University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE PROPERTY IS CARRIED OFF.

The February morning looked gray and drizzling through
the window of Uncle Tom's cabin. It looked on downcast
faces, the images of mournful hearts. The little table stood
out before the fire, covered with an ironing-cloth; a coarse
but clean shirt or two, fresh from the iron, hung on the back
of a chair by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another spread out
before her on the table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed
every fold and every hem, with the most scrupulous exactness,
every now and then raising her hand to her face to wipe off
the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.

Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his
head leaning upon his hand; — but neither spoke. It was
yet early, and the children lay all asleep together in their
little rude trundle-bed.

Tom, who had, to the full, the gentle, domestic heart,
which, woe for them! has been a peculiar characteristic of
his unhappy race, got up and walked silently to look at his
children.

“It 's the last time,” he said.

Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and

over on the coarse shirt, already as smooth as hands could
make it; and finally setting her iron suddenly down with a
despairing plunge, she sat down to the table, and “lifted up
her voice and wept.”

“S'pose we must be resigned; but oh Lord! how ken I?
If I know'd anything whar you 's goin', or how they 'd sarve
you! Missis says she 'll try and 'deem ye, in a year or two;
but Lor! nobody never comes up that goes down thar! They
kills 'em! I 've hearn 'em tell how dey works 'em up on
dem ar plantations.”

“There 'll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is
here.”

“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “s'pose dere will; but de Lord
lets drefful things happen, sometimes. I don't seem to get
no comfort dat way.”

“I 'm in the Lord's hands,” said Tom; “nothin' can go
no furder than he lets it; — and thar 's one thing I can
thank him for. It 's me that 's sold and going down, and not
you nur the chil'en. Here you 're safe; — what comes will
come only on me; and the Lord, he 'll help me, — I know
he will.”

Ah, brave, manly heart, — smothering thine own sorrow,
to comfort thy beloved ones! Tom spoke with a thick utterance,
and with a bitter choking in his throat, — but he spoke
brave and strong.

“Let 's think on our marcies!” he added, tremulously, as
if he was quite sure he needed to think on them very hard
indeed.

“Marcies!” said Aunt Chloe; “don't see no marcy in 't!
'tan't right! tan't right it should be so! Mas'r never ought
ter left it so that ye could be took for his debts. Ye 've arnt
him all he gets for ye, twice over. He owed ye yer freedom,

and ought ter gin 't to yer years ago. Mebbe he can't help
himself now, but I feel it 's wrong. Nothing can't beat that
ar out o' me. Sich a faithful crittur as ye 've been, — and
allers sot his business 'fore yer own every way, — and reckoned
on him more than yer own wife and chil'en! Them as sells
heart's love and heart's blood, to get out thar scrapes, de
Lord 'll be up to 'em!”

“Chloe! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhaps
jest the last time we 'll ever have together! And I 'll
tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word agin Mas'r.
Wan't he put in my arms a baby? — it 's natur I should think
a heap of him. And he could n't be spected to think so
much of poor Tom. Mas'rs is used to havin' all these yer
things done for 'em, and nat'lly they don't think so much
on 't. They can't be spected to, no way. Set him 'longside
of other Mas'rs — who 's had the treatment and the livin'
I 've had? And he never would have let this yer come
on me, if he could have seed it aforehand. I know he
would n't.”

“Wal, any way, thar 's wrong about it somewhar,” said
Aunt Chloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant
trait; “I can't jest make out whar 't is, but thar 's
wrong somewhar, I 'm clar o' that.”

“Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above — he 's above
all — thar don't a sparrow fall without him.”

“It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter,” said
Aunt Chloe. “But dar 's no use talkin'; I 'll jes wet up
de corn-cake, and get ye one good breakfast, 'cause nobody
knows when you 'll get another.”

In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold
south, it must be remembered that all the instinctive affections
of that race are peculiarly strong. Their local attachments

are very abiding. They are not naturally daring and
enterprising, but home-loving and affectionate. Add to this
all the terrors with which ignorance invests the unknown, and
add to this, again, that selling to the south is set before the
negro from childhood as the last severity of punishment.
The threat that terrifies more than whipping or torture of
any kind is the threat of being sent down river. We have
ourselves heard this feeling expressed by them, and seen the
unaffected horror with which they will sit in their gossipping
hours, and tell frightful stories of that “down river,” which
to them is

A missionary among the fugitives in Canada told us that
many of the fugitives confessed themselves to have escaped
from comparatively kind masters, and that they were induced
to brave the perils of escape, in almost every case, by the
desperate horror with which they regarded being sold south,
— a doom which was hanging either over themselves or their
husbands, their wives or children. This nerves the African,
naturally patient, timid and unenterprising, with heroic
courage, and leads him to suffer hunger, cold, pain, the
perils of the wilderness, and the more dread penalties of
re-capture.

The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for
Mrs. Shelby had excused Aunt Chloe's attendance at the
great house that morning. The poor soul had expended all
her little energies on this farewell feast, — had killed and
dressed her choicest chicken, and prepared her corn-cake
with scrupulous exactness, just to her husband's taste, and
brought out certain mysterious jars on the mantel-piece,

some preserves that were never produced except on extreme
occasions.

“Lor, Pete,” said Mose, triumphantly, “han't we got a
buster of a breakfast!” at the same time catching at a fragment
of the chicken.

Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. “Thar
now! crowing over the last breakfast yer poor daddy 's gwine
to have to home!”

“O, Chloe!” said Tom, gently.

“Wal, I can't help it,” said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face
in her apron; “I 's so tossed about, it makes me act ugly.”

The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and
then at their mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes,
began an imperious, commanding cry.

“Thar!” said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and taking up
the baby; “now I 's done, I hope, — now do eat something.
This yer 's my nicest chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have
some, poor critturs! Yer mammy 's been cross to yer.”

The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with
great zeal for the eatables; and it was well they did so, as
otherwise there would have been very little performed to any
purpose by the party.

“Now,” said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast,
“I must put up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he 'll take
'em all away. I know thar ways — mean as dirt, they is!
Wal, now, yer flannels for rhumatis is in this corner; so be
carful, 'cause there won't nobody make ye no more. Then
here 's yer old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off
these yer stockings last night, and put de ball in 'em to mend
with. But Lor! who 'll ever mend for ye?” and Aunt
Chloe, again overcome, laid her head on the box side, and

sobbed. “To think on 't! no crittur to do for ye, sick or
well! I don't railly think I ought ter be good now!”

The boys, having eaten everything there was on the breakfast-table,
began now to take some thought of the case; and,
seeing their mother crying, and their father looking very sad,
began to whimper and put their hands to their eyes. Uncle
Tom had the baby on his knee, and was letting her enjoy
herself to the utmost extent, scratching his face and pulling
his hair, and occasionally breaking out into clamorous explosions
of delight, evidently arising out of her own internal
reflections.

“Ay, crow away, poor crittur!” said Aunt Chloe; “ye 'll
have to come to it, too! ye 'll live to see yer husband sold, or
mebbe be sold yerself; and these yer boys, they 's to be
sold, I s'pose, too, jest like as not, when dey gets good for
somethin'; an't no use in niggers havin' nothin'!”

Here one of the boys called out, “Thar 's Missis a-comin'
in!”

“She can't do no good; what 's she coming for?” said
Aunt Chloe.

Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in
a manner decidedly gruff and crusty. She did not seem to
notice either the action or the manner. She looked pale and
anxious.

“Tom,” she said, “I come to—” and stopping suddenly,
and regarding the silent group, she sat down in the chair,
and, covering her face with her handkerchief, began to sob.

“Lor, now, Missis, don't — don't!” said Aunt Chloe,
bursting out in her turn; and for a few moments they all
wept in company. And in those tears they all shed together,
the high and the lowly, melted away all the heart-burnings
and anger of the oppressed. O, ye who visit the distressed,

do ye know that everything your money can buy, given with
a cold, averted face, is not worth one honest tear shed in real
sympathy?

“My good fellow,” said Mrs. Shelby, “I can't give you
anything to do you any good. If I give you money, it will
only be taken from you. But I tell you solemnly, and before
God, that I will keep trace of you, and bring you back as
soon as I can command the money; — and, till then, trust in
God!”

Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was coming,
and then an unceremonious kick pushed open the door.
Haley stood there in very ill humor, having ridden hard the
night before, and being not at all pacified by his ill success in
re-capturing his prey.

“Come,” said he, “ye nigger, ye 'r ready? Servant,
ma'am!” said he, taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby.

Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting up,
looked gruffly on the trader, her tears seeming suddenly
turned to sparks of fire.

Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and raised
up his heavy box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in
her arms to go with him to the wagon, and the children, still
crying, trailed on behind.

Mrs. Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained him for a
few moments, talking with him in an earnest manner; and
while she was thus talking, the whole family party proceeded
to a wagon, that stood ready harnessed at the door. A crowd
of all the old and young hands on the place stood gathered
around it, to bid farewell to their old associate. Tom had
been looked up to, both as a head servant and a Christian
teacher, by all the place, and there was much honest sympathy
and grief about him, particularly among the women.

“Why, Chloe, you bar it better 'n we do!” said one of the
women, who had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy
calmness with which Aunt Chloe stood by the wagon.

