THE REDEMPTIONER.
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.