Leaving Uncle Tom's Cabin (Burning Uncle Tom's Cabin Book 2) Read online

  Leaving Uncle Tom’s Cabin

  Burning Uncle Tom’s Cabin Series

  Carl Waters

  Dr. Kal Chinyere

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  FREE STORY

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  FREE STORY

  PLEASE HELP

  Also by the Authors

  About the Authors

  Copyright © 2017 by Bright Sons Media, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-939805-15-7

  For African-American fathers that make sacrifices for their children

  You can't separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom.

  Malcolm X

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  Introduction

  Welcome back!

  We were quite excited that so many people enjoyed Burning Uncle Tom's Cabin. So excited, in fact, that it took us two years to write the sequel. But no worries because we're back.

  In Burning Uncle Tom's Cabin, we got George and his family to Canada. We also burned Uncle Tom's Cabin down. So, where do we go from here?

  We need to get George started on his journey toward becoming the great man that we know he can be. We also need to find a way to get Uncle Tom back home to his family. And no, we didn't forget about poor Mina, who is hopefully still alive on the Harris plantation.

  Well, we have a lot to do, but every great journey is a sequence of great steps. So, please enjoy Step #2: Leaving Uncle Tom's Cabin

  Thank you for hanging in there with us!

  — Kalvin C. Chinyere, MD, MBA (Dr. Kal)

  1

  Tom lay on their pallet, his heart heavy at what was about to happen. This shouldn’t be, he kept thinking. This can’t be. He’d spent so long thinking he was safe—thinking he was secure. Surely this wasn’t happening.

  Surely his master would step in at the last moment to save him.

  Outside, full night had fallen, though the light from the moon was full and bright, coming through the window to illuminate the small, shabby room around him and his wife. This had been his home since he could remember … well, for as long as he’d been married, at any rate. The head of the house slaves at Mr. Shelby’s plantation, Tom had grown up with Mr. Shelby himself. When Mr. Shelby married and they had children, Tom had taken care of the family as if they were his own. In fact, he’d been treated as a part of the family—or at least as much a part as a black man could be when it came to a white family. When it had come time to choose a wife of his own, he’d been given his run of the plantation and had taken next to no time to settle on Chloe, the girl who’d been the apple of his eye ever since he was young.

  Now she lay in front of him, trembling, and for the first time he could remember, he couldn’t fix what was ailing her.

  He’d been sold, and that was about the long and short of it. Sold by his master to cover his debts, and though it didn’t seem fair—not fair at all—Tom knew there was no changing it. Unless, by some stroke of good luck, his master changed his mind overnight. For there was nothing Tom himself could do about the situation. He didn’t wish to be taken away from his family—of course not!—but he had no choice in the matter. His master was there to do and say what was best for his people, and Tom knew that the Bible said to obey, at all costs.

  Even if it meant leaving those he loved behind.

  Chloe pushed back against him, shuddering with sobs, as if she could hear his thoughts, and he tightened his grip.

  “Can’t hardly think ’bout you not bein’ here,” she said softly. “Can’t imagine it, Tom. What will I do?”

  He sighed. “Same thing we’ve always done, Chloe. We’ll trust in God to lead us forward, and trust that He knows what’s best. Mas’r Shelby’s just doin’ what has to be done.”

  “What has to be done!” she sobbed, turning suddenly on her back to stare at him, her eyes horrified. “He has to send my husband—his oldest, most loyal man—out into the world alone? Has to sell him to that horrid trader and send him far away from his family?”

  Tom sighed and pulled her closer, glancing over her head at the small bed where his children slept all tumbled together. He could hear their snores—though he fancied that Polly, his daughter, slept more quietly than her brothers—and thanked the good Lord above that the children, at least, were able to sleep this night away.

  As they should. He’d yet to tell them what was going to happen in the morning.

  He just wished he could say the same for his wife. She would need all her strength in the morning and in the coming days, and for that she’d need rest. He would be awake all night long, he knew—tossing and turning over what lay on the road ahead of him, and his unknown future. Trying to find a way through the mental tangle in which he found himself. For how, exactly, was he to find his way around this situation? His mind told him that his master had the right of it—that Master Shelby, and his mistress, were the ones in charge, and that they must make the decisions regarding their people. And he could quote at least three verses from the Bible counseling patience and obedience to his betters. He knew what the good Lord would say—that he must obey when his master told him to go.

  But none of that would quiet his heart, which told him something quite different. His heart howled at the pain, at the uneven footing on which he found himself. His heart—that organ to which he had attached so much feeling and emotion—argued with every logical thought his mind could put together and told him that this wasn’t right. That this wasn’t fair.

