 | CHAPTER VIII. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Eliza made her desperate retreat across the river just in
the dusk of twilight. The gray mist of evening, rising slowly
from the river, enveloped her as she disappeared up the bank,
and the swollen current and floundering masses of ice presented
a hopeless barrier between her and her pursuer.
Haley therefore slowly and discontentedly returned to the
little tavern, to ponder further what was to be done. The
woman opened to him the door of a little parlor, covered with
a rag carpet, where stood a table with a very shining black
oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-backed wood chairs, with some
plaster images in resplendent colors on the mantel-shelf,
above a very dimly-smoking grate; a long hard-wood settle
extended its uneasy length by the chimney, and here
Haley sat him down to meditate on the instability of human
hopes and happiness in general.
“What did I want with the little cuss, now,” he said to
himself, “that I should have got myself treed like a coon, as
I am, this yer way?” and Haley relieved himself by repeating
over a not very select litany of imprecations on himself,
which, though there was the best possible reason to consider
them as true, we shall, as a matter of taste, omit.
He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a man
who was apparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to
the window.
“By the land! if this yer an't the nearest, now, to what
b'lieve that ar 's Tom Loker.”
Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corner
of the room, was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in
height, and broad in proportion. He was dressed in a coat
of buffalo-skin, made with the hair outward, which gave
him a shaggy and fierce appearance, perfectly in keeping
with the whole air of his physiognomy. In the head and
face every organ and lineament expressive of brutal and
unhesitating violence was in a state of the highest possible
development. Indeed, could our readers fancy a bull-dog
come unto man's estate, and walking about in a hat and coat,
they would have no unapt idea of the general style and effect
of his physique. He was accompanied by a travelling companion,
in many respects an exact contrast to himself. He
was short and slender, lithe and cat-like in his motions, and
had a peering, mousing expression about his keen black eyes,
with which every feature of his face seemed sharpened into
sympathy; his thin, long nose, ran out as if it was eager to
bore into the nature of things in general; his sleek, thin,
black hair was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motions and
evolutions expressed a dry, cautious acuteness. The great
big man poured out a big tumbler half full of raw spirits, and
gulped it down without a word. The little man stood tip-toe,
and putting his head first to one side and then to the other,
and snuffing considerately in the directions of the various
bottles, ordered at last a mint julep, in a thin and quivering
voice, and with an air of great circumspection. When poured
out, he took it and looked at it with a sharp, complacent air,
like a man who thinks he has done about the right thing, and
hit the nail on the head, and proceeded to dispose of it in
short and well-advised sips.
“Wal, now, who 'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come to me?
Why, Loker, how are ye?” said Haley, coming forward, and
extending his hand to the big man.
“The devil!” was the civil reply. “What brought you
here, Haley?”
The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly
stopped his sipping, and, poking his head forward, looked
shrewdly on the new acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks
at a moving dry leaf, or some other possible object of pursuit.
“I say, Tom, this yer 's the luckiest thing in the world.
I 'm in a devil of a hobble, and you must help me out.”
“Ugh? aw! like enough!” grunted his complacent acquaintance.
“A body may be pretty sure of that, when
you 're glad to see 'em; something to be made off of 'em.
What 's the blow now?”
“You 've got a friend here?” said Haley, looking doubtfully
at Marks; “partner, perhaps?”
“Yes, I have. Here, Marks! here 's that ar feller that I
was in with in Natchez.”
“Shall be pleased with his acquaintance,” said Marks,
thrusting out a long, thin hand, like a raven's claw. “Mr.
Haley, I believe?”
“The same, sir,” said Haley. “And now, gentlemen,
seein' as we 've met so happily, I think I 'll stand up to a
small matter of a treat in this here parlor. So, now, old
coon,” said he to the man at the bar, “get us hot water, and
sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the real stuff, and we 'll
have a blow-out.”
Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the
burning point in the grate, and our three worthies seated
round a table, well spread with all the accessories to good
fellowship enumerated before.
Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles.
Loker shut up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff and
surly attention. Marks, who was anxiously and with much
fidgeting compounding a tumbler of punch to his own peculiar
taste, occasionally looked up from his employment, and,
poking his sharp nose and chin almost into Haley's face, gave
the most earnest heed to the whole narrative. The conclusion
of it appeared to amuse him extremely, for he shook his
shoulders and sides in silence, and perked up his thin lips
with an air of great internal enjoyment.
“So, then, ye 'r fairly sewed up, an't ye?” he said; “he!
he! he! It 's neatly done, too.”
“This yer young-un business makes lots of trouble in the
trade,” said Haley, dolefully.
“If we could get a breed of gals that did n't care, now, for
their young uns,” said Marks; “tell ye, I think 't would be
'bout the greatest mod'rn improvement I knows on,” — and
Marks patronized his joke by a quiet introductory sniggle.
“Jes so,” said Haley; “I never could n't see into it;
young uns is heaps of trouble to 'em; one would think, now,
they 'd be glad to get clar on 'em; but they arn't. And the
more trouble a young un is, and the more good for nothing,
as a gen'l thing, the tighter they sticks to 'em.”
“Wal, Mr. Haley,” said Marks, “jest pass the hot water.
Yes, sir; you say jest what I feel and all'us have. Now, I
bought a gal once, when I was in the trade, — a tight, likely
wench she was, too, and quite considerable smart, — and she
had a young un that was mis'able sickly; it had a crooked
back, or something or other; and I jest gin 't away to a man
that thought he 'd take his chance raising on 't, being it
did n't cost nothin'; — never thought, yer know, of the gal's
takin' on about it, — but, Lord, yer oughter seen how she
more 'cause 't was sickly and cross, and plagued her; and
she warn't making b'lieve, neither, — cried about it, she did,
and lopped round, as if she 'd lost every friend she had. It
re'lly was droll to think on 't. Lord, there an't no end to
women's notions.”
“Wal, jest so with me,” said Haley. “Last summer,
down on Red river, I got a gal traded off on me, with a likely
lookin' child enough, and his eyes looked as bright as yourn;
but, come to look, I found him stone blind. Fact — he was
stone blind. Wal, ye see, I thought there warn't no harm in
my jest passing him along, and not sayin' nothin'; and I 'd
got him nicely swapped off for a keg o' whiskey; but come
to get him away from the gal, she was jest like a tiger. So
't was before we started, and I had n't got my gang chained
up; so what should she do but ups on a cotton-bale, like a
cat, ketches a knife from one of the deck hands, and, I tell
ye, she made all fly for a minit, till she saw 'twan't no
use; and she jest turns round, and pitches head first, young
un and all, into the river, — went down plump, and never
ris.”
“Bah!” said Tom Loker, who had listened to these stories
with ill-repressed disgust, — “shif'less, both on ye! my
gals don't cut up no such shines, I tell ye!”
“Indeed! how do you help it?” said Marks, briskly.
“Help it? why, I buys a gal, and if she 's got a young
un to be sold, I jest walks up and puts my fist to her
face, and says, `Look here, now, if you give me one word
out of your head, I 'll smash yer face in. I won't hear one
word — not the beginning of a word.' I says to 'em, `This
yer young un 's mine, and not yourn, and you 've no kind o'
business with it. I 'm going to sell it, first chance; mind,
wish ye 'd never been born.' I tell ye, they sees it an't no
play, when I gets hold. I makes 'em as whist as fishes; and
if one on 'em begins and gives a yelp, why,—” and Mr. Loker
brought down his fist with a thump that fully explained the
hiatus.
“That ar 's what ye may call emphasis,” said Marks,
poking Haley in the side, and going into another small
giggle. “An't Tom peculiar? he! he! he! I say, Tom, I
s'pect you make 'em understand, for all niggers' heads is
woolly. They don't never have no doubt o' your meaning,
Tom. If you an't the devil, Tom, you 's his twin brother,
I 'll say that for ye!”
Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and
began to look as affable as was consistent, as John Bunyan
says, “with his doggish nature.”
Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple of
the evening, began to feel a sensible elevation and enlargement
of his moral faculties, — a phenomenon not unusual
with gentlemen of a serious and reflective turn, under similar
circumstances.
“Wal, now, Tom,” he said, “ye re'lly is too bad, as I
al'ays have told ye; ye know, Tom, you and I used to talk
over these yer matters down in Natchez, and I used to prove
to ye that we made full as much, and was as well off for this
yer world, by treatin' on 'em well, besides keepin' a better
chance for comin' in the kingdom at last, when wust comes to
wust, and thar an't nothing else left to get, ye know.”
“Boh!” said Tom, “don't I know? — don't make me too
sick with any yer stuff, — my stomach is a leetle riled now;”
and Tom drank half a glass of raw brandy.
“I say,” said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and
drive my trade so as to make money on 't, fust and foremost,
as much as any man; but, then, trade an't everything, and
money an't everything, 'cause we 's all got souls. I don't
care, now, who hears me say it, — and I think a cussed sight
on it, — so I may as well come out with it. I b'lieve in religion,
and one of these days, when I 've got matters tight and snug,
I calculates to tend to my soul and them ar matters; and so
what 's the use of doin' any more wickedness than 's re'lly
necessary? — it don't seem to me it 's 't all prudent.”
“Tend to yer soul!” repeated Tom, contemptuously;
“take a bright look-out to find a soul in you, — save yourself
any care on that score. If the devil sifts you through a hair
sieve, he won't find one.”
“Why, Tom, you 're cross,” said Haley; “why can 't ye
take it pleasant, now, when a feller 's talking for your good?”
“Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there,” said Tom, gruffly.
“I can stand most any talk o' yourn but your pious talk, —
that kills me right up. After all, what 's the odds between
me and you? 'Tan't that you care one bit more, or have a bit
more feelin', — it 's clean, sheer, dog meanness, wanting to
cheat the devil and save your own skin; don't I see through
it? And your `gettin' religion,' as you call it, arter all, is
too p'isin mean for any crittur; — run up a bill with the devil
all your life, and then sneak out when pay time comes!
Boh!”
“Come, come, gentlemen, I say; this is n't business,”
said Marks. “There 's different ways, you know, of looking
at all subjects. Mr. Haley is a very nice man, no doubt, and
has his own conscience; and, Tom, you have your ways, and
very good ones, too, Tom; but quarrelling, you know, won't
answer no kind of purpose. Let 's go to business. Now,
this yer gal?”
“The gal 's no matter of mine, — she 's Shelby's; it 's only
the boy. I was a fool for buying the monkey!”
“You 're generally a fool!” said Tom, gruffly.
“Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs,” said Marks,
licking his lips; “you see, Mr. Haley's a puttin' us in a way
of a good job, I reckon; just hold still, — these yer arrangements
is my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, how is she?
what is she?”
“Wal! white and handsome — well brought up. I 'd
a gin Shelby eight hundred or a thousand, and then made
well on her.”
“White and handsome — well brought up!” said Marks, his
sharp eyes, nose and mouth, all alive with enterprise. “Look
here, now, Loker, a beautiful opening. We 'll do a business
here on our own account; — we does the catchin'; the boy, of
course, goes to Mr. Haley, — we takes the gal to Orleans to
speculate on. An't it beautiful?”
Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during this
communication, now suddenly snapped it together, as a big
dog closes on a piece of meat, and seemed to be digesting the
idea at his leisure.
“Ye see,” said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as he
did so, “ye see, we has justices convenient at all p'ints along
shore, that does up any little jobs in our line quite reasonable.
Tom, he does the knockin' down and that ar; and I come in
all dressed up — shining boots — everything first chop, when
the swearin' 's to be done. You oughter see, now,” said
Marks, in a glow of professional pride, “how I can tone it
off. One day, I 'm Mr. Twickem, from New Orleans; 'nother
day, I 'm just come from my plantation on Pearl river, where
distant relation of Henry Clay, or some old cock in Kentuck.
