Mrs. St. Clare decided at once to sell the place and all the servants, except her own personal property, and although she was told of her husband’s intention of freeing Tom, he was sold by auction with the rest.  His new master, Mr. Simon Legree, came round to review his purchases as they sat in chains on the lower deck of a small mean boat, on their way to his cotton plantation, on the Red River.  “I say, all on ye,” he said, “look at me—­look me right in the eye—­straight, now!” stamping his foot.  “Now,” said he, doubling his great heavy fist, “d’ye see this fist?  Heft it,” he said, bringing it down on Tom’s hand.  “Look at these yer bones!  Well, I tell ye this yer fist has got as hard as iron knocking down niggers.  I don’t keep none of yer cussed overseers; I does my own overseeing and I tell ye things is seen to.  You won’t find no soft spot in me, nowhere.  So, now, mind yourselves; for I don’t show no mercy!” The women drew in their breath; and the whole gang sat with downcast, dejected faces.  Trailing wearily behind a rude wagon, and over a ruder road, Tom and his associates came to their new home.  The whole place looked desolate, everything told of coarse neglect and discomfort.  Three or four ferocious looking dogs rushed out and were with difficulty restrained from laying hold of Tom and his companions.

“Ye see what ye’d get!” said Legree.  “Ye see what ye’d get if you tried to run off.  They’d just as soon chaw one on ye up as eat their supper.  So mind yourself.  How now, Sambo!” to a ragged fellow, who was officious in his attentions, “How have things been goin’ on?”

“Fust rate, mas’r.”

“Quimbo,” said Legree to another, “ye minded what I tell’d ye?”

“Guess I did, didn’t I?”

Legree had trained these two men in savagery as systematically as he had his bulldogs, and they were in admirable keeping with the vile character of the whole place.

Tom’s heart sank as he followed Sambo to the quarters.  They had a forlorn, brutal air.  He had been comforting himself with the thought of a cottage, rude indeed but one which he might keep neat and quiet and read his Bible in out of his labouring hours.  They were mere rude sheds with no furniture but a heap of straw, foul with dirt.  “Spec there’s room for another thar’,” said Sambo, “thar’s a pretty smart heap o’ niggers to each on ’em, now.  Sure, I dunno what I’s to do with more.”

* * * * *

Tom looked in vain, as the weary occupants of the shanties came flocking home, for a companionable face; he saw only sullen, embruted men and feeble, discouraged women; or, those who, treated in every way like brutes, had sunk to their level.

“Thar you!” said Quimbo throwing down a coarse bag containing a peck of corn, “thar, nigger, grab, you won’t get no more dis yer week.”

Tom was faint for want of food, but moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he saw trying to grind their corn, he ground for them; and then set about getting his own supper.  An expression of kindness came over their hard faces—­they mixed his cake for him, and tended the baking, and Tom drew out his Bible by the light of the fire—­for he had need of comfort.