Читать книгу The Unseen Hand: Or, James Renfew and His Boy Helpers (Elijah Kellogg) - illustrated - (Literary Thoughts Edition) - Elijah Kellogg - Страница 5

The reader of the opening chapter will, doubtless, be disposed to inquire, “What is a redemptioner? By what fortunate chance has this singular being been flung into the path, and at once domesticated in the family of Bradford Whitman, and admitted without scruple to the inner sanctuary of a mother’s heart.”

Not by any chance as we believe, and will, therefore, endeavor to satisfy these demands by introducing to our young readers Mr. Robert Wilson, a soul-driver, as the occupation in which he was engaged was then termed (and one of the best of them) and permit him to tell his own story.

The great abundance of food and coarse clothing in America, and the anxiety of the farmers to obtain cheap labor, led to this singular arrangement.

They contracted with the masters of vessels to bring over able-bodied men accustomed to farm-work, the farmers paying their passage, which included the captain’s fees, the laborers contracting to serve for a certain term of years to reimburse the farmer for his outlay; the farmers agreeing to furnish the laborers with wholesome and sufficient food and comfortable clothing.

These people were called redemptioners, and the term of service was generally three years, and, in the case of boys, four.

The system, however, which operated very well for a while, had its disadvantages that brought it into disrepute, and resulted in its abolition. The principal of these was its falling into the hands of speculators, who went to the other side and took whomsoever they could pick up, without regard to their honesty, industry, or capacity of labor, some of them parish-poor, not only ignorant of agricultural labor, but even thieves and vagabonds. These persons collected them in gangs of twenty, and even more, and drove them through the country and delivered them to the farmers, ostensibly at the rate of their passage-money and a reasonable compensation for their own trouble and expense in seeking and bringing them over.

Mr. Wilson naturally a man of kindly feelings, that had not been entirely blunted by the business in which for many years he had been engaged, and who—having been well brought up by godly Scotch parents—could by no means wholly ignore the lessons of his youth, was now on board of the “Betsy” brig, in Liverpool, bound for Philadelphia, and had engaged berths for thirteen persons, eleven of whom different farmers in Pennsylvania had agreed to take off his hands. He had paid the passage of the twelfth at his own risk, and wanted, but had not been able to obtain, one more, having been disappointed in a man whom he had engaged on the previous voyage, and, as he would be compelled to pay for the berth, whether occupied or not, he was, of course, anxious to obtain another man. The vessel was not to haul out of the dock under two days, and he resolved to make a final effort to find another man.

Mr. Wilson was well known among the neighboring population, and therefore possessed peculiar facilities. The persons already obtained he had brought from the country, and he doubted not from his extensive acquaintance that he could dispose of almost any man who was sound in limb, accustomed to labor, whether much acquainted with farm-work or not. “If he is only honest,” said Wilson to himself, “and young enough, it will do; for what he don’t know he can learn, and must work for his employer a longer time, that’s all.”

In regard to character he was able, in many cases, to obtain references, but a shrewd judge of men, he trusted much to his own judgment, and had seldom cause to repent it, although, as we shall see, he was deceived in the character of one of the men then on shipboard which led to his relinquishing the traffic not many years after.

He set out early in the morning for a village about ten miles from the city, and where he had often found men to his liking, especially on the previous voyage. He found quite a number eager to go, but some were Irish, whom he did not like; some were boys, some old and decrepid, or too much labor-worn.

He was returning from his bootless search in no very satisfactory state of mind, when he stumbled upon a company of young persons, who late as was the hour, had just started out from the shelter of some old crates filled with straw that had been piled against the brick wall of a glass-house, in which were built the chimneys of several ovens, and which had afforded them warmth, for the nights were quite cool.

They were shaking the straw from their garments and evidently preparing to break their fast. One had a fish in his hand, another meat, and another vegetables, but all uncooked.

The group presented such a hardened vagabond appearance, that Wilson who had paused with the intention of speaking, was about to pass on, when upon second thoughts, he said within himself, “They look like thieves, but they are a hard-meated rugged looking set and all young. Perhaps there may be among them one who taken away from the rest, and put under good influences, and among good people, might make something.”

Turning towards them, he said,

“Young men, do any of you want to go to America?”

“Go to ‘Merica,” replied a dark-complexioned fellow of low stature, with a devil-may-care-look, and quite flashily attired, apparently in the cast-off clothes of some gentleman.

“Yes, some people are going over to the States with me as redemptioners, and I want one more to make up my number, it’s a first-rate chance for a young man who’s smart, willing to work, and wants to make something of himself. There are scores of men there whom I carried, that are now forehanded, have large farms, cattle and money at interest, who when they left here lived on one meal a day and often went without that.”

“Don’t you know Dick,” said a red-headed, saucy, but intelligent-looking chap, with sharply cut features, “that’s the genteel name of those poor devils who sell themselves for their passage and this ‘ere likes is the boss what takes the head money.”

Without noticing the interruption, Wilson continued,—

“Here, for instance, is a young man who can get no work these hard times, which means no clothes, no bread, no place to put his head in. A farmer over there who wants help pays his passage. He works for that farmer till he pays up the passage money; and the farmer takes him into his family, and feeds and clothes him while he is doing it.”

“How long will he have to work to pay for his passage?”

“Three or four years; three if he is used to farm work.”

“What does he do after that?”

