Uncle Tom's Cabin
The woman suddenly turned to her work, and labored with a despatch that
was perfectly astonishing to Tom. She seemed to work by magic. Before
the day was through, her basket was filled, crowded down, and piled,
and she had several times put largely into Tom’s. Long after dusk, the
whole weary train, with their baskets on their heads, defiled up to the
building appropriated to the storing and weighing the cotton. Legree
was there, busily conversing with the two drivers.
“Dat ar Tom’s gwine to make a powerful deal o’ trouble; kept a puttin’
into Lucy’s basket.—One o’ these yer dat will get all der niggers to
feelin’ ’bused, if Masir don’t watch him!” said Sambo.
“Hey-dey! The black cuss!” said Legree. “He’ll have to get a breakin’
in, won’t he, boys?”
Both negroes grinned a horrid grin, at this intimation.
“Ay, ay! Let Mas’r Legree alone, for breakin’ in! De debil heself
couldn’t beat Mas’r at dat!” said Quimbo.
“Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do, till he
gets over his notions. Break him in!”
“Lord, Mas’r’ll have hard work to get dat out o’ him!”
“It’ll have to come out of him, though!” said Legree, as he rolled his
tobacco in his mouth.
“Now, dar’s Lucy,—de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on de place!” pursued
Sambo.
“Take care, Sam; I shall begin to think what’s the reason for your
spite agin Lucy.”
“Well, Mas’r knows she sot herself up agin Mas’r, and wouldn’t have me,
when he telled her to.”
“I’d a flogged her into ’t,” said Legree, spitting, “only there’s such
a press o’ work, it don’t seem wuth a while to upset her jist now.
She’s slender; but these yer slender gals will bear half killin’ to get
their own way!”
“Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin’ and lazy, sulkin’ round; wouldn’t do
nothin,—and Tom he stuck up for her.”
“He did, eh! Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of flogging her.
It’ll be a good practice for him, and he won’t put it on to the gal
like you devils, neither.”
“Ho, ho! haw! haw! haw!” laughed both the sooty wretches; and the
diabolical sounds seemed, in truth, a not unapt expression of the
fiendish character which Legree gave them.
“Wal, but, Mas’r, Tom and Misse Cassy, and dey among ’em, filled Lucy’s
basket. I ruther guess der weight ’s in it, Mas’r!”
“_I do the weighing!_” said Legree, emphatically.
Both the drivers again laughed their diabolical laugh.
“So!” he added, “Misse Cassy did her day’s work.”
“She picks like de debil and all his angels!”
“She’s got ’em all in her, I believe!” said Legree; and, growling a
brutal oath, he proceeded to the weighing-room.
Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures, wound their way into the room,
and, with crouching reluctance, presented their baskets to be weighed.
Legree noted on a slate, on the side of which was pasted a list of
names, the amount.
Tom’s basket was weighed and approved; and he looked, with an anxious
glance, for the success of the woman he had befriended.
Tottering with weakness, she came forward, and delivered her basket. It
was of full weight, as Legree well perceived; but, affecting anger, he
said,
“What, you lazy beast! short again! stand aside, you’ll catch it,
pretty soon!”
The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down on a board.
The person who had been called Misse Cassy now came forward, and, with
a haughty, negligent air, delivered her basket. As she delivered it,
Legree looked in her eyes with a sneering yet inquiring glance.
She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her lips moved slightly, and
she said something in French. What it was, no one knew; but Legree’s
face became perfectly demoniacal in its expression, as she spoke; he
half raised his hand, as if to strike,—a gesture which she regarded
with fierce disdain, as she turned and walked away.
“And now,” said Legree, “come here, you Tom. You see, I telled ye I
didn’t buy ye jest for the common work; I mean to promote ye, and make
a driver of ye; and tonight ye may jest as well begin to get yer hand
in. Now, ye jest take this yer gal and flog her; ye’ve seen enough on’t
to know how.”
“I beg Mas’r’s pardon,” said Tom; “hopes Mas’r won’t set me at that.
It’s what I an’t used to,—never did,—and can’t do, no way possible.”
“Ye’ll larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did know, before
I’ve done with ye!” said Legree, taking up a cowhide, and striking Tom
a heavy blow cross the cheek, and following up the infliction by a
shower of blows.
“There!” he said, as he stopped to rest; “now, will ye tell me ye can’t
do it?”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Tom, putting up his hand, to wipe the blood, that
trickled down his face. “I’m willin’ to work, night and day, and work
while there’s life and breath in me; but this yer thing I can’t feel it
right to do;—and, Mas’r, I _never_ shall do it,—_never_!”
Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and a habitually respectful
manner, that had given Legree an idea that he would be cowardly, and
easily subdued. When he spoke these last words, a thrill of amazement
went through every one; the poor woman clasped her hands, and said, “O
Lord!” and every one involuntarily looked at each other and drew in
their breath, as if to prepare for the storm that was about to burst.
Legree looked stupefied and confounded; but at last burst forth,—“What!
ye blasted black beast! tell _me_ ye don’t think it _right_ to do what
I tell ye! What have any of you cussed cattle to do with thinking
what’s right? I’ll put a stop to it! Why, what do ye think ye are? May
be ye think ye’r a gentleman master, Tom, to be a telling your master
what’s right, and what ain’t! So you pretend it’s wrong to flog the
gal!”
