Uncle Tom's Cabin
mother,” said he, turning to Rachel, “hurry thy preparations for these
friends, for we must not send them away fasting.”
And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake, and
cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the _et ceteras_ of the
evening meal, George and his wife sat in their little room, with their
arms folded about each other, in such talk as husband and wife have
when they know that a few hours may part them forever.
“Eliza,” said George, “people that have friends, and houses, and lands,
and money, and all those things _can’t_ love as we do, who have nothing
but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature had loved me, but
my poor, heart-broken mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that morning
the trader carried her off. She came to the corner where I was lying
asleep, and said, ‘Poor George, your last friend is going. What will
become of you, poor boy?’ And I got up and threw my arms round her, and
cried and sobbed, and she cried too; and those were the last kind words
I got for ten long years; and my heart all withered up, and felt as dry
as ashes, till I met you. And your loving me,—why, it was almost like
raising one from the dead! I’ve been a new man ever since! And now,
Eliza, I’ll give my last drop of blood, but they _shall not_ take you
from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my dead body.”
“O, Lord, have mercy!” said Eliza, sobbing. “If he will only let us get
out of this country together, that is all we ask.”
“Is God on their side?” said George, speaking less to his wife than
pouring out his own bitter thoughts. “Does he see all they do? Why does
he let such things happen? And they tell us that the Bible is on their
side; certainly all the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and
happy; they are members of churches, expecting to go to heaven; and
they get along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way; and
poor, honest, faithful Christians,—Christians as good or better than
they,—are lying in the very dust under their feet. They buy ’em and
sell ’em, and make trade of their heart’s blood, and groans and
tears,—and God _lets_ them.”
“Friend George,” said Simeon, from the kitchen, “listen to this Psalm;
it may do thee good.”
George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her tears, came
forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:
“But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well-nigh
slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of
the wicked. They are not in trouble like other men, neither are they
plagued like other men. Therefore, pride compasseth them as a chain;
violence covereth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness;
they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt, and speak
wickedly concerning oppression; they speak loftily. Therefore his
people return, and the waters of a full cup are wrung out to them, and
they say, How doth God know? and is there knowledge in the Most High?”
“Is not that the way thee feels, George?”
“It is so indeed,” said George,—“as well as I could have written it
myself.”
“Then, hear,” said Simeon: “When I thought to know this, it was too
painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of God. Then understood
I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou
castedst them down to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so, oh
Lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless I
am continually with thee; thou hast holden me by my right hand. Thou
shalt guide me by thy counsel, and afterwards receive me to glory. It
is good for me to draw near unto God. I have put my trust in the Lord
God.”[1]
[1] Ps. 73, “The End of the Wicked contrasted with that of the
Righteous.”
The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, stole like
sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of George; and after
he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued expression on his fine
features.
“If this world were all, George,” said Simeon, “thee might, indeed, ask
where is the Lord? But it is often those who have least of all in this
life whom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him and, no
matter what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter.”
If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent exhorter,
from whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and rhetorical
flourish, proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps they might
not have had much effect; but coming from one who daily and calmly
risked fine and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, they had a
weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor, desolate
fugitives found calmness and strength breathing into them from it.
And now Rachel took Eliza’s hand kindly, and led the way to the
supper-table. As they were sitting down, a light tap sounded at the
door, and Ruth entered.
“I just ran in,” she said, “with these little stockings for the
boy,—three pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so cold, thee
knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza?” she added,
tripping round to Eliza’s side of the table, and shaking her warmly by
the hand, and slipping a seed-cake into Harry’s hand. “I brought a
little parcel of these for him,” she said, tugging at her pocket to get
out the package. “Children, thee knows, will always be eating.”
“O, thank you; you are too kind,” said Eliza.
“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,” said Rachel.
“I couldn’t, any way. I left John with the baby, and some biscuits in
the oven; and I can’t stay a moment, else John will burn up all the
biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar in the bowl. That’s the way
he does,” said the little Quakeress, laughing. “So, good-by, Eliza;
good-by, George; the Lord grant thee a safe journey;” and, with a few
tripping steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.
A little while after supper, a large covered-wagon drew up before the
door; the night was clear starlight; and Phineas jumped briskly down
from his seat to arrange his passengers. George walked out of the door,
with his child on one arm and his wife on the other. His step was firm,
his face settled and resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them.
“You get out, a moment,” said Phineas to those inside, “and let me fix
the back of the wagon, there, for the women-folks and the boy.”
“Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. “Make the seats as
comfortable as may be; it’s hard riding all night.”
Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who
clung to his arm, and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the
pursuer every moment.
“Jim, are your pistols all in order?” said George, in a low, firm
voice.
“Yes, indeed,” said Jim.
“And you’ve no doubt what you shall do, if they come?”
“I rather think I haven’t,” said Jim, throwing open his broad chest,
and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I’ll let them get mother
again?”
During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leave of her kind
friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by Simeon, and,
creeping into the back part with her boy, sat down among the
buffalo-skins. The old woman was next handed in and seated and George
and Jim placed on a rough board seat front of them, and Phineas mounted
in front.
“Farewell, my friends,” said Simeon, from without.
“God bless you!” answered all from within.
And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road.
There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the roughness
of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle, therefore, rumbled
on, through long, dark stretches of woodland,—over wide dreary
plains,—up hills, and down valleys,—and on, on, on they jogged, hour
after hour. The child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother’s
lap. The poor, frightened old woman at last forgot her fears; and, even
Eliza, as the night waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep
her eyes from closing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of
the company, and beguiled his long drive with whistling certain very
unquaker-like songs, as he went on.
But about three o’clock George’s ear caught the hasty and decided click
of a horse’s hoof coming behind them at some distance and jogged
Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses, and listened.
“That must be Michael,” he said; “I think I know the sound of his
gallop;” and he rose up and stretched his head anxiously back over the
road.
A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a
distant hill.
“There he is, I do believe!” said Phineas. George and Jim both sprang
out of the wagon before they knew what they were doing. All stood
intensely silent, with their faces turned towards the expected
messenger. On he came. Now he went down into a valley, where they could
not see him; but they heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and
nearer; at last they saw him emerge on the top of an eminence, within
hail.
“Yes, that’s Michael!” said Phineas; and, raising his voice, “Halloa,
there, Michael!”
“Phineas! is that thee?”
“Yes; what news—they coming?”
“Right on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, swearing and
foaming like so many wolves.”
And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of galloping
horsemen towards them.
“In with you,—quick, boys, _in!_” said Phineas. “If you must fight,
wait till I get you a piece ahead.” And, with the word, both jumped in,
and Phineas lashed the horses to a run, the horseman keeping close
beside them. The wagon rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the frozen
ground; but plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of pursuing
horsemen behind. The women heard it, and, looking anxiously out, saw,
far in the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party of men looming
up against the red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their
pursuers had evidently caught sight of their wagon, whose white
cloth-covered top made it conspicuous at some distance, and a loud yell
of brutal triumph came forward on the wind. Eliza sickened, and
strained her child closer to her bosom; the old woman prayed and
groaned, and George and Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of
despair. The pursuers gained on them fast; the carriage made a sudden
turn, and brought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that
rose in an isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all
around it, quite clear and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of
rocks, rose up black and heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed
to promise shelter and concealment. It was a place well known to
Phineas, who had been familiar with the spot in his hunting days; and
it was to gain this point he had been racing his horses.
“Now for it!” said he, suddenly checking his horses, and springing from
his seat to the ground. “Out with you, in a twinkling, every one, and
up into these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon,
and drive ahead to Amariah’s and get him and his boys to come back and
talk to these fellows.”
In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.
“There,” said Phineas, catching up Harry, “you, each of you, see to the
women; and run, _now_ if you ever _did_ run!”
They needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, the whole party
were over the fence, making with all speed for the rocks, while
Michael, throwing himself from his horse, and fastening the bridle to
the wagon, began driving it rapidly away.
“Come ahead,” said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, and saw in the
mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly marked
foot-path leading up among them; “this is one of our old hunting-dens.
Come up!”
Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the boy