University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE VICTORY.

Have not many of us, in the weary way of life, felt, in
some hours, how far easier it were to die than to live?

The martyr, when faced even by a death of bodily anguish
and horror, finds in the very terror of his doom a strong stimulant
and tonic. There is a vivid excitement, a thrill and
fervor, which may carry through any crisis of suffering that
is the birth-hour of eternal glory and rest.

But to live, — to wear on, day after day, of mean, bitter,
low, harassing servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed,
every power of feeling gradually smothered, — this long and
wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow, daily bleeding away of
the inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour, — this is the
true searching test of what there may be in man or woman.

When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor, and heard
his threats, and thought in his very soul that his hour was
come, his heart swelled bravely in him, and he thought he
could bear torture and fire, bear anything, with the vision of
Jesus and heaven but just a step beyond; but, when he was
gone, and the present excitement passed off, came back the
pain of his bruised and weary limbs, — came back the sense of
his utterly degraded, hopeless, forlorn estate; and the day
passed wearily enough.

Long before his wounds were healed, Legree insisted that
he should be put to the regular field-work; and then came

day after day of pain and weariness, aggravated by every kind
of injustice and indignity that the ill-will of a mean and malicious
mind could devise. Whoever, in our circumstances,
has made trial of pain, even with all the alleviations which,
for us, usually attend it, must know the irritation that comes
with it. Tom no longer wondered at the habitual surliness
of his associates; nay, he found the placid, sunny temper,
which had been the habitude of his life, broken in on, and
sorely strained, by the inroads of the same thing. He
had flattered himself on leisure to read his Bible; but there
was no such thing as leisure there. In the height of the
season, Legree did not hesitate to press all his hands through,
Sundays and week-days alike. Why should n't he? — he made
more cotton by it, and gained his wager; and if it wore out a
few more hands, he could buy better ones. At first, Tom
used to read a verse or two of his Bible, by the flicker of the
fire, after he had returned from his daily toil; but, after the
cruel treatment he received, he used to come home so
exhausted, that his head swam and his eyes failed when he
tried to read; and he was fain to stretch himself down, with
the others, in utter exhaustion.

Is it strange that the religious peace and trust, which had
upborne him hitherto, should give way to tossings of soul and
despondent darkness? The gloomiest problem of this mysterious
life was constantly before his eyes, — souls crushed and
ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent. It was weeks and
months that Tom wrestled, in his own soul, in darkness and
sorrow. He thought of Miss Ophelia's letter to his Kentucky
friends, and would pray earnestly that God would send him
deliverance. And then he would watch, day after day, in the
vague hope of seeing somebody sent to redeem him; and,
when nobody came, he would crush back to his soul bitter

thoughts, — that it was vain to serve God, that God had forgotten
him. He sometimes saw Cassy; and sometimes, when
summoned to the house, caught a glimpse of the dejected form
of Emmeline, but held very little communion with either; in
fact, there was no time for him to commune with anybody.

One evening, he was sitting, in utter dejection and prostration,
by a few decaying brands, where his coarse supper was
baking. He put a few bits of brushwood on the fire, and
strove to raise the light, and then drew his worn Bible from
his pocket. There were all the marked passages, which had
thrilled his soul so often, — words of patriarchs and seers,
poets and sages, who from early time had spoken courage to
man, — voices from the great cloud of witnesses who ever surround
us in the race of life. Had the word lost its power,
or could the failing eye and weary sense no longer answer to
the touch of that mighty inspiration? Heavily sighing, he
put it in his pocket. A coarse laugh roused him; he looked
up, — Legree was standing opposite to him.

“Well, old boy,” he said, “you find your religion don't
work, it seems! I thought I should get that through your
wool, at last!”

The cruel taunt was more than hunger and cold and nakedness.
Tom was silent.

“You were a fool,” said Legree; “for I meant to do well
by you, when I bought you. You might have been better off
than Sambo, or Quimbo either, and had easy times; and,
instead of getting cut up and thrashed, every day or two, ye
might have had liberty to lord it round, and cut up the other
niggers; and ye might have had, now and then, a good warming
of whiskey punch. Come, Tom, don't you think you 'd
better be reasonable? — heave that ar old pack of trash in the
fire, and join my church!”

“The Lord forbid!” said Tom, fervently.

“You see the Lord an't going to help you; if he had
been, he would n't have let me get you! This yer religion
is all a mess of lying trumpery, Tom. I know all about it.
Ye 'd better hold to me; I 'm somebody, and can do something!”

“No, Mas'r,” said Tom; “I 'll hold on. The Lord may
help me, or not help; but I 'll hold to him, and believe him
to the last!”

