บทที่ บทที่ 5 · Showing the Feelings of Living Property on Changing Owners

. 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 _now_ 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 known 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, Emily,—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 _all_ 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 _had_ to do it. If you feel so to have them sold, would

it be any better to have _all_ 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 _might_

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 the 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 his

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!”

[Illustration: 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 _him_?”

“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—’t an’t in _natur_ 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 b’ar 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.