Uncle Tom's Cabin
Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull of a
tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment’s blank pause. Legree
stood aghast, and looked at Tom; and there was such a silence, that the
tick of the old clock could be heard, measuring, with silent touch, the
last moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.
It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause,—one irresolute,
relenting thrill,—and the spirit of evil came back, with seven-fold
vehemence; and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the
ground.
Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What man
has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. What brother-man and
brother-Christian must suffer, cannot be told us, even in our secret
chamber, it so harrows the soul! And yet, oh my country! these things
are done under the shadow of thy laws! O, Christ! thy church sees them,
almost in silence!
But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an instrument of
torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol of glory, honor, and
immortal life; and, where His spirit is, neither degrading stripes, nor
blood, nor insults, can make the Christian’s last struggle less than
glorious.
Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing
up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes?
Nay! There stood by him ONE,—seen by him alone,—“like unto the Son of
God.”
The tempter stood by him, too,—blinded by furious, despotic will,—every
moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the innocent.
But the brave, true heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his
Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save;
nor could utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayers and
holy trust.
“He’s most gone, Mas’r,” said Sambo, touched, in spite of himself, by
the patience of his victim.
“Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him!—give it to him!” shouted
Legree. “I’ll take every drop of blood he has, unless he confesses!”
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. “Ye poor miserable
critter!” he said, “there ain’t no more ye can do! I forgive ye, with
all my soul!” and he fainted entirely away.
“I b’lieve, my soul, he’s done for, finally,” said Legree, stepping
forward, to look at him. “Yes, he is! Well, his mouth’s shut up, at
last,—that’s one comfort!”
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul? that soul,
past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never
shall be quenched is already burning!
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers had
struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks, who had been the
instruments of cruelty upon him; and, the instant Legree withdrew, they
took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him back to
life,—as if _that_ were any favor to him.
“Sartin, we ’s been doin’ a drefful wicked thing!” said Sambo; “hopes
Mas’r’ll have to ’count for it, and not we.”
They washed his wounds,—they provided a rude bed, of some refuse
cotton, for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealing up to the
house, begged a drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he was
tired, and wanted it for himself. He brought it back, and poured it
down Tom’s throat.
“O, Tom!” said Quimbo, “we’s been awful wicked to ye!”
“I forgive ye, with all my heart!” said Tom, faintly.
“O, Tom! do tell us who is _Jesus_, anyhow?” said Sambo;—“Jesus, that’s
been a standin’ by you so, all this night!—Who is he?”
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few
energetic sentences of that wondrous One,—his life, his death, his
everlasting presence, and power to save.
They wept,—both the two savage men.
“Why didn’t I never hear this before?” said Sambo; “but I do believe!—I
can’t help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!”
“Poor critters!” said Tom, “I’d be willing to bar all I have, if it’ll
only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these two more souls, I
pray!”
That prayer was answered!
CHAPTER XLI
The Young Master
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue
of China trees, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horse’s neck,
sprang out and inquired for the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby; and, to show how he came to be there, we must go
back in our story.
The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some unfortunate
accident, been detained, for a month or two, at some remote
post-office, before it reached its destination; and, of course, before
it was received, Tom was already lost to view among the distant swamps
of the Red River.
Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern; but any
immediate action upon it was an impossibility. She was then in
attendance on the sick-bed of her husband, who lay delirious in the
crisis of a fever. Master George Shelby, who, in the interval, had
changed from a boy to a tall young man, was her constant and faithful
assistant, and her only reliance in superintending his father’s
affairs. Miss Ophelia had taken the precaution to send them the name of
the lawyer who did business for the St. Clares; and the most that, in
the emergency, could be done, was to address a letter of inquiry to
him. The sudden death of Mr. Shelby, a few days after, brought, of
course, an absorbing pressure of other interests, for a season.
Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife’s ability, by appointing
her sole executrix upon his estates; and thus immediately a large and
complicated amount of business was brought upon her hands.
Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to the work of
straightening the entangled web of affairs; and she and George were for
some time occupied with collecting and examining accounts, selling
property and settling debts; for Mrs. Shelby was determined that
everything should be brought into tangible and recognizable shape, let
the consequences to her prove what they might. In the mean time, they
received a letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had referred
them, saying that he knew nothing of the matter; that the man was sold
at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the money, he knew
nothing of the affair.
Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result; and,
accordingly, some six months after, the latter, having business for his
mother, down the river, resolved to visit New Orleans, in person, and
push his inquiries, in hopes of discovering Tom’s whereabouts, and
restoring him.
After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest accident,
George fell in with a man, in New Orleans, who happened to be possessed
of the desired information; and with his money in his pocket, our hero
took steamboat for Red River, resolving to find out and re-purchase his
old friend.
He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legree in the
sitting-room.
Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality,
“I understand,” said the young man, “that you bought, in New Orleans, a
boy, named Tom. He used to be on my father’s place, and I came to see
if I couldn’t buy him back.”
Legree’s brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately: “Yes, I did
buy such a fellow,—and a h—l of a bargain I had of it, too! The most
rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Set up my niggers to run away; got off
two gals, worth eight hundred or a thousand apiece. He owned to that,
and, when I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said he knew, but
he wouldn’t tell; and stood to it, though I gave him the cussedest
flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I b’lieve he’s trying to die; but I
don’t know as he’ll make it out.”
“Where is he?” said George, impetuously. “Let me see him.” The cheeks
of the young man were crimson, and his eyes flashed fire; but he
prudently said nothing, as yet.
“He’s in dat ar shed,” said a little fellow, who stood holding George’s
horse.
Legree kicked the boy, and swore at him; but George, without saying
another word, turned and strode to the spot.
Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night, not suffering, for
every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the
most part, in a quiet stupor; for the laws of a powerful and well-knit
frame would not at once release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth,
there had been there, in the darkness of the night, poor desolated
creatures, who stole from their scanty hours’ rest, that they might
repay to him some of those ministrations of love in which he had always
been so abundant. Truly, those poor disciples had little to give,—only
the cup of cold water; but it was given with full hearts.
Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face,—tears of late
repentance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying love and
patience had awakened to repentance, and bitter prayers, breathed over
him to a late-found Saviour, of whom they scarce knew more than the
name, but whom the yearning ignorant heart of man never implores in
vain.
Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and, by
overhearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made for her and
Emmeline, had been there, the night before, defying the danger of
detection; and, moved by the last few words which the affectionate soul
had yet strength to breathe, the long winter of despair, the ice of
years, had given way, and the dark, despairing woman had wept and
prayed.
When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart
sick.
“Is it possible,—is it possible?” said he, kneeling down by him. “Uncle
Tom, my poor, poor old friend!”
Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved his
head gently, smiled, and said,
“Jesus can make a dying-bed
Feel soft as down pillows are.”
Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from the young man’s
eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.
“O, dear Uncle Tom! do wake,—do speak once more! Look up! Here’s Mas’r
George,—your own little Mas’r George. Don’t you know me?”
“Mas’r George!” said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble
voice; “Mas’r George!” He looked bewildered.
Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became
fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands
clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.
“Bless the Lord! it is,—it is,—it’s all I wanted! They haven’t forgot
me. It warms my soul; it does my heart good! Now I shall die content!
Bless the Lord, on my soul!”
“You shan’t die! you _mustn’t_ die, nor think of it! I’ve come to buy
you, and take you home,” said George, with impetuous vehemence.
“O, Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought me, and is going to
take me home,—and I long to go. Heaven is better than Kintuck.”
“O, don’t die! It’ll kill me!—it’ll break my heart to think what you’ve
suffered,—and lying in this old shed, here! Poor, poor fellow!”
“Don’t call me poor fellow!” said Tom, solemnly, “I _have_ been poor
fellow; but that’s all past and gone, now. I’m right in the door, going
into glory! O, Mas’r George! _Heaven has come!_ I’ve got the
victory!—the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory be to His name!”
George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power, with
which these broken sentences were uttered. He sat gazing in silence.
Tom grasped his hand, and continued,—“Ye mustn’t, now, tell Chloe, poor
soul! how ye found me;—‘t would be so drefful to her. Only tell her ye
found me going into glory; and that I couldn’t stay for no one. And
tell her the Lord’s stood by me everywhere and al’ays, and made
everything light and easy. And oh, the poor chil’en, and the baby;—my
old heart’s been most broke for ’em, time and agin! Tell ’em all to
follow me—follow me! Give my love to Mas’r, and dear good Missis, and