Leaving Uncle Tom's Cabin (Burning Uncle Tom's Cabin Book 2) Page 4

  “Well I won’t, then, for your sake; but only to think of it. They never sent for me, nor sent me any word, and if it hadn’t been for Tom Lincon, I shouldn’t have heard it. I tell you, I blew ’em up well, all of ’em at home! I’m ashamed of them! Ashamed to be a Kentuckian at all! Why, it’s not right, Tom, not right!”

  Tom could see that the boy was furious, indeed, and suddenly began to worry that George would make trouble with Haley, regardless of what he said. The boy had always had a quick temper and wasn’t accustomed to discipline.

  “Look here, Uncle Tom,” the boy suddenly said, turning his back to the shop and speaking in a mysterious tone, ”I’ve brought you my dollar! 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 will take it away.” He hung the chain around Tom’s neck then sat back proudly.

  “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 himself. This ain’t Christian, Tom, I’ll tell you that much. It ain’t Christian to be buying and selling people as if they don’t matter. The Bible would never speak so.”

  “Oh Mas’r George, you mustn’t talk that way!” Tom said, shocked at this insolence. “You must be a good boy. Remember how many hearts are set on you. Always keep close to you mother. Don’t be gettin’ into any of them foolish ways boys have of gettin’ too big to mind their mothers. Tell you what, Mas’r George, the Lord gives the good many things twice over, but he doesn’t give you a mother but the once. You’ll never see another such woman if you live to be a hundred years old. So now, you hold on to her, and grow up and be a comfort to her, that’s my own good boy. You will now, won’t ye?”

  “I will, Uncle Tom,” George said, though Tom could see very well that the boy was keen to argue with him. Now that he’d come to his point—that he thought slavery wasn’t Christian at all—he wouldn’t stop.

  Not wanting to discuss it, Tom hurried on.

  “And be careful of your words, Mas’r George. Young boys when they come to your age get willful, sometimes. But real gentlemen, such as I hope you’ll be, never say anything disrespectful to their parents.”

  He reached out to stroke the boy’s fine curly head with his large, strong hand and continued speaking in a voice as tender as a woman’s. “And I see everything you might be. You have everything—learnin’, 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 of you! Be a good mas’r like your father, and be a Christian like your mother. ’Member your Creator in the days o’ your youth, Mas’r George.”

  At that, George scowled again. “Don’t believe I can be a Christian and own people at the same time, Tom. It ain’t the same thing—it ain’t right! Man is meant to love other men, not enslave them.”

  Tom hushed him. “Man’s laws’re built on God’s laws, boy, and we have those laws for a reason. It’s not your place to question them.”

  “It is my place, for how will things ever change if I don’t?” the boy argued. “What if God doesn’t approve of our laws? What if He doesn’t approve of slavery at all? If He doesn’t support slavery, you’ll be throwing your life away for no reason at all!”

  Tom drew back, both surprised and intrigued by this line of thought, for it was one he’d never considered. Before he could answer, though, Haley appeared at the door of the smith’s shop. He was carrying more shackles, as if he meant to buy more slaves before long, and Tom cringed at the thought.

  “Look here, now, mister,” said George, with an air of great superiority, as he got out of the wagon, “I shall let Father and Mother know how you’ve treated Uncle Tom!”

  “You’re welcome to,” 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 you grand folks want to buy men and women, I’m as good as they are,” said Haley. “‘It isn’t any meaner sellin’ ’em than it 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 he got up on his horse and sat stalling, looking around as if he expected the state would be impressed with his opinion. “Well, good-bye, Uncle Tom. Keep a stiff upper lip,” he said. “And remember what I’ve told you. I’ll come for you, mark my words.”

  “G’bye, Mas’r George,” said Tom, looking fondly at the boy and hoping that he’d be true to those words. He watched sadly as the boy—the last he’d see of his family—went down the road and disappeared into the morning fog. Tom stared after him for some time, hoping, that maybe the boy would turn around and return rather than leaving him alone.

  But eventually the sound of his horse’s hooves faded away, and silence reigned around them.

  “Now I tell you what, Tom,” said Haley, as he came up to the wagon and threw in the handcuffs. “I mean to start fair with you, as I generally do with my hands, and if you treat me fairly, I’ll do the same with you. I always do the best I can for people in my care. Just lay down and get comfortable, and don’t do anything stupid, because I’ll see right through it. If Negroes are quiet and do as they’re told, they do all right with me. If they cause trouble, what happens is their fault, not mine. And I’ll tell you this much—you won’t be seeing that boy again. So you’d best get that idea right out of your head.”

  Tom frowned but kept his thoughts to himself and settled down into the wagon for the ride, wondering vaguely where tomorrow would find him.

  8

  The morning after his discussion with Eliza about her job offer, George was already second-guessing his decision. He’d spread his papers across his desk again and was scouring the different illustrations for something that might work. The thought of giving up on this dream broke his heart, and that was made worse by the fact that he wasn’t certain he’d find an employer. Yes, he was a hard worker. And yes, he was extremely smart. But what qualifications did he have, really? What trades? He’d only ever worked in the hemp-cleaning factory, and even there his main responsibility had been to oversee the machine that he himself had invented.

