Uncle Tom's Cabin
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.
CHAPTER XI
In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind
It was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveler alighted at the door
of a small country hotel, in the village of N——, in Kentucky. In the
barroom he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, whom stress
of weather had driven to harbor, and the place presented the usual
scenery of such reunions. Great, tall, raw-boned Kentuckians, attired
in hunting-shirts, and trailing their loose joints over a vast extent
of territory, with the easy lounge peculiar to the race,—rifles stacked
away in the corner, shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little
negroes, all rolled together in the corners,—were the characteristic
features in the picture. At each end of the fireplace sat a long-legged
gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his hat on his head, and the
heels of his muddy boots reposing sublimely on the mantel-piece,—a
position, we will inform our readers, decidedly favorable to the turn
of reflection incident to western taverns, where travellers exhibit a
decided preference for this particular mode of elevating their
understandings.
Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his country men, was
great of stature, good-natured and loose-jointed, with an enormous
shock of hair on his head, and a great tall hat on the top of that.
In fact, everybody in the room bore on his head this characteristic
emblem of man’s sovereignty; whether it were felt hat, palm-leaf,
greasy beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true
republican independence. In truth, it appeared to be the characteristic
mark of every individual. Some wore them tipped rakishly to one
side—these were your men of humor, jolly, free-and-easy dogs; some had
them jammed independently down over their noses—these were your hard
characters, thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, _wanted_ to