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

by Carl Waters

  An hour later, they had the packages—machines, new and old—loaded into the wagon and all the receipts stuffed into Mr. White’s pockets.

  “I’ll be gone for most of the day, and I’ll need you to mind the shop,” Mr. White said, shaking George’s hand. “Continue with your cleaning, if you would, and if you have an extra moment, look to the hay baler behind the shop. There’s something stuck in the turning mechanism, and I can’t decide how to repair it.”

  George nodded, said he’d do his best, and was just turning to go when Mr. White put his hand on his arm.

  “And don’t speak to any customers, if you please,” he said quietly. “I don’t hold with racism myself, but I can’t say the same for everyone else in this town, and I’d rather not have you discussing it with anyone that might come in.” He flashed a quick grin that made George feel as though they were conspiring against the rest of the world, then turned and jumped into the wagon with an energy that surprised George. One quick snap of the whip over the horse’s head and he was off.

  George returned to the shop, grinning to himself, and vowed that he’d do exactly as Mr. White had requested and work only on cleaning the shop. The more quickly he was done, he thought, the more quickly he could move on to the hay baler in the back and do some real work. As far as customers went, he didn’t think it would be a problem to avoid them. As far as he could tell, people came to the shop only to check on the things they’d dropped off and little more. It wasn’t set up for browsing or casual shopping. He couldn’t imagine having customers at all, and if he did he would simply tell them that Mr. White was out and that they should return the next day.

  Around midday, that resolution was sorely tested. A woman walked into the shop, surprising George while he was sweeping up the metal shavings around the forge in the back. When he heard the bell above the door sound out, he dropped the broom and rushed to the front of the store.

  “Mr. White isn’t here, ma’am. He’s out for deliveries. But if you’ll stop back tomorrow, I’m certain he’ll answer any questions for you,” he said quickly, putting on his best and most polite accent.

  She looked him up and down as if he was the most disgusting thing in the world, and drew back slightly, the bright white of her dress and parasol clashing with the dark bronzes and blacks of the shop.

  “And who, may I ask, are you?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  George frowned. “I’m Mr. White’s new assistant,” he said pointedly.

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” she said huffily. “Does he know you’re here alone? Does he know you’re in his shop? Surely he can’t have left you here intentionally.”

  George paused for a moment, wondering if those were questions she actually expected him to answer, and what exactly she meant by them. “He does know I’m here, ma’am, and he certainly did leave me here intentionally,” he said quietly. “Left this morning to make deliveries, with instructions for me to clean the shop and watch after it while he was gone. Only been working here a few days, though, so it’s no surprise that I haven’t seen you before.”

  The woman drew herself up to her full height and did her best to look down her nose at him. “He knows you’re here, does he? Well, I can’t imagine what sort of straits he’s been driven to, to be hiring people such as you! I had thought this was a different sort of shop, certainly!”

  At that, George’s thin hold on his temper melted dead away, and he realized what she’d been implying. She wasn’t surprised that Mr. White had taken on an assistant, and she wasn’t taken off guard by the fact that she’d never met him before.

  She didn’t like the fact that he was black. She was offended and shocked that Mr. White had a black man in his shop, which cast everything she’d said up to this point in an entirely different light. Did Mr. White know he was alone here? Did the machinist leave George in the shop intentionally?

  Why, she was treating him as if he was no more than a common criminal. As if he’d broken into the shop and meant to steal things—or worse!

  “I can guarantee you, ma’am,” he said stiffly, “that business here is doing just fine. As I said, Mr. White is out making deliveries. He’ll be back tomorrow, if you have questions.”

  “And he left a boy like you in charge of his shop while he was gone?” she asked, aghast. “A boy who has no right to be in this sort of shop, unless he is here as a servant?”

  “Excuse me?” George snapped. “This is a free country, ma’am, and a free city. I’m as free to work here as you would be, and I assure you that Mr. White is well aware of my presence. He hired me, after all, for my mind!”

  The woman withdrew several steps, and George could see fear—and anger—behind her eyes. “You dare to speak to me that way!” she hissed. “You dare to try to lecture a white woman?”

  “I’ll speak as I please, ma’am, and I’d like to see you try to stop me!” he snapped. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again. Mr. White ain’t here—he’s out making deliveries. Now, if there’s something you need him for, I suggest you come back tomorrow when he’s in the shop!”

  The woman narrowed her eyes and pushed out her lips. “I see no reason to return,” she snapped back. “In fact, I won’t be returning here at all. Mr. White has a machine of mine, but you can tell him that I’d like it returned—as it is. I’ll take it elsewhere to be fixed. For I shan’t give my business to a shop that employs one such as you, and I certainly shan’t give my business to a shop where I am disrespected and offended!”

  She whirled around in a cloud of white muslin and lace and scooted out the door, slamming it behind her.

  George watched her go, his mind a confusing mixture of anger and horror. What had he done? Nothing more than stand up for himself, he thought—nothing more than he should have done, given the situation. For this was a free country, and he was a free man, as far as that woman could know! But another, more rational part of his mind broke in at that point and reminded him that he’d promised Mr. White he would hold his temper and keep a level head.

