by Carl Waters
One step at a time, George, he told himself firmly. He’d achieved his freedom. A job would come. In time.
But, for now, he had a steamboat to view. And perhaps the two would go together, if luck was with him.
Jim was tugging him along the road toward the wharfs, under the archway and its sign reading Montreal Port, and then onto the boardwalk that ran around the bay itself. The area was crowded with people, luggage, and all manner of bags, boxes, and even crates. Around them, the cacophony of voices, both human and animal, was nearly deafening. Then, quite suddenly, the way in front of them opened up, and George saw the steamboat.
With that, the noise around him disappeared. For one glorious moment, all he could see was the gleaming ship, with its smokestacks rising up into the sky, still smoking from the journey. The steamboat had a large water wheel with water sluicing from its sides. The ship also had three decks that he could see and was slowly emptying of people, who had come from a place he would never know and were going to a place for which he didn’t care. And there, above all that, he could see the captain on his platform, the wheel still in his hands.
The man reached up and tugged the pulley above him, and the boat let out a long, low sound. With that, the world began moving again, the noise of the docks rushing back to collide over George’s head.
“A steamboat,” he breathed, fascinated.
“Come,” Jim said again. “I have another surprise for you.”
He tugged George forward, straight toward the boat, using his large bulk to muscle through the crowd, until they were at the gangplank. They waited until the last of the people had disembarked and then made their way up the gangplank, as if they belonged there. George, though confused about what they were doing, followed Jim willingly. He’d never been on a steamboat before and could hardly contain the rolling of his stomach at the thought of the mechanism inside.
To his further surprise, a man was waiting for them at the top of the gangplank. He was white, and he was dressed in a captain’s coat.
“Jim, boy!” the man cried out, laughing and holding out his hand. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it through that crowd!”
Jim took the man’s hand and shook it, grinning widely. “Sure was a bunch of people, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Business going well, then?”
The man nodded, still smiling, and turned to George. “Is this the boy you told me about?” he asked, holding his hand out again.
George took it hesitantly and glanced at Jim in confusion, unsure at the idea of shaking hands with a white man.
“He is,” Jim answered.
The man looked George up and down, and suddenly George began to feel quite nervous. Who was this man, and what was he doing? Here was an opportunity looking George in the face—an opportunity to speak to the captain of such a ship, and ask for a job!—and, instead, he felt as though he’d been taken to market. The captain moved about George, running his hands over his arms and back to feel his muscles. When he ended up in front of George again, he asked him to open his mouth so that he could see his teeth.
George, without thinking, slapped the man’s hand away and snarled at him. What was the meaning of this? He hadn’t come all the way to Canada to be inspected as if he was on the slave block—and certainly not by a ship’s captain, who was evidently a friend of Jim’s!
“What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped. “What’s going on here?”
The man took several steps back and threw a glance at Jim. “You haven’t told him?” he asked sharply. When he turned back to George, he wore a conciliatory expression. “Boy, your friend here has secured a job for you on my ship. But if I’m going to hire you, I must make certain you’re fit for the job.”
George’s heart came to a sudden halt and then tried to tear through his ribs with excitement. A job? Jim had secured him a job?
“Sir, I couldn’t be more honored!” He gasped. “Why, back home, I was an amateur machinist, and the chance to work in your engine room, with such machinery—”
The man barked out a laugh. “Well, you won’t be touching the machines, but you’ll certainly be powering them!” he said. “Shoveling coal, boy. I need someone to shovel coal!”
At that, George felt his blood run cold. “Coal? Why would I want to shovel coal for you?” he snarled, confused and dismayed at what he was starting to believe was a trick.
The man laughed and turned to Jim. “Didn’t you tell him anything?” he asked.
Jim had the grace to look ashamed of himself and shook his head. “Just hadn’t had a chance yet,” he mumbled.
George wheeled around to stare at Jim. “You knew about this?” he asked. “You brought me here to put me to work? Without asking or telling me anything about it? Jim, how could you? You think I’m just a boy to be put to work, without any choice in the matter? You think I don’t deserve to have a say? You’ll treat me no better than a master down in old Kentuck’? I think not!”
He turned on the man, who he assumed was the ship’s captain, furious. “Sir, I will not be working for you, and I suggest that, in the future, you take the time to communicate with the man you wish to hire, rather than his friends! I am not a slave to be bought and sold at the drop of a hat!”
And, with that, he turned on his heel and stormed off the boat, feeling both betrayed and furious, and promising himself that he would never again let anyone trick him into believing that they might have his best interests at heart.
4
Tom woke the next morning to a pounding on the door that might have woken the dead, and his heart sank into his stomach. His eyes flew around the room, seeking and then finding the three children, and then lingered on the smallest, her fuzzy head lined up on the pillow next to her brothers’, all like fuzzy black cotton balls. Polly. The youngest, and the dearest to him. She would grow up to be just as special as her mother, and be a joy to all who knew her. She already was. Fathers weren’t supposed to have favorites, he reminded himself quickly.
Then he put the thought aside. He was in a position now to be allowed a few privileges, he thought. And the youngest child—the only daughter—had always been the child of his heart.
