Bab Bab 10 · The Property Is Carried Off

. 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 _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 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.