 | CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE QUADROON'S STORY. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
34. 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.
CASSY MINISTERING TO UNCLE TOM AFTER HIS WHIPPING. Page 198.
[Description: 709EAF. Illustration page. Illustration of Uncle Tom lying on the ground; a woman leans over him with a glass in her hand.]
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 is n'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 should n'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 thing that he 's too good to do. I could
make any one's hair rise, and their teeth chatter, if I should
only tell what I 've seen and been knowing to, here, — and
it 's no use resisting! Did I want to live with him? Was n't
I a woman delicately bred; and he — God in heaven! what
was he, and is he? And yet, I 've lived with him, these
five years, and cursed every moment of my life, — night and
day! And now, he 's got a new one, — a young thing, only
fifteen, and she brought up, she says, piously. Her good
Bible here — to hell with her!” — and the woman laughed
a wild and doleful laugh, that rung, with a strange, supernatural
sound, through the old ruined shed.
Tom folded his hands; all was darkness and horror.
“O Jesus! Lord Jesus! have you quite forgot us poor
critturs?” burst forth, at last; — “help, Lord, I perish!”
The woman sternly continued:
“And what are these miserable low dogs you work with,
that you should suffer on their account? Every one of them
would turn against you, the first time they got a chance.
They are all of 'em as low and cruel to each other as they
can be; there 's no use in your suffering to keep from hurting
them.”
“Poor critturs!” said Tom, — “what made 'em cruel? —
and, if I give out, I shall get used to 't, and grow, little by little,
just like 'em! No, no, Missis! I 've lost everything, — wife,
and children, and home, and a kind Mas'r, — and he would
have set me free, if he 'd only lived a week longer; I 've lost
everything in this world, and it 's clean gone, forever, — and
now I can't lose Heaven, too; no, I can't get to be wicked,
besides all!”
“But it can't be that the Lord will lay sin to our account,”
said the woman; “he won't charge it to us, when we 're forced
to it; he 'll charge it to them that drove us to it.”
“Yes,” said Tom; “but that won't keep us from growing
wicked. If I get to be as hard-hearted as that ar' Sambo,
and as wicked, it won't make much odds to me how I come
so; it 's the bein' so, — that ar 's what I 'm a dreadin'.”
The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if
a new thought had struck her; and then, heavily groaning,
said,
“O God a' mercy! you speak the truth! O — O —
O!” — and, with groans, she fell on the floor, like one crushed
and writhing under the extremity of mental anguish.
There was a silence, a while, in which the breathing of both
parties could be heard, when Tom faintly said, “O, please,
Missis!”
The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to
its usual stern, melancholy expression.
“Please, Missis, I saw 'em throw my coat in that ar' corner,
and in my coat-pocket is my Bible; — if Missis would
please get it for me.”
Cassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heavily
marked passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the life of
Him by whose stripes we are healed.
“If Missis would only be so good as read that ar', — it 's
better than water.”
Cassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked over
the passage. She then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with a
beauty of intonation that was peculiar, that touching account
of anguish and of glory. Often, as she read, her voice faltered,
and sometimes failed her altogether, when she would
stop, with an air of frigid composure, till she had mastered
herself. When she came to the touching words, “Father
forgive them, for they know not what they do,” she threw
down the book, and, burying her face in the heavy masses of
her hair, she sobbed aloud, with a convulsive violence.
Tom was weeping, also, and occasionally uttering a smothered
ejaculation.
“If we only could keep up to that ar'!” said Tom; — “it
seemed to come so natural to him, and we have to fight so
hard for 't! O Lord, help us! O blessed Lord Jesus, do
help us!”
“Missis,” said Tom, after a while, “I can see that, some
how, you 're quite 'bove me in everything; but there 's one
thing Missis might learn even from poor Tom. Ye said the
Lord took sides against us, because he lets us be 'bused and
knocked round; but ye see what come on his own Son, — the
blessed Lord of Glory, — wan't he allays poor? and have we,
any on us, yet come so low as he come? The Lord han't
forgot us, — I 'm sartin' o' that ar'. If we suffer with him, we
shall also reign, Scripture says; but, if we deny Him, he also
will deny us. Did n't they all suffer? — the Lord and all
his? It tells how they was stoned and sawn asunder, and
wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins, and was destitute,
afflicted, tormented. Sufferin' an't no reason to make
us think the Lord 's turned agin us; but jest the contrary,
if only we hold on to him, and does n't give up to sin.”
“But why does he put us where we can't help but sin?”
said the woman.
“I think we can help it,” said Tom.
“You 'll see,” said Cassy; “what 'll you do? To-morrow
they 'll be at you again. I know 'em; I 've seen all their
doings; I can't bear to think of all they 'll bring you to; —
and they 'll make you give out, at last!”
“Lord Jesus!” said Tom, “you will take care of my
soul? O Lord, do! — don't let me give out!”
“O dear!” said Cassy; “I 've heard all this crying and
praying before; and yet, they 've been broken down, and
brought under. There 's Emmeline, she 's trying to hold
on, and you 're trying, — but what use? You must give up,
or be killed by inches.”
“Well, then, I will die!” said Tom. “Spin it out as long
as they can, they can't help my dying, some time! — and, after
Lord 'll help me, and bring me through.”
The woman did not answer; she sat with her black eyes
intently fixed on the floor.
“May be it 's the way,” she murmured to herself; “but
those that have given up, there 's no hope for them! — none!
We live in filth, and grow loathsome, till we loathe ourselves!
And we long to die, and we don't dare to kill ourselves! —
No hope! no hope! no hope! — this girl now, — just as old
as I was!
“You see me now,” she said, speaking to Tom very rapidly;
“see what I am! Well, I was brought up in luxury;
the first I remember is, playing about, when I was a child, in
splendid parlors; — when I was kept dressed up like a doll,
and company and visiters used to praise me. There was
a garden opening from the saloon windows; and there I used
to play hide-and-go-seek, under the orange-trees, with my
brothers and sisters. I went to a convent, and there I
learned music, French and embroidery, and what not; and
when I was fourteen, I came out to my father's funeral.
He died very suddenly, and when the property came to be
settled, they found that there was scarcely enough to cover
the debts; and when the creditors took an inventory of the
property, I was set down in it. My mother was a slave
woman, and my father had always meant to set me free; but
he had not done it, and so I was set down in the list. I 'd
always known who I was, but never thought much about it.
Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man is a going
to die. My father was a well man only four hours before he
died; — it was one of the first cholera cases in New Orleans.
The day after the funeral, my father's wife took her children,
and went up to her father's plantation. I thought they
lawyer who they left to settle the business; and he came every
day, and was about the house, and spoke very politely to me.
He brought with him, one day, a young man, whom I thought
the handsomest I had ever seen. I shall never forget that
evening. I walked with him in the garden. I was lonesome
and full of sorrow, and he was so kind and gentle to me; and
he told me that he had seen me before I went to the convent,
and that he had loved me a great while, and that he would
be my friend and protector; — in short, though he did n't tell
me, he had paid two thousand dollars for me, and I was his
property, — I became his willingly, for I loved him. Loved!”
said the woman, stopping. “O, how I did love that man!
How I love him now, — and always shall, while I breathe!
He was so beautiful, so high, so noble! He put me into a
beautiful house, with servants, horses, and carriages, and furniture,
and dresses. Everything that money could buy, he
gave me; but I did n't set any value on all that, — I only
cared for him. I loved him better than my God and my own
soul; and, if I tried, I could n't do any other way from what
he wanted me to.
“I wanted only one thing — I did want him to marry me.
I thought, if he loved me as he said he did, and if I was what
he seemed to think I was, he would be willing to marry me
and set me free. But he convinced me that it would be
impossible; and he told me that, if we were only faithful to
each other, it was marriage before God. If that is true,
was n't I that man's wife? Was n't I faithful? For seven
years, did n't I study every look and motion, and only live
and breathe to please him? He had the yellow fever, and for
twenty days and nights I watched with him. I alone, — and
gave him all his medicine, and did everything for him; and
We had two beautiful children. The first was a boy, and we
called him Henry. He was the image of his father, — he had
such beautiful eyes, such a forehead, and his hair hung all in
curls around it; and he had all his father's spirit, and his talent,
too. Little Elise, he said, looked like me. He used to
tell me that I was the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, he
was so proud of me and the children. He used to love to
have me dress them up, and take them and me about in an
open carriage, and hear the remarks that people would make
on us; and he used to fill my ears constantly with the fine
things that were said in praise of me and the children. O,
those were happy days! I thought I was as happy as any
one could be; but then there came evil times. He had a
cousin come to New Orleans, who was his particular friend, —
he thought all the world of him; — but, from the first time I
saw him, I could n't tell why, I dreaded him; for I felt sure he
was going to bring misery on us. He got Henry to going out
with him, and often he would not come home nights till two or
three o'clock. I did not dare say a word; for Henry was so
high-spirited, I was afraid to. He got him to the gaming-houses;
and he was one of the sort that, when he once got a
going there, there was no holding back. And then he introduced
him to another lady, and I saw soon that his heart
was gone from me. He never told me, but I saw it, — I
knew it, day after day, — I felt my heart breaking, but I
could not say a word! At this, the wretch offered to buy me
and the children of Henry, to clear off his gambling debts,
which stood in the way of his marrying as he wished; — and
he sold us. He told me, one day, that he had business in the
country, and should be gone two or three weeks. He spoke
kinder than usual, and said he should come back; but it
just like one turned into stone; I could n't speak, nor shed a
tear. He kissed me and kissed the children, a good many
times, and went out. I saw him get on his horse, and I
watched him till he was quite out of sight; and then I fell
down, and fainted.
“Then he came, the cursed wretch! he came to take
possession. He told me that he had bought me and my
children; and showed me the papers. I cursed him before
God, and told him I 'd die sooner than live with him.
“`Just as you please,' said he; `but, if you don't behave
reasonably, I 'll sell both the children, where you shall never
see them again.' He told me that he always had meant to
have me, from the first time he saw me; and that he had
drawn Henry on, and got him in debt, on purpose to make
him willing to sell me. That he got him in love with
another 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
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 did n'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 was n'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 would n'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, intearing
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
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 did n'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 did n't mean to get well, and hoped I should n'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 was n't gayer, and
did n'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
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 sobbings 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 is n'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 comfort she could, Cassy left the
shed.
| CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE QUADROON'S STORY. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |