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

Peter burst into a flood of real heartfelt tears, that would have satisfied both his brother and sister had they witnessed it.

“Be quiet, my son; I’ll see about it.”

Wilson then handed him a certificate from the parish authorities, in which they declared: “That the boy James Renfew had been under their charge since he was three years of age, and that he was in every respect of the best moral character.”

After reading this document Whitman said: “This is a strange story, yet I see no reason to doubt it; neither do I doubt it, nor wonder that you took the boy.”

“If you had been in my place, and seen and heard what I did, you would have taken him in a moment. Those workhouse brats all have their friends, and enjoy themselves in their way together. But because this boy would not do as they did, they hated him and called him a fool, till I believe he thought he was a fool; and I don’t know where they would have stopped, short of murder, had it not been for one thing.”

“What was that?”

“The authorities told me that it was possible by long tormenting to get his temper up, and then he was like a tiger, and so strong that they were all afraid of him, and glad to let him alone. He seemed to me (so innocent among those villains) like a pond lily that I have often wondered to see growing in stagnant water, its roots in the mud and its flower white as snow spread out on that black surface. He was, poor fellow, shut out from all decent society because he was a workhouse boy; and from all bad because he was a good boy. No wonder he looks forlorn.”

“Can he do any kind of work?”

“I will call him and ask him.”

“No matter now. What do you want for your interest in this boy?”

“The passage-money, eight pounds.”

“But you have a percentage for your labor, and you were at expense keeping him at a public house, and after he was lame had to carry him in a wagon.”

“My usual fees and the expenses would be about ten dollars. I will make him over to you (as he is a boy and has about everything to learn before he can be of much use) for four years for eight pounds. And if at the end of a year you are dissatisfied, you may pay me the ten dollars, and I will take him off your hands and agree in writing to pay you back the eight pounds, in order that you may see that I do not want to put the boy on you, just to be rid of him.

“I will take him, and if he runs away, let him run; I shall not follow him.”

“Run?” said the miller; “when you have had him a fortnight, you could not set dogs enough on him to drive him off.”

“I shall not take him but with his free consent, and not till the matter is fully explained to him, Mr. Wilson.”

“Explained, you can’t explain it to him; why he’s as ignorant as one of your oxen.”

“So much the more necessary that the attempt should be made. I never will buy a fellow-creature as I would buy a “shote” out of a drove.”

“You are not buying, you are hiring him.”

“Nor hire him of somebody else without his free consent.”

The boy was now called and Wilson said to him,—

“Jim, will you go to live with that man,” pointing to Mr. Whitman, “for four years?”

“He my master?” said the boy, pointing in his turn to Mr. Whitman.

“Yes. He’ll give you enough to eat every-day, and good clothes to keep you warm.”

“I’ll go, have plenty to eat, warm place to sleep, clothes keep me warm.”

“You are to work for this man, do everything he tells you.”

“I love to work,” replied the boy with a faint smile.

“Tell him about the length of time,” said Whitman.

“You are to stay with him four years.”

“Don’t know.”

“He don’t know how long a year is,” said the miller.

“You are to stay four summers.”

“I know, till wheat ripe, get reaped, put in the stack four times?” counting on his fingers.

“That is it.”

“Yes I go, I stay.”

“What can you do James?” said Mr. Whitman.

“I can break stones for the road, and pick oakum, and sort hairs for brushmakers, and make skewers for butchers.”

“What else can you do?”

“I can drive horses to plough.”

“That indeed! what else my lad?”

“I can milk cows, and reap grain, and thrash wheat, and break flax.”

“What else?”

“I can hoe turnips, mow grass, and stook up grain.”

“That is a great deal more than I expected,” said Whitman.

The money was paid, and the writings drawn, at the miller’s desk who was a justice. James made his mark at the bottom of the articles of agreement, and Mr. Whitman gave an agreement to him, after reading and explaining it to him.

When they left the mill three barrels of flour were lying at the tail of Mr. Whitman’s wagon.

“Jim,” said Wilson, “put those barrels into that cart.”

He took hold of the barrels and pitched them one after another into the cart, without bringing a flush to his pale cheek, though it burst open the tight fitting jacket across the shoulders,—while Peter clapped his hands in mingled pleasure and wonder.

“You won’t find many boys, Mr. Whitman, who can do that, and there are twenty men who can’t do it, where there is one who can. He’ll break pitchfork handles for you, when he gets his hand in, and his belly full of Pennsylvania bread and beef.”

Mr. Whitman did not take advantage of the self-denying offer of his children, who had volunteered to give up their new clothes as an inducement to their father to take the boy, but procured them all as he had at first intended.

After calling at the public house to get James’ bundle, they turned the heads of the horses homeward; refreshed by provender and a long rest, and relieved of their load, they whirled the heavy wagon along at a spanking trot. Peter in great spirits kept chattering incessantly, but James sat silent and stoical as an Indian at the stake, apparently no more affected by the change of masters than a stone.

Wilson compromised with his conscience by putting the boy into a good family, and consulted his interest by putting the eight pounds in his own pocket,—since the workhouse authorities had paid the passage-money to the captain of the brig Betsy,—which he probably felt justified in doing, as he had agreed and was holden to take the boy back if Whitman at the end of a year required. He really meant to do it and keep the boy himself, and do well by him, for like most men he acted from mixed motives. It is easy to see, however, that he was not so thoroughly upright as Bradford Whitman.

Thus was the unseen hand, spoken of by Alice Whitman, guiding both the soul-driver and the Pennsylvania farmer, though they knew it not, and in accordance with the prayers of that Christian mother whose last thought was for her child.

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