Another bang sounded at the door, and his eyes wandered quickly on. The small fireplace held nothing but the remains of the fire from last night, with the pot still hanging over the embers. The small window held barely any daylight, telling him that it was barely dawn, if the sun had risen at all.
Everything was the same as it had been the night before—as it had been for so many years. But the pounding on the door indicated, to his deep horror, that things were about to change.
No one on Master Shelby’s plantation had the bad manners to knock on a door in such a way.
Knowing, though, that he had no choice, he grunted and shifted himself out of bed, grabbing at his trousers as he headed toward the door. By the time he got there, it was already swinging open to reveal an irate white face with outrageous whiskers.
“Let’s go, boy, get your things, and get to the wagon.”
The man was loud and uncultured. He wore striped trousers and a pink waistcoat, and had fuzzy whiskers
Haley had returned. And he was taking Tom away.
“Just let me say g’bye to my family, Mas’r Haley, and then I’ll come,” Tom muttered, looking down at his feet.
“Well hurry it up! I ain’t got all day!” the man returned. “Yon girl’s already cost me enough time as it is, don’t mean to take no trouble from you as well.”
Chloe was up and shrugging into her dress when Tom returned, the tears already running down her face. Their sons Pete and Mose were on their feet as well, rubbing their eyes in confusion. Polly, his darling, was awake and sitting up on the pallet, as if waiting for someone to pick her up. Chloe rushed to the child and gathered her into her arms. Then, without words, the family gathered in the middle of the room.
Tom looked toward the boys. “Now boys, your pa has to go away. We’ve spoken ’bout this, and what we�
��d do if it ever happened. You must do everything your ma asks you to do. She speaks for us both now.”
“Yes, Pa,” the boys answered in unison.
“And do what Mas’r and Missus Shelby ask you to do. Don’t give them any reason to dislike you.”
“Yes, Pa.”
Tom reached out and took Polly from Chloe’s arms. He turned her face toward his and kissed her lightly on the nose, wishing with all his heart that he could keep her safe. The boys, he thought, would do just fine—they were nearly grown already, and had seen other people leave. They would take care of their mother.
The girl, though—he wondered abruptly if she’d even remember him when she grew older, and his heart cracked right through the middle.
“Polly, I pray you’ll grow up to be just as pretty as your ma and cook half as well as she does. Do that and Mas’r Shelby won’t never sell you.”
Chloe wiped the tears from her eyes. “I would die before I let them sell her,” she murmured.
Tom handed the baby back to her and took them both in his arms. “Never say that,” he whispered. “For you must be alive in case I return. You must be waitin’ for me, and ready to run.” More lies, for he would never dream of breaking the law in that way, no matter how his heart was breaking.
But lies that would give her hope, and keep her moving forward. He hoped.
He kissed her soundly on the lips, then stood back and gazed at his family. “This is how I’ll see you any time I close my eyes,” he said quietly, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Then he turned, picked up the rough hemp bag he’d packed several days earlier and headed for the door and Haley’s wagon parked just outside. The family followed, stumbling slightly in their shock, and gathered in the open doorway.
Outside, the sun had barely risen above the horizon, but Tom could see the plantation in the dim lighting. The big house stood directly across from their cabin, with the barn on the right of it. A house that he’d been brought into when he was very young and where he’d grown up. Where he’d cared for the master and his family. Behind him, he knew, the other cabins stretched toward the fields, the homes of many just like him—people who had no control over their own lives or those of their loved ones.
It was a plantation he’d helped to build and organize. One he’d even had a hand in running over the past years. He’d thought to spend the rest of his life here.
Then, before he could take the first step onto this new and unknown path, he saw Mrs. Shelby dashing toward them from the main house. He watched her, confused; what did the woman think she was doing? She couldn’t stop what was happening here. Mr. Shelby had already signed the papers, from what Eliza had said. Further, she was the mistress of the house, but still a woman. A man like Haley would never allow her to interfere with his business.
Still, at least she cared enough to come say good-bye to Tom. Not like Master Shelby. One glance at the slaves in the barn had given Tom the information he needed there—Mr. Shelby had pulled them from their beds early, which meant he’d taken his horse and left. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to say good-bye to Tom, too grief-stricken over the situation.
Or perhaps he hadn’t been able to face this man who had grown up with him, Tom’s treacherous heart argued.
Tom quieted his heart and turned to the mistress, his face creased into a frown. Mrs. Shelby didn’t run far enough to take him in her arms, though, and instead stopped next to Haley and the wagon. She took him by the arm and began speaking earnestly up at him.
“Surely you can leave him a little longer, Haley?” she asked, her voice high and pleading. “He hasn’t had a chance to say good-bye to his family yet, or the rest of the men and women here. Surely you can see your way to giving him the morning. Stay and have some breakfast with us.”
This brought tears to Tom’s eyes. The mistress’ face was flushed with emotion, and he knew without having to ask that she’d fought against this. She’d fought for him, he realized. She’d lost, but the idea that she’d cared enough to do so warmed his heart.
Haley, however, seemed to have a heart made of stone.
“Pish, woman!” he snapped, throwing off her hand. “That boy ain’t got no feelings for the rest of your slaves. Don’t fool yourself into thinking he has. They don’t think like normal white folk, those ones. He won’t care no more’n a dog that he’s leaving this place.”
Mrs. Shelby reared back at that, and Tom could see her hands clenching at her sides, as if she was willing herself not to slap Haley. “How dare you, sir?” she asked coldly. “I have known these people for most of my life. I fancy I know their thoughts and feelings better than you, and I can guarantee you that this man cares for his family just as much as any white man.”
She glanced down at what Haley was doing and gasped. Tom’s eyes followed, and he saw with horror that the man was sorting out a rusted set of manacles, complete with heavy chain.
Mrs. Shelby put her hand on Haley’s arm once again, and lowered her voice. “Those are not necessary, Mr. Haley. Surely you trust our most favored man enough to know that he would not try to run.”
Tom’s eyes spun from Mrs. Shelby to Haley. Why, he’d never been in shackles a day in his life. How could the man think those were necessary?
But Haley simply brushed Mrs. Shelby off and turned abruptly toward Tom, gesturing toward the wagon. Tom heaved a sigh and walked slowly along with his new master, stopping only when he drew even with the wagon. Haley laughed and bent down to fix two heavy shackles to Tom’s ankles.
“Ain’t never seen a slave won’t run at the first opportunity, ma’am, and I ain’t takin’ no chances,” Haley snarled toward the mistress.
She let out a stifled sob and rushed toward Tom, who had his eyes closed in pain and regret. Now, no matter how much his mind reminded him that this was the law of the land, his heart was screaming at him that it was not right.
“This isn’t right, Tom,” Mrs. Shelby hissed, echoing his thoughts. “And I promise you—I promise you—that I will get you back, as soon as I may do so. I know you’ll be a good man and do as you’re told. Just mind that you don’t get in any trouble. I shall track you down and get you back just as soon as I have the money.”
She grasped his hands and stood on her toes, reaching up to place a kiss on one cheek, then the other. “It’s a promise,” she whispered, staring deeply into his eyes.
Tom could only hope that she meant it. He turned and glanced one last time at his family, pausing to give Chloe a slow nod, and then climbed into the wagon, his feet moving slower than usual with the chains. Then, before he could even take a seat, the wagon was moving, out the gate and onto the road.
5
George rushed through the crowds on the wharf, paying little attention to those he brushed past or stepped on as he went. Behind him, he left a wake of bruised passengers, tumbled-down boxes and crates, and angry merchants. But he paid them no mind. When he reached the horse he’d ridden to the wharf, he roughly grabbed the reins and pulled the animal toward the mounting block. He wanted to get home and get his thoughts in order—and figure out where he was going to take his family. For he knew, without a doubt, that he couldn’t stay with Jim. Not anymore.
But when he got to the mounting block, he found Jim there, his arms crossed, his face a mask of confusion.
“What on earth’re you doin’, George?” he asked.
“Getting on my horse and going home,” George answered sharply. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Jim put a hand out and took the reins. “I’ll remind you, George, that the horse belongs to me,” he said gently. “And that home you’re going to is mine as well.”
George stared at him, shocked. “And what do you mean by that?” he finally asked. “That I should be thankful that you’ve let my family and me come to stay? That I owe you something? You think that just because I’m staying in your house you have the right to sell me to the highest bidder? You think you get to say what I’m going to do w
ith my life? That you have the right to anything of that sort?”
“George, I was just trying to help,” Jim said quickly. “Everyone knows you’ve been bored as all git out since we arrived, and cravin’ something to do. I know your love of the steamships. When I heard there was a need for a hand—”
“You thought you’d volunteer me?” George interrupted. “You thought you’d broker it, just like those slave traders down South? I don’t like being taken by surprise, Jim.”
Jim started to answer, but George interrupted him again.
“I don’t like that, man. I won’t have a man looking at my teeth, as if he’s tryin’ to decide if I’ll be a good breeder!” His voice had gotten louder. He knew that he was making a scene now, but he didn’t care. Jim had been wrong to do what he did, and George was going to show him that, come hell or high water.
Jim put up a hand. “And I understand that, George, but you must understand my position. I have one small shop, and suddenly there are five mouths to feed. I can’t do it, plain and simple. I must have help.”
George gasped. “And you think to gain that help by selling me to the highest bidder?” he asked hoarsely. “What next, a traveling trader for my boy? Will you ship Eliza down South while you’re at it? I am an inventor, Jim, not a man meant to shovel coal! I invented a hemp-cleaning machine in Kentucky, and I’ll invent something else soon—you’ll see. I’ll invent something that will make more money than you’ve ever dreamed of, and then I’ll pay you back for all your precious hospitality!” By the time he got to the end of his speech he was screaming, and though a voice in his head told him to watch his temper, he angrily shut that voice down. He was a man of sound mind—a man of creation! Not a manual laborer!
Jim reached out to him. “I’m sorry, George. I didn’t mean—”
But George threw him off. “I know exactly what you meant, Jim, and I don’t want to hear your excuses!”
