 | CHAPTER V.
SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANGING OWNERS. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANGING OWNERS.
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment for the
night. He was lounging in a large easy-chair, looking over
some letters that had come in the afternoon mail, and she was
standing before her mirror, brushing out the complicated
braids and curls in which Eliza had arranged her hair; for,
noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused
her attendance that night, and ordered her to bed. The
employment, naturally enough, suggested her conversation
with the girl in the morning; and, turning to her husband,
she said, carelessly,
“By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that
you lugged in to our dinner-table to-day?”
“Haley is his name,” said Shelby, turning himself rather
uneasily in his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a
letter.
“Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here,
pray?”
“Well, he 's a man that I transacted some business with,
last time I was at Natchez,” said Mr. Shelby.
“And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home,
and call and dine here, ay?”
“Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him,”
said Shelby.
“Is he a negro-trader?” said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a
certain embarrassment in her husband's manner.
“Why, my dear, what put that into your head?” said
Shelby, looking up.
“Nothing, — only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a
great worry, crying and taking on, and said you were talking
with a trader, and that she heard him make an offer for her
boy — the ridiculous little goose!”
“She did, hey?” said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper,
which he seemed for a few moments quite intent upon, not
perceiving that he was holding it bottom upwards.
“It will have to come out,” said he, mentally; “as well
now as ever.”
“I told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing
her hair, “that she was a little fool for her pains, and
that you never had anything to do with that sort of persons.
Of course, I knew you never meant to sell any of our people,
— least of all, to such a fellow.”
“Well, Emily,” said her husband, “so I have always felt
and said; but the fact is that my business lies so that I cannot
get on without. I shall have to sell some of my hands.”
“To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot
be serious.”
“I 'm sorry to say that I am,” said Mr. Shelby. “I 've
agreed to sell Tom.”
“What! our Tom? — that good, faithful creature! —
been your faithful servant from a boy! O, Mr. Shelby! —
and you have promised him his freedom, too, — you and I
have spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can
believe anything now, — I can believe now that you could
in a tone between grief and indignation.
“Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed
to sell Tom and Harry both; and I don't know why I am to
be rated, as if I were a monster, for doing what every one
does every day.”
“But why, of all others, choose these?” said Mrs. Shelby.
“Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must sell at all?”
“Because they will bring the highest sum of any, — that 's
why. I could choose another, if you say so. The fellow
made me a high bid on Eliza, if that would suit you any
better,” said Mr. Shelby.
“The wretch!” said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.
“Well, I did n't listen to it, a moment, — out of regard to
your feelings, I would n't; — so give me some credit.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, “forgive
me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely
unprepared for this; — but surely you will allow me to intercede
for these poor creatures. Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful
fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby, that if
he were put to it, he would lay down his life for you.”
“I know it, — I dare say; —but what's the use of all
this? — I can't help myself.”
“Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I'm willing to
bear my part of the inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have
tried — tried most faithfully, as a Christian woman should —
to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent creatures. I
have cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and
known all their little cares and joys, for years; and how can
I ever hold up my head again among them, if, for the sake
of a little paltry gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding
creature as poor Tom, and tear from him in a moment
them the duties of the family, of parent and child, and husband
and wife; and how can I bear to have this open
acknowledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no relation,
however sacred, compared with money? I have talked with
Eliza about her boy — her duty to him as a Christian mother,
to watch over him, pray for him, and bring him up in a
Christian way; and now what can I say, if you tear him
away, and sell him, soul and body, to a profane, unprincipled
man, just to save a little money? I have told her that one
soul is worth more than all the money in the world; and
how will she believe me when she sees us turn round and sell
her child? — sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and
soul!”
“I 'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily, — indeed I am,”
said Mr. Shelby; “and I respect your feelings, too, though I
don't pretend to share them to their full extent; but I tell
you now, solemnly, it 's of no use — I can't help myself. I
did n't mean to tell you this, Emily; but, in plain words,
there is no choice between selling these two and selling
everything. Either they must go, or all must. Haley has
come into possession of a mortgage, which, if I don't clear off
with him directly, will take everything before it. I 've raked,
and scraped, and borrowed, and all but begged, — and the
price of these two was needed to make up the balance, and I
had to give them up. Haley fancied the child; he agreed to
settle the matter that way, and no other. I was in his
power, and had to do it. If you feel so to have them sold,
would it be any better to have all sold?”
Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to
her toilet, she rested her face in her hands, and gave a sort
of groan.
“This is God's curse on slavery! — a bitter, bitter, most
accursed thing! — a curse to the master and a curse to the
slave! I was a fool to think I could make anything good out
of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws
like ours, — I always felt it was, — I always thought so
when I was a girl, — I thought so still more after I joined
the church; but I thought I could gild it over, — I thought,
by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make the
condition of mine better than freedom — fool that I was!”
“Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite.”
“Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery, they
might talk! We don't need them to tell us; you know I
never thought that slavery was right — never felt willing to
own slaves.”
“Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men,”
said Mr. Shelby. “You remember Mr. B.'s sermon, the
other Sunday?”
“I don't want to hear such sermons; I never wish to
hear Mr. B. in our church again. Ministers can't help the
evil, perhaps, — can't cure it, any more than we can, — but
defend it! — it always went against my common sense.
And I think you did n't think much of that sermon, either.”
“Well,” said Shelby, “I must say these ministers sometimes
carry matters further than we poor sinners would
exactly dare to do. We men of the world must wink pretty
hard at various things, and get used to a deal that is n't the
exact thing. But we don't quite fancy, when women and
ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond us in
matters of either modesty or morals, that 's a fact. But now,
my dear, I trust you see the necessity of the thing, and you
see that I have done the very best that circumstances would
allow.”
“O yes, yes!” said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedly
fingering her gold watch, — “I have n't any jewelry of
any amount,” she added, thoughtfully; “but would not this
watch do something? — it was an expensive one, when it was
bought. If I could only at least save Eliza's child, I would
sacrifice anything I have.”
“I 'm sorry, very sorry, Emily,” said Mr. Shelby, “I 'm
sorry this takes hold of you so; but it will do no good. The
fact is, Emily, the thing 's done; the bills of sale are already
signed, and in Haley's hands; and you must be thankful it
is no worse. That man has had it in his power to ruin us
all, — and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I
do, you 'd think that we had had a narrow escape.”
“Is he so hard, then?”
“Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather, —
a man alive to nothing but trade and profit, — cool, and
unhesitating, and unrelenting, as death and the grave. He 'd
sell his own mother at a good per centage — not wishing the
old woman any harm, either.”
“And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and
Eliza's child!”
“Well, my dear, the fact is that this goes rather hard with
me; it 's a thing I hate to think of. Haley wants to drive
matters, and take possession to-morrow. I 'm going to get
out my horse bright and early, and be off. I can't see Tom,
that 's a fact; and you had better arrange a drive somewhere,
and carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is out
of sight.”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Shelby; “I 'll be in no sense accomplice
or help in this cruel business. I 'll go and see poor old
Tom, God help him, in his distress! They shall see, at any
rate, that their mistress can feel for and with them. As to
What have we done, that this cruel necessity should come
on us?”
There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. and
Mrs. Shelby little suspected.
Communicating with their apartment was a large closet,
opening by a door into the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby
had dismissed Eliza for the night, her feverish and excited
mind had suggested the idea of this closet; and she had hidden
herself there, and, with her ear pressed close against the crack
of the door, had lost not a word of the conversation.
When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept
stealthily away. Pale, shivering, with rigid features and
compressed lips, she looked an entirely altered being from the
soft and timid creature she had been hitherto. She moved
cautiously along the entry, paused one moment at her mistress'
door, and raised her hands in mute appeal to Heaven,
and then turned and glided into her own room. It was a
quiet, neat apartment, on the same floor with her mistress.
There was the pleasant sunny window, where she had often
sat singing at her sewing; there a little case of books, and
various little fancy articles, ranged by them, the gifts of
Christmas holidays; there was her simple wardrobe in the
closet and in the drawers: — here was, in short, her home;
and, on the whole, a happy one it had been to her. But
there, on the bed, lay her slumbering boy, his long curls falling
negligently around his unconscious face, his rosy mouth
half open, his little fat hands thrown out over the bed-clothes,
and a smile spread like a sunbeam over his whole
face.
“Poor boy! poor fellow!” said Eliza; “they have sold
you! but your mother will save you yet!”
No tear dropped over that pillow; in such straits as these,
the heart has no tears to give, — it drops only blood, bleeding
itself away in silence. She took a piece of paper and a pencil,
and wrote, hastily,
“O, Missis! dear Missis! don't think me ungrateful, —
don't think hard of me, any way, — I heard all you and master
said to-night. I am going to try to save my boy — you
will not blame me! God bless and reward you for all your
kindness!”
Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawer and
made up a little package of clothing for her boy, which she
tied with a handkerchief firmly round her waist; and, so
fond is a mother's remembrance, that, even in the terrors of
that hour, she did not forget to put in the little package one
or two of his favorite toys, reserving a gayly painted parrot to
amuse him, when she should be called on to awaken him. It
was some trouble to arouse the little sleeper; but, after some
effort, he sat up, and was playing with his bird, while his
mother was putting on her bonnet and shawl.
“Where are you going, mother?” said he, as she drew
near the bed, with his little coat and cap.
His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his
eyes, that he at once divined that something unusual was the
matter.
“Hush, Harry,” she said; “musn't speak loud, or they
will hear us. A wicked man was coming to take little Harry
away from his mother, and carry him 'way off in the dark;
but mother won't let him — she 's going to put on her little
boy's cap and coat, and run off with him, so the ugly man
can't catch him.”
Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child's
simple outfit, and, taking him in her arms, she whispered to
led into the outer verandah, she glided noiselessly out.
It was a sparkling, frosty, star-light night, and the mother
wrapped the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet
with vague terror, he clung round her neck.
Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of
the porch, rose, with a low growl, as she came near. She
gently spoke his name, and the animal, an old pet and playmate
of hers, instantly, wagging his tail, prepared to follow
her, though apparently revolving much, in his simple dog's
head, what such an indiscreet midnight promenade might
mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence or impropriety in the
measure seemed to embarrass him considerably; for he often
stopped, as Eliza glided forward, and looked wistfully, first at
her and then at the house, and then, as if reässured by reflection,
he pattered along after her again. A few minutes
brought them to the window of Uncle Tom's cottage, and
Eliza, stopping, tapped lightly on the window-pane.
The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's had, in the order of
hymn-singing, been protracted to a very late hour; and, as
Uncle Tom had indulged himself in a few lengthy solos afterwards,
the consequence was, that, although it was now between
twelve and one o'clock, he and his worthy helpmeet were not
yet asleep.
“Good Lord! what 's that?” said Aunt Chloe, starting
up and hastily drawing the curtain. “My sakes alive, if it
an't Lizy! Get on your clothes, old man, quick! — there 's
old Bruno, too, a pawin' round; what on airth! I 'm gwine
to open the door.”
And, suiting the action to the word, the door flew open,
and the light of the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily
Eliza comes to tell Uncle Tom that he is sold, and that she is running away to save her child. Page 62.
[Description: 709EAF. Illustration page. A woman holding her baby talks to a man holding a candle and a woman; a dog stands by them.]
fugitive.
“Lord bless you! — I 'm skeered to look at ye, Lizy! Are
ye tuck sick, or what 's come over ye?”
“I 'm running away — Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe —
carrying off my child — Master sold him!”
“Sold him?” echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay.
“Yes, sold him!” said Eliza, firmly; “I crept into the
closet by Mistress' door to-night, and I heard Master tell
Missis that he had sold my Harry, and you, Uncle Tom, both,
to a trader; and that he was going off this morning on his
horse, and that the man was to take possession to-day.”
Tom had stood, during this speech, with his hands raised,
and his eyes dilated, like a man in a dream. Slowly and
gradually, as its meaning came over him, he collapsed, rather
than seated himself, on his old chair, and sunk his head down
upon his knees.
“The good Lord have pity on us!” said Aunt Chloe.
“O! it don't seem as if it was true! What has he done,
that Mas'r should sell him?”
“He has n't done anything, — it is n't for that. Master
don't want to sell; and Missis — she 's always good. I heard
her plead and beg for us; but he told her 't was no use; that
he was in this man's debt, and that this man had got the
power over him; and that if he did n't pay him off clear,
it would end in his having to sell the place and all the people,
and move off. Yes, I heard him say there was no choice
between selling these two and selling all, the man was driving
him so hard. Master said he was sorry; but oh, Missis
— you ought to have heard her talk! If she an't a Christian
and an angel, there never was one. I 'm a wicked girl
to leave her so; but, then, I can't help it. She said, herself,
soul, and if I let him be carried off, who knows what 'll
become of it? It must be right: but, if it an't right, the
Lord forgive me, for I can't help doing it!”
“Well, old man!” said Aunt Chloe, “why don't you go,
too? Will you wait to be toted down river, where they kill
niggers with hard work and starving? I 'd a heap rather die
than go there, any day! There 's time for ye, — be off with
Lizy, — you 've got a pass to come and go any time. Come,
bustle up, and I 'll get your things together.”
Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but
quietly around, and said,
“No, no — I an't going. Let Eliza go — it 's her right!
I would n't be the one to say no — 't an't in natur for her to
stay; but you heard what she said! If I must be sold, or
all the people on the place, and everything go to rack, why,
let me be sold. I s'pose I can b'ar it as well as any on 'em,”
he added, while something like a sob and a sigh shook his
broad, rough chest convulsively. “Mas'r always found me
on the spot — he always will. I never have broke trust, nor
used my pass no ways contrary to my word, and I never will.
It 's better for me alone to go, than to break up the place and
sell all. Mas'r an't to blame, Chloe, and he 'll take care of
you and the poor —”
Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little woolly
heads, and broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of
the chair, and covered his face with his large hands. Sobs,
heavy, hoarse and loud, shook the chair, and great tears fell
through his fingers on the floor: just such tears, sir, as you
dropped into the coffin where lay your first-born son; such
tears, woman, as you shed when you heard the cries of your
dying babe. For, sir, he was a man, — and you are but another
are but a woman, and, in life's great straits and mighty griefs,
ye feel but one sorrow!
“And now,” said Eliza, as she stood in the door, “I saw
my husband only this afternoon, and I little knew then what
was to come. They have pushed him to the very last standing-place,
and he told me, to-day, that he was going to run away.
Do try, if you can, to get word to him. Tell him how I
went, and why I went; and tell him I 'm going to try and
find Canada. You must give my love to him, and tell him,
if I never see him again,” — she turned away, and stood with
her back to them for a moment, and then added, in a husky
voice, “tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meet
me in the kingdom of heaven.”
“Call Bruno in there,” she added. “Shut the door on
him, poor beast! He must n't go with me!”
A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings,
and, clasping her wondering and affrighted child in her
arms, she glided noiselessly away.
| CHAPTER V.
SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANGING OWNERS. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |