by Carl Waters
The well-dressed man turned around, his gaze raking the street for the person calling him. When his eyes came to rest on George, they looked him up and down once, taking in the clean, well-made clothing and shoes, and then ran up to his face. George silently thanked Eliza for having done the laundry the day before, so that he would be presentable. He stood up a bit straighter.
“Yes?” Mr. Roberts asked.
George took a deep breath. “Sir, I’ve seen that you’ve had some trouble here and had to let a man go. It’s a shame, sir, but I’ve come to offer to take his position. Don’t rightly know what he did here, sir, but I’ll do it and more. I’m a smart man, and willing, and will do everything that’s asked of me. You’ll find I have a quick wit and can solve most any problem—particularly mechanical problems. But I can cook and clean as well as anyone, and I could sure use a job, mister.”
The man gave George a long look, and George saw his mouth twitch, as if he was about to smile. George nearly smiled back, but stopped himself just in time. The job wasn’t his—yet.
Finally, Mr. Roberts nodded. “Well, young man, you’re right. I’ve just had to let one of our men go, and I do need a replacement. Here are the terms. You’ll do the chores that no one else wants to do. The hours will be long and hard, and I won’t accept any whining. If you fail to show up, you’ll be out of a job. If you show up drunk, you’ll be out of a job. If you upset me in any way, that will be the end of you. You’ll have to work hard, but the pay will be fair. What say you?”
George thought for a moment. “Sir, I’m only available for ten hours a day. I have a family to take care of, see, and a boy to look after. Can’t be gone for longer than that. And I’ll need an hourly wage.”
Mr. Roberts shook his head. “You’ll work until the work is finished, and I’ll pay you a weekly rate. I don’t do hourly here. Take it or leave it, boy, and I expect you’ve already found that this town isn’t as friendly to people of your color as you might have expected.”
George reared back at that, ready to be offended, but then stopped himself. This man was offering him employment, and cleaning up in a restaurant would be better than crawling into chimneys and risking his own body. Besides, Mr. Roberts was correct; the city had not been as friendly as George had anticipated, and he was no longer in a position to be as choosy as he’d once been. With Jim out of work, it wouldn’t be long before their entire household began to suffer, particularly Eliza, who was already ill. Perhaps finding a man like Mr. Roberts—one who would give him a chance, despite his race—was the first step toward building a new life.
He couldn’t afford to be prideful. He couldn’t afford to be stupid.
“Done,” he said, sticking out his hand.
“Done,” Mr. Roberts answered, taking it. “Your first task will be to clean up the seating area inside. We’ve just opened for the day, but Tom left the place a mess last night. You’ll need to sweep up, spread new straw below the tables, and wipe the tables clean.”
George nodded and darted into the restaurant, then to the kitchen, where he found not only broom and dustpan, but plenty of rags. The cook directed him to the faucet for water, and before long George was in the seating area, sweeping and wiping as quickly as he could. Customers had already begun to make their way into the pub, and George did his best to work around them but couldn’t keep himself from glancing up at the faces every now and again.
He was quite surprised when the third face he saw belonged to the very steamboat captain with whom he’d argued not three days before.
28
Tom watched as Haley and the man who had purchased his papers walk off to the side to settle their business and complete the transaction. There was money involved—he could see that much. A sack of it, in fact, which seemed very odd to him, and he wondered suddenly if the man had spent his entire fortune on Tom’s papers.
Why on earth would a man have done that? What was his great need to own another human being? And what sort of country was this—what kind of Godly society—allowed and encouraged such behavior? Tom gasped at himself, surprised at the thoughts that were running through his head. Hadn’t he spent the years of his life learning that everything happened for a reason, and that reason was always God’s plan? Hadn’t he decided—and rightly so—that the logical conclusion was, therefore, that God had in fact condoned this very society and this very plan?
Tom hastily schooled his features and gave his rebellious heart a stern talking to. Of course this was God’s plan. And as God’s child, it was Tom’s job to do his best to live within that path and accept God’s will.
