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

by Carl Waters

  Hadn’t he always gone out of his way to help others? Even after his master, when it seemed that Mr. Shelby had been in desperate straits, had sold Tom himself to save the plantation, had Tom said a word? No, he’d gone peacefully though it broke his heart, for he’d known that his master needed him to and that it was the Christian and obedient thing to do.

  But where had it brought him but into the depths of a jail, where he waited on a cruel man—his new master—and his plans for the future. Plans that Tom had no control over.

  Plenty o’ Christians in the New Testament who had no control over their situations, either, he suddenly told himself, seeking to find his path again. Plenty o’ men who were abused and jailed for their faith, though they’d never done anything wrong. Plenty o’ men who got through it all, just with their faith in the Lord. He took a deep, shuddering breath and warmed to his topic. Why, the Lord Jesus Christ himself was abused and jailed—killed, even!—and wasn’t He the best man ever lived?

  He smiled slightly at the comparison, his hope and faith somewhat renewed, and leaned his head back against the wall, intent on going to sleep and blocking out the world around him, at least for a time.

  * * *

  Tom was awake early the next morning, unable to sleep through the sound of a baby crying near him. In fact, he’d woken in the act of jumping to his feet to go and get her out of her bed, thinking that it was his Polly.

  The moment he opened his eyes, he remembered where he was and that Polly was far, far away from him. In fact, he thought, she was in a far better place. A place where she could see the sun and, if not smelling free air, at least had her family around her and a master and mistress who cared for her—or would, once she was old enough to pull her own weight.

  He hoped suddenly that she would always retain the innocence that he’d seen the last time he looked on her face and that she’d never have cause to see the world through jaded or unhappy eyes. The child in the jail room with him, on the other hand—he could see that the child wouldn’t last much longer in this world. His eyes were glued shut with pus, and his little chest heaved with his struggle to breathe. The tyke’s mother was crying softly over him, no doubt seeing what Tom saw—that the boy might last, if he stayed with his mother, but that he’d be dead within days once they were separated.

  And separated they would be. Tom wasn’t foolish enough to think that she’d be allowed to keep him. He was weaned, and that was all that mattered in the world of slave traders. If the boy could survive without his mother, then sold he would be, and nothing for it.

  Tom turned from the scene, tears in his eyes, and saw that Haley had already arrived at the door of the cell.

  “Boy!” he shouted, gesturing at Tom. “Come! We’ve things to get to. Stop your dilly dallying about.”

  Tom rose without delay and ambled toward the door. Though he wasn’t happy to see Haley again, he would certainly be glad to get out of this dim, dreary place and away from the hopeless souls with whom he’d spent the night.

  When they got out into the sun, however, his thoughts quickly changed. For Haley had something worse in mind than simply continuing their travels. He turned and shoved a paper into Tom’s hands, grinning.

  “Have a look there, my boy! Just what we came for, and I’ll be bound if I don’t leave this town with some new stock for my trade.” He gave Tom a quick up and down look. “And without you, if I’m lucky. Broad shoulders, quick mind, easy with the language. Why”—he circled Tom, carrying on with his one-sided conversation—“I won’t be surprised if I get a ripe offer for you, all told.”

  Tom frowned and glanced at the paper in his hand, wondering what the man was talking about. What he saw shocked him. It was an advertisement printed in rough letters across even rougher paper:

  EXECUTOR’S SALE—NEGROES!

  Agreeably to order of court, will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the courthouse door, in the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following Negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14.

  Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford. SAMUEL MORRIS, THOMAS FLINT, executors.

  Tom’s stomach dropped right down to his feet. A slave auction. He was going to be dragged to a slave auction. Where pour souls like him would be stood up on the block and bid on like horses or pigs.

  And with luck, Haley had said, Tom would be sold there himself, as well.

  He lifted his chin and glared at the man, telling himself that he must bear up to whatever happened and keep his faith. The Lord would watch over him, no matter what happened.

  But there was no rule against hoping that he wasn’t sold. For though he disliked Haley very much, he was, at the very least, a known evil.

  Haley, knowing nothing of Tom’s thoughts, grinned. “I must make my way to this sale,” he said. “See, I’m going to get up a prime gang to take down, Tom. It’ll make it sociable and pleasant like—good company, you know.”

  Tom received this news quietly, wondering in his own heart how many of these doomed men had wives and children and whether they would feel as he did about leaving them. If they had belonged to some of the higher walks of society, perhaps they wouldn’t have been reduced to such straits. But how were they to fight against the laws of the land?

  11

  George looked out over the landscape in front of him, feeling as though he had the world at his fingertips. He was in a lively horse-drawn wagon, painted a brilliant red, with the name of Jim’s shop in blue letters on both sides of the vehicle. Before him, one of the younger and stronger horses was strapped into the harness and was already pulling on the reins, anxious to be off. George could certainly relate. For the first time since he’d arrived in Montreal, he felt as though the world was opening up in front of him. For the first time, he had a specific mission—and knew why he was doing it.