  And he’d just failed that test very, very badly—as well as losing the shop one of its customers.

  22

  Tom walked the deck, his mind as calm as he could make it, and stared out over the water. Somewhere out there, he knew, his family was going through their morning ritual. The boys were helping their mother make breakfast, while little Polly would be rolling around on the ground, playing with one of her toys and doing her level best to get underfoot. Chloe would be making griddle cakes over the fire, lecturing the boys about getting in the way and keeping a watchful eye on Polly. The sun had barely risen, which meant that it was his family’s time to spend together, before Chloe went off to the big house to begin her work in the kitchen and the boys made their way to the stable, where both had been apprenticed. Polly would be handed off to old Sally, the plantation grandmother who watched after the children too young to work while their parents were at their chores.

  The sun would be rising over the trees in the East, and the aroma of food cooking and dew on the ground would be filling the lungs of the people. His family. His friends.

  Without thinking, Tom took a deep breath remembering the scent of Chloe’s breakfast and then choked on the rotting smells of fish and stale water. His attention came back to his current situation—on a boat on the Ohio River, bound for destinations he couldn’t comprehend—and he shook his head. Haley trusted him enough to allow him to wander the boat freely, but that certainly wasn’t the same as being free. And it couldn’t replace his family. The night before, the girl Lucy had fallen to her death in the water, overwhelmed by her own broken heart, and Tom couldn’t say that he blamed her. Much. For though he was doing his best to put a brave face on it, the truth was that the ache for his family was growing worse by the day, and he had begun to fear that it was a hole he would never be able to fill.

  This morning they were scheduled for another port, and as he leaned against the rail and watched, the boat
nudged its gentle way into the mouth of the bay and sidled up to a larger boat at the pier. Tom watched the people gathered on the dock and saw that they were more of the same—rich men and women in brightly colored clothes, their hands and faces quite clean, their luggage well maintained. Out for trips to see their relations, he thought, or perhaps, for some of the men, business down South. Here and there, he could see the rougher clothes of a trader, with men in chains that indicated they were slaves bound for sale, but this crowd looked far gentler than the crowds had in some of the other cities.

  Perhaps, he hoped, they’d come to the end of the slave auctions and would have more peace for the rest of the journey. For he wasn’t certain he could stand another scene like that of Lucy and her son.

  At the thought, he turned and headed up the ladder to the upper deck. While they were stopped, he wanted to take advantage of the sunshine and get away from the chill that haunted the storage area where they were housed. He climbed the ladder, making quick work of it, and came out into the bright sunshine. Around him, he could see passengers shuffling past each other, some coming and some going, each with his own set of luggage. There was a general air of goodwill and business about the boat, though, and most of the people seemed to be in high spirits. Within moments, however, a small boy who had been given leave to explore the boat returned to the deck, his face downcast.

  “Oh, Mama,” said the boy who had just come up from below, “there’s a Negro trader on board, and he’s brought four or five slaves down there.”

  “Poor creatures!” said the mother, in a tone between grief and indignation.

  Tom drew closer to the conversation, curious in spite of himself over what they’d say.

  “What’s that?” asked a woman wearing a large hat.

  “Some poor slaves below,” said the mother.

  “And they’ve got chains on,” said the boy.

  “What a shame to our country that such sights are to be seen!” said the woman in the hat.

  “Oh, there’s a great deal to be said on both sides of the subject,” said another woman holding a parasol. “I’ve been south, and I must say I think the Negroes are better off than they would be were they free.”

  Tom shook his head at this, for he’d heard the same things many times and had even tried to think it himself. Surely they were lucky to be cared for, and to have food and shelter readily provided. Surely they should be thankful for life itself and the love and spirit that the good Lord had given them.

  But a free man, he now realized, wouldn’t have had to leave his wife, children, friends, and family at the wishes of another man. A free woman wouldn’t have seen herself sold, never to see her husband again, or had to live to see the sale of her infant son. No, his free-thinking self told him. None of them are better off in slavery, and that’s the truth.

  “In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant,” said the woman in the hat. “The most dreadful part of slavery, to my mind, is its outrages on the feelings and affections—the separating of families, for example.”

  “That is a bad thing, certainly,” said the woman with the parasol. “But then, I fancy, it doesn’t occur often.”

  “Oh, it does,” said the woman in the hat eagerly. “I’ve lived many years in Kentucky and Virginia both, and I’ve seen enough to make anyone’s heart sick. Suppose, ma’am, that your two children there should be taken from you and sold?”

  “We can’t impart our feelings onto that class of people, though,” said the woman with the parasol.

  “Indeed, ma’am, you can know nothing of them if you say so,” answered the woman in the hat, rather warmly. “I was born and brought up among them. I know they do feel just as keenly as we do—even more so, perhaps.”

  The woman with the parasol said, “Indeed!” yawned, and finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with which she had begun. ”After all, I think they are better off than they would be were they free.”

  “It’s undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the African race should be servants, kept in a low condition,” interjected a grave-sounding and heavily-bearded gentleman, who Tom thought wryly sounded as though he’d just come from church. “‘Cursed be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be,’ the scripture says.”

  “I say, stranger, is that what that text means?” asked another man wearing spectacles.

  “Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable reason, to doom the race to bondage ages ago, and we must not set up our opinion against that,” said the bearded man.

  Tom took a deep breath at hearing this. Was that truly how the Lord had meant it? He’d thought before that the way the world around him looked must reflect the way the Lord had intended it, and he’d said as much to many people. But now, when someone else said it, this idea sounded … well, rough. Unfair. Illogical.

  “Well then, we’ll all go ahead and buy up Negroes,” said the man with the spectacles. “If that’s the way of Providence. Won’t we, Squire? Yes,” he continued. “We must all be resigned to the decrees of Providence. Negroes must be sold, and trucked round, and kept under; it’s what they’re made for. ’Pears like this here view’s quite refreshing, isn’t it, trader?”

  “I never thought on it,” said Haley, and Tom jumped to hear that the trader had now entered the conversation. How long had he been standing there listening to those people discuss him and his trade like that? Had he no conscience? “I couldn’t have said as much, myself; I don’t have much learning. Took up the trade just to make a living; if it isn’t right, I guess I’ll repent of it when the time comes.”

  “And now you’ll save yourself the trouble, won’t you?” said the man with the spectacles. “See what it is, now, to know scripture? If you’d only studied the Bible, like this good man, you might have known what you were getting into and saved yourself a heap of trouble.”

  Before Tom could hear any more of this conversation, his eye was drawn to the gangplank, where a woman was sobbing and screeching. It didn’t take long to realize what was going on: her husband was being led onto the boat by a rope around his neck, and the woman had her arms around him, trying to keep him at her side.

  The man with the spectacles who had spoken for the cause of humanity and God stood with folded arms, looking on this scene. He turned, and Haley was standing at his side.

  “My friend,” he said, speaking with thick utterance, “how can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this? Look at those poor creatures! Here I am, rejoicing in my heart that I am going home to my wife and child, and the same bell that tells me I’m free to go home to them will part this poor man and his wife forever. Depend upon it, God will bring you into judgment for this.”

  Haley turned away in silence.

  “I say, now,” said the man with the spectacles, touching Haley’s elbow, “there’s differences in people, aren’t there? ‘Cussed be Canaan’ don’t seem to go down with this one, does it?”

  Haley gave an uneasy growl.

  “And that isn’t the worst of it,” said the man with the spectacles. “Maybe it won’t go down with the Lord, either, when you come to settle with Him.”

  Tom watched this exchange with tears in his eyes, remembering his own Chloe and the boys and baby he’d left at home.

  23

  George stared at the door the woman had just stormed through, his mind reeling with both anger and sorrow, and quickly moved back to cleaning the shop, hoping that the movement and exercise would help him to think. He grabbed the broom and began brushing it back and forth across the floor at the front of the shop, trying to corral his thoughts. What had the woman expected? Surely she hadn’t thought that she could come in and say such things without receiving any sort of argument from him. She had talked to him as though he was still a slave, or a criminal, here to rob the shop! Why, no decent human would talk to another man or woman that way.

  He growled and whirled to walk back the other way with his broom. This part of the shop had already been swept�
�twice—but the movement was indeed helping him.

  Of course the woman had thought to say such things without hearing a response from him, he realized. Or, if she had expected a response, it must have been that she was expecting him to bow to her and accede to her assumptions and wishes. For what else would someone who believed in the institution of slavery expect? She’d no doubt been exposed to it before and had expectations when it came to a black man’s behavior.

  “Probably expected me to call her missus, just like the women down South, too,” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

  Suddenly he realized that he was leaving pieces of the broom behind him, entire bunches of straw coming out of the tool with each stroke, and he stopped. He was taking his anger out on the broom, and that wasn’t right.

  “I’ll be in trouble for not only the client, but the broom as well,” he said out loud, trying to find some humor in the situation and failing miserably.

  This was the second time he’d had such a conversation in this city, the second time he’d run into a customer who thought he shouldn’t be doing what he was doing, or that he should be more subservient. The second time, to be straight, that he’d run into someone who thought exactly as the people of the United States thought: that black men and women were not as good as white, and that they shouldn’t talk back or have ideas of their own.

  “Free country, my left foot,” he growled, and turned to the counters, which needed wiping down. He grabbed a cloth and began sweeping it back and forth, taking the time to get into the cracks of the wood and even into the seams along the edges. He knew from experience that leaving dust and metal shavings to pile up in such places wrought havoc on newly minted metal, and he knew also that if this had been his shop—if he’d been allowed to have a shop of his own—this was what he would have expected his assistant to do.

  But after several minutes of dusting and cleaning, he finally grew still and turned to stare out the windows at the front of the shop. Outside, men and women of all shapes, sizes, and colors strolled along the street, some of them working while others shopped, and some of them obviously just taking the air with their children. From here, it looked to be a peaceful and prosperous city. The diversity in the crowd would make one think that it was a place where all men and women had an opportunity to do something great, where everyone had equal freedoms.