mind to follow in his steps, and be honest
and faithful and Christian as he was.”
CHAPTER XLV
Concluding Remarks
The writer has often been inquired of, by correspondents from different parts
of the country, whether this narrative is a true one; and to these inquiries
she will give one general answer.
The separate incidents that compose the narrative are, to a very great extent,
authentic, occurring, many of them, either under her own observation, or that
of her personal friends. She or her friends have observed characters the
counterpart of almost all that are here introduced; and many of the sayings are
word for word as heard herself, or reported to her.
The personal appearance of Eliza, the character ascribed to her, are sketches
drawn from life. The incorruptible fidelity, piety and honesty, of Uncle Tom,
had more than one development, to her personal knowledge. Some of the most
deeply tragic and romantic, some of the most terrible incidents, have also
their parallels in reality. The incident of the mother’s crossing the
Ohio river on the ice is a well-known fact. The story of “old
Prue,” in the second volume, was an incident that fell under the personal
observation of a brother of the writer, then collecting-clerk to a large
mercantile house, in New Orleans. From the same source was derived the
character of the planter Legree. Of him her brother thus wrote, speaking of
visiting his plantation, on a collecting tour; “He actually made me feel
of his fist, which was like a blacksmith’s hammer, or a nodule of iron,
telling me that it was ‘calloused with knocking down niggers.’ When
I left the plantation, I drew a long breath, and felt as if I had escaped from
an ogre’s den.”
That the tragical fate of Tom, also, has too many times had its parallel, there
are living witnesses, all over our land, to testify. Let it be remembered that
in all southern states it is a principle of jurisprudence that no person of
colored lineage can testify in a suit against a white, and it will be easy to
see that such a case may occur, wherever there is a man whose passions outweigh
his interests, and a slave who has manhood or principle enough to resist his
will. There is, actually, nothing to protect the slave’s life, but the
of the master. Facts too shocking to be contemplated
occasionally force their way to the public ear, and the comment that one often
hears made on them is more shocking than the thing itself. It is said,
“Very likely such cases may now and then occur, but they are no sample of
general practice.” If the laws of New England were so arranged that a
master could torture an apprentice to death, would it be
received with equal composure? Would it be said, “These cases are rare,
and no samples of general practice”? This injustice is an
one in the slave system,—it cannot exist without it.
The public and shameless sale of beautiful mulatto and quadroon girls has
acquired a notoriety, from the incidents following the capture of the Pearl. We
extract the following from the speech of Hon. Horace Mann, one of the legal
counsel for the defendants in that case. He says: “In that company of
seventy-six persons, who attempted, in 1848, to escape from the District of
Columbia in the schooner Pearl, and whose officers I assisted in defending,
there were several young and healthy girls, who had those peculiar attractions
of form and feature which connoisseurs prize so highly. Elizabeth Russel was
one of them. She immediately fell into the slave-trader’s fangs, and was
doomed for the New Orleans market. The hearts of those that saw her were
touched with pity for her fate. They offered eighteen hundred dollars to redeem
her; and some there were who offered to give, that would not have much left
after the gift; but the fiend of a slave-trader was inexorable. She was
despatched to New Orleans; but, when about half way there, God had mercy on
her, and smote her with death. There were two girls named Edmundson in the same
company. When about to be sent to the same market, an older sister went to the
shambles, to plead with the wretch who owned them, for the love of God, to
spare his victims. He bantered her, telling what fine dresses and fine
furniture they would have. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that may do very
well in this life, but what will become of them in the next?’ They too
were sent to New Orleans; but were afterwards redeemed, at an enormous ransom,
and brought back.” Is it not plain, from this, that the histories of
Emmeline and Cassy may have many counterparts?
Justice, too, obliges the author to state that the fairness of mind and
generosity attributed to St. Clare are not without a parallel, as the following
anecdote will show. A few years since, a young southern gentleman was in
Cincinnati, with a favorite servant, who had been his personal attendant from a
boy. The young man took advantage of this opportunity to secure his own
freedom, and fled to the protection of a Quaker, who was quite noted in affairs
of this kind. The owner was exceedingly indignant. He had always treated the
slave with such indulgence, and his confidence in his affection was such, that
he believed he must have been practised upon to induce him to revolt from him.
He visited the Quaker, in high anger; but, being possessed of uncommon candor
and fairness, was soon quieted by his arguments and representations. It was a
side of the subject which he never had heard,—never had thought on; and
he immediately told the Quaker that, if his slave would, to his own face, say
that it was his desire to be free, he would liberate him. An interview was
forthwith procured, and Nathan was asked by his young master whether he had
ever had any reason to complain of his treatment, in any respect.