“I 's done my tears!” she said, looking grimly at the
trader, who was coming up. “I does not feel to cry 'fore dat
ar old limb, no how!”

“Get in!” said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the
crowd of servants, who looked at him with lowering brows.

Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the wagon
seat a heavy pair of shackles, made them fast around each
ankle.

A smothered groan of indignation ran through the whole
circle, and Mrs. Shelby spoke from the verandah, —

“Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely
unnecessary.”

“Do'n know, ma'am; I 've lost one five hundred dollars
from this yer place, and I can't afford to run no more risks.”

“What else could she spect on him?” said Aunt Chloe,
indignantly, while the two boys, who now seemed to comprehend
at once their father's destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing
and groaning vehemently.

“I 'm sorry,” said Tom, “that Mas'r George happened to
be away.”

George had gone to spend two or three days with a companion
on a neighboring estate, and having departed early in
the morning, before Tom's misfortune had been made public,
had left without hearing of it.

“Give my love to Mas'r George,” he said, earnestly.

Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful
look, fixed to the last on the old place, Tom was whirled
away.

Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home. He had sold

Tom under the spur of a driving necessity, to get out of the
power of a man whom he dreaded, — and his first feeling, after
the consummation of the bargain, had been that of relief. But
his wife's expostulations awoke his half-slumbering regrets;
and Tom's manly disinterestedness increased the unpleasantness
of his feelings. It was in vain that he said to himself
that he had a right to do it, — that everybody did it, — and
that some did it without even the excuse of necessity; — he
could not satisfy his own feelings; and that he might not
witness the unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had
gone on a short business tour up the country, hoping that
all would be over before he returned.

Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling
past every old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate
were fairly passed, and they found themselves out on the
open pike. After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly
drew up at the door of a blacksmith's shop, when,
taking out with him a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into the
shop, to have a little alteration in them.

“These yer 's a little too small for his build,” said Haley,
showing the fetters, and pointing out to Tom.

“Lor! now, if thar an't Shelby's Tom. He han't sold
him, now?” said the smith.

“Yes, he has,” said Haley.

“Now, ye don't! well, reely,” said the smith, “who 'd a
thought it! Why, ye need n't go to fetterin' him up this
yer way. He 's the faithfullest, best crittur —”

“Yes, yes,” said Haley; “but your good fellers are just
the critturs to want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as does n't
care whar they go, and shifless, drunken ones, as don't care
for nothin', they 'll stick by, and like as not be rather pleased
to be toted round; but these yer prime fellers, they hates it

like sin. No way but to fetter 'em; got legs, — they 'll
use 'em, — no mistake.”

“Well,” said the smith, feeling among his tools, “them
plantations down thar, stranger, an't jest the place a Kentuck
nigger wants to go to; they dies thar tol'able fast, don't
they?”

“Wal, yes, tol'able fast, ther dying is; what with the
'climating and one thing and another, they dies so as to keep
the market up pretty brisk,” said Haley.

“Wal, now, a feller can't help thinkin' it 's a mighty pity
to have a nice, quiet, likely feller, as good un as Tom is, go
down to be fairly ground up on one of them ar sugar plantations.”

“Wal, he 's got a fa'r chance. I promised to do well by
him. I 'll get him in house-servant in some good old family,
and then, if he stands the fever and 'climating, he 'll have a
berth good as any nigger ought ter ask for.”

“He leaves his wife and chil'en up here, s'pose?”

“Yes; but he 'll get another thar. Lord, thar 's women
enough everywhar,” said Haley.

Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the
shop while this conversation was going on. Suddenly he
heard the quick, short click of a horse's hoof behind him;
and, before he could fairly awake from his surprise, young
Master George sprang into the wagon, threw his arms
tumultuously round his neck, and was sobbing and scolding
with energy.

“I declare, it's real mean! I don't care what they say,
any of 'em! It 's a nasty, mean shame! If I was a man,
they should n't do it, — they should not, so!” said George,
with a kind of subdued howl.

“O! Mas'r George! this does me good!” said Tom. “I

could n't bar to go off without seein' ye! It does me real
good, ye can't tell!” Here Tom made some movement of
his feet, and George's eye fell on the fetters.

“What a shame!” he exclaimed, lifting his hands. “I 'll
knock that old fellow down — I will!”

“No you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so
loud. It won't help me any, to anger him.”

“Well, I won't, then, for your sake; but only to think of
it — is n't it a shame? They never sent for me, nor sent me
any word, and, if it had n't been for Tom Lincon, I should n't
have heard it. I tell you, I blew 'em up well, all of 'em, at
home!”

“That ar was n't right, I 'm 'feard, Mas'r George.”

“Can't help it! I say it 's a shame! Look here, Uncle
Tom,” said he, turning his back to the shop, and speaking in
a mysterious tone, “I've brought you my dollar!”

“O! I could n't think o' takin' on 't, Mas'r George, no
ways in the world!” said Tom, quite moved.

“But you shall take it!” said George; “look here — I
told Aunt Chloe I 'd do it, and she advised me just to make
a hole in it, and put a string through, so you could hang it
round your neck, and keep it out of sight; else this mean
scamp would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want to blow
him up! it would do me good!”

“No, don't, Mas'r George, for it won't do me any good.”

“Well, I won't, for your sake,” said George, busily tying
his dollar round Tom's neck; “but there, now, button your
coat tight over it, and keep it, and remember, every time you
see it, that I 'll come down after you, and bring you back.
Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it. I told her not
to fear; I 'll see to it, and I 'll tease father's life out, if he
don't do it.”

“O! Mas'r George, ye must n't talk so 'bout yer father!”

“Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad.”

“And now, Mas'r George,” said Tom, “ye must be a good
boy; 'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep
close to yer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of them foolish
ways boys has of gettin' too big to mind their mothers. Tell
ye what, Mas'r George, the Lord gives good many things
twice over; but he don't give ye a mother but once. Ye 'll
never see sich another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be
a hundred years old. So, now, you hold on to her, and grow
up, and be a comfort to her, thar 's my own good boy, — you
will now, won't ye?”

“Yes, I will, Uncle Tom,” said George, seriously.

“And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young
boys, when they comes to your age, is wilful, sometimes — it's
natur they should be. But real gentlemen, such as I hopes
you 'll be, never lets fall no words that is n't 'spectful to thar
parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George?”

“No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good
advice.”

“I 's older, ye know,” said Tom, stroking the boy's fine,
curly head with his large, strong hand, but speaking in a
voice as tender as a woman's, “and I sees all that 's bound up
in you. O, Mas'r George, you has everything, — l'arnin',
privileges, readin', writin', — and you 'll grow up to be a great,
learned, good man, and all the people on the place and your
mother and father 'll be so proud on ye! Be a good Mas'r,
like yer father; and be a Christian, like yer mother. 'Member
yer Creator in the days o' yer youth, Mas'r George.”

“I 'll be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you,” said George.
“I 'm going to be a first-rater; and don't you be discouraged.
I 'll have you back to the place, yet. As I told Aunt

Chloe this morning, I 'll build your house all over, and you
shall have a room for a parlor with a carpet on it, when I 'm
a man. O, you 'll have good times yet!”

Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his
hands.

“Look here, now, Mister,” said George, with an air of
great superiority, as he got out, “I shall let father and mother
know how you treat Uncle Tom!”

“You 're welcome,” said the trader.

“I should think you 'd be ashamed to spend all your life
buying men and women, and chaining them, like cattle! I
should think you 'd feel mean!” said George.

“So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women,
I 'm as good as they is,” said Haley; “'tan't any meaner
sellin' on 'em, than 't is buyin'!”

“I 'll never do either, when I 'm a man,” said George;
“I 'm ashamed, this day, that I 'm a Kentuckian. I always
was proud of it before;” and George sat very straight on his
horse, and looked round with an air, as if he expected the state
would be impressed with his opinion.

“Well, good-by, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip,” said
George.

“Good-by, Mas'r George,” said Tom, looking fondly and
admiringly at him. “God Almighty bless you! Ah! Kentucky
han't got many like you!” he said, in the fulness
of his heart, as the frank, boyish face was lost to his
view. Away he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter of his
horse's heels died away, the last sound or sight of his home.
But over his heart there seemed to be a warm spot, where
those young hands had placed that precious dollar. Tom put
up his hand, and held it close to his heart.

“Now, I tell ye what, Tom,” said Haley, as he came up

to the wagon, and threw in the hand-cuffs, “I mean to start
fa'r with ye, as I gen'ally do with my niggers; and I 'll tell
ye now, to begin with, you treat me fa'r, and I 'll treat you
fa'r; I an't never hard on my niggers. Calculates to do the
best for 'em I can. Now, ye see, you 'd better jest settle down
comfortable, and not be tryin' no tricks; because nigger's tricks
of all sorts I 'm up to, and it 's no use. If niggers is quiet,
and don't try to get off, they has good times with me; and if
they don't, why, it 's thar fault, and not mine.”

Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions of
running off. In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a superfluous
one to a man with a great pair of iron fetters on his
feet. But Mr. Haley had got in the habit of commencing his
relations with his stock with little exhortations of this nature,
calculated, as he deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and confidence,
and prevent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes.

And here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, to
pursue the fortunes of other characters in our story.