Bab Bab 8 · Eliza’s Escape

. 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 _you’re_ glad to see ’em; something to

be made off of ’em. What’s the blow now?”

“You’ve got a friend here?” said Haley, looking doubtfully at Marks;

“partner, perhaps?”

“Yes, I have. Here, Marks! here’s that ar feller that I was in with in

Natchez.”

“Shall be pleased with his acquaintance,” said Marks, thrusting out a

long, thin hand, like a raven’s claw. “Mr. Haley, I believe?”

“The same, sir,” said Haley. “And now, gentlemen, seein’ as we’ve met

so happily, I think I’ll stand up to a small matter of a treat in this

here parlor. So, now, old coon,” said he to the man at the bar, “get us

hot water, and sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the _real stuff_ and

we’ll have a blow-out.”

Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the burning

point in the grate, and our three worthies seated round a table, well

spread with all the accessories to good fellowship enumerated before.

Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles. Loker shut up

his mouth, and listened to him with gruff and surly attention. Marks,

who was anxiously and with much fidgeting compounding a tumbler of

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, “jest pass the hot water. Yes, sir; you

say jest 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 _”t was_ sickly and cross,

and plagued her; and she warn’t making b’lieve, neither,—cried about

it, she did, and lopped round, as if she’d lost every friend she had.

It re’lly was droll to think on ’t. Lord, there ain’t no end to women’s

notions.”

“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 minnit, till she saw ’t warn’t no

use; and she jest turns round, and pitches head first, young un and

all, into the river,—went down plump, and never ris.”

“Bah!” said Tom Loker, who had listened to these stories with

ill-repressed disgust,—“shif’less, both on ye! _my_ gals don’t cut up

no such shines, I tell ye!”

“Indeed! how do you help it?” said Marks, briskly.

“Help it? why, I buys a gal, and if she’s got a young un to be sold, I

jest walks up and puts my fist to her face, and says, ‘Look here, now,

if you give me one word out of your head, I’ll smash yer face in. I

won’t hear one word—not the beginning of a word.’ I says to ’em, ‘This

yer young un’s mine, and not yourn, and you’ve no kind o’ business with

it. I’m going to sell it, first chance; mind, you don’t cut up none o’

yer shines about it, or I’ll make ye wish ye’d never been born.’ I tell

ye, they sees it an’t no play, when I gets hold. I makes ’em as whist

as fishes; and if one on ’em begins and gives a yelp, why,—” and Mr.

Loker brought down his fist with a thump that fully explained the

hiatus.

“That ar’s what ye may call _emphasis_,” said Marks, poking Haley in

the side, and going into another small giggle. “An’t Tom peculiar? he!

he! I say, Tom, I s’pect you make ’em _understand_, for all 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, “_don’t_ I know?—don’t make me too sick with any yer

stuff,—my stomach is a leetle riled now;” and Tom drank half a glass of

raw brandy.

“I say,” said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and gesturing

impressively, “I’ll say this now, I al’ays meant to drive my trade so

as to make money on ’t _fust and foremost_, as much as any man; but,

then, trade an’t everything, and money an’t everything, ’cause we ’s

all got souls. I don’t care, now, who hears me say it,—and I think a

cussed sight on it,—so I may as well come out with it. I b’lieve in

religion, and one of these days, when I’ve got matters tight and snug,

I calculates to tend to my soul and them ar matters; and so what’s the

use of doin’ any more wickedness than ’s re’lly necessary?—it don’t

seem to me it’s ’t all prudent.”

“Tend to yer soul!” repeated Tom, contemptuously; “take a bright

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, _“It’ll do!”_ he said.

“Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn’t break all the glasses!” said Marks;

“save your fist for time o’ need.”

“But, gentlemen, an’t I to come in for a share of the profits?” said

Haley.

“An’t it enough we catch the boy for ye?” said Loker. “What do ye

want?”

“Wal,” said Haley, “if I gives you the job, it’s worth something,—say

ten per cent. on the profits, expenses paid.”

“Now,” said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking the table with

his heavy fist, “don’t I know _you_, Dan Haley? Don’t you think to come

it over me! Suppose Marks and I have taken up the catchin’ trade, jest

to ’commodate gentlemen like you, and get nothin’ for ourselves?—Not by

a long chalk! we’ll have the gal out and out, and you keep quiet, or,

ye see, we’ll have both,—what’s to hinder? Han’t you show’d us the

game? It’s as free to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby wants to

chase us, look where the partridges was last year; if you find them or

us, you’re quite welcome.”