  What if inventing and machining were truly his only talents? What if no one wanted to give him a job, because he didn’t have any real skills? What if he went out into the city to find work . . . and failed? After everything he’d said to Jim and Eliza, he didn’t know if he’d be able to bear coming home without succeeding.

  “What are you doing, Papa?” a voice suddenly asked.

  George glanced down to see his son’s woolly head at his shoulder, his face alight with interest as he looked over the drawings. George quickly gathered them up and pulled out a blank sheet of paper, upon which he began to write.

  “Making a list of my many marketable talents,” he lied smoothly, writing down whatever came to mind—true or not.

  “Why?” the boy asked.

  “It’s my job to take care of our family, boy,” George answered. “And to do that, I must decide on the best possible job. I must figure out what will pay me the most money.”

  The boy seemed to think about that for a second, pushing his lips out and narrowing his eyes as if he was processing the information. For the first time in weeks, George remembered how intelligent his son was. Perhaps he should spend more time with the child, he thought. The boy was keen to learn, and George was far better suited to teaching than Eliza.

  Not that he would admit that to her.

  “What’s on your list so far?” Harry finally asked.

  George nearly smiled. “I’m listing all my talents, starting with my intelligence, my wit, and my strength.�
�

  “You are awfully strong, Papa,” Harry said knowingly.

  George nodded and then continued. “My ability to work with horses. My ability to manage people. My focus. The fact that I’m a hard worker.” As he listed the traits for Harry and wrote them down, he began to feel more optimistic. These were valuable traits, he told himself. These were good traits.

  “Seems like you’ll find a job then, Papa,” Harry said, echoing George’s own thoughts. “Those are things people should like. Aren’t they?”

  George straightened with pride. “Well, anyone would be lucky to have me as an employee. But I don’t have many friends here, Harry, and I don’t have any references. I’ve never done anything with my life. Never been anything more than a slave.”

  He bit his lip, because it always came down to the same thing. He’d been property his entire life—another man’s servant. He had no experience beyond his work on the plantation and the hemp factory. He also didn’t have many friends he could call on. And, at that, his confidence abruptly left again, and he almost sobbed. With his limited history and experience, how would he ever find a job that could support his family?

  Harry thought for a moment, then turned his face to George, smiling as if he’d just come up with the most wonderful idea. “You can do it, Papa. After all, Jim was a slave, wasn’t he? And he’s working.”

  “Jim works for himself, not an employer,” George corrected him.

  “Well, why don’t you just work with Jim?” the boy asked innocently.

  George paused. How could he explain to the boy that his pride would never allow him to ask for a job from a friend—and from a friend who had already saved him more than once? How could he possibly explain that his own sense of self would never allow him to work for someone he saw as nothing more than his equal?

  How could he explain that he should be the one making his own life here, not depending on someone else to help him again?

  “Friends don’t work well for friends, child,” he finally said. “I wouldn’t know how to approach him, and I’m not even certain how that would work. No, it can’t happen.”

  The boy, however, just grinned. “If you don’t know how to ask him, Papa, then I’ll ask him for you.” And with that, he turned, chuckling to himself, and ran right out of the room.

  George had barely registered what Harry said—and what it would mean for his position—before the boy disappeared.

  9

  George rushed out of the house, chasing after Harry, but he could see that he wasn’t going to catch the boy before he got to Jim. Jim’s workshop was a small building attached to the house, but one had to cross a courtyard, navigate the garden, and duck under a number of trees to get there—and the journey was much easier for a four-year-old with a head start than it would be for George. He could see the boy’s red trousers flashing through the foliage, but saw also that Harry was nearly to the door of the workshop.

  The boy was going to run right into the workshop—and do horrible damage to George’s pride.

  In the end, he rushed into the shop right on Harry’s heels, breathing heavily, and then nearly choked on the sawdust hanging in the air. Jim, catching sight of the two of them, put down the saw he’d been using and told his apprentice, who was sweeping the shop, to take a break. Jim pushed the sawhorse, and the wood on it, to the side of the shop and stepped toward them, his expression curious.

  “To what do I owe this surprise?” he asked with a laugh. “You two don’t often visit my shop! Did something happen?”

  “Nothing,” George said quickly. “Harry’s just playing a game.”

  “That’s not true, Papa,” Harry said. He turned to Jim. “Uncle Jim, Papa has a question he wants to ask you.”

  George grabbed at the boy, wanting to get him out of the shop before he could say anything else. “Nonsense, boy. I don’t have any questions for you, Jim.”

  But Harry ducked out of George’s grasp, giggling, and before George could stop him, blurted out, “Jim, Papa wants to know if he can come out here and work with you!”

  George looked to Jim, aghast, and saw the look mirrored on Jim’s own face. The two looked at each other, shocked and more than a little uncomfortable. Finally, Jim gave him a lopsided smile.

  “Well, you know, I’ve asked you before if you wanted to help, George, and I won’t pretend I don’t need the extra hands. Of course you can come out here and work. But my answer depends on you. Are you wanting to work with me?”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing,” George admitted slowly. “And it might help pay our way.”

  He said this grudgingly, but as the words passed his lips he realized that they were true. He would be using his hands again and doing something useful. And he would be helping Jim—which would, in turn, allow Jim to get more work done and bring in more money. This might, George allowed, have been a good idea of Harry’s after all.

  Of course, it didn’t turn out to be nearly as simple as that. After a little over an hour, Jim and George were already at odds. George had taken every chance he could to point out ways that Jim could increase production or efficiency in the shop—despite the fact that he’d never run a business or done woodworking himself. Jim had responded by giving George the most menial of tasks, in George’s lofty opinion, and forcing him into the lowest position in the shop. Why, even the assistant was doing more important things than George was, as he’d been put in charge of painting and finishing one of the cabinets in the shop, while George was made to sweep and to saw one board into equal sizes.

  When George failed at even that, turning over pieces that were actually quite different, Jim finally said that he thought it was about time to call it a day and go in to see what was for dinner.

  “I’m guessin’ you’re hungry, what with all the work,” he said, staring at the board that George had been in charge of cutting with a saw and had, instead, gone to work at with a hammer and chisel.

  George agreed, anxious to get out of the shop. Nothing he’d done had been right, and he felt as though he was going to choke on the dust in the air. How Jim survived in an environment like that was a mystery to him.

  “Are we doing the same thing tomorrow?” he asked, fearing that the answer was yes.

  “Actually, I’m thinkin’ I need to find somethin’ else for you to do,” Jim said wryly.

  George was so shocked, he almost stopped walking. “You don’t want me to work with you anymore?” he asked. He didn’t want to be in the shop, if he was being honest with himself, but he’d never considered that Jim might fire him on the first day.

  Jim laughed and clapped a hand on George’s shoulder. “No, friend, that’s not it at all. Just thinkin’ you might be better at deliverin’ the final products, rather than working on them.”

  George grinned as well, seeing the logic there and beginning to feel better for the first time in weeks. Yes, Jim was right. And what was more, it would allow George to get out into the city of Montreal on his own for the first time since his arrival. And there, on his own, there was no telling what he might find.

  10

  Not a week from his family yet, and Tom had never felt so low. His heart seemed to be a dark hole of nothing but fear and sorrow, and his mind had given up trying to rationalize the happenings of the last week. Tonight, he found himself in a jail—not a barn or even a shed behind a tavern, but a jail, complete with large stone blocks making up the walls and bars on the fourth side of the cells. Haley, who had proven to be even meaner and more vindictive than Tom had expected, had marched Tom right to the jail when they arrived in town, taken him down the steps, and put him into one of the cells.

  The jailer himself had accompanied the pair and locked the door securely behind Tom.

  “He’ll be safe there for the night,” the jailer had assured Haley. “Never had any Negro escape, no sir. And plenty that stay here before the auctions, I’ll tell you that much. Can’t be trusted nowhere else.”

  “That they can�
�t,” Haley had agreed, taking a moment to send a stream of tobacco juice out between his front teeth. “This one here ain’t given me no trouble yet, but I tell you, there’s a first time for everything, and I can’t never trust a boy with shoulders that broad. This one’s too smart for his own good. I can see them wheels turnin’ in his head. Dangerous, is what it is. Couldn’t sleep with him in the same room.”

  Tom had sighed as he watched the men walk away, their shoulders back and their chins up as if they owned the world.

  Which, he realized, they did. They were white men, and privileged in a world where the good Lord had seen fit to put the white men in charge. Black men like him—slaves, he told himself firmly—were meant to obey, and little more.

  It just didn’t seem right, though, and that was becoming a thought that wouldn’t leave him alone.

  He left it for the moment, though, and turned to look around the dank cell. It wasn’t a simple cell, he realized suddenly, but a large room filled with other men and women of like complexion. He counted twenty other people in all, and though they were all well enough cared for, he quickly realized that this particular room hadn’t been set up for their comfort. There were no cots, no blankets, and certainly no private areas for the women. No, every one of them had been shoved into the room without thought for their sensibilities or needs.

  He’d never seen the like of it. At the Shelby plantation the slaves had always been taken care of, their needs accommodated, and though they weren’t in any elevated position, his master and mistress had been kind.

  Here, he realized, there would be no such kindnesses.

  Rather than dwelling on it, he found his way to a dark corner and slid down the wall to a sitting position, his knees drawn up against his chest. He wrapped his arms around his knees for comfort and stared into the darkness of the room. It was a damp place, with water seeping down the walls, and he felt certain that the dirt floor under him was half mud. Someone across the room coughed, and he sighed in sympathy. No, it was no place for decent folk, and he’d always deemed himself a decent man. Wasn’t he a good Christian? Hadn’t he done his best since he’d first heard the Bible read to follow its words and model his life after what he thought Jesus would have him do?