  Though he’d felt this way before, back in Kentucky, when he had first drawn up his plans for escape and then made good on them, the view from this particular seat was different. He wouldn’t have admitted it to himself, perhaps, but it was strangely refreshing to be setting himself to a task that didn’t risk life and limb—or discovery and enslavement. He’d thought when he first arrived that the meaning had gone out of his life now that he and his family had escaped. There had been no one to fight against here, and it had rubbed him raw.

  Now, he realized, he could grow used to this sort of life. A life where he wasn’t running or fighting. A life where he was taking joy in the simple things, even if those simple things belonged to someone else, as on this particular day. Even if those simple things included Jim doing him a favor by allowing him to deliver furniture.

  In any case, he would be in the city on his own. And for the first time, he would be supporting his own family rather than depending on the charity of friends. With that thought, he took a deep, heaving breath and nearly smiled at the street before him.

  “Now, you know where to go, George, and who you’re to ask for,” Jim said, suddenly appearing at his side and reaching up to grasp George’s arm. “This is a good customer, remember. Not someone I can afford for you to upset!”

  George bit his tongue and nodded. He wasn’t keen to take advice or directions from Jim and was having trouble keeping his thoughts to himself, but the man made sense. If George could keep his pride locked away, he was able to see that Jim was right. The man made beautiful furniture, as well as more practical fittings, but he counted on repeat customers for his continued business. It wouldn’t do to upset those customers.

  George was suddenly nervous. He was going into the city on his own, for the first time since he’d arrived. He didn’t know the area, and he didn’t know anyone on these streets. He had no friends and no contacts. Now Jim was entrusting him with a very important task, and although five minutes ago George had felt like he was floating, the idea brought him suddenly and firmly to the ground. What if he messed this up? What if he did indeed upset
the customer and lose Jim the business? He was hoping that helping Jim in his carpentry shop would account for the expense Jim and Anita had taken on when they allowed George, Harry, and Eliza to stay.

  What if, instead, he ended up losing them money? Mr. Harris had rarely allowed him to speak his mind on the plantation in Kentucky and had never allowed him into any of the business dealings. What if he’d seen something in George that made him think George incapable?

  All of George’s previous confidence abruptly left him, and he felt as if he’d been quite suddenly deflated. Still, he wouldn’t allow Jim to see that. If anyone knew that he was doubting himself, he’d no doubt be put back into the shop.

  “I know fine how to talk to people, Jim,” he muttered. “I won’t cause any ruckus.”

  “He’ll do very well, I’m sure of it,” Eliza said, appearing on his other side and smiling lovingly up at him. “George was always in charge of making sure deliveries happened for the hemp factory, weren’t you, George? And I’m sure they always happened just as they were supposed to.”

  Jim harrumphed and looked slightly less than convinced, but then wiped his face clean and smiled up at George. “I’m sure Eliza is right,” he said. “Just remember, take this road straight through to the main square, and take the easternmost road from there. Travel about a mile, and you’ll see a large, yellow, two-story house on the right. There you’ll find Mrs. Smith. Her butler will answer the door, no doubt, but ask for her, and tell him you’ve a delivery from me.”

  He paused and gave the cabinet in back of the wagon one last glance and a lingering touch, feeling for any splinters or chips. Then he nodded.

  “Some of the best work I’ve done, I think. She’ll be pleased.”

  George turned and stared at the cabinet, wondering how Jim knew it was the best. Even he had to admit, though, that the piece was gleaming and beautiful. It was tall enough to hold three drawers and a full set of shelves, complete with real glass fittings and decorative swirls around the four corners. Small round legs held it up, and Jim had painted it a bright, cheery yellow, perhaps to go with the house. The piece was well-secured with ropes and rags to keep it upright in case they hit rough spots in the road, and Jim had already instructed him on driving with heavy furniture in the back of the cart.

  Suddenly, with a sharp smack to the horse’s rump, Jim called out one last instruction—to be careful with the unloading—and sent George on his way with his first delivery.

  Yes, George told himself, as he drove away. He would do just fine. And it was worth the risk. For he had plans for what he’d do while he was in the city on his own.

  * * *

  George followed the main road, as Jim had told him to, keeping the horse to a steady pace, slowing when he saw a dip in the road ahead of him, and making sure to get out of the way of any larger wagons or carriages that, he assumed, would have the right of way on such a street. Around him he saw well-built structures of log and plank, the buildings fitting cheek by jowl, but set back a bit from the street so that there was room for a sidewalk. And those sidewalks were crowded on both sides as the citizens of Montreal made their way out of one shop and into another, carrying packages loaded with goods or arriving empty-handed. Many of the people called out to one another, and George marveled at both the size of the town, which was larger than anything he’d ever experienced, and the number of people there. He’d never seen so many people in one place, and today, a market day, it seemed that everyone had come out just for him. Women strolled down the sidewalks in dresses made of rough homespun or expensive silk, depending on what sort of family they came from, and for each woman there was a man or servant or child tagging along, calling out questions, and crowding the area even more. George could smell bread baking in the distance and passed three butcher shops in a row, each of them with a side of beef hanging in the window. The streets were crowded with carriages, wagons, and horses, and more than once he had to swerve out of the way of a fast-moving curricle, only to glance back at his cargo in terror that he’d upset it.