Before he could take the dangerous step onto the path of considering self-will, and all that the idea might entail, Eva came running toward them, her face incredibly joyous.
“Papa, Papa!” she cried, taking St. Clare’s hand and jumping up and down. “Is Tom coming home with us? Did you save him, Papa?”
Tom caught his breath at the girl’s innocence and thought again of his baby girl, Polly. Eva—already a pale shade of ivory, with bright blonde and brown hair—looked even paler today than she had previously.
Tom looked more closely at her, noting as well that she had darker circles under her eyes today and seemed to have a sickly gleam in her eyes.
Still, the girl seemed in good spirits, and he put the thought away. Perhaps she was just fatigued with traveling. Or ill after her inadvertent swim in the river.
She turned suddenly, as if she’d heard him thinking about it, and grasped his hands tightly, “Oh thank you, Tom, for coming after me,” she said earnestly, her eyes now shining for a different reason. “I would have died, I just know it, and I’m not ready to go yet. You saved me.”
Surprised, Tom laughed at this very solemn statement from such a small child. Not ready to go yet? Had she even considered it?
“Well, you’re welcome, and don’t mention it,” he said, his voice rich with affection for the girl. “Can’t have you bein’ harmed now, can I? You and I, we’re friends.”
At that, the girl threw her arms around him, giggling. “We are, and we’ll be friends forevermore, won’t we?” She turned back to St. Clare, nearly bubbling over with excitement. “You did save him, didn’t you, Papa?” she asked again. “He is coming home with us, isn’t he? And we’ll be friends forever?”
Tom’s eyes met St. Clare’s over her head in a silent battle of who would break the news to the girl. Tom, though, knew that it wasn’t his place, no matter how he felt about the child, and shook his head slightly, indicating that he wouldn’t be the one to tell her.
St. Clare sighed, pressed his lips together, and then nodded once as if steeling himself for an unpleasant—but necessary—duty. “I’m afraid not, darling,” he said, dropping to his knees and holding his arms out to her. “You know that it takes money to save people like this, and the plantation isn’t doing as well as I’d hoped. I don’t have as much money for … saving people … as I once did.”
The girl shook her head, rejecting this logic outright. “Oh, but Papa,” she said calmly. “Surely a man like this will help the plantation. Whatever it took to save him, I know he would make it up. I know it. There’s something special about him, I can feel it. And you know I’m never wrong about these things, Papa.”
To Tom’s surprise, St. Clare drew back and gazed at his daughter intently for a moment, as if he were truly considering her words. Then, to Tom’s even greater surprise, the man turned to him again.
“Tell me, Tom,” he said quietly, “were those things the trader said about you true? Are you truly educated? Were you truly running the plantation where you grew up? I don’t trust traders, as a rule, since they tend to exaggerate. But something tells me that I can trust you to tell me the truth. Eva doesn’t speak up for people often. When she does, I listen. She hasn’t yet been wrong.”
“Everythin’ he said was true enough,” Tom said, hardly daring to allow hope to enter his heart at this continued conversation. “Ran the Shelby plantation
for nigh on ten years, helpin’ Mas’r Shelby with the organizin’ and such. Used to run errands for him, too. Had a pass to go to town by myself, and never once let him down. Don’t know about the education, but I know how to read, and used to study the Bible with the mas’r’s son.”
“You were the foreman on this Shelby plantation?” St. Clare pressed. “Director of all the operations?” When Tom gave him a confused look, not understanding what that meant, he clarified with “You made certain everyone did what they were supposed to be doing? Made certain the plantation was running efficiently?”
Tom nodded. “That I did, sir. Met with everyone in the mornin’ to give them their tasks, checked on them through the day, and did whatever Mas’r Shelby needed. Also ran the carpentry shop,” he added with pride, as carpentry was his particular passion.
St. Clare stared at him for a moment then turned and looked at his daughter again. “You’re certain this man will make us our money back?” he asked, as if he were consulting with an oracle.
