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_ 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 _one_ thing I can thank him for.
It's _me_ that's sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en.
Here you're safe;--what comes will come only on me; and the Lord,
he'll help me,--I know he will."
Ah, brave, manly heart,--smothering thine own sorrow, to
comfort thy beloved ones! Tom spoke with a thick utterance, and
with a bitter choking in his throat,--but he spoke brave and strong.
"Let's think on our marcies!" he added, tremulously, as if
he was quite sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed.
"Marcies!" said Aunt Chloe; "don't see no marcy in 't!
'tan't right! tan't right it should be so! Mas'r never ought ter
left it so that ye _could_ be took for his debts. Ye've arnt him
all he gets for ye, twice over. He owed ye yer freedom, and ought
ter gin 't to yer years ago. Mebbe he can't help himself now, but
I feel it's wrong. Nothing can't beat that ar out o' me. Sich a
faithful crittur as ye've been,--and allers sot his business 'fore
yer own every way,--and reckoned on him more than yer own wife and
chil'en! Them as sells heart's love and heart's blood, to get out
thar scrapes, de Lord'll be up to 'em!"
"Chloe! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhaps
jest the last time we'll ever have together! And I'll tell ye,
Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word agin Mas'r. Wan't he put
in my arms a baby?--it's natur I should think a heap of him.
And he couldn't be spected to think so much of poor Tom. Mas'rs is
used to havin' all these yer things done for 'em, and nat'lly they
don't think so much on 't. They can't be spected to, no way.
Set him 'longside of other Mas'rs--who's had the treatment and livin'
I've had? And he never would have let this yer come on me, if he
could have seed it aforehand. I know he wouldn't."
"Wal, any way, thar's wrong about it _somewhar_," said Aunt
Chloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait;
"I can't jest make out whar 't is, but thar's wrong somewhar, I'm
_clar_ o' that."
"Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above--he's above
all--thar don't a sparrow fall without him."
"It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter," said Aunt Chloe.
"But dar's no use talkin'; I'll jes wet up de corn-cake, and get ye
one good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows when you'll get another."
In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold
south, it must be remembered that all the instinctive affections
of that race are peculiarly strong. Their local attachments are
very abiding. They are not naturally daring and enterprising, but
home-loving and affectionate. Add to this all the terrors with
which ignorance invests the unknown, and add to this, again, that
selling to the south is set before the 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]
[1] A slightly inaccurate quotation from _Hamlet_, 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 _my_ tears!" she said, looking grimly at the trader,
who was coming up. "I does not feel to cry 'fore dat ar
old limb, no how!"
"Get in!" said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the crowd
of servants, who looked at him with lowering brows.
Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the wagon
seat a heavy pair of shackles, made them fast around each ankle.
A smothered groan of indignation ran through the whole
circle, and Mrs. Shelby spoke from the verandah,--"Mr.
Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unnecessary."
"Don' know, ma'am; I've lost one five hundred dollars from
this yer place, and I can't afford to run no more risks."
"What else could she spect on him?" said Aunt Chloe,
indignantly, while the two boys, who now seemed to comprehend at
once their father's destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing and
groaning vehemently.
"I'm sorry," said Tom, "that Mas'r George happened to be away."
George had gone to spend two or three days with a companion
on a neighboring estate, and having departed early in the morning,
before Tom's misfortune had been made public, had left without
hearing of it.
"Give my love to Mas'r George," he said, earnestly.
Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful
look, fixed to the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away.
Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home. He had sold Tom
under the spur of a driving necessity, to get out of the power of
a man whom he dreaded,--and his first feeling, after the consummation
of the bargain, had been that of relief. But his wife's expostulations
awoke his half-slumbering regrets; and Tom's manly disinterestedness
increased the unpleasantness of his feelings. It was in vain that
he said to himself that he had a _right_ to do it,--that everybody
did it,--and that some did it without even the excuse of necessity;--he
could not satisfy his own feelings; and that he might not witness
the unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a short
business tour up the country, hoping that all would be over before
he returned.
Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling
past every old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate were
fairly passed, and they found themselves out on the open pike.
After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up at the
door of a blacksmith's shop, when, taking out with him a pair of
handcuffs, he stepped into the shop, to have a little alteration
in them.
"These yer 's a little too small for his build," said Haley,
showing the fetters, and pointing out to Tom.
"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, _so_!" said George, with a kind of
subdued howl.
