Uncle Tom's Cabin
woman; and that I might know, after all that, that he should not give
up for a few airs and tears, and things of that sort.
“I gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children;—whenever I
resisted his will anywhere, he would talk about selling them, and he
made me as submissive as he desired. O, what a life it was! to live
with my heart breaking, every day,—to keep on, on, on, loving, when it
was only misery; and to be bound, body and soul, to one I hated. I used
to love to read to Henry, to play to him, to waltz with him, and sing
to him; but everything I did for this one was a perfect drag,—yet I was
afraid to refuse anything. He was very imperious, and harsh to the
children. Elise was a timid little thing; but Henry was bold and
high-spirited, like his father, and he had never been brought under, in
the least, by any one. He was always finding fault, and quarrelling
with him; and I used to live in daily fear and dread. I tried to make
the child respectful;—I tried to keep them apart, for I held on to
those children like death; but it did no good. _He sold both those
children_. He took me to ride, one day, and when I came home, they were
nowhere to be found! He told me he had sold them; he showed me the
money, the price of their blood. Then it seemed as if all good forsook
me. I raved and cursed,—cursed God and man; and, for a while, I
believe, he really was afraid of me. But he didn’t give up so. He told
me that my children were sold, but whether I ever saw their faces
again, depended on him; and that, if I wasn’t quiet, they should smart
for it. Well, you can do anything with a woman, when you’ve got her
children. He made me submit; he made me be peaceable; he flattered me
with hopes that, perhaps, he would buy them back; and so things went
on, a week or two. One day, I was out walking, and passed by the
calaboose; I saw a crowd about the gate, and heard a child’s voice,—and
suddenly my Henry broke away from two or three men who were holding
him, and ran, screaming, and caught my dress. They came up to him,
swearing dreadfully; and one man, whose face I shall never forget, told
him that he wouldn’t get away so; that he was going with him into the
calaboose, and he’d get a lesson there he’d never forget. I tried to
beg and plead,—they only laughed; the poor boy screamed and looked into
my face, and held on to me, until, in tearing him off, they tore the
skirt of my dress half away; and they carried him in, screaming
‘Mother! mother! mother!’ There was one man stood there seemed to pity
me. I offered him all the money I had, if he’d only interfere. He shook
his head, and said that the boy had been impudent and disobedient, ever
since he bought him; that he was going to break him in, once for all. I
turned and ran; and every step of the way, I thought that I heard him
scream. I got into the house; ran, all out of breath, to the parlor,
where I found Butler. I told him, and begged him to go and interfere.
He only laughed, and told me the boy had got his deserts. He’d got to
be broken in,—the sooner the better; ’what did I expect?’ he asked.
“It seemed to me something in my head snapped, at that moment. I felt
dizzy and furious. I remember seeing a great sharp bowie-knife on the
table; I remember something about catching it, and flying upon him; and
then all grew dark, and I didn’t know any more,—not for days and days.
“When I came to myself, I was in a nice room,—but not mine. An old
black woman tended me; and a doctor came to see me, and there was a
great deal of care taken of me. After a while, I found that he had gone
away, and left me at this house to be sold; and that’s why they took
such pains with me.
“I didn’t mean to get well, and hoped I shouldn’t; but, in spite of me
the fever went off and I grew healthy, and finally got up. Then, they
made me dress up, every day; and gentlemen used to come in and stand
and smoke their cigars, and look at me, and ask questions, and debate
my price. I was so gloomy and silent, that none of them wanted me. They
threatened to whip me, if I wasn’t gayer, and didn’t take some pains to
make myself agreeable. At length, one day, came a gentleman named
Stuart. He seemed to have some feeling for me; he saw that something
dreadful was on my heart, and he came to see me alone, a great many
times, and finally persuaded me to tell him. He bought me, at last, and
promised to do all he could to find and buy back my children. He went
to the hotel where my Henry was; they told him he had been sold to a
planter up on Pearl River; that was the last that I ever heard. Then he
found where my daughter was; an old woman was keeping her. He offered
an immense sum for her, but they would not sell her. Butler found out
that it was for me he wanted her; and he sent me word that I should
never have her. Captain Stuart was very kind to me; he had a splendid
plantation, and took me to it. In the course of a year, I had a son
born. O, that child!—how I loved it! How just like my poor Henry the
little thing looked! But I had made up my mind,—yes, I had. I would
never again let a child live to grow up! I took the little fellow in my
arms, when he was two weeks old, and kissed him, and cried over him;
and then I gave him laudanum, and held him close to my bosom, while he
slept to death. How I mourned and cried over it! and who ever dreamed
that it was anything but a mistake, that had made me give it the
laudanum? but it’s one of the few things that I’m glad of, now. I am
not sorry, to this day; he, at least, is out of pain. What better than
death could I give him, poor child! After a while, the cholera came,
and Captain Stuart died; everybody died that wanted to live,—and I,—I,
though I went down to death’s door,—_I lived!_ Then I was sold, and
passed from hand to hand, till I grew faded and wrinkled, and I had a
fever; and then this wretch bought me, and brought me here,—and here I
am!”
The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her story, with a wild,
passionate utterance; sometimes seeming to address it to Tom, and
sometimes speaking as in a soliloquy. So vehement and overpowering was
the force with which she spoke, that, for a season, Tom was beguiled
even from the pain of his wounds, and, raising himself on one elbow,
watched her as she paced restlessly up and down, her long black hair
swaying heavily about her, as she moved.
“You tell me,” she said, after a pause, “that there is a God,—a God
that looks down and sees all these things. May be it’s so. The sisters
in the convent used to tell me of a day of judgment, when everything is
coming to light;—won’t there be vengeance, then!
“They think it’s nothing, what we suffer,—nothing, what our children
suffer! It’s all a small matter; yet I’ve walked the streets when it
seemed as if I had misery enough in my one heart to sink the city. I’ve
wished the houses would fall on me, or the stones sink under me. Yes!
and, in the judgment day, I will stand up before God, a witness against
those that have ruined me and my children, body and soul!
“When I was a girl, I thought I was religious; I used to love God and
prayer. Now, I’m a lost soul, pursued by devils that torment me day and
night; they keep pushing me on and on—and I’ll do it, too, some of
these days!” she said, clenching her hand, while an insane light
glanced in her heavy black eyes. “I’ll send him where he belongs,—a
short way, too,—one of these nights, if they burn me alive for it!” A
wild, long laugh rang through the deserted room, and ended in a
hysteric sob; she threw herself on the floor, in convulsive sobbing and
struggles.
In a few moments, the frenzy fit seemed to pass off; she rose slowly,
and seemed to collect herself.
“Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow?” she said, approaching
where Tom lay; “shall I give you some more water?”
There was a graceful and compassionate sweetness in her voice and
manner, as she said this, that formed a strange contrast with the
former wildness.
Tom drank the water, and looked earnestly and pitifully into her face.
“O, Missis, I wish you’d go to him that can give you living waters!”
“Go to him! Where is he? Who is he?” said Cassy.
“Him that you read of to me,—the Lord.”
“I used to see the picture of him, over the altar, when I was a girl,”
said Cassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in an expression of
mournful reverie; “but, _he isn’t here!_ there’s nothing here, but sin
and long, long, long despair! O!” She laid her hand on her breast and
drew in her breath, as if to lift a heavy weight.
Tom looked as if he would speak again; but she cut him short, with a
decided gesture.
“Don’t talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you can.” And, placing
water in his reach, and making whatever little arrangements for his
comforts she could, Cassy left the shed.
CHAPTER XXXV
The Tokens
“And slight, withal, may be the things that bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever; it may be a sound,
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound,—
Striking the electric chain wherewith we’re darkly bound.”
_Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Can_. 4.
The sitting-room of Legree’s establishment was a large, long room, with
a wide, ample fireplace. It had once been hung with a showy and
expensive paper, which now hung mouldering, torn and discolored, from
the damp walls. The place had that peculiar sickening, unwholesome
smell, compounded of mingled damp, dirt and decay, which one often
notices in close old houses. The wall-paper was defaced, in spots, by
slops of beer and wine; or garnished with chalk memorandums, and long
sums footed up, as if somebody had been practising arithmetic there. In
the fireplace stood a brazier full of burning charcoal; for, though the
weather was not cold, the evenings always seemed damp and chilly in
that great room; and Legree, moreover, wanted a place to light his
cigars, and heat his water for punch. The ruddy glare of the charcoal
displayed the confused and unpromising aspect of the room,—saddles,
bridles, several sorts of harness, riding-whips, overcoats, and various
articles of clothing, scattered up and down the room in confused
variety; and the dogs, of whom we have before spoken, had encamped
themselves among them, to suit their own taste and convenience.
Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pouring his hot
water from a cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, grumbling, as he did so,
“Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between me and the new
hands! The fellow won’t be fit to work for a week, now,—right in the
press of the season!”
“Yes, just like you,” said a voice, behind his chair. It was the woman
Cassy, who had stolen upon his soliloquy.
“Hah! you she-devil! you’ve come back, have you?”
“Yes, I have,” she said, coolly; “come to have my own way, too!”
“You lie, you jade! I’ll be up to my word. Either behave yourself, or
stay down to the quarters, and fare and work with the rest.”
“I’d rather, ten thousand times,” said the woman, “live in the dirtiest
hole at the quarters, than be under your hoof!”
“But you _are_ under my hoof, for all that,” said he, turning upon her,
with a savage grin; “that’s one comfort. So, sit down here on my knee,
my dear, and hear to reason,” said he, laying hold on her wrist.
“Simon Legree, take care!” said the woman, with a sharp flash of her
eye, a glance so wild and insane in its light as to be almost
appalling. “You’re afraid of me, Simon,” she said, deliberately; “and
you’ve reason to be! But be careful, for I’ve got the devil in me!”
The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close to his ear.
“Get out! I believe, to my soul, you have!” said Legree, pushing her
from him, and looking uncomfortably at her. “After all, Cassy,” he