Uncle Tom's Cabin
The two remained some time in silence. Cassy busied herself with a
French book; Emmeline, overcome with the exhaustion, fell into a doze,
and slept some time. She was awakened by loud shouts and outcries, the
tramp of horses’ feet, and the baying of dogs. She started up, with a
faint shriek.
“Only the hunt coming back,” said Cassy, coolly; “never fear. Look out
of this knot-hole. Don’t you see ’em all down there? Simon has to give
up, for this night. Look, how muddy his horse is, flouncing about in
the swamp; the dogs, too, look rather crestfallen. Ah, my good sir,
you’ll have to try the race again and again,—the game isn’t there.”
“O, don’t speak a word!” said Emmeline; “what if they should hear you?”
“If they do hear anything, it will make them very particular to keep
away,” said Cassy. “No danger; we may make any noise we please, and it
will only add to the effect.”
At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the house.
Legree, cursing his ill luck, and vowing dire vengeance on the morrow,
went to bed.
CHAPTER XL
The Martyr
“Deem not the just by Heaven forgot!
Though life its common gifts deny,—
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,
And spurned of man, he goes to die!
For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every bitter tear,
And heaven’s long years of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.” BRYANT.[1]
[1] This poem does not appear in the collected works of William Cullen
Bryant, nor in the collected poems of his brother, John Howard Bryant.
It was probably copied from a newspaper or magazine.
The longest way must have its close,—the gloomiest night will wear on
to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying
the day of the evil to an eternal night, and the night of the just to
an eternal day. We have walked with our humble friend thus far in the
valley of slavery; first through flowery fields of ease and indulgence,
then through heart-breaking separations from all that man holds dear.
Again, we have waited with him in a sunny island, where generous hands
concealed his chains with flowers; and, lastly, we have followed him
when the last ray of earthly hope went out in night, and seen how, in
the blackness of earthly darkness, the firmament of the unseen has
blazed with stars of new and significant lustre.
The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains, and gales
and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unclosing.
The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper of
Legree to the last degree; and his fury, as was to be expected, fell
upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the
tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom’s eye, a
sudden upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he
did not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to
do it; but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when
commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his
hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.
Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him to
pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives.
When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-working
hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gather in a deadly and
desperate form. Had not this man braved him,—steadily, powerfully,
resistlessly,—ever since he bought him? Was there not a spirit in him
which, silent as it was, burned on him like the fires of perdition?
“I _hate_ him!” said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his bed; “I
_hate_ him! And isn’t he MINE? Can’t I do what I like with him? Who’s
to hinder, I wonder?” And Legree clenched his fist, and shook it, as if
he had something in his hands that he could rend in pieces.
But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and, although Legree
hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat
of a restraint to him.
The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; to assemble a
party, from some neighboring plantations, with dogs and guns; to
surround the swamp, and go about the hunt systematically. If it
succeeded, well and good; if not, he would summon Tom before him,
and—his teeth clenched and his blood boiled—_then_ he would break the
fellow down, or—there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul
assented.
Ye say that the _interest_ of the master is a sufficient safeguard for
the slave. In the fury of man’s mad will, he will wittingly, and with
open eye, sell his own soul to the devil to gain his ends; and will he
be more careful of his neighbor’s body?
“Well,” said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she reconnoitred
through the knot-hole, “the hunt’s going to begin again, today!”
Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the space in
front of the house; and one or two leashes of strange dogs were
struggling with the negroes who held them, baying and barking at each
other.
The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the vicinity; and
others were some of Legree’s associates at the tavern-bar of a
neighboring city, who had come for the interest of the sport. A more
hard-favored set, perhaps, could not be imagined. Legree was serving
brandy, profusely, round among them, as also among the negroes, who had
been detailed from the various plantations for this service; for it was
an object to make every service of this kind, among the negroes, as
much of a holiday as possible.
Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning air blew
directly towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of the
conversation. A grave sneer overcast the dark, severe gravity of her
face, as she listened, and heard them divide out the ground, discuss
the rival merits of the dogs, give orders about firing, and the
treatment of each, in case of capture.
Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, and said, “O,
great Almighty God! we are _all_ sinners; but what have _we_ done, more
than all the rest of the world, that we should be treated so?”
There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as she spoke.