"O! Mas'r George! this does me good!" said Tom. "I couldn't
bar to go off without seein' ye! It does me real good, ye can't
tell!" Here Tom made some movement of his feet, and George's eye
fell on the fetters.
"What a shame!" he exclaimed, lifting his hands. "I'll knock
that old fellow down--I will!"
"No you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so loud.
It won't help me any, to anger him."
"Well, I won't, then, for your sake; but only to think of
it--isn't it a shame? They never sent for me, nor sent me any word,
and, if it hadn't been for Tom Lincon, I shouldn't have heard it.
I tell you, I blew 'em up well, all of 'em, at home!"
"That ar wasn't right, I'm 'feard, Mas'r George."
"Can't help it! I say it's a shame! Look here, Uncle Tom,"
said he, turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a mysterious
tone, _"I've brought you my dollar!"_
"O! I couldn't think o' takin' on 't, Mas'r George, no ways
in the world!" said Tom, quite moved.
"But you _shall_ take it!" said George; "look here--I told
Aunt Chloe I'd do it, and she advised me just to make a hole in
it, and put a string through, so you could hang it round your neck,
and keep it out of sight; else this mean scamp would take it away.
I tell ye, Tom, I want to blow him up! it would do me good!"
"No, don't Mas'r George, for it won't do _me_ any good."
"Well, I won't, for your sake," said George, busily tying
his dollar round Tom's neck; "but there, now, button your coat
tight over it, and keep it, and remember, every time you see it,
that I'll come down after you, and bring you back. Aunt Chloe and
I have been talking about it. I told her not to fear; I'll see to
it, and I'll tease father's life out, if he don't do it."
"O! Mas'r George, ye mustn't talk so 'bout yer father!"
"Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad."
"And now, Mas'r George," said Tom, "ye must be a good boy;
'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep close to
yer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of them foolish ways boys
has of gettin' too big to mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas'r
George, the Lord gives good many things twice over; but he don't
give ye a mother but once. Ye'll never see sich another woman,
Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hundred years old. So, now, you
hold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort to her, thar's my
own good boy,--you will now, won't ye?"
"Yes, I will, Uncle Tom," said George seriously.
"And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young boys,
when they comes to your age, is wilful, sometimes-- it is natur
they should be. But real gentlemen, such as I hopes you'll be,
never lets fall on words that isn't 'spectful to thar parents.
Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George?"
"No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good advice."
"I's older, ye know," said Tom, stroking the boy's fine,
curly head with his large, strong hand, but speaking in a voice as
tender as a woman's, "and I sees all that's bound up in you.
O, Mas'r George, you has everything,--l'arnin', privileges, readin',
writin',--and you'll grow up to be a great, learned, good man and
all the people on the place and your mother and father'll be so
proud on ye! Be a good Mas'r, like yer father; and be a Christian,
like yer mother. 'Member yer Creator in the days o' yer youth,
Mas'r George."
"I'll be _real_ good, Uncle Tom, I tell you," said George.
"I'm going to be a _first-rater_; and don't you be discouraged.
I'll have you back to the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe this
morning, I'll build our house all over, and you shall have a room
for a parlor with a carpet on it, when I'm a man. O, you'll have
good times yet!"
Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his hands.
"Look here, now, Mister," said George, with an air of great
superiority, as he got out, "I shall let father and mother know
how you treat Uncle Tom!"
"You're welcome," said the trader.
"I should think you'd be ashamed to spend all your life
buying men and women, and chaining them, like cattle! I should
think you'd feel mean!" said George.
"So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women, I'm as
good as they is," said Haley; "'tan't any meaner sellin' on
'em, that 't is buyin'!"
"I'll never do either, when I'm a man," said George; "I'm
ashamed, this day, that I'm a Kentuckian. I always was proud of
it before;" and George sat very straight on his horse, and looked
round with an air, as if he expected the state would be impressed
with his opinion.
"Well, good-by, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip," said George.
"Good-by, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and
admiringly at him. "God Almighty bless you! Ah! Kentucky han't
got many like you!" he said, in the fulness of his heart, as the
^^^^^^
frank, boyish face was lost to his view. Away he went, and Tom
looked, till the clatter of his horse's heels died away, the last
sound or sight of his home. But over his heart there seemed to be
a warm spot, where those young hands had placed that precious dollar.
Tom put up his hand, and held it close to his heart.
"Now, I tell ye what, Tom," said Haley, as he came up to
the wagon, and threw in the 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. _
Read next: VOLUME I: CHAPTER XI - In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind
Read previous: VOLUME I: CHAPTER IX - In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man
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