 | CHAPTER XXIX.
THE UNPROTECTED. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE UNPROTECTED.
We hear often of the distress of the negro servants, on the
loss of a kind master; and with good reason, for no creature
on God's earth is left more utterly unprotected and desolate
than the slave in these circumstances.
The child who has lost a father has still the protection of
friends, and of the law; he is something, and can do something,
— has acknowledged rights and position; the slave has
none. The law regards him, in every respect, as devoid of
rights as a bale of merchandise. The only possible acknowledgment
of any of the longings and wants of a human and
immortal creature, which are given to him, comes to him
through the sovereign and irresponsible will of his master;
and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains.
The number of those men who know how to use wholly
irresponsible power humanely and generously is small.
Everybody knows this, and the slave knows it best of all; so
that he feels that there are ten chances of his finding an
abusive and tyrannical master, to one of his finding a considerate
and kind one. Therefore is it that the wail over
a kind master is loud and long, as well it may be.
When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation
took hold of all his household. He had been stricken down
so in a moment, in the flower and strength of his youth!
Every room and gallery of the house resounded with sobs
and shrieks of despair.
Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a constant
terror of the shock, and, at the time her husband breathed
his last, was passing from one fainting fit to another; and he
to whom she had been joined in the mysterious tie of marriage
passed from her forever, without the possibility of even
a parting word.
Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control,
had remained with her kinsman to the last, — all eye, all ear,
all attention; doing everything of the little that could be
done, and joining with her whole soul in the tender and
impassioned prayers which the poor slave had poured forth
for the soul of his dying master.
When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found
upon his bosom a small, plain miniature case, opening with a
spring. It was the miniature of a noble and beautiful female
face; and on the reverse, under a crystal, a lock of dark hair.
They laid them back on the lifeless breast, — dust to dust, —
poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once made that
cold heart beat so warmly!
Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and
while he ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once
think that the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery.
He felt at peace about his master; for in that hour, when he
had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his Father, he
had found an answer of quietness and assurance springing up
within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate nature,
he felt able to perceive something of the fulness of Divine
love; for an old oracle hath thus written, — “He that dwelleth
in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.” Tom hoped
and trusted, and was at peace.
But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape,
and prayers, and solemn faces; and back rolled the cool,
hard inquiry of “What is to be done next?”
It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-robes,
and surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a
great easy-chair, and inspected samples of crape and bombazine.
It rose to Miss Ophelia, who began to turn her
thoughts towards her northern home. It rose, in silent terrors,
to the minds of the servants, who well knew the unfeeling,
tyrannical character of the mistress in whose hands
they were left. All knew, very well, that the indulgences
which had been accorded to them were not from their mistress,
but from their master; and that, now he was gone,
there would be no screen between them and every tyrannous
infliction which a temper soured by affliction might devise.
It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia,
busied one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at
the door. She opened it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty
young quadroon, whom we have before often noticed, her
hair in disorder, and her eyes swelled with crying.
“O, Miss Feely,” she said, falling on her knees, and
catching the skirt of her dress, “do, do go to Miss Marie for
me! do plead for me! She 's goin' to send me out to be
whipped, — look there!” And she handed to Miss Ophelia a
paper.
It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand,
to the master of a whipping-establishment, to give the bearer
fifteen lashes.
“What have you been doing?” said Miss Ophelia.
“You know, Miss Feely, I 've got such a bad temper;
it 's very bad of me. I was trying on Miss Marie's dress,
and she slapped my face; and I spoke out before I thought,
and was saucy; and she said that she 'd bring me down, and
as I had been; and she wrote this, and says I shall
carry it. I 'd rather she 'd kill me, right out.”
Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her
hand.
“You see, Miss Feely,” said Rosa, “I don't mind the
whipping so much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it; but,
to be sent to a man! and such a horrid man, — the shame
of it, Miss Feely!”
Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom
to send women and young girls to whipping-houses, to the
hands of the lowest of men, — men vile enough to make this
their profession, — there to be subjected to brutal exposure and
shameful correction. She had known it before; but hitherto
she had never realized it, till she saw the slender form of
Rosa almost convulsed with distress. All the honest blood
of womanhood, the strong New England blood of liberty,
flushed to her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in her indignant
heart; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, she mastered
herself, and, crushing the paper firmly in her hand, she
merely said to Rosa,
“Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress.”
“Shameful! monstrous! outrageous!” she said to herself,
as she was crossing the parlor.
She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with Mammy
standing by her, combing her hair; Jane sat on the ground
before her, busy in chafing her feet.
“How do you find yourself, to-day?” said Miss Ophelia.
A deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, was the only reply,
for a moment; and then Marie answered, “O, I don't know,
Cousin; I suppose I 'm as well as I ever shall be!” and
with an inch deep of black.
“I came,” said Miss Ophelia, with a short, dry cough,
such as commonly introduces a difficult subject, — “I came to
speak with you about poor Rosa.”
Marie's eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush rose
to her sallow cheeks, as she answered, sharply,
“Well, what about her?”
“She is very sorry for her fault.”
“She is, is she? She 'll be sorrier, before I 've done with
her! I 've endured that child's impudence long enough; and
now I 'll bring her down, — I 'll make her lie in the dust!”
“But could not you punish her some other way, — some
way that would be less shameful?”
“I mean to shame her; that 's just what I want. She has
all her life presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and
her lady-like airs, till she forgets who she is; — and I 'll give
her one lesson that will bring her down, I fancy!”
“But, Cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy and a
sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast.”
“Delicacy!” said Marie, with a scornful laugh, — “a fine
word for such as she! I 'll teach her, with all her airs, that
she 's no better than the raggedest black wench that walks
the streets! She 'll take no more airs with me!”
“You will answer to God for such cruelty!” said Miss
Ophelia, with energy.
“Cruelty, — I 'd like to know what the cruelty is! I
wrote orders for only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them
on lightly. I 'm sure there 's no cruelty there!”
“No cruelty!” said Miss Ophelia. “I 'm sure any girl
might rather be killed outright!”
“It might seem so to anybody with your feeling; but all
kept in order. Once let them feel that they are to take any
airs about delicacy, and all that, and they 'll run all over you,
just as my servants always have. I 've begun now to bring
them under; and I 'll have them all to know that I 'll send
one out to be whipped, as soon as another, if they don't mind
themselves!” said Marie, looking around her decidedly.
Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if
it was particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a
moment, as if she had swallowed some explosive mixture, and
were ready to burst. Then, recollecting the utter uselessness
of contention with such a nature, she shut her lips resolutely,
gathered herself up, and walked out of the room.
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 all 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 about it to Missis, she would feel like goin'
on with it, as it was 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
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 have n'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.
could n'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 have n'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 need n't tell me! I 've seen 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 is n'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 did n'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 should n'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 XXIX.
THE UNPROTECTED. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |