Uncle Tom's Cabin
Phineas, who in the course of his hunting and backwoods life had
acquired some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded
man, and began a careful examination of his condition.
“Marks,” said Tom, feebly, “is that you, Marks?”
“No; I reckon ’tan’t friend,” said Phineas. “Much Marks cares for thee,
if his own skin’s safe. He’s off, long ago.”
“I believe I’m done for,” said Tom. “The cussed sneaking dog, to leave
me to die alone! My poor old mother always told me ’t would be so.”
“La sakes! jist hear the poor crittur. He’s got a mammy, now,” said the
old negress. “I can’t help kinder pityin’ on him.”
“Softly, softly; don’t thee snap and snarl, friend,” said Phineas, as
Tom winced and pushed his hand away. “Thee has no chance, unless I stop
the bleeding.” And Phineas busied himself with making some off-hand
surgical arrangements with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as
could be mustered in the company.
“You pushed me down there,” said Tom, faintly.
“Well if I hadn’t thee would have pushed us down, thee sees,” said
Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. “There, there,—let me fix
this bandage. We mean well to thee; we bear no malice. Thee shall be
taken to a house where they’ll nurse thee first rate, well as thy own
mother could.”
Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigor and
resolution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the
flowing of the blood; and the gigantic fellow really looked piteous in
his helplessness.
The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of the wagon. The
buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread all along one side, and
four men, with great difficulty, lifted the heavy form of Tom into it.
Before he was gotten in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, in the
abundance of her compassion, sat down on the bottom, and took his head
in her lap. Eliza, George and Jim, bestowed themselves, as well as they
could, in the remaining space and the whole party set forward.
“What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by Phineas in front.
“Well it’s only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then, tumbling and
scratching down that place didn’t help him much. It has bled pretty
freely,—pretty much drained him out, courage and all,—but he’ll get
over it, and may be learn a thing or two by it.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said George. “It would always be a heavy
thought to me, if I’d caused his death, even in a just cause.”
“Yes,” said Phineas, “killing is an ugly operation, any way they’ll fix
it,—man or beast. I’ve seen a buck that was shot down and a dying, look
that way on a feller with his eye, that it reely most made a feller
feel wicked for killing on him; and human creatures is a more serious
consideration yet, bein’, as thy wife says, that the judgment comes to
’em after death. So I don’t know as our people’s notions on these
matters is too strict; and, considerin’ how I was raised, I fell in
with them pretty considerably.”
“What shall you do with this poor fellow?” said George.
“O, carry him along to Amariah’s. There’s old Grandmam Stephens
there,—Dorcas, they call her,—she’s most an amazin’ nurse. She takes to
nursing real natural, and an’t never better suited than when she gets a
sick body to tend. We may reckon on turning him over to her for a
fortnight or so.”
A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farmhouse,
where the weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom
Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed
than he had ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was
carefully dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and
shutting his eyes on the white window-curtains and gently-gliding
figures of his sick room, like a weary child. And here, for the
present, we shall take our leave of one party.
CHAPTER XVIII
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions
Our friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared his more
fortunate lot, in the bondage into which he was cast, with that of
Joseph in Egypt; and, in fact, as time went on, and he developed more
and more under the eye of his master, the strength of the parallel
increased.
St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Hitherto the providing
and marketing had been principally done by Adolph, who was, to the
full, as careless and extravagant as his master; and, between them
both, they had carried on the dispersing process with great alacrity.
Accustomed, for many years, to regard his master’s property as his own
care, Tom saw, with an uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the
wasteful expenditure of the establishment; and, in the quiet, indirect
way which his class often acquire, would sometimes make his own
suggestions.
St. Clare at first employed him occasionally; but, struck with his
soundness of mind and good business capacity, he confided in him more
and more, till gradually all the marketing and providing for the family
were intrusted to him.
“No, no, Adolph,” he said, one day, as Adolph was deprecating the
passing of power out of his hands; “let Tom alone. You only understand
what you want; Tom understands cost and come to; and there may be some
end to money, bye and bye if we don’t let somebody do that.”
Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, who handed him a
bill without looking at it, and pocketed the change without counting
it, Tom had every facility and temptation to dishonesty; and nothing
but an impregnable simplicity of nature, strengthened by Christian
faith, could have kept him from it. But, to that nature, the very
unbounded trust reposed in him was bond and seal for the most
scrupulous accuracy.
With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless and
self-indulgent, and unrestrained by a master who found it easier to
indulge than to regulate, he had fallen into an absolute confusion as
to _meum tuum_ with regard to himself and his master, which sometimes
troubled even St. Clare. His own good sense taught him that such a
training of his servants was unjust and dangerous. A sort of chronic
remorse went with him everywhere, although not strong enough to make
any decided change in his course; and this very remorse reacted again
into indulgence. He passed lightly over the most serious faults,
because he told himself that, if he had done his part, his dependents
had not fallen into them.
Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an odd mixture
of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That he never read the
Bible; never went to church; that he jested and made free with any and
every thing that came in the way of his wit; that he spent his Sunday
evenings at the opera or theatre; that he went to wine parties, and
clubs, and suppers, oftener than was at all expedient,—were all things
that Tom could see as plainly as anybody, and on which he based a
conviction that “Mas’r wasn’t a Christian;”—a conviction, however,
which he would have been very slow to express to any one else, but on
which he founded many prayers, in his own simple fashion, when he was
by himself in his little dormitory. Not that Tom had not his own way of
speaking his mind occasionally, with something of the tact often
observable in his class; as, for example, the very day after the
Sabbath we have described, St. Clare was invited out to a convivial
party of choice spirits, and was helped home, between one and two
o’clock at night, in a condition when the physical had decidedly
attained the upper hand of the intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted to
get him composed for the night, the latter in high spirits, evidently
regarding the matter as a good joke, and laughing heartily at the
rusticity of Tom’s horror, who really was simple enough to lie awake
most of the rest of the night, praying for his young master.
“Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?” said St. Clare, the next day, as
he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers. St. Clare had
just been entrusting Tom with some money, and various commissions.
“Isn’t all right there, Tom?” he added, as Tom still stood waiting.
“I’m ’fraid not, Mas’r,” said Tom, with a grave face.
St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked
at Tom.
“Why Tom, what’s the case? You look as solemn as a coffin.”
“I feel very bad, Mas’r. I allays have thought that Mas’r would be good
to everybody.”
“Well, Tom, haven’t I been? Come, now, what do you want? There’s
something you haven’t got, I suppose, and this is the preface.”
“Mas’r allays been good to me. I haven’t nothing to complain of on that
head. But there is one that Mas’r isn’t good to.”
“Why, Tom, what’s got into you? Speak out; what do you mean?”
“Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the
matter then. Mas’r isn’t good to _himself_.”
Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on the
door-knob. St. Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he laughed.
“O, that’s all, is it?” he said, gayly.
“All!” said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees. “O,
my dear young Mas’r; I’m ’fraid it will be _loss of all—all_—body and
soul. The good Book says, ‘it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like
an adder!’ my dear Mas’r!”
Tom’s voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks.
“You poor, silly fool!” said St. Clare, with tears in his own eyes.
“Get up, Tom. I’m not worth crying over.”
But Tom wouldn’t rise, and looked imploring.
“Well, I won’t go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom,” said St.
Clare; “on my honor, I won’t. I don’t know why I haven’t stopped long
ago. I’ve always despised _it_, and myself for it,—so now, Tom, wipe up
your eyes, and go about your errands. Come, come,” he added, “no
blessings. I’m not so wonderfully good, now,” he said, as he gently
pushed Tom to the door. “There, I’ll pledge my honor to you, Tom, you
don’t see me so again,” he said; and Tom went off, wiping his eyes,
with great satisfaction.
“I’ll keep my faith with him, too,” said St. Clare, as he closed the
door.
And St. Clare did so,—for gross sensualism, in any form, was not the
peculiar temptation of his nature.
But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations manifold of our
friend Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labors of a Southern
housekeeper?
There is all the difference in the world in the servants of Southern
establishments, according to the character and capacity of the
mistresses who have brought them up.
South as well as north, there are women who have an extraordinary
talent for command, and tact in educating. Such are enabled, with
apparent ease, and without severity, to subject to their will, and
bring into harmonious and systematic order, the various members of
their small estate,—to regulate their peculiarities, and so balance and
compensate the deficiencies of one by the excess of another, as to
produce a harmonious and orderly system.
Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have already described; and
such our readers may remember to have met with. If they are not common
at the South, it is because they are not common in the world. They are
to be found there as often as anywhere; and, when existing, find in
that peculiar state of society a brilliant opportunity to exhibit their
domestic talent.
Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare was not, nor her mother before her.
Indolent and childish, unsystematic and improvident, it was not to be
expected that servants trained under her care should not be so
likewise; and she had very justly described to Miss Ophelia the state
of confusion she would find in the family, though she had not ascribed
it to the proper cause.
The first morning of her regency, Miss Ophelia was up at four o’clock;
and having attended to all the adjustments of her own chamber, as she