“I think so, Mas’r,” said Tom; “the poor crittur’s sick and feeble; ’t
would be downright cruel, and it’s what I never will do, nor begin to.
Mas’r, if you mean to kill me, kill me; but, as to my raising my hand
agin any one here, I never shall,—I’ll die first!”
Tom spoke in a mild voice, but with a decision that could not be
mistaken. Legree shook with anger; his greenish eyes glared fiercely,
and his very whiskers seemed to curl with passion; but, like some
ferocious beast, that plays with its victim before he devours it, he
kept back his strong impulse to proceed to immediate violence, and
broke out into bitter raillery.
“Well, here’s a pious dog, at last, let down among us sinners!—a saint,
a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us sinners about our sins!
Powerful holy critter, he must be! Here, you rascal, you make believe
to be so pious,—didn’t you never hear, out of yer Bible, ‘Servants,
obey yer masters’? An’t I yer master? Didn’t I pay down twelve hundred
dollars, cash, for all there is inside yer old cussed black shell? An’t
yer mine, now, body and soul?” he said, giving Tom a violent kick with
his heavy boot; “tell me!”
In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal oppression,
this question shot a gleam of joy and triumph through Tom’s soul. He
suddenly stretched himself up, and, looking earnestly to heaven, while
the tears and blood that flowed down his face mingled, he exclaimed,
“No! no! no! my soul an’t yours, Mas’r! You haven’t bought it,—ye can’t
buy it! It’s been bought and paid for, by one that is able to keep
it;—no matter, no matter, you can’t harm me!”
“I can’t!” said Legree, with a sneer; “we’ll see,—we’ll see! Here,
Sambo, Quimbo, give this dog such a breakin’ in as he won’t get over,
this month!”
The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, with fiendish
exultation in their faces, might have formed no unapt personification
of powers of darkness. The poor woman screamed with apprehension, and
all rose, as by a general impulse, while they dragged him unresisting
from the place.
CHAPTER XXXIV
The Quadroon’s Story
And behold the tears of such as are oppressed; and on the side of their
oppressors there was power. Wherefore I praised the dead that are
already dead more than the living that are yet alive.—ECCL. 4:1.
It was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and bleeding alone, in an
old forsaken room of the gin-house, among pieces of broken machinery,
piles of damaged cotton, and other rubbish which had there accumulated.
The night was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed with myriads of
mosquitos, which increased the restless torture of his wounds; whilst a
burning thirst—a torture beyond all others—filled up the uttermost
measure of physical anguish.
“O, good Lord! _Do_ look down,—give me the victory!—give me the victory
over all!” prayed poor Tom, in his anguish.
A footstep entered the room, behind him, and the light of a lantern
flashed on his eyes.
“Who’s there? O, for the Lord’s massy, please give me some water!”
The woman Cassy—for it was she,—set down her lantern, and, pouring
water from a bottle, raised his head, and gave him drink. Another and
another cup were drained, with feverish eagerness.
“Drink all ye want,” she said; “I knew how it would be. It isn’t the
first time I’ve been out in the night, carrying water to such as you.”
“Thank you, Missis,” said Tom, when he had done drinking.
“Don’t call me Missis! I’m a miserable slave, like yourself,—a lower
one than you can ever be!” said she, bitterly; “but now,” said she,
going to the door, and dragging in a small pallaise, over which she had
spread linen cloths wet with cold water, “try, my poor fellow, to roll
yourself on to this.”
Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time in accomplishing
this movement; but, when done, he felt a sensible relief from the
cooling application to his wounds.
The woman, whom long practice with the victims of brutality had made
familiar with many healing arts, went on to make many applications to
Tom’s wounds, by means of which he was soon somewhat relieved.
“Now,” said the woman, when she had raised his head on a roll of
damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, “there’s the best I can do
for you.”
Tom thanked her; and the woman, sitting down on the floor, drew up her
knees, and embracing them with her arms, looked fixedly before her,
with a bitter and painful expression of countenance. Her bonnet fell
back, and long wavy streams of black hair fell around her singular and
melancholy-face.
“It’s no use, my poor fellow!” she broke out, at last, “it’s of no use,
this you’ve been trying to do. You were a brave fellow,—you had the
right on your side; but it’s all in vain, and out of the question, for
you to struggle. You are in the devil’s hands;—he is the strongest, and
you must give up!”
Give up! and, had not human weakness and physical agony whispered that,
before? Tom started; for the bitter woman, with her wild eyes and
melancholy voice, seemed to him an embodiment of the temptation with
which he had been wrestling.
“O Lord! O Lord!” he groaned, “how can I give up?”
“There’s no use calling on the Lord,—he never hears,” said the woman,
steadily; “there isn’t any God, I believe; or, if there is, he’s taken
sides against us. All goes against us, heaven and earth. Everything is
pushing us into hell. Why shouldn’t we go?”
Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark, atheistic words.
“You see,” said the woman, “_you_ don’t know anything about it—I do.
I’ve been on this place five years, body and soul, under this man’s
foot; and I hate him as I do the devil! Here you are, on a lone
plantation, ten miles from any other, in the swamps; not a white person
here, who could testify, if you were burned alive,—if you were scalded,
cut into inch-pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up and
whipped to death. There’s no law here, of God or man, that can do you,
or any one of us, the least good; and, this man! there’s no earthly