“The more fool you!” said Legree, spitting scornfully at
him, and spurning him with his foot. “Never mind; I 'll
chase you down, yet, and bring you under, — you 'll see!”
and Legree turned away.

When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level at
which endurance is possible, there is an instant and desperate
effort of every physical and moral nerve to throw off the
weight; and hence the heaviest anguish often precedes a
return tide of joy and courage. So was it now with Tom.
The atheistic taunts of his cruel master sunk his before
dejected soul to the lowest ebb; and, though the hand of faith
still held to the eternal rock, it was with a numb, despairing
grasp. Tom sat, like one stunned, at the fire. Suddenly
everything around him seemed to fade, and a vision rose before
him of one crowned with thorns, buffeted and bleeding. Tom
gazed, in awe and wonder, at the majestic patience of the face;
the deep, pathetic eyes thrilled him to his inmost heart; his
soul woke, as, with floods of emotion, he stretched out his
hands and fell upon his knees, — when, gradually, the vision
changed: the sharp thorns became rays of glory; and, in
splendor inconceivable, he saw that same face bending compassionately
towards him, and a voice said, “He that overcometh

shall sit down with me on my throne, even as I also
overcame, and am set down with my Father on his throne.”

How long Tom lay there, he knew not. When he came to
himself, the fire was gone out, his clothes were wet with the
chill and drenching dews; but the dread soul-crisis was past,
and, in the joy that filled him, he no longer felt hunger, cold,
degradation, disappointment, wretchedness. From his deepest
soul, he that hour loosed and parted from every hope in
the life that now is, and offered his own will an unquestioning
sacrifice to the Infinite. Tom looked up to the silent, everliving
stars, — types of the angelic hosts who ever look down
on man; and the solitude of the night rung with the
triumphant words of a hymn, which he had sung often in
happier days, but never with such feeling as now:

Those who have been familiar with the religious histories
of the slave population know that relations like what we
have narrated are very common among them. We have
heard some from their own lips, of a very touching and
affecting character. The psychologist tells us of a state, in
which the affections and images of the mind become so

dominant and overpowering, that they press into their service
the outward senses, and make them give tangible shape to
the inward imagining. Who shall measure what an all-pervading
Spirit may do with these capabilities of our mortality,
or the ways in which He may encourage the desponding
souls of the desolate? If the poor forgotten slave believes
that Jesus hath appeared and spoken to him, who shall contradict
him? Did He not say that his mission, in all ages,
was to bind up the broken-hearted, and set at liberty them
that are bruised?

When the dim gray of dawn woke the slumberers to go
forth to the field, there was among those tattered and
shivering wretches one who walked with an exultant tread;
for firmer than the ground he trod on was his strong faith in
Almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree, try all your forces
now! Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want, and loss of all
things, shall only hasten on the process by which he shall be
made a king and a priest unto God!

From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed
the lowly heart of the oppressed one, — an ever-present
Saviour hallowed it as a temple. Past now the bleeding of
earthly regrets; past its fluctuations of hope, and fear, and
desire; the human will, bent, and bleeding, and struggling
long, was now entirely merged in the Divine. So short now
seemed the remaining voyage of life, — so near, so vivid,
seemed eternal blessedness, — that life's uttermost woes fell
from him unharming.

All noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness
and alertness seemed to return to him, and a quietness which
no insult or injury could ruffle seemed to possess him.

“What the devil 's got into Tom?” Legree said to Sambo.

“A while ago he was all down in the mouth, and now he 's
peart as a cricket.”

“Dunno, Mas'r; gwine to run off, mebbe.”

“Like to see him try that,” said Legree, with a savage
grin, “would n't we, Sambo?”

“Guess we would! Haw! haw! ho!” said the sooty
gnome, laughing obsequiously. “Lord, de fun! To see
him stickin' in de mud, — chasin' and tarin' through de bushes,
dogs a holdin' on to him! Lord, I laughed fit to split, dat
ar time we cotched Molly. I thought they 'd a had her all
stripped up afore I could get 'em off. She car's de marks
o' dat ar spree yet.”

“I reckon she will, to her grave,” said Legree. “But
now, Sambo, you look sharp. If the nigger 's got anything
of this sort going, trip him up.”

“Mas'r, let me lone for dat,” said Sambo. “I 'll tree de
coon. Ho, ho, ho!”

This was spoken as Legree was getting on to his horse, to
go to the neighboring town. That night, as he was returning,
he thought he would turn his horse and ride round the
quarters, and see if all was safe.

It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the
graceful China trees lay minutely pencilled on the turf below,
and there was that transparent stillness in the air which it
seems almost unholy to disturb. Legree was at a little
distance from the quarters, when he heard the voice of some
one singing. It was not a usual sound there, and he paused
to listen. A musical tenor voice sang,

“So ho!” said Legree to himself, “he thinks so, does he?
How I hate these cursed Methodist hymns! Here, you
nigger,” said he, coming suddenly out upon Tom, and raising
his riding-whip, “how dare you be gettin' up this yer row,
when you ought to be in bed? Shut yer old black gash, and
get along in with you!”

“Yes, Mas'r,” said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he
rose to go in.

Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom's evident
happiness; and, riding up to him, belabored him over his
head and shoulders.

“There, you dog,” he said, “see if you 'll feel so comfortable,
after that!”

But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as
before, on the heart. Tom stood perfectly submissive; and
yet Legree could not hide from himself that his power over
his bond thrall was somehow gone. And, as Tom disappeared
in his cabin, and he wheeled his horse suddenly
round, there passed through his mind one of those vivid
flashes that often send the lightning of conscience across the
dark and wicked soul. He understood full well that it was
God who was standing between him and his victim, and he
blasphemed him. That submissive and silent man, whom
taunts, nor threats, nor stripes, nor cruelties, could disturb,

roused a voice within him, such as of old his Master roused in
the demoniac soul, saying, “What have we to do with thee,
thou Jesus of Nazareth? — art thou come to torment us before
the time?”

Tom's whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy
for the poor wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it
seemed as if his life-sorrows were now over, and as if, out of
that strange treasury of peace and joy, with which he had
been endowed from above, he longed to pour out something
for the relief of their woes. It is true, opportunities were
scanty; but, on the way to the fields, and back again, and
during the hours of labor, chances fell in his way of extending
a helping-hand to the weary, the disheartened and discouraged.
The poor, worn-down, brutalized creatures, at first,
could scarce comprehend this; but, when it was continued
week after week, and month after month, it began to awaken
long-silent chords in their benumbed hearts. Gradually and
imperceptibly the strange, silent, patient man, who was ready
to bear every one's burden, and sought help from none, — who
stood aside for all, and came last, and took least, yet was
foremost to share his little all with any who needed, — the
man who, in cold nights, would give up his tattered blanket
to add to the comfort of some woman who shivered with sickness,
and who filled the baskets of the weaker ones in the
field, at the terrible risk of coming short in his own measure,
— and who, though pursued with unrelenting cruelty by their
common tyrant, never joined in uttering a word of reviling or
cursing, — this man, at last, began to have a strange power
over them; and, when the more pressing season was past, and
they were allowed again their Sundays for their own use,
many would gather together to hear from him of Jesus. They
would gladly have met to hear, and pray, and sing, in some

place, together; but Legree would not permit it, and more
than once broke up such attempts, with oaths and brutal execrations,
— so that the blessed news had to circulate from individual
to individual. Yet who can speak the simple joy with
which some of those poor outcasts, to whom life was a joyless
journey to a dark unknown, heard of a compassionate Redeemer
and a heavenly home? It is the statement of missionaries,
that, of all races of the earth, none have received
the Gospel with such eager docility as the African. The
principle of reliance and unquestioning faith, which is its
foundation, is more a native element in this race than any
other; and it has often been found among them, that a stray
seed of truth, borne on some breeze of accident into hearts the
most ignorant, has sprung up into fruit, whose abundance has
shamed that of higher and more skilful culture.

The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been
well-nigh crushed and overwhelmed, by the avalanche of
cruelty and wrong which had fallen upon her, felt her soul
raised up by the hymns and passages of Holy Writ, which
this lowly missionary breathed into her ear in intervals, as
they were going to and returning from work; and even the
half-crazed and wandering mind of Cassy was soothed and
calmed by his simple and unobtrusive influences.

Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of a
life, Cassy had often resolved in her soul an hour of retribution,
when her hand should avenge on her oppressor all the
injustice and cruelty to which she had been witness, or which
she had in her own person suffered.

One night, after all in Tom's cabin were sunk in sleep, he
was suddenly aroused by seeing her face at the hole between
the logs, that served for a window. She made a silent gesture
for him to come out.

Tom came out the door. It was between one and two
o'clock at night, — broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom remarked,
as the light of the moon fell upon Cassy's large,
black eyes, that there was a wild and peculiar glare in them,
unlike their wonted fixed despair.

“Come here, Father Tom,” she said, laying her small
hand on his wrist, and drawing him forward with a force as if
the hand were of steel; “come here, — I 've news for you.”

“What, Misse Cassy?” said Tom, anxiously.

“Tom, would n't you like your liberty?”

“I shall have it, Misse, in God's time,” said Tom.

“Ay, but you may have it to-night,” said Cassy, with a
flash of sudden energy. “Come on.”

Tom hesitated.

“Come!” said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on
him. “Come along! He 's asleep — sound. I put enough
into his brandy to keep him so. I wish I 'd had more, — I
should n't have wanted you. But come, the back door is
unlocked; there 's an axe there, I put it there, — his room
door is open; I 'll show you the way. I 'd a done it myself,
only my arms are so weak. Come along!”

“Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse!” said Tom, firmly,
stopping and holding her back, as she was pressing forward.

“But think of all these poor creatures,” said Cassy. “We
might set them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, and
find an island, and live by ourselves; I 've heard of its being
done. Any life is better than this.”

“No!” said Tom, firmly. “No! good never comes of
wickedness. I 'd sooner chop my right hand off!”

“Then I shall do it,” said Cassy, turning.

“O, Misse Cassy!” said Tom, throwing himself before
her, “for the dear Lord's sake that died for ye, don't sell

your precious soul to the devil, that way! Nothing but evil
will come of it. The Lord has n't called us to wrath. We
must suffer, and wait his time.”

“Wait!” said Cassy. “Have n't I waited? — waited till
my head is dizzy and my heart sick? What has he made me
suffer? What has he made hundreds of poor creatures suffer?
Is n't he wringing the life-blood out of you? I 'm
called on; they call me! His time 's come, and I 'll have
his heart's blood!”

“No, no, no!” said Tom, holding her small hands, which
were clenched with spasmodic violence. “No, ye poor, lost
soul, that ye must n't do. The dear, blessed Lord never shed
no blood but his own, and that he poured out for us when we
was enemies. Lord, help us to follow his steps, and love our
enemies.”

“Love!” said Cassy, with a fierce glare; “love such enemies!
It is n't in flesh and blood.”

“No, Misse, it is n't,” said Tom, looking up; “but He
gives it to us, and that 's the victory. When we can love
and pray over all and through all, the battle 's past, and the
victory 's come, — glory be to God!” And, with streaming
eyes and choking voice, the black man looked up to heaven.

And this, oh Africa! latest called of nations, — called to
the crown of thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross
of agony, — this is to be thy victory; by this shalt thou reign
with Christ when his kingdom shall come on earth.

The deep fervor of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice,
his tears, fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of the poor
woman. A softness gathered over the lurid fires of her eye;
she looked down, and Tom could feel the relaxing muscles of
her hands, as she said,

“Did n't I tell you that evil spirits followed me? O!

Father Tom, I can't pray, — I wish I could. I never have
prayed since my children were sold! What you say must
be right, I know it must; but when I try to pray, I can only
hate and curse. I can't pray!”

“Poor soul!” said Tom, compassionately. “Satan desires
to have ye, and sift ye as wheat. I pray the Lord for ye. O!
Misse Cassy, turn to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind
up the broken-hearted, and comfort all that mourn.”

Cassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from
her downcast eyes.

“Misse Cassy,” said Tom, in a hesitating tone, after surveying
her a moment in silence, “if ye only could get away
from here, — if the thing was possible, — I 'd 'vise ye and
Emmeline to do it; that is, if ye could go without blood-guiltiness,
— not otherwise.”

“Would you try it with us, Father Tom?”

“No,” said Tom; “time was when I would; but the
Lord's given me a work among these yer poor souls, and I 'll
stay with 'em and bear my cross with 'em till the end. It 's
different with you; it 's a snare to you, — it 's more 'n you
can stand, — and you 'd better go, if you can.”

“I know no way but through the grave,” said Cassy.
“There 's no beast or bird but can find a home somewhere;
even the snakes and the alligators have their places to lie
down and be quiet; but there 's no place for us. Down in
the darkest swamps, their dogs will hunt us out, and find us.
Everybody and everything is against us; even the very beasts
side against us, — and where shall we go?”

Tom stood silent; at length he said,

“Him that saved Daniel in the den of lions, — that saved
the children in the fiery furnace, — Him that walked on the
sea, and bade the winds be still, — He 's alive yet; and I 've

faith to believe he can deliver you. Try it, and I 'll pray,
with all my might, for you.”

By what strange law of mind is it that an idea long overlooked,
and trodden under foot as a useless stone, suddenly
sparkles out in new light, as a discovered diamond?

Cassy had often revolved, for hours, all possible or probable
schemes of escape, and dismissed them all, as hopeless and
impracticable; but at this moment there flashed through her
mind a plan, so simple and feasible in all its details, as to
awaken an instant hope.

“Father Tom, I 'll try it!” she said, suddenly.

“Amen!” said Tom; “the Lord help ye!”