Uncle Tom's Cabin
It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do nothing for her;
and, shortly after, one of the man-servants came to say that her
mistress had ordered him to take Rosa with him to the whipping-house,
whither she was hurried, in spite of her tears and entreaties.
A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the balconies, when he was
joined by Adolph, who, since the death of his master, had been entirely
crest-fallen and disconsolate. Adolph knew that he had always been an
object of dislike to Marie; but while his master lived he had paid but
little attention to it. Now that he was gone, he had moved about in
daily dread and trembling, not knowing what might befall him next.
Marie had held several consultations with her lawyer; after
communicating with St. Clare’s brother, it was determined to sell the
place, and all the servants, except her own personal property, and
these she intended to take with her, and go back to her father’s
plantation.
“Do ye know, Tom, that we’ve all got to be sold?” said Adolph.
“How did you hear that?” said Tom.
“I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talking with the
lawyer. In a few days we shall be sent off to auction, Tom.”
“The Lord’s will be done!” said Tom, folding his arms and sighing
heavily.
“We’ll never get another such a master,” said Adolph, apprehensively;
“but I’d rather be sold than take my chance under Missis.”
Tom turned away; his heart was full. The hope of liberty, the thought
of distant wife and children, rose up before his patient soul, as to
the mariner shipwrecked almost in port rises the vision of the
church-spire and loving roofs of his native village, seen over the top
of some black wave only for one last farewell. He drew his arms tightly
over his bosom, and choked back the bitter tears, and tried to pray.
The poor old soul had such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in favor
of liberty, that it was a hard wrench for him; and the more he said,
“Thy will be done,” the worse he felt.
He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva’s death, had treated him
with marked and respectful kindness.
“Miss Feely,” he said, “Mas’r St. Clare promised me my freedom. He told
me that he had begun to take it out for me; and now, perhaps, if Miss
Feely would be good enough to speak bout it to Missis, she would feel
like goin’ on with it, was it as Mas’r St. Clare’s wish.”
“I’ll speak for you, Tom, and do my best,” said Miss Ophelia; “but, if
it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can’t hope much for you;—nevertheless,
I will try.”
This incident occurred a few days after that of Rosa, while Miss
Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north.
Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that perhaps she
had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her former interview with
Marie; and she resolved that she would now endeavor to moderate her
zeal, and to be as conciliatory as possible. So the good soul gathered
herself up, and, taking her knitting, resolved to go into Marie’s room,
be as agreeable as possible, and negotiate Tom’s case with all the
diplomatic skill of which she was mistress.
She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, supporting herself
on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been out shopping, was
displaying before her certain samples of thin black stuffs.
“That will do,” said Marie, selecting one; “only I’m not sure about its
being properly mourning.”
“Laws, Missis,” said Jane, volubly, “Mrs. General Derbennon wore just
this very thing, after the General died, last summer; it makes up
lovely!”
“What do you think?” said Marie to Miss Ophelia.
“It’s a matter of custom, I suppose,” said Miss Ophelia. “You can judge
about it better than I.”
“The fact is,” said Marie, “that I haven’t a dress in the world that I
can wear; and, as I am going to break up the establishment, and go off,
next week, I must decide upon something.”
“Are you going so soon?”
“Yes. St. Clare’s brother has written, and he and the lawyer think that
the servants and furniture had better be put up at auction, and the
place left with our lawyer.”
“There’s one thing I wanted to speak with you about,” said Miss
Ophelia. “Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began the legal forms
necessary to it. I hope you will use your influence to have it
perfected.”
“Indeed, I shall do no such thing!” said Marie, sharply. “Tom is one of
the most valuable servants on the place,—it couldn’t be afforded, any
way. Besides, what does he want of liberty? He’s a great deal better
off as he is.”
“But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master promised it,”
said Miss Ophelia.
“I dare say he does want it,” said Marie; “they all want it, just
because they are a discontented set,—always wanting what they haven’t
got. Now, I’m principled against emancipating, in any case. Keep a
negro under the care of a master, and he does well enough, and is
respectable; but set them free, and they get lazy, and won’t work, and
take to drinking, and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows, I’ve
seen it tried, hundreds of times. It’s no favor to set them free.”
“But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious.”
“O, you needn’t tell me! I’ve see a hundred like him. He’ll do very
well, as long as he’s taken care of,—that’s all.”
“But, then, consider,” said Miss Ophelia, “when you set him up for
sale, the chances of his getting a bad master.”
“O, that’s all humbug!” said Marie; “it isn’t one time in a hundred
that a good fellow gets a bad master; most masters are good, for all
the talk that is made. I’ve lived and grown up here, in the South, and
I never yet was acquainted with a master that didn’t treat his servants
well,—quite as well as is worth while. I don’t feel any fears on that
head.”