“O, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that,” said Haley, alarmed; “you

catch the boy for the job;—you allers did trade _far_ with me, Tom, and

was up to yer word.”

“Ye know that,” said Tom; “I don’t pretend none of your snivelling

ways, but I won’t lie in my ’counts with the devil himself. What I ses

I’ll do, I will do,—you know _that_, Dan Haley.”

“Jes so, jes so,—I said so, Tom,” said Haley; “and if you’d only

promise to have the boy for me in a week, at any point you’ll name,

that’s all I want.”

“But it an’t all I want, by a long jump,” said Tom. “Ye don’t think I

did business with you, down in Natchez, for nothing, Haley; I’ve

learned to hold an eel, when I catch him. You’ve got to fork over fifty

dollars, flat down, or this child don’t start a peg. I know yer.”

“Why, when you have a job in hand that may bring a clean profit of

somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred, why, Tom, you’re

onreasonable,” said Haley.

“Yes, and hasn’t we business booked for five weeks to come,—all we can

do? And suppose we leaves all, and goes to bush-whacking round arter

yer young uns, and finally doesn’t catch the gal,—and gals allers is

the devil _to_ catch,—what’s then? would you pay us a cent—would you? I

think I see you a doin’ it—ugh! No, no; flap down your fifty. If we get

the job, and it pays, I’ll hand it back; if we don’t, it’s for our

trouble,—that’s _far_, an’t it, Marks?”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Marks, with a conciliatory tone; “it’s

only a retaining fee, you see,—he! he! he!—we lawyers, you know. Wal,

we must all keep good-natured,—keep easy, yer know. Tom’ll have the boy

for yer, anywhere ye’ll name; won’t ye, Tom?”

“If I find the young un, I’ll bring him on to Cincinnati, and leave him

at Granny Belcher’s, on the landing,” said Loker.

Marks had got from his pocket a greasy 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 _do_ you mean?” said Mrs. Shelby, breathless, and

almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words came over her.

“Wal, Missis, de Lord he persarves his own. Lizy’s done gone over the

river into ’Hio, as ’markably as if de Lord took her over in a charrit

of fire and two hosses.”

Sam’s vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in his mistress’

presence; and he made great capital of scriptural figures and images.

“Come up here, Sam,” said Mr. Shelby, who had followed on to the

verandah, “and tell your mistress what she wants. Come, come, Emily,”

said he, passing his arm round her, “you are cold and all in a shiver;

you allow yourself to feel too much.”

“Feel too much! Am not I a woman,—a mother? Are we not both responsible

to God for this poor girl? My God! lay not this sin to our charge.”

“What sin, Emily? You see yourself that we have only done what we were

obliged to.”

“There’s an awful feeling of guilt about it, though,” said Mrs. Shelby.

“I can’t reason it away.”

“Here, Andy, you 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 _olla

podrida_ 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 _me_ in his way; _I’m_ the feller he’s

got to set in with,—I’m the feller for yer all to come to,

bredren,—I’ll stand up for yer rights,—I’ll fend ’em to the last

breath!”

“Why, but Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin’, that you’d help this

yer Mas’r to cotch Lizy; seems to me yer talk don’t hang together,”

said Andy.

“I tell you now, Andy,” said Sam, with awful superiority, “don’t yer be

a talkin’ ’bout what yer don’t know nothin’ on; boys like you, Andy,

means well, but they can’t be spected to collusitate the great

principles of action.”

Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word collusitate, which

most of the youngerly members of the company seemed to consider as a

settler in the case, while Sam proceeded.

“Dat ar was _conscience_, Andy; when I thought of gwine arter Lizy, I

railly spected Mas’r was sot dat way. When I found Missis was sot the

contrar, dat ar was conscience _more yet_,—cause fellers allers gets

more by stickin’ to Missis’ side,—so yer see I ’s persistent either

way, and sticks up to conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes,

_principles_,” said Sam, giving an enthusiastic toss to a chicken’s

neck,—“what’s principles 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 _all_ times. I has principles, and I sticks to

’em like forty,—jest anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in to

’t;—I wouldn’t mind if dey burnt me ’live,—I’d walk right up to de

stake, I would, and say, here I comes to shed my last blood fur my

principles, fur my country, fur de gen’l interests of society.”

“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “one o’ yer principles will have to be to get

to bed some time 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.