“Then he is his own man and can always have plenty of work at good wages and found, and won’t have to lay up alongside of a glass-house chimney to keep from freezing. Land is so cheap that if he is prudent and saves his money, he can in a few years buy a piece of land with wood on it that he can cut down, build him a log house, plant and sow and be comfortable. In some places the government will give him land to settle on if he builds a house and stays five years, or he can pay for it by working on the highways.”

“Go, Dick,” cried the red-head, “they say it’s a glorious country, plenty of work, plenty of bread, and no hanging for stealing, just the place for you my lad.”

“You shut up. What is he going to do after he gets the land!”

“Work on it to be sure, make a home of it, have cattle, and sheep, and hogs, and lashings to eat.”

“Then all the redemptioners, as you call ‘em, go to ‘Merica for is to work?”

“To be sure, to get a chance to work and get ahead, and that’s what they can’t do here.”

“Well, grandfather, I won’t be a redemptioner, because work and I have fallen out. Ain’t it so with you, Tom Hadley?”

This interrogatory was addressed to a tall pale youth, clothed in a suit of rusty black, that might have belonged to a curate, with finger nails half an inch in length, and on his fingers three valuable rings and a broad-brimmed hat on his head.

“Yes, I never fell in with it yet. Don’t think I am fool enough to work three years for the sake of getting a chance to work all the rest of my life, a thing I am altogether above and do despise.”

“If you won’t work how do you expect to live?”

“By stealing,” replied the lank boy, displaying his rings.

“By working when we can’t do any better, granddaddy, and begging for the rest,” said Tom Hadley.

During this conversation this select company had gradually gathered around Wilson, and one of them was in the act of purloining a handkerchief from the latter’s pocket, when he received a blow from a stout cudgel in the hand of the Scotchman, that felled him to the ground.

“Why don’t you take Foolish Jim?” said the red-headed chap, “he’ll work; rather work than not.”

“Who’s Foolish Jim?”

“There he is,” pointing to a boy leaning against the wall of the glass-house, aloof from the rest.

“Why do you call him Foolish Jim?”

“‘Cause he’s such a fool he won’t lie, swear nor steal; but we are dabsters at all three.”

“What makes him so much worse dressed than the rest?”

“‘Cause he’s a fool and won’t steal. Now we all get one thing or another, meat, fish, vegetables; and we’re going down to the brick yards to have a cook and a real tuck-out, but he’s had no breakfast, nor won’t get any, till he runs some errand for the glass-house folks, or gets some horse to hold, or some little job of work, just ‘cause he won’t steal nor beg either. If you’d a dropt that handkerchief on the ground and he’d a picked it up, instead of putting it in his pocket, he’d a run after you crying, ‘Mister you’ve lost your handkerchief.’ Now there’s no work to be had by those who are fools enough to work, so he’s just starving by inches.”

“And to help him out of the world you keep him with you to make sport of him.”

“That’s so, as much as we think will do, but we can’t go but about so far, ‘cause he’s strong as a giant and he’s got a temper of his own, though it takes an awful sight to git it up; but when its up you’d better stand clear, he’ll take any two of us and knock our heads together. When the glassmen have a heavy crate to lift, they always sing out for Jim.”

“Ask him to come here.”

“Jim, here’s a cove wants yer.”

Mr. Wilson scanned with great curiosity the lad whom his companions termed a fool because he would neither lie nor swear, steal nor beg, but was willing to work. He was tall, large-boned, with great muscles that were plainly visible, of regular features, fair complexion and clean, thus forming a strong contrast to his companions, who were dirty in the extreme. He might be called, on the whole, good looking, as far as form and features went, but on the other hand there was an expression of utter hopelessness and apathy in his face that seemed almost to border upon fatuity, and went far to justify the appellation bestowed upon him by his companions.

His movements also were those of an automaton; there was none of the spring, energy or buoyancy of youth about him.

He was barefoot, with a tattered shirt, ragged pants and coat of corduroy, the coat was destitute of buttons and confined to his waist by a ropeyarn. On his head he wore a sailor’s fez cap, streaked with tar and that had once been red, but was faded to the color of dried blood.

“What is your name, my lad?”

“Jim.”

“Jim what?”

“Jim, that’s all.”

“How old are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where are your father and mother?”

“Haven’t got none?”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Where did you come from? Where do you belong?”

“Work’us.”

“Do you want to go to America with me, and get work?”

“I’ll go anywhere if I can have enough to eat, clothes to keep me warm, and some warm place to sleep.”

“Will you work?”

“Yes; I’ll work.”

“What kind of work can you do?”

“I can dig dirt, and hoe, and pick oakum, and drive horses, and break stones for the highway, and break flax.”

“What other farm-work can you do?”

“I can mow grass, and reap grain, and plash a hedge, and thrash (thresh) grain.”

“Where did you learn these things?”

“They used to put me out to farmers once.”

“How long was you with the farmers?”

“Don’t know.”

“Mister,” broke in the lank youth, “he don’t know anything. Why don’t you ask ‘em up to the work’us; like’s they know who he is, where he came from, and all about him. They feed him, but he’s so proud he won’t call upon ‘em if he can help it, ‘cause he thinks it’s begging. He might have three good meals there every day if he would, but he’s such a simpleton he won’t go there till he’s starved within an inch of his life.”

Upon this hint the Scotchman, whose curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, taking the lad for a guide, started for the workhouse.