Tom frowned and gave the girl another glance. Who was this child, that her father put such stock in her word? An angel, he thought quickly. Tom shook his head, not believing it. But hadn’t that been what he thought when he first saw her?
Before he could answer, St. Clare grinned and clapped a hand to Tom’s shoulder. “Well, Eva has spoken, Tom, and I take my lessons from her good heart. I’m going to increase my bid to Haley, see if we can’t take you home with us. Eva, it seems, has a mind to keep you. And if she thinks you can help the plantation, I would be a fool to let you go.”
Tom opened his mouth to speak—to spout out his thanks for this favor and his wish that the two of them would indeed take him to their home—but St. Clare held up a finger, interrupting him.
“Now, I can’t promise you an easy life, Tom, and I don’t want you to expect it. You won’t be a coachman on our plantation, as you would with that other man. That’s a mighty good opportunity, and I have to admit to some guilt, taking you away from it. But if you’re interested in coming with us—interested in staying with Eva, who you cared enough to save—I’d be willing to promise you your freedom in the future.”
Tom’s heart stopped, then started pounding against his ribs. “Freedom?” he whispered. He’d heard the promise before, of course, from Shelby. But that had never come to pass, and there was a part of his heart that had assumed it was because freedom wasn’t for the likes of him.
Who was this man, to be promising something like that when he barely knew Tom?
St. Clare nodded. “If the plantation doesn’t become profitable in the next year, my family will lose it, and that’s a fact. If you can help me, though, and help the plantation make money, you can help me save it. And if you do that, I’ll free you. In one year’s time.”
“And if we fail?” Tom whispered.
“Then the plantation and everything belonging to it will go to my brother Alfred. It’s a deal we made a long time ago, and I never thought he would come to collect. But it turns out he’s no more generous to his brother than he is to his slaves,” St. Clare said, his mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “So you see, there are two reasons for you to fight for the place—your freedom and our fortunes.”
And now, though his heart was singing, Tom fell back on his old philosophy. Surely it didn’t matter. Surely St. Clare was promising him something that would never come true. Surely none of this made any difference as long as he continued to be a good Christian man. The Lord would take care of him.
“Always does as my mas’r tells me,” he said quietly. “Always try to be a good Christian. Do whatever the Lord tells me, I must.”
St. Clare laughed. “Well this time, my man, you’re going to have to make your own decisions. I won’t make this one for you, and I don’t expect the Lord to either, unless you’ve got direct communication with him. You must decide whether you want to come with us. I won’t move until you’ve told me. I won’t force you on this—I only want you to come if you want to come.”
Tom grew silent, finding himself distinctly uncomfortable with this line of logic. Who was this man to try to force decisions on him? He’d never been asked his opinion in this way before and wasn’t certain how to respond.
Eva, seeing his hesitation, took his hand, beaming. “Oh Tom, you must come!” she said. “You can meet all the other people that live there, and you’ll just love it. I know you will. Miles and miles of rich brown dirt, the cotton fields, the house with its great fans and windows for the light. Please say you’ll come, Tom. Please! You can be my special friend, even sleep in my room if Papa says it’s okay! Papa doesn’t believe in the Lord, but he’s a good man. You’ll see!”
Tom grinned at this outburst, unable to help himself, and turned his eyes to St. Clare. “Can’t rightly refuse the young lady, now, can I?” he said. “I’ll come with you, Mas’r St. Clare, and I hope it brings us both good fortune.”
29
George stared at the man, both shocked and horrified. Here was the man who had listened to George go on and on about steamboats when Jim took him onboard and watched him marvel at the inner workings of the ship, only to try to hire him to shovel coal in the belly of the beast. The very man whom George had told, in no uncertain terms, that he would never stoop to working for, because he was bound for loftier pursuits.
And here he was now, sweeping up the floor on which that man was standing. And no doubt about to serve the man his food and drink.
