Uncle Tom's Cabin
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