Talents is different, you know. Now, Tom 's a roarer when
there 's any thumping or fighting to be done; but at lying he
an't good, Tom an't,—ye see it don't come natural to him; but,
Lord, if thar 's a feller in the country that can swear to anything
and everything, and put in all the circumstances and flourishes
with a longer face, and carry 't through better 'n I can,
why, I 'd like to see him, that 's all! I b'lieve my heart, I
could get along and snake through, even if justices were more
particular than they is. Sometimes I rather wish they was
more particular; 't would be a heap more relishin' if they was,
— more fun, yer know.”
Tom Loker, who, as we have made it appear, was a man of
slow thoughts and movements, here interrupted Marks by
bringing his heavy fist down on the table, so as to make all
ring again. “It 'll do!” he said.
“Lord bless ye, Tom, ye need n't break all the glasses!”
said Marks; “save your fist for time o' need.”
“But, gentlemen, an't I to come in for a share of the
profits?” said Haley.
“An't it enough we catch the boy for ye?” said Loker.
“What do ye want?”
“Wal,” said Haley, “if I gives you the job, it 's worth
something, — say ten per cent. on the profits, expenses paid.”
“Now,” said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking
the table with his heavy fist, “don't I know you, Dan Haley?
Don't you think to come it over me! Suppose Marks and I
have taken up the catchin' trade, jest to 'commodate gentlemen
like you, and get nothin' for ourselves? — Not by a long
chalk! we 'll have the gal out and out, and you keep quiet,
or, ye see, we 'll have both, — what 's to hinder? Han't you
you or Shelby wants to chase us, look where the partridges
was last year; if you find them or us, you 're quite welcome.”
“O, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that,” said Haley,
alarmed; “you catch the boy for the job; — you allers did
trade far with me, Tom, and was up to yer word.”
“Ye know that,” said Tom; “I don't pretend none of
your snivelling ways, but I won't lie in my 'counts with the
devil himself. What I ses I 'll do, I will do, — you know
that, Dan Haley.”
“Jes so, jes so, — I said so, Tom,” said Haley; “and if
you 'd only promise to have the boy for me in a week, at any
point you 'll name, that 's all I want.”
“But it an't all I want, by a long jump,” said Tom.
“Ye don't think I did business with you, down in Natchez,
for nothing, Haley; I 've learned to hold an eel, when I catch
him. You 've got to fork over fifty dollars, flat down, or this
child don't start a peg. I know yer.”
“Why, when you have a job in hand that may bring a
clean profit of somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred,
why, Tom, you 're onreasonable,” said Haley.
“Yes, and has n't we business booked for five weeks to
come, — all we can do? And suppose we leaves all, and goes
to bushwhacking round arter yer young un, and finally doesn't
catch the gal,— and gals allers is the devil to catch, —
what 's then? would you pay us a cent — would you? I
think I see you a doin' it — ugh! No, no; flap down your
fifty. If we get the job, and it pays, I 'll hand it back; if
we don't, it 's for our trouble, — that 's far, an't it, Marks?”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Marks, with a conciliatory
tone; “it 's only a retaining fee, you see, — he! he! he! —
we lawyers, you know. Wal, we must all keep good-natured,
ye 'll name; won't ye, Tom?”
“If I find the young un, I 'll bring him on to Cincinnati,
and leave him at Granny Belcher's, on the landing,” said
Loker.
Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book, and
taking a long paper from thence, he sat down, and fixing his
keen black eyes on it, began mumbling over its contents:
“Barnes — Shelby County — boy Jim, three hundred dollars
for him, dead or alive.
“Edwards — Dick and Lucy — man and wife, six hundred
dollars; wench Polly and two children — six hundred for her
or her head.
“I 'm jest a runnin' over our business, to see if we can
take up this yer handily. Loker,” he said, after a pause,
“we must set Adams and Springer on the track of these yer;
they 've been booked some time.”
“They 'll charge too much,” said Tom.
“I 'll manage that ar; they 's young in the business, and
must spect to work cheap,” said Marks, as he continued to
read. “Ther 's three on 'em easy cases, 'cause all you 've
got to do is to shoot 'em, or swear they is shot; they could n't,
of course, charge much for that. Them other cases,” he said,
folding the paper, “will bear puttin' off a spell. So now
let 's come to the particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw
this yer gal when she landed?”
“To be sure, — plain as I see you.”
“And a man helpin' on her up the bank?” said Loker.
“To be sure, I did.”
“Most likely,” said Marks, “she 's took in somewhere;
but where, 's a question. Tom, what do you say?”
“We must cross the river to-night, no mistake,” said Tom.
“But there 's no boat about,” said Marks. “The ice is
running awfully, Tom; an't it dangerous?”
“Don'no nothing 'bout that, — only it 's got to be done,”
said Tom, decidedly.
“Dear me,” said Marks, fidgeting, “it 'll be — I say,”
he said, walking to the window, “it 's dark as a wolf's mouth,
and, Tom —”
“The long and short is, you 're scared, Marks; but I can't
help that, — you 've got to go. Suppose you want to lie by a
day or two, till the gal 's been carried on the underground
line up to Sandusky or so, before you start.”
“O, no; I an't a grain afraid,” said Marks, “only —”
“Only what?” said Tom.
“Well, about the boat. Yer see there an't any boat.”
“I heard the woman say there was one coming along this
evening, and that a man was going to cross over in it. Neck
or nothing, we must go with him,” said Tom.
“I s'pose you 've got good dogs,” said Haley.
“First rate,” said Marks. “But what 's the use? you
han't got nothin' o' hers to smell on.”
“Yes, I have,” said Haley, triumphantly. “Here 's her
shawl she left on the bed in her hurry; she left her bonnet,
too.”
“That ar 's lucky,” said Loker; “fork over.”
“Though the dogs might damage the gal, if they come on
her unawars,” said Haley.
“That ar 's a consideration,” said Marks. “Our dogs
tore a feller half to pieces, once, down in Mobile, 'fore we
could get 'em off.”
“Well, ye see, for this sort that 's to be sold for their
looks, that ar won't answer, ye see,” said Haley.
“I do see,” said Marks. “Besides, if she 's got took in,
where these critters gets carried; of course, ye can't get on
their track. They only does down in plantations, where
niggers, when they runs, has to do their own running, and
don't get no help.”
“Well,” said Loker, who had just stepped out to the bar
to make some inquiries, “they say the man 's come with the
boat; so, Marks —”
That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quarters
he was leaving, but slowly rose to obey. After exchanging a
few words of further arrangement, Haley, with visible reluctance,
handed over the fifty dollars to Tom, and the worthy
trio separated for the night.
If any of our refined and Christian readers object to the
society into which this scene introduces them, let us beg them
to begin and conquer their prejudices in time. The catching
business, we beg to remind them, is rising to the dignity of a
lawful and patriotic profession. If all the broad land between
the Mississippi and the Pacific becomes one great market for
bodies and souls, and human property retains the locomotive
tendencies of this nineteenth century, the trader and catcher
may yet be among our aristocracy.
While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and
Andy, in a state of high felicitation, pursued their way home.
Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed his
exultation by all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations,
by divers odd motions and contortions of his whole system.
Sometimes he would sit backward, with his face to the horse's
tail and sides, and then, with a whoop and a somerset, come
right side up in his place again, and, drawing on a grave face,
and playing the fool. Anon, slapping his sides with his arms,
he would burst forth in peals of laughter, that made the old
woods ring as they passed. With all these evolutions, he
contrived to keep the horses up to the top of their speed,
until, between ten and eleven, their heels resounded on the
gravel at the end of the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the
railings.
