UNCLE BOB’S PROPOSITION
The night after Ann’s interview with Uncle Bob, Major Waldron was
sitting in his library looking over some papers, when some one knocked
at the door, and, in response to his hearty “Come in,” Uncle Snake-bit
Bob entered.
“Ebenin’ ter yer, marster,” said the old man, scraping his foot and
bowing his head.
“How are you, Uncle Bob?” responded his master.
“I’m jes po’ly, thank God,” replied Uncle Bob, in the answer invariably
given by Southern slaves to the query “How are you?” No matter if they
were fat as seals, and had never had a day’s sickness in their lives,
the answer was always the same—“I’m po’ly, thank God.”
“Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?” asked Major Waldron. “The little
negroes been bothering your splits again?”
“Dey’s all de time at dat, marster, an’ dey gwine git hu’t, mun, ef dey
fool long o’ me; but den dat ain’t wat I come fur dis time. I come fur
ter hab er talk wid yer, sar, ef yer kin spar de ole nigger de time.”
“There’s plenty of time, Uncle Bob; take a seat, then, if we are to
have a talk;” and Major Waldron lit his cigar, and leaned back, while
Uncle Bob seated himself on a low chair, and said:
“Marster, I come ter ax yer wat’ll yer take fur dat little boy yer
bought fum de specerlaters?”
“Ann’s little boy?” asked his master; “why, I would not sell him at
all. I only bought him because his mother was dying of exposure and
fatigue, and I wanted to relieve her mind of anxiety on his account, I
would certainly never sell her child away from her,”
“Yes, sar, dat’s so,” replied the old man; “but den my min’, hit’s made
up. I’ve laid me up er little money fum time ter time, wen I’d be er
doct’in uv hosses an’ mules an’ men’-in’ cheers, an’ all sich ez dat;
de folks dey pays me lib’ul; an’, let erlone dat, I’m done mighty well
wid my taters an’ goobers, er sellin’ uv ’em ter de steamboat han’s,
wat takes ’em ter de town, an’ ’sposes uv ’em. So I’m got er right
smart chance uv money laid up, sar; an’ now I wants ter buy me er
nigger, same ez white folks, fur ter wait on me an’ bresh my coat an’
drive my kerridge; an’ I ’lowed ef yer’d sell de little white nigger,
I’d buy ’im,” and Uncle Bob chuckled and laughed.
“Why, Bob, I believe you are crazy,” said his master, “or drunk.”
“I ain’t neder one, marster; but den I’m er jokin’ too much, mo’n de
’lenity uv de cazhun inquires, an’ now I’ll splain de facks, sar.”
And Uncle Rob related Ann’s story to his master, and wound up by
saying:
“An’ now, marster, my min’, hit’s made up. I wants ter buy de little
chap, an’ give ’im ter his mammy, de one wat God give ’im to. Hit’ll go
mighty hard wid me ter part fum all dat money, caze I ben years pun top
er years er layin’ uv it up, an’ hit’s er mighty, cumfut ter me er
countin’ an’ er jinglin’ uv it; but hit ain’t doin’ nobody no good er
buried in de groun’, an’ I don’t special need it myse’f, caze you gives
me my cloes, an’ my shoes, an’ my eatin’s, an’ my backer, an’ my wisky,
an’ I ain’t got no cazhun fur ter spen’ it; an’ let erlone dat, I can’t
stay hyear fureber, er countin’ an’ er jinglin’ dat money, wen de angel
soun’ dat horn, de ole nigger he’s got ter go; he’s boun’ fur ter be
dar! de money can’t hol’ ’im! De Lord, he ain’t gwine ter say, ’Scuze
dat nigger, caze he got money piled up; lef ’im erlone, fur ter count
dat gol’ an’ silver.’ No, sar! But, marster, maybe in de jedgmun’ day,
wen Ole Bob is er stan’in’ fo’ de Lord wid his knees er trim’lin’, an’
de angel fotches out dat book er hisn, and’ de Lord tell ’im fur ter
read wat he writ gins ’im, an’ de angel he ’gin ter read how de ole
nigger drunk too much wisky, how he stoled watermillions in de night,
how he cussed, how he axed too much fur doct’in’ uv hosses, an’ wen he
wuz men’in’ cheers, how he wouldn’t men’ ’em strong, so’s he’d git ter
men’ ’em ergin some time; an’ den’ wen he read all dat an’ shet de
book, maybe de Lord he’ll say, ‘Well, he’s er pow’ful sinful nigger,
but den he tuck his money, he did, an’ buy’d de little baby fur ter
give ’im ter his mammy, an’ I sha’n’t be too hard on’ im.
“Maybe he’ll say dat, an’ den ergin maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll punish
de ole nigger ter de full stent uv his ’greshuns; an’ den, ergin, maybe
he’ll let him off light; but dat ain’t neder hyear nur dar. What’ll yer
take fur de baby, caze my min’ hit’s made up?”
“And mine is too, Uncle Bob,” said his master, rising, and grasping in
his the big black hand. “Mine is too. I will give Ann her freedom and
her baby, and the same amount of money that you give her; that will
take her to her husband’s relatives, and she can die happy, knowing
that her baby will be taken care of.”
The next day Uncle Bob dug up his money, and the bag was found to
contain three hundred dollars.
His master put with it a check for the same amount, and sent him into
the laundry to tell Ann of her good fortune.
The poor woman was overcome with happiness and gratitude, and, throwing
her arms around Uncle Bob, she sobbed and cried on his shoulder.
She wrote at once to her husband’s relatives, and a few weeks after
Major Waldron took her to New Orleans, had the requisite papers drawn
up for her freedom, and accompanied her on board of a vessel bound for
New York; and then, paying her passage himself, so that she might keep
her money for future emergencies, he bade adieu to the only slaves he
ever bought.