Uncle Tom's Cabin
“And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this way?—not
long or far, I hope. It’s well carried on, but too bold. And this black
fellow,—who is he?”
“A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard,
after he got there, that his master was so angry at him for going off
that he had whipped his poor old mother; and he has come all the way
back to comfort her, and get a chance to get her away.”
“Has he got her?”
“Not yet; he has been hanging about the place, and found no chance yet.
Meanwhile, he is going with me as far as Ohio, to put me among friends
that helped him, and then he will come back after her.
“Dangerous, very dangerous!” said the old man.
George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully.
The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort of innocent
wonder.
“George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up your
head, and speak and move like another man,” said Mr. Wilson.
“Because I’m a _freeman_!” said George, proudly. “Yes, sir; I’ve said
Mas’r for the last time to any man. _I’m free!”_
“Take care! You are not sure,—you may be taken.”
“All men are free and equal _in the grave_, if it comes to that, Mr.
Wilson,” said George.
“I’m perfectly dumb-founded with your boldness!” said Mr. Wilson,—“to
come right here to the nearest tavern!”
“Mr. Wilson, it is _so_ bold, and this tavern is so near, that they
will never think of it; they will look for me on ahead, and you
yourself wouldn’t know me. Jim’s master don’t live in this county; he
isn’t known in these parts. Besides, he is given up; nobody is looking
after him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement, I think.”
“But the mark in your hand?”
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scar in his hand.
“That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris’ regard,” he said, scornfully.
“A fortnight ago, he took it into his head to give it to me, because he
said he believed I should try to get away one of these days. Looks
interesting, doesn’t it?” he said, drawing his glove on again.
“I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it,—your condition
and your risks!” said Mr. Wilson.
“Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present, it’s
about up to the boiling point,” said George.
“Well, my good sir,” continued George, after a few moments’ silence, “I
saw you knew me; I thought I’d just have this talk with you, lest your
surprised looks should bring me out. I leave early tomorrow morning,
before daylight; by tomorrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I
shall travel by daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the
dinner-tables with the lords of the land. So, good-by, sir; if you hear
that I’m taken, you may know that I’m dead!”
George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a
prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily, and after a
little shower of caution, he took his umbrella, and fumbled his way out
of the room.
George stood thoughtfully looking at the door, as the old man closed
it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped to
it, and opening it, said,
“Mr. Wilson, one word more.”
The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, locked the
door, and then stood for a few moments looking on the floor,
irresolutely. At last, raising his head with a sudden effort—“Mr.
Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian in your treatment of me,—I
want to ask one last deed of Christian kindness of you.”
“Well, George.”
“Well, sir,—what you said was true. I _am_ running a dreadful risk.
There isn’t, on earth, a living soul to care if I die,” he added,
drawing his breath hard, and speaking with a great effort,—“I shall be
kicked out and buried like a dog, and nobody’ll think of it a day
after,—_only my poor wife!_ Poor soul! she’ll mourn and grieve; and if
you’d only contrive, Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her. She
gave it to me for a Christmas present, poor child! Give it to her, and
tell her I loved her to the last. Will you? _Will_ you?” he added,
earnestly.
“Yes, certainly—poor fellow!” said the old gentleman, taking the pin,
with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice.
“Tell her one thing,” said George; “it’s my last wish, if she _can_ get
to Canada, to go there. No matter how kind her mistress is,—no matter
how much she loves her home; beg her not to go back,—for slavery always
ends in misery. Tell her to bring up our boy a free man, and then he
won’t suffer as I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you?”
“Yes, George. I’ll tell her; but I trust you won’t die; take
heart,—you’re a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my
heart you were safe through, though,—that’s what I do.”
“_Is_ there a God to trust in?” said George, in such a tone of bitter
despair as arrested the old gentleman’s words. “O, I’ve seen things all
my life that have made me feel that there can’t be a God. You
Christians don’t know how these things look to us. There’s a God for
you, but is there any for us?”
“O, now, don’t—don’t, my boy!” said the old man, almost sobbing as he
spoke; “don’t feel so! There is—there is; clouds and darkness are
around about him, but righteousness and judgment are the habitation of
his throne. There’s a _God_, George,—believe it; trust in Him, and I’m
sure He’ll help you. Everything will be set right,—if not in this life,
in another.”
The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested him with
a temporary dignity and authority, as he spoke. George stopped his
distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfully a moment, and
then said, quietly,
“Thank you for saying that, my good friend; I’ll _think of that_.”
CHAPTER XII
Select Incident of Lawful Trade
“In Ramah there was a voice heard,—weeping, and lamentation, and great
mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted.”
Jer. 31:15.
Mr. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their wagon, each, for a time,
absorbed in his own reflections. Now, the reflections of two men
sitting side by side are a curious thing,—seated on the same seat,
having the same eyes, ears, hands and organs of all sorts, and having
pass before their eyes the same objects,—it is wonderful what a variety
we shall find in these same reflections!
As, for example, Mr. Haley: he thought first of Tom’s length, and
breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was kept fat and
in good case till he got him into market. He thought of how he should
make out his gang; he thought of the respective market value of certain
supposititious men and women and children who were to compose it, and
other kindred topics of the business; then he thought of himself, and
how humane he was, that whereas other men chained their “niggers” hand
and foot both, he only put fetters on the feet, and left Tom the use of
his hands, as long as he behaved well; and he sighed to think how
ungrateful human nature was, so that there was even room to doubt
whether Tom appreciated his mercies. He had been taken in so by
“niggers” whom he had favored; but still he was astonished to consider
how good-natured he yet remained!
As to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfashionable old
book, which kept running through his head, again and again, as follows:
“We have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come; wherefore
God himself is not ashamed to be called our God; for he hath prepared
for us a city.” These words of an ancient volume, got up principally by
“ignorant and unlearned men,” have, through all time, kept up, somehow,
a strange sort of power over the minds of poor, simple fellows, like
Tom. They stir up the soul from its depths, and rouse, as with trumpet
call, courage, energy, and enthusiasm, where before was only the
blackness of despair.
Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and began looking
over their advertisements, with absorbed interest. He was not a
remarkably fluent reader, and was in the habit of reading in a sort of
recitative half-aloud, by way of calling in his ears to verify the
deductions of his eyes. In this tone he slowly recited the following
paragraph:
“EXECUTOR’S SALE,—NEGROES!—Agreeably to order of court, will be sold,
on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the town of
Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John, aged
30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit
of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq.
“SAMUEL MORRIS,
THOMAS FLINT,
_Executors_.”
“This yer I must look at,” said he to Tom, for want of somebody else to
talk to.
“Ye see, I’m going to get up a prime gang to take down with ye, Tom;
it’ll make it sociable and pleasant like,—good company will, ye know.
We must drive right to Washington first and foremost, and then I’ll
clap you into jail, while I does the business.”
Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly; simply
wondering, in his own heart, how many of these doomed men had wives and
children, and whether they would feel as he did about leaving them. It
is to be confessed, too, that the naive, off-hand information that he
was to be thrown into jail by no means produced an agreeable impression
on a poor fellow who had always prided himself on a strictly honest and
upright course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess it, was rather proud
of his honesty, poor fellow,—not having very much else to be proud
of;—if he had belonged to some of the higher walks of society, he,
perhaps, would never have been reduced to such straits. However, the
day wore on, and the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated
in Washington,—the one in a tavern, and the other in a jail.
About eleven o’clock the next day, a mixed throng was gathered around
the court-house steps,—smoking, chewing, spitting, swearing, and
conversing, according to their respective tastes and turns,—waiting for
the auction to commence. The men and women to be sold sat in a group
apart, talking in a low tone to each other. The woman who had been
advertised by the name of Hagar was a regular African in feature and
figure. She might have been sixty, but was older than that by hard work
and disease, was partially blind, and somewhat crippled with
rheumatism. By her side stood her only remaining son, Albert, a
bright-looking little fellow of fourteen years. The boy was the only
survivor of a large family, who had been successively sold away from
her to a southern market. The mother held on to him with both her
shaking hands, and eyed with intense trepidation every one who walked
up to examine him.
“Don’t be feard, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the men, “I spoke to
Mas’r Thomas ’bout it, and he thought he might manage to sell you in a
lot both together.”
“Dey needn’t call me worn out yet,” said she, lifting her shaking
hands. “I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour,—I’m wuth a buying, if I
do come cheap;—tell ’em dat ar,—you _tell_ ’em,” she added, earnestly.
Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to the old man,
pulled his mouth open and looked in, felt of his teeth, made him stand
and straighten himself, bend his back, and perform various evolutions
to show his muscles; and then passed on to the next, and put him
through the same trial. Walking up last to the boy, he felt of his
arms, straightened his hands, and looked at his fingers, and made him
jump, to show his agility.
“He an’t gwine to be sold widout me!” said the old woman, with
passionate eagerness; “he and I goes in a lot together; I ’s rail strong
yet, Mas’r and can do heaps o’ work,—heaps on it, Mas’r.”
“On plantation?” said Haley, with a contemptuous glance. “Likely