“If it wasn’t for _you_, child,” she said, looking at Emmeline, “I’d
_go_ out to them; and I’d thank any one of them that _would_ shoot me
down; for what use will freedom be to me? Can it give me back my
children, or make me what I used to be?”
Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of the dark
moods of Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made no answer. She only took
her hand, with a gentle, caressing movement.
“Don’t!” said Cassy, trying to draw it away; “you’ll get me to loving
you; and I never mean to love anything, again!”
“Poor Cassy!” said Emmeline, “don’t feel so! If the Lord gives us
liberty, perhaps he’ll give you back your daughter; at any rate, I’ll
be like a daughter to you. I know I’ll never see my poor old mother
again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or not!”
The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her, put her
arm round her neck, stroked her soft, brown hair; and Emmeline then
wondered at the beauty of her magnificent eyes, now soft with tears.
“O, Em!” said Cassy, “I’ve hungered for my children, and thirsted for
them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here!” she said,
striking her breast, “it’s all desolate, all empty! If God would give
me back my children, then I could pray.”
“You must trust him, Cassy,” said Emmeline; “he is our Father!”
“His wrath is upon us,” said Cassy; “he has turned away in anger.”
“No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in Him,” said
Emmeline,—“I always have had hope.”
The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and, with
grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree, as, weary and
dispirited, he alighted from his horse.
“Now, Quimbo,” said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the
sitting-room, “you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away! The
old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter; and I’ll have it
out of his old black hide, or I’ll know the reason why!”
Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were joined in one
mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them, at
first, that he had bought him for a general overseer, in his absence;
and this had begun an ill will, on their part, which had increased, in
their debased and servile natures, as they saw him becoming obnoxious
to their master’s displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed, with a
will, to execute his orders.
Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all the
plan of the fugitives’ escape, and the place of their present
concealment;—he knew the deadly character of the man he had to deal
with, and his despotic power. But he felt strong in God to meet death,
rather than betray the helpless.
He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, “Into thy
hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, oh Lord God of
truth!” and then quietly yielded himself to the rough, brutal grasp
with which Quimbo seized him.
“Ay, ay!” said the giant, as he dragged him along; “ye’ll cotch it,
now! I’ll boun’ Mas’r’s back ’s up _high!_ No sneaking out, now! Tell
ye, ye’ll get it, and no mistake! See how ye’ll look, now, helpin’
Mas’r’s niggers to run away! See what ye’ll get!”
The savage words none of them reached that ear!—a higher voice there
was saying, “Fear not them that kill the body, and, after that, have no
more that they can do.” Nerve and bone of that poor man’s body vibrated
to those words, as if touched by the finger of God; and he felt the
strength of a thousand souls in one. As he passed along, the trees and
bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation,
seemed to whirl by him as the landscape by the rushing ear. His soul
throbbed,—his home was in sight,—and the hour of release seemed at
hand.
“Well, Tom!” said Legree, walking up, and seizing him grimly by the
collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of
determined rage, “do you know I’ve made up my mind to KILL YOU?”
“It’s very likely, Mas’r,” said Tom, calmly.
“I _have_,” said Legree, with a grim, terrible calmness,
“_done—just—that—thing_, Tom, unless you’ll tell me what you know about
these yer gals!”
Tom stood silent.
“D’ye hear?” said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an
incensed lion. “Speak!”
“_I han’t got nothing to tell, Mas’r_,” said Tom, with a slow, firm,
deliberate utterance.
“Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t _know_?” said
Legree.
Tom was silent.
“Speak!” thundered Legree, striking him furiously. “Do you know
anything?”
“I know, Mas’r; but I can’t tell anything. _I can die!_”
Legree drew in a long breath; and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by
the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said, in a terrible
voice, “Hark ’e, Tom!—ye think, ’cause I’ve let you off before, I don’t
mean what I say; but, this time, _I’ve made up my mind_, and counted
the cost. You’ve always stood it out again’ me: now, _I’ll conquer ye,
or kill ye!_—one or t’ other. I’ll count every drop of blood there is
in you, and take ’em, one by one, till ye give up!”
Tom looked up to his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick, or
in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d _give_ ye my heart’s
blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would
save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave his for
me. O, Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you
more than ’t will me! Do the worst you can, my troubles’ll be over
soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’t _never_ end!”