“Is that you, Sam? Where are they?”
“Mas'r Haley 's a-restin' at the tavern; he 's drefful
fatigued, Missis.”
“And Eliza, Sam?”
“Wal, she 's clar 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in
the land o' Canaan.”
“Why, Sam, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Shelby,
breathless, and almost faint, as the possible meaning of these
words came over her.
“Wal, Missis, de Lord he persarves his own. Lizy 's
done gone over the river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if de Lord
took her over in a charrit of fire and two hosses.”
Sam's vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in his
mistress' presence; and he made great capital of scriptural
figures and images.
“Come up here, Sam,” said Mr. Shelby, who had followed
on to the verandah, “and tell your mistress what she wants.
Come, come, Emily,” said he, passing his arm round her,
“you are cold and all in a shiver; you allow yourself to feel
too much.”
“Feel too much! Am not I a woman, — a mother? Are
we not both responsible to God for this poor girl? My God!
lay not this sin to our charge.”
“What sin, Emily? You see yourself that we have only
done what we were obliged to.”
“There 's an awful feeling of guilt about it, though,” said
Mrs. Shelby. “I can't reason it away.”
“Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive!” called Sam, under
the verandah; “take these yer hosses to der barn; don't ye
hear Mas'r a callin'?” and Sam soon appeared, palm-leaf in
hand, at the parlor door.
“Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was,” said
Mr. Shelby. “Where is Eliza, if you know?”
“Wal, Mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin' on
the floatin' ice. She crossed most 'markably; it was n't no
less nor a miracle; and I saw a man help her up the 'Hio
side, and then she was lost in the dusk.”
“Sam, I think this rather apocryphal, — this miracle.
Crossing on floating ice is n't so easily done,” said Mr.
Shelby.
“Easy! could n't nobody a done it, widout de Lord. Why,
now,” said Sam, “'t was jist dis yer way. Mas'r Haley,
and me, and Andy, we comes up to de little tavern by the
river, and I rides a leetle ahead, — (I 's so zealous to be a
cotchin' Lizy, that I could n't hold in, no way), — and when
I comes by the tavern winder, sure enough there she was,
right in plain sight, and dey diggin' on behind. Wal, I loses
off my hat, and sings out nuff to raise the dead. Course Lizy
she hars, and she dodges back, when Mas'r Haley he goes
past the door; and then, I tell ye, she clared out de side
door; she went down de river bank; — Mas'r Haley he seed
her, and yelled out, and him, and me, and Andy, we took
arter. Down she come to the river, and thar was the current
running ten feet wide by the shore, and over t' other side
ice a sawin' and a jiggling up and down, kinder as 't were a
soul he 'd got her sure enough, — when she gin sich a screech
as I never hearn, and thar she was, clar over t' other side the
current, on the ice, and then on she went, a screeching and a
jumpin', — the ice went crack! c'wallop! cracking! chunk!
and she a boundin' like a buck! Lord, the spring that ar
gal's got in her an't common, I 'm o' 'pinion.”
Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement,
while Sam told his story.
“God be praised, she is n't dead!” she said; “but where
is the poor child now?”
“De Lord will pervide,” said Sam, rolling up his eyes
piously. “As I 've been a sayin', dis yer's a providence and
no mistake, as Missis has allers been a instructin' on us.
Thar 's allers instruments ris up to do de Lord's will. Now,
if't had n't been for me to-day, she 'd a been took a dozen
times. Warn't it I started off de hosses, dis yer mornin', and
kept 'em chasin' till nigh dinner time? And did n't I car
Mas'r Haley nigh five miles out of de road, dis evening, or
else he 'd a come up with Lizy as easy as a dog arter a coon.
These yer 's all providences.”
“They are a kind of providences that you 'll have to be
pretty sparing of, Master Sam. I allow no such practices
with gentlemen on my place,” said Mr. Shelby, with as
much sternness as he could command, under the circumstances.