“No, Mas’r,” said Nathan; “you’ve always been
good to me.”
“Well, then, why do you want to leave me?”
“Mas’r may die, and then who get me?—I’d rather be a
free man.”
After some deliberation, the young master replied, “Nathan, in your
place, I think I should feel very much so, myself. You are free.”
He immediately made him out free papers; deposited a sum of money in the hands
of the Quaker, to be judiciously used in assisting him to start in life, and
left a very sensible and kind letter of advice to the young man. That letter
was for some time in the writer’s hands.
The author hopes she has done justice to that nobility, generosity, and
humanity, which in many cases characterize individuals at the South. Such
instances save us from utter despair of our kind. But, she asks any person, who
knows the world, are such characters , anywhere?
For many years of her life, the author avoided all reading upon or allusion to
the subject of slavery, considering it as too painful to be inquired into, and
one which advancing light and civilization would certainly live down. But,
since the legislative act of 1850, when she heard, with perfect surprise and
consternation, Christian and humane people actually recommending the remanding
escaped fugitives into slavery, as a duty binding on good citizens,—when
she heard, on all hands, from kind, compassionate and estimable people, in the
free states of the North, deliberations and discussions as to what Christian
duty could be on this head,—she could only think, These men and
Christians cannot know what slavery is; if they did, such a question could
never be open for discussion. And from this arose a desire to exhibit it in a
. She has endeavored to show it fairly, in its
best and its worst phases. In its aspect, she has, perhaps, been
successful; but, oh! who shall say what yet remains untold in that valley and
shadow of death, that lies the other side?
To you, generous, noble-minded men and women, of the South,—you, whose
virtue, and magnanimity and purity of character, are the greater for the
severer trial it has encountered,—to you is her appeal. Have you not, in
your own secret souls, in your own private conversings, felt that there are
woes and evils, in this accursed system, far beyond what are here shadowed, or
can be shadowed? Can it be otherwise? Is ever a creature to be
trusted with wholly irresponsible power? And does not the slave system, by
denying the slave all legal right of testimony, make every individual owner an
irresponsible despot? Can anybody fail to make the inference what the practical
result will be? If there is, as we admit, a public sentiment among you, men of
honor, justice and humanity, is there not also another kind of public sentiment
among the ruffian, the brutal and debased? And cannot the ruffian, the brutal,
the debased, by slave law, own just as many slaves as the best and purest? Are
the honorable, the just, the high-minded and compassionate, the majority
anywhere in this world?
The slave-trade is now, by American law, considered as piracy. But a
slave-trade, as systematic as ever was carried on on the coast of Africa, is an
inevitable attendant and result of American slavery. And its heart-break and
its horrors, can they be told?
The writer has given only a faint shadow, a dim picture, of the anguish and
despair that are, at this very moment, riving thousands of hearts, shattering
thousands of families, and driving a helpless and sensitive race to frenzy and
despair. There are those living who know the mothers whom this accursed traffic
has driven to the murder of their children; and themselves seeking in death a
shelter from woes more dreaded than death. Nothing of tragedy can be written,
can be spoken, can be conceived, that equals the frightful reality of scenes
daily and hourly acting on our shores, beneath the shadow of American law, and
the shadow of the cross of Christ.
And now, men and women of America, is this a thing to be trifled with,
apologized for, and passed over in silence? Farmers of Massachusetts, of New
Hampshire, of Vermont, of Connecticut, who read this book by the blaze of your
winter-evening fire,—strong-hearted, generous sailors and ship-owners of
Maine,—is this a thing for you to countenance and encourage? Brave and
generous men of New York, farmers of rich and joyous Ohio, and ye of the wide
prairie states,—answer, is this a thing for you to protect and
countenance? And you, mothers of America,—you who have learned, by the
cradles of your own children, to love and feel for all mankind,—by the
sacred love you bear your child; by your joy in his beautiful, spotless
infancy; by the motherly pity and tenderness with which you guide his growing
years; by the anxieties of his education; by the prayers you breathe for his
soul’s eternal good;—I beseech you, pity the mother who has all
your affections, and not one legal right to protect, guide, or educate, the
child of her bosom! By the sick hour of your child; by those dying eyes, which
you can never forget; by those last cries, that wrung your heart when you could
neither help nor save; by the desolation of that empty cradle, that silent
nursery,—I beseech you, pity those mothers that are constantly made
childless by the American slave-trade! And say, mothers of America, is this a
thing to be defended, sympathized with, passed over in silence?
Do you say that the people of the free state have nothing to do with it, and
can do nothing? Would to God this were true! But it is not true. The people of
the free states have defended, encouraged, and participated; and are more
guilty for it, before God, than the South, in that they have not the apology of
education or custom.
If the mothers of the free states had all felt as they should, in times past,
the sons of the free states would not have been the holders, and, proverbially,
the hardest masters of slaves; the sons of the free states would not have
connived at the extension of slavery, in our national body; the sons of the
free states would not, as they do, trade the souls and bodies of men as an
equivalent to money, in their mercantile dealings. There are multitudes of
slaves temporarily owned, and sold again, by merchants in northern cities; and
shall the whole guilt or obloquy of slavery fall only on the South?
Northern men, northern mothers, northern Christians, have something more to do
than denounce their brethren at the South; they have to look to the evil among
themselves.
But, what can any individual do? Of that, every individual can judge. There is
one thing that every individual can do,—they can see to it that . An atmosphere of sympathetic influence encircles every human
being; and the man or woman who strongly, healthily and justly, on
the great interests of humanity, is a constant benefactor to the human race.
See, then, to your sympathies in this matter! Are they in harmony with the
sympathies of Christ? or are they swayed and perverted by the sophistries of
worldly policy?
Christian men and women of the North! still further,—you have another
power; you can Do you believe in prayer? or has it become an
indistinct apostolic tradition? You pray for the heathen abroad; pray also for
the heathen at home. And pray for those distressed Christians whose whole
chance of religious improvement is an accident of trade and sale; from whom any
adherence to the morals of Christianity is, in many cases, an impossibility,
unless they have given them, from above, the courage and grace of martyrdom.
But, still more. On the shores of our free states are emerging the poor,
shattered, broken remnants of families,—men and women, escaped, by
miraculous providences from the surges of slavery,—feeble in knowledge,
and, in many cases, infirm in moral constitution, from a system which confounds
and confuses every principle of Christianity and morality. They come to seek a
refuge among you; they come to seek education, knowledge, Christianity.
What do you owe to these poor unfortunates, oh Christians? Does not every
American Christian owe to the African race some effort at reparation for the
wrongs that the American nation has brought upon them? Shall the doors of
churches and school-houses be shut upon them? Shall states arise and shake them
out? Shall the church of Christ hear in silence the taunt that is thrown at
them, and shrink away from the helpless hand that they stretch out; and, by her
silence, encourage the cruelty that would chase them from our borders? If it
must be so, it will be a mournful spectacle. If it must be so, the country will
have reason to tremble, when it remembers that the fate of nations is in the
hands of One who is very pitiful, and of tender compassion.
Do you say, “We don’t want them here; let them go to Africa”?
That the providence of God has provided a refuge in Africa, is, indeed, a great
and noticeable fact; but that is no reason why the church of Christ should
throw off that responsibility to this outcast race which her profession demands
of her.
To fill up Liberia with an ignorant, inexperienced, half-barbarized race, just
escaped from the chains of slavery, would be only to prolong, for ages, the
period of struggle and conflict which attends the inception of new enterprises.
Let the church of the north receive these poor sufferers in the spirit of
Christ; receive them to the educating advantages of Christian republican
society and schools, until they have attained to somewhat of a moral and
intellectual maturity, and then assist them in their passage to those shores,
where they may put in practice the lessons they have learned in America.
There is a body of men at the north, comparatively small, who have been doing
this; and, as the result, this country has already seen examples of men,
formerly slaves, who have rapidly acquired property, reputation, and education.
Talent has been developed, which, considering the circumstances, is certainly
remarkable; and, for moral traits of honesty, kindness, tenderness of
feeling,—for heroic efforts and self-denials, endured for the ransom of
brethren and friends yet in slavery,—they have been remarkable to a
degree that, considering the influence under which they were born, is
surprising.
The writer has lived, for many years, on the frontier-line of slave states, and
has had great opportunities of observation among those who formerly were
slaves. They have been in her family as servants; and, in default of any other
school to receive them, she has, in many cases, had them instructed in a family
school, with her own children. She has also the testimony of missionaries,
among the fugitives in Canada, in coincidence with her own experience; and her
deductions, with regard to the capabilities of the race, are encouraging in the
highest degree.
The first desire of the emancipated slave, generally, is for .
There is nothing that they are not willing to give or do to have their children
instructed, and, so far as the writer has observed herself, or taken the
testimony of teachers among them, they are remarkably intelligent and quick to
learn. The results of schools, founded for them by benevolent individuals in
Cincinnati, fully establish this.
The author gives the following statement of facts, on the authority of
Professor C. E. Stowe, then of Lane Seminary, Ohio, with regard to emancipated
slaves, now resident in Cincinnati; given to show the capability of the race,
even without any very particular assistance or encouragement.
The initial letters alone are given. They are all residents of Cincinnati.
“B——. Furniture maker; twenty years in the city; worth ten
thousand dollars, all his own earnings; a Baptist.
“C——. Full black; stolen from Africa; sold in New Orleans;
been free fifteen years; paid for himself six hundred dollars; a farmer; owns
several farms in Indiana; Presbyterian; probably worth fifteen or twenty
thousand dollars, all earned by himself.
“K——. Full black; dealer in real estate; worth thirty
thousand dollars; about forty years old; free six years; paid eighteen hundred
dollars for his family; member of the Baptist church; received a legacy from
his master, which he has taken good care of, and increased.
“G——. Full black; coal dealer; about thirty years old; worth
eighteen thousand dollars; paid for himself twice, being once defrauded to the
amount of sixteen hundred dollars; made all his money by his own
efforts—much of it while a slave, hiring his time of his master, and
doing business for himself; a fine, gentlemanly fellow.
“W——. Three-fourths black; barber and waiter; from Kentucky;
nineteen years free; paid for self and family over three thousand dollars;
deacon in the Baptist church.
“G. D——. Three-fourths black; white-washer; from Kentucky;
nine years free; paid fifteen hundred dollars for self and family; recently
died, aged sixty; worth six thousand dollars.”
Professor Stowe says, “With all these, except G——, I have
been, for some years, personally acquainted, and make my statements from my own
knowledge.”
The writer well remembers an aged colored woman, who was employed as a
washerwoman in her father’s family. The daughter of this woman married a
slave. She was a remarkably active and capable young woman, and, by her
industry and thrift, and the most persevering self-denial, raised nine hundred
dollars for her husband’s freedom, which she paid, as she raised it, into
the hands of his master. She yet wanted a hundred dollars of the price, when he
died. She never recovered any of the money.
These are but few facts, among multitudes which might be adduced, to show the
self-denial, energy, patience, and honesty, which the slave has exhibited in a
state of freedom.
And let it be remembered that these individuals have thus bravely succeeded in
conquering for themselves comparative wealth and social position, in the face
of every disadvantage and discouragement. The colored man, by the law of Ohio,
cannot be a voter, and, till within a few years, was even denied the right of
testimony in legal suits with the white. Nor are these instances confined to
the State of Ohio. In all states of the Union we see men, but yesterday burst
from the shackles of slavery, who, by a self-educating force, which cannot be
too much admired, have risen to highly respectable stations in society.
Pennington, among clergymen, Douglas and Ward, among editors, are well known
instances.
If this persecuted race, with every discouragement and disadvantage, have done
thus much, how much more they might do if the Christian church would act
towards them in the spirit of her Lord!
This is an age of the world when nations are trembling and convulsed. A mighty
influence is abroad, surging and heaving the world, as with an earthquake. And
is America safe? Every nation that carries in its bosom great and unredressed
injustice has in it the elements of this last convulsion.
For what is this mighty influence thus rousing in all nations and languages
those groanings that cannot be uttered, for man’s freedom and equality?
O, Church of Christ, read the signs of the times! Is not this power the spirit
of Him whose kingdom is yet to come, and whose will to be done on earth as it
is in heaven?
But who may abide the day of his appearing? “for that day shall burn as
an oven: and he shall appear as a swift witness against those that oppress the
hireling in his wages, the widow and the fatherless, and that : and he shall break in pieces the oppressor.”
Are not these dread words for a nation bearing in her bosom so mighty an
injustice? Christians! every time that you pray that the kingdom of Christ may
come, can you forget that prophecy associates, in dread fellowship, the with the year of his redeemed?
A day of grace is yet held out to us. Both North and South have been guilty
before God; and the has a heavy account to answer. Not
by combining together, to protect injustice and cruelty, and making a common
capital of sin, is this Union to be saved,—but by repentance, justice and
mercy; for, not surer is the eternal law by which the millstone sinks in the
ocean, than that stronger law, by which injustice and cruelty shall bring on
nations the wrath of Almighty God!
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