  Finally, and much to his relief, he found himself in the main square and, taking a glance at the sun, turned onto the easternmost street, as he’d been told to do. Here the street grew immediately quieter, and he could see that he’d made his way into a residential district. The shops were gone, replaced by homes both large and small, all painted gaily in colors that seemed to him to be outrageous, but that Eliza would have loved. A home, he thought. Perhaps when they had enough money of their own, they would move to a neighborhood like this one, to live in a house painted bright red or even blue.

  He laughed at the idea, his heart beginning to lift again. Surely things weren’t so bad. He could make deliveries for Jim and survive the experience. This wasn’t so difficult—just driving a cart to a specific location. Besides, it was only temporary. He needed to get his feet under him again, that was all. Once he was comfortable, and satisfied that those around him were satisfied with his position, he’d start working with the inventions again. Before long, he’d have a new idea. And then he’d build it and sell it, and they would be wealthy enough to buy the very biggest of these homes.

  Grinning, he noticed that he’d come quite some distance and began to look around. And there off to his left, as Jim had said, was a large, stately yellow house with white shutters. There were two stories and a long, wide porch, just as he would have seen down South. This house, though, had a master and mistress who were willing to hire a black carpenter.

  Which meant that this house was nothing like those in the South, he told himself firmly. Pulling up to the gate and stopping, he hopped out of the cart and strode toward the front door. He was ready to talk to the butler, find this Mrs. Smith, and deliver his cargo.

  12

  The delivery wasn’t going as George had expected it to. When he got to the door, he found not a butler but a matronly woman who was both well-dressed and comely. Her curly, light brown hair was put up under a bonnet, as if she was at this moment on her way out for a drive, and George glanced to the driveway to see a horse and carriage waiting, with a driver already in place.

  The woman lifted her eyebrows at George, as if to inquire what he was doing there.

  “I have your delivery, missus,” he said quickly. “Furniture, from Jim’s shop.”

  She made a moue of distaste with her mouth, but then nodded once. “I generally allow one of my men to take the delivery,” she answered firmly. “However, seeing as you’re here now …” Her voice faded off, and George wondered for a frantic second what he was supposed to do in this situation. Should he wait for a man, as she had suggested? Should he offer to unload it himself?

  Should he turn around and go back to the shop entirely, saying that he’d return when it was more convenient for her?

  But no, he told himself sourly. Those would be the moves of a slave, not a free man. And free man he was, now. More than that, he was a tradesman—or at least delivering for one. No, this woman would treat him with respect. If she wanted a man to come to take the delivery for her, she’d have to send for one.

  He lifted his own eyebrows in response and waited for her to make her decision.

  Mrs. Smith sighed heavily and motioned for her driver to wait a moment. “Well, I suppose I shall have to take it myself, as Mr. Smith isn’t at home. I do wish Jim would send his deliveries in the afternoon, though. It would be ever so much more convenient.”

  “I’ll tell him your preferences, missus,” George answered quietly, thinking that he would indeed tell Jim about that. For if there was something Jim could do to better his shop and service, it was in everyone’s interest that he did so.

  The two of them walked toward the gate where George had parked, George outlining what he knew of the piece, based on the speech Jim had given him before he left. By the time he was finished, they’d reached the gate and stopped to stand next to the cart. Mrs. Smith was looking closely at the cabinet, running her hands over it as if it was a precious jewel, her
face alight with joy.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “It will be beautiful in the dining room. Jim always does such careful work.” Then she stopped, frowning, and ran her fingers back over a spot in the cabinet. She stepped forward to look more closely, then turned to George.

  “Why, there’s a large chip here,” she said, displeased. “Look, just there.”

  “What?” George asked. “No, there can’t be. I saw Jim finish it with my own eyes, missus.”

  “There is, and I won’t pay full price for damaged goods,” she said firmly, her mouth now taking a distinct downturn.

  George got as close as he could to the cabinet and leaned forward, looking for where she’d found this “chip.” What he saw—what she pointed out to him—was nothing more than a sliver of wood gone awry. Probably a splinter left from snagging in the cloths, he thought.

  “Why, ma’am, that ain’t nothing but a splinter,” he said, nearly laughing that she could make such a fuss out of such a small thing. “It’ll be short work for Jim to file that and paint it, I’ve no doubt.”

  But the woman had warmed to her outrage now, and she shook her head violently. “It’s more than a splinter, young man, and I won’t pay full price for something that’s damaged! I’ll take twenty-five percent off the price, and pay Jim what it’s worth, and that’s final!”