He groaned to himself, wondering if any man had ever been more humiliated than he was at that very moment. Then the captain gestured for George to approach. George’s mind rushed through several possibilities. Had the man recognized him, or did he just want to order his meal? What should George do? Go to him and act as though nothing was amiss? But what if the man did recognize him and was only testing him with this act? What if this was some sort of plan—a setup to embarrass him? Should he walk out right now and never come back? Quit without even earning his wages and pray that someone else would see his talents and hire him?
“No,” he finally told himself. “You’ll walk over there a proud man, for you’ve done nothing wrong. You spoke up to him when he damaged your pride, and there’s no harm in that. Besides, he may not remember you at all. And Jim and Eliza won’t thank you for going home empty-handed.”
With that, his decision was made. He would do the job he’d been hired to do and pretend that he’d never met this steamboat captain. If the captain seemed to recognize him, or said anything, George would claim ignorance and suggest that perhaps the captain was thinking of someone else.
He walked quickly over, shoved the rag he’d had in his hand into his pocket, and pulled to a stop in front of the captain. “Help you, sir?” he asked politely. He looked around at the men the captain was sitting with and noticed that they were all well-off, dressed in the height of what he’d seen of Montreal’s fashion, and very clean—something that was rare in this area of town. Furthermore, they were all white. And staring at him.
The captain grinned widely. “I thought it was you, boy!” he said, laughing. He turned to his friends. “This is the very man that I tried to hire several days ago—the one I told you about! He was admiring the ship, acting as though he’d never seen anything so grand, and his friend had already arranged for a job for him with me. Why, I thought it was all settled. But when I began to offer the engagement, this boy exploded like a cannon! Began lecturing not only his friend, but me as well, about the way he’d been treated, as if he was no better than a slave, and Montreal no better than old Kentuck’!”
The men roared with laughter, but one of them pounded George on the back, as if he was included in the joke rather than the butt of it. And indeed, even the captain was beating George on the shoulder now, laughing harder and harder as he seemed to remember more details of the story.
“Thought he was going to tear his friend limb from limb, I did!” he said, choking on his hysterics. “I’ve never seen a man so angry at being
offered a job before!”
George, thinking that he’d better say something to defend himself in this situation but not entirely sure whether he was being made fun of at all, said, “As well I might be, sir! You were looking me up and down just as the slave traders would have done down South. I left that behind, sirrah, and I do not mean to go back to it. Even in the name of free labor!”
He pushed his lips out, quite proud of this little speech, and waited to see what the man would say.
The captain sobered quickly. “And I respected you for it, boy, mark my words. What are your pay and hours here?”
George hesitated, but told him what he’d agreed to with the restaurant’s owner. After all, the captain could ask the owner himself, so there was no point in arguing. And there was no shame in working for his wages—and working hard.
Now, though, he realized that the captain had been making fun of him. Or at least trying to anger him. “Would have paid you better myself and given you better hours. But you didn’t stick around long enough to hear my offer. Too quick to listen to your pride, aren’t you, boy? Suspect it’s always been a problem, hasn’t it? Can’t be any other reason for you to be stuck here, working at such menial tasks. I heard you on the ship, and I know you’ve got some education. But your stubborn pride has landed you here and no better off.”
He gave George a stare and then swept several water glasses off the table. They went crashing to the floor, the glass breaking, and the captain held a hand up to the startled owner. “I’ll pay for the glasses,” he said sharply. He pointed to the mess on the floor and then to George. “Since you chose this job over the honest work I tried to give you, I expect you’ll need to clean that up. Boy.”
Now George regretted not having run before. He should have left the moment he saw the man. Should have gone darting out the door, because he’d known that this very sort of situation would arise. And now, given the fact that his new manager was watching him, there was nothing he could do. His hands itched to throw the broom and dustpan at this man, to bash him across the head with the chairs at hand, but then he remembered Harry and Eliza, and Jim and Anita. They were counting on him. He remembered the machinist, and how he’d told George that he needed to learn to keep a level head on his shoulders. He remembered Jim telling him that he needed to learn to put the customer’s needs above his own, and Eliza saying that it shouldn’t matter what the clients thought. Only that they paid.