  How was he to reassure his wife when he didn’t know his own true feelings on the matter?

  It had been several days since they’d learned from Eliza—one of the house slaves—that Master Shelby had sold Tom and young Harry to the slave trader, Haley, to be sent far from their homes. Haley himself had been there the morning after Eliza left, notifying them of the same, his sly grin sending chills up and down Tom’s spine.

  No, he didn’t trust the man. And he most certainly did not want to be put under his care.

  Of course shortly after that, Master Shelby and Haley had found that Eliza and Harry had run (which Tom and Chloe had already known), and Haley had gone tearing into the forest after them, furious over the fact that she’d dared to take her son fr
om his grasping hands.

  Chloe and Tom had spent every night after that taking as much joy as they could in each other, storing up a lifetime’s worth of memories together. He’d done his best to set aside all thoughts of religion—though it had pained him something awful—and made love to his wife every night, reveling in the feel of her hands and lips. For though he hoped he might see her again, he had his doubts. The country had a system in place, and though he’d seen terrible things under that system, surely someone had known what they were doing when they put it in place.

  As one of the country’s people, it was his job to follow the rules. Though he’d never imagined that those rules would separate him so cruelly from his family.

  Tonight, then, he merely held his wife against him, breathing in her scent and memorizing the feel of her body. There would never be another woman like her in his life. Never.

  “You still awake, Tom?” she suddenly asked.

  Tom, realizing that he’d allowed his eyes to shut, grunted. “How can I sleep, woman, when I can hear the worryin’ goin’ on in your head? You think I’d leave you awake alone?”

  “Ain’t you worried?” she hissed.

  “Ain’t the time to worry, right now,” he said affectionately. “I’ve got you in my arms and the children sleeping soundly at our feet. Plenty of time for worryin’ tomorrow.” That last bit was a lie, but what harm was there in letting her rest easy, for one last night?

  There was a long, heavy pause, and then: “Expect Haley might come back tomorrow.”

  “He does, guess I’ll be goin’ with him,” Tom answered quietly.

  She stifled a sob. “How can you go somewhere when you don’t know where you’re goin’? I wish you’d run with Eliza and her boy. Least then I’d know you were safe.”

  Tom squeezed her firmly. “And if I had, Mas’r Shelby might’ve been forced to sell the four of you to different plantations. How would I ever find you if he did that?”

  She flipped over to her side and stared at him. “Find us? What makes you think you’ll ever be free to go lookin’?”

  “But if I am, Chloe, won’t it be easier to find you if you’re all together? Let’s not worry about tomorrow’s trouble. Just let me enjoy my beautiful wife.”

  She grew quiet, and Tom sent a silent prayer of thanks up to the Lord. He wasn’t sure he ever would be free, and he didn’t—in his heart—expect to ever see his wife again once he left. But if it had brought her comfort now, in her time of need, then it pleased him.

  He sent another prayer after the first, asking that Haley be delayed one more day. Just one more day with my family, he begged. I ain’t ready to leave yet.

  2

  Free. George had been free for weeks now. Free of the horrors and abuse he’d suffered since before he could remember. Free of the master he’d hated, free of the whippings, and free of the chains.

  Still, he couldn’t calm the nerves and temper inside him. Still he didn’t feel as though it had been enough—or that he’d ever truly escape.

  George looked around the room, unsure of himself and the feelings stewing in his stomach. They’d been in Montreal for several weeks—long enough for the others to have grown used to the feeling of freedom. And certainly long enough to prove that their masters—Mr. Harris and Mr. Shelby—hadn’t sent anyone after them.

  Or, if they had, long enough to prove that George and his family had managed to evade the catchers’ grasp.

  So why didn’t he feel safe yet? Why didn’t he feel as if his whole life was ahead of him, just waiting to be lived?

  Eliza was on the other side of the room, brushing out young Harry’s hair as the boy laughed and played with the wooden train Jim had whittled for him. The child’s face shone with joy and satisfaction, and Eliza’s own face had begun to lose the lines of worry George had seen etched around her eyes during their escape. His family, he thought. Safe. Safe, and in a country that didn’t believe in slavery—didn’t have laws to keep black men like him down, chained like dogs. In fact, the entire world had changed, it seemed. They’d gone from the lush, swamp-like land of Kentucky, through several different climates and environments, to end up here in Montreal, where the trees were tall and straight, the early spring air was crisp and almost cold, and the mountains towered up behind the city. George glanced out the window of the back room of Jim’s cabin, where they were staying, and stared for a moment at those mountains.

  Though the change of environments should have made him feel secure, the mountains only brought to his mind the need for escape. Those mountains, with their stark contrast to the straight lanes of Montreal, their sharp, jutting peaks, the snow at the top, and the knowledge that it would take him months to get over them if he chose to run.

  No, they didn’t make him feel secure. They made him feel as if someone was constantly watching over his shoulder, penning him in.

  “George, what is it? You’ve been quiet all morning,” Eliza suddenly said, gazing at him with the deep, unfathomable eyes that had always seemed to see more than they should.

  George shook himself out of his mood and tried to put on a cheery face. “Nothing, my love. Nothing but thinking of how lucky we are to be here. How lucky we are to have escaped.”

  The truth was, he realized, he was bored. It had been weeks since he’d done anything with his hands, and, though Jim’s carpentry shop was a thriving business here, it held little interest for George. He needed a challenge—a goal—and the lack thereof was giving him far too much time to think.

  When Jim entered the room, large and dark as ever, wearing a clean pair of overalls and an enormous grin, George straightened his shoulders. The man had no doubt come to ask him to do some menial chore again—sweeping the shop or stripping bark off some sapling. And George was in no mood for it.

  Before he could open his mouth to say so, however, Jim turned his grin on his friend.

  “Bored, George?” he asked jovially.

  George narrowed his eyes and nodded once. “Have been for weeks, Jim. Ain’t nothin’ for me to do ’round here.”

  Jim laughed. “And I thought you’d be enjoyin’ your freedom! Well, as luck would have it, I’m here to cure what ails you. Care for an adventure?”

  At the thought, George felt himself perk up. Anything that got him out of the house would be wonderful—and he could see from the look on Jim’s face that he’d been planning this for some time. And was quite proud of himself.

  Jim must have been able to see the thoughts cross George’s face, because he nodded quickly and strode toward him. “That’s right, friend,” he said, grabbing George’s arm. “Got a day off, and I remembered you’d been askin’ about the steamboats. Heard tell one of the biggest is pullin’ into the bay today. What say we go see it?”

  George’s jaw dropped. He had indeed been asking after the steamboats since they arrived. He had an engineer’s mind and the nimble fingers of a builder—but not a builder who constructed things with wood. No, he was a man of metal and gears. A man who thrived on machines. His dream was to work in a machinist’s shop, building and inventing, but the next best thing—the very next—would be to work on a steamboat.

  “Eliza, get Harry ready,” he said, quickly going to gather his things.

  But Jim shook his head and held up a hand. “No, it’s not for Harry this time,” he said firmly. “The dock’ll be crowded and dangerous. We won’t have time to look after the little one—or the ladies.” He turned to Eliza and Harry and dropped to his knees. “We’ll take you next time, right, little man?”

  George turned in time to see Harry nodding solemnly, his little lips pressed together as he accepted this decision, and Eliza smiling behind him. George lifted one eyebrow, silently questioning whether Eliza would be all right with being left behind, and she shooed him forward with her hands.

  “Go, love,” she said quietly. “Harry and I will stay here with Anita and get dinner ready. Besides, there is a horse in the stable next door that Harry’s been asking
to see. We’ll do just fine on our own.”

  She gave George a quiet smile of encouragement. He barely took the time to return it before he turned and darted out the door.

  3

  George was glad that the bay was a quick ride from the house. Jim had purposefully built it close to the crowded wharfs and storefronts. He’d needed to be near the business, he explained, so that he would be allowed to build not only for the townspeople, but for the ships’ captains and crews as well. And he’d done well for himself, with a thriving business for both townspeople and seagoing folk. Truly, George had been impressed with the shop.

  But that hadn’t stopped him from realizing one thing: he couldn’t depend on Jim’s shop—or his generosity—for long. He needed to make his own way in the world. With luck, this visit to the steamboats would be a start.

  This could be the beginning of a whole new adventure.

  Within thirty minutes, they were trotting up to the building that housed Montreal’s shipping offices, dismounting, and tying their horses up at the hitching post.

  “Come,” Jim said, taking George’s arm and guiding him quickly through the crowds of sailors, merchants, relatives, and those arriving in the city for the first time. Montreal was close to the ocean and had several rivers running through it, and, as such, was an important part of the shipping lanes in the area. George had often wondered how many people actually came through the port on a daily basis and where they were going. He’d been shocked to see so many blacks in the area, and, furthermore, to see them coming and going so freely, taking ships and then carriages or wagons to this place or that, as though no one would stop them.

  And now he was one of them, he realized. He was one of those men who could take a ship to the farthest reaches of the world. If only he had the money to do so.