“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, energetically, “I know it was one of the
last wishes of your husband that Tom should have his liberty; it was
one of the promises that he made to dear little Eva on her death-bed,
and I should not think you would feel at liberty to disregard it.”
Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this appeal, and
began sobbing and using her smelling-bottle, with great vehemence.
“Everybody goes against me!” she said. “Everybody is so inconsiderate!
I shouldn’t have expected that _you_ would bring up all these
remembrances of my troubles to me,—it’s so inconsiderate! But nobody
ever does consider,—my trials are so peculiar! It’s so hard, that when
I had only one daughter, she should have been taken!—and when I had a
husband that just exactly suited me,—and I’m so hard to be suited!—he
should be taken! And you seem to have so little feeling for me, and
keep bringing it up to me so carelessly,—when you know how it overcomes
me! I suppose you mean well; but it is very inconsiderate,—very!” And
Marie sobbed, and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to open the
window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her head, and
unhook her dress. And, in the general confusion that ensued, Miss
Ophelia made her escape to her apartment.
She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say anything more; for
Marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits; and, after this,
whenever her husband’s or Eva’s wishes with regard to the servants were
alluded to, she always found it convenient to set one in operation.
Miss Ophelia, therefore, did the next best thing she could for Tom,—she
wrote a letter to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging
them to send to his relief.
The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen other servants,
were marched down to a slave-warehouse, to await the convenience of the
trader, who was going to make up a lot for auction.
CHAPTER XXX
The Slave Warehouse
A slave warehouse! Perhaps some of my readers conjure up horrible
visions of such a place. They fancy some foul, obscure den, some
horrible _Tartarus “informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.”_ But no,
innocent friend; in these days men have learned the art of sinning
expertly and genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes and senses of
respectable society. Human property is high in the market; and is,
therefore, well fed, well cleaned, tended, and looked after, that it
may come to sale sleek, and strong, and shining. A slave-warehouse in
New Orleans is a house externally not much unlike many others, kept
with neatness; and where every day you may see arranged, under a sort
of shed along the outside, rows of men and women, who stand there as a
sign of the property sold within.
Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and examine, and shall
find an abundance of husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, fathers,
mothers, and young children, to be “sold separately, or in lots to suit
the convenience of the purchaser;” and that soul immortal, once bought
with blood and anguish by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the
rocks rent, and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased, mortgaged,
exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to suit the phases of trade, or
the fancy of the purchaser.
It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie and Miss
Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen others of the St.
Clare estate, were turned over to the loving kindness of Mr. Skeggs,
the keeper of a depot on —— street, to await the auction, next day.
Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, as had most
others of them. They were ushered, for the night, into a long room,
where many other men, of all ages, sizes, and shades of complexion,
were assembled, and from which roars of laughter and unthinking
merriment were proceeding.
“Ah, ha! that’s right. Go it, boys,—go it!” said Mr. Skeggs, the
keeper. “My people are always so merry! Sambo, I see!” he said,
speaking approvingly to a burly negro who was performing tricks of low
buffoonery, which occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard.
As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join these proceedings;
and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible from the noisy
group, he sat down on it, and leaned his face against the wall.
The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and systematic efforts
to promote noisy mirth among them, as a means of drowning reflection,
and rendering them insensible to their condition. The whole object of
the training to which the negro is put, from the time he is sold in the
northern market till he arrives south, is systematically directed
towards making him callous, unthinking, and brutal. The slave-dealer
collects his gang in Virginia or Kentucky, and drives them to some
convenient, healthy place,—often a watering place,—to be fattened. Here
they are fed full daily; and, because some incline to pine, a fiddle is
kept commonly going among them, and they are made to dance daily; and
he who refuses to be merry—in whose soul thoughts of wife, or child, or
home, are too strong for him to be gay—is marked as sullen and
dangerous, and subjected to all the evils which the ill will of an
utterly irresponsible and hardened man can inflict upon him. Briskness,
alertness, and cheerfulness of appearance, especially before observers,
are constantly enforced upon them, both by the hope of thereby getting
a good master, and the fear of all that the driver may bring upon them
if they prove unsalable.
“What dat ar nigger doin here?” said Sambo, coming up to Tom, after Mr.
Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was a full black, of great size, very
lively, voluble, and full of trick and grimace.
“What you doin here?” said Sambo, coming up to Tom, and poking him
facetiously in the side. “Meditatin’, eh?”
“I am to be sold at the auction tomorrow!” said Tom, quietly.
“Sold at auction,—haw! haw! boys, an’t this yer fun? I wish’t I was
gwine that ar way!—tell ye, wouldn’t I make ’em laugh? But how is