Now, there is no more use in making believe be angry
with a negro than with a child; both instinctively see the
true state of the case, through all attempts to affect the contrary;
and Sam was in no wise disheartened by this rebuke,
though he assumed an air of doleful gravity, and stood with
the corners of his mouth lowered in most penitential style.
“Mas'r 's quite right, — quite; it was ugly on me, —
there 's no disputin' that ar; and of course Mas'r and Missis
would n't encourage no such works. I 'm sensible of dat ar;
but a poor nigger like me 's 'mazin' tempted to act ugly
sometimes, when fellers will cut up such shines as dat ar
Mas'r Haley; he an't no gen'l'man no way; anybody 's been
raised as I 've been can't help a seein' dat ar.”
“Well, Sam,” said Mrs. Shelby, “as you appear to have
a proper sense of your errors, you may go now and tell
Aunt Chloe she may get you some of that cold ham that was
left of dinner to-day. You and Andy must be hungry.”
“Missis is a heap too good for us,” said Sam, making his
bow with alacrity, and departing.
It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that
Master Sam had a native talent that might, undoubtedly, have
raised him to eminence in political life, — a talent of making
capital out of everything that turned up, to be invested for
his own especial praise and glory; and having done up his
piety and humility, as he trusted, to the satisfaction of the
parlor, he clapped his palm-leaf on his head, with a sort of
rakish, free-and-easy air, and proceeded to the dominions of
Aunt Chloe, with the intention of flourishing largely in the
kitchen.
“I 'll speechify these yer niggers,” said Sam to himself,
“now I 've got a chance. Lord, I 'll reel it off to make 'em
stare!”
It must be observed that one of Sam's especial delights had
been to ride in attendance on his master to all kinds of political
gatherings, where, roosted on some rail fence, or perched
aloft in some tree, he would sit watching the orators, with the
greatest apparent gusto, and then, descending among the
various brethren of his own color, assembled on the same
burlesques and imitations, all delivered with the most
imperturbable earnestness and solemnity; and though the
auditors immediately about him were generally of his own
color, it not unfrequently happened that they were fringed
pretty deeply with those of a fairer complexion, who listened,
laughing and winking, to Sam's great self-congratulation. In
fact, Sam considered oratory as his vocation, and never let
slip an opportunity of magnifying his office.
Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had existed,
from ancient times, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a decided
coolness; but, as Sam was meditating something in the provision
department, as the necessary and obvious foundation
of his operations, he determined, on the present occasion, to
be eminently conciliatory; for he well knew that although
“Missis' orders” would undoubtedly be followed to the letter,
yet he should gain a considerable deal by enlisting the
spirit also. He therefore appeared before Aunt Chloe with a
touchingly subdued, resigned expression, like one who has
suffered immeasurable hardships in behalf of a persecuted fellow-creature,
— enlarged upon the fact that Missis had
directed him to come to Aunt Chloe for whatever might be
wanting to make up the balance in his solids and fluids, —
and thus unequivocally acknowledged her right and supremacy
in the cooking department, and all thereto pertaining.
The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple, virtuous
body was ever cajoled by the attentions of an electioneering
politician with more ease than Aunt Chloe was won over by
Master Sam's suavities; and if he had been the prodigal son
himself, he could not have been overwhelmed with more
maternal bountifulness; and he soon found himself seated,
happy and glorious, over a large tin pan, containing a sort of
three days past. Savory morsels of ham, golden blocks of
corn-cake, fragments of pie of every conceivable mathematical
figure, chicken wings, gizzards, and drumsticks, all appeared
in picturesque confusion; and Sam, as monarch of all he surveyed,
sat with his palm-leaf cocked rejoicingly to one side,
and patronizing Andy at his right hand.
The kitchen was full of all his compeers, who had hurried
and crowded in, from the various cabins, to hear the termination
of the day's exploits. Now was Sam's hour of glory.
The story of the day was rehearsed, with all kinds of ornament
and varnishing which might be necessary to heighten its
effect; for Sam, like some of our fashionable dilettanti,
never allowed a story to lose any of its gilding by passing
through his hands. Roars of laughter attended the narration,
and were taken up and prolonged by all the smaller fry,
who were lying, in any quantity, about on the floor, or perched
in every corner. In the height of the uproar and laughter,
Sam, however, preserved an immovable gravity, only from
time to time rolling his eyes up, and giving his auditors divers
inexpressibly droll glances, without departing from the sententious
elevation of his oratory.
“Yer see, fellow-countrymen,” said Sam, elevating a turkey's
leg, with energy, “yer see, now, what dis yer chile 's
up ter, for fendin' yer all, — yes, all on yer. For him as
tries to get one o' our people, is as good as tryin' to get all;
yer see the principle 's de same, — dat ar 's clar. And any
one o' these yer drivers that comes smelling round arter any
our people, why, he 's got me in his way; I'm the feller he 's
got to set in with, — I 'm the feller for yer all to come to,
bredren, — I 'll stand up for yer rights, — I 'll fend 'em to
the last breath!”
“Why, but Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin', that
you 'd help this yer Mas'r to cotch Lizy; seems to me yer
talk don't hang together,” said Andy.
“I tell you now, Andy,” said Sam, with awful superiority,
“don't yer be a talkin' 'bout what yer don't know
nothin' on; boys like you, Andy, means well, but they
can't be spected to collusitate the great principles of action.”
Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word collusitate,
which most of the youngerly members of the company
seemed to consider as a settler in the case, while Sam
proceeded.
“Dat ar was conscience, Andy; when I thought of gwine
arter Lizy, I railly spected Mas'r was sot dat way. When I
found Missis was sot the contrar, dat ar was conscience more
yet, — cause fellers allers gets more by stickin' to Missis'
side, — so yer see I 's persistent either way, and sticks up to
conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes, principles,”
said Sam, giving an enthusiastic toss to a chicken's neck, —
“what 's principles good for, if we is n't persistent, I wanter
know? Thar, Andy, you may have dat ar bone, — 'tan't
picked quite clean.”
Sam's audience hanging on his words with open mouth, he
could not but proceed.
“Dis yer matter 'bout persistence, feller-niggers,” said
Sam, with the air of one entering into an abstruse subject,
“dis yer 'sistency 's a thing what an't seed into very clar, by
most anybody. Now, yer see, when a feller stands up for a
thing one day and night, de contrar de next, folks ses (and
nat'rally enough dey ses), why he an't persistent, — hand
me dat ar bit o' corn-cake, Andy. But let 's look inter it.
I hope the gen'lmen and der fair sex will scuse my usin' an
or'nary sort o' 'parison. Here! I 'm a tryin' to get top o'
go; — den, cause I don't try dere no more, but puts my larder
right de contrar side, an't I persistent? I 'm persistent in
wantin' to get up which ary side my larder is; don't you see,
all on yer?”
“It 's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord
knows!” muttered Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather
restive; the merriment of the evening being to her somewhat
after the Scripture comparison, — like “vinegar upon nitre.”
“Yes, indeed!” said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory,
for a closing effort. “Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of
de other sex in general, I has principles, — I 'm proud to
'oon 'em, — they 's perquisite to dese yer times, and ter all
times. I has principles, and I sticks to 'em like forty, — jest
anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in to 't; — I
would n't mind if dey burnt me 'live, — I 'd walk right up to
de stake, I would, and say, here I comes to shed my last
blood fur my principles, fur my country, fur der gen'l interests
of s'ciety.”
“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “one o' yer principles will
have to be to get to bed some time to-night, and not be a
keepin' everybody up till mornin'; now, every one of you
young uns that don't want to be cracked, had better be scase,
mighty sudden.”
“Niggers! all on yer,” said Sam, waving his palm-leaf
with benignity, “I give yer my blessin'; go to bed now, and
be good boys.”
And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed.
| CHAPTER VIII. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |