“Well, here’s a pious dog, at last, let
down among us sinners!—a saint, a gentleman,
and no less, to talk to us sinners about our sins!
Powerful holy critter, he must be! Here, you
rascal, you make believe to be so pious,—didn’t
you never hear, out of yer Bible, ’Servants,
obey yer masters’? An’t I yer master?
Didn’t I pay down twelve hundred dollars, cash,
for all there is inside yer old cussed black shell?
An’t yer mine, now, body and soul?” he
said, giving Tom a violent kick with his heavy boot;
“tell me!”
In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by
brutal oppression, this question shot a gleam of joy
and triumph through Tom’s soul. He suddenly
stretched himself up, and, looking earnestly to heaven,
while the tears and blood that flowed down his face
mingled, he exclaimed,
“No! no! no! my soul an’t yours, Mas’r!
You haven’t bought it,—ye can’t
buy it! It’s been bought and paid for, by
one that is able to keep it;—no matter,
no matter, you can’t harm me!”
“I can’t!” said Legree, with a sneer;
“we’ll see,—we’ll see!
Here, Sambo, Quimbo, give this dog such a breakin’
in as he won’t get over, this month!”
The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom,
with fiendish exultation in their faces, might have
formed no unapt personification of powers of darkness.
The poor woman screamed with apprehension, and all
rose, as by a general impulse, while they dragged him
unresisting from the place.
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. It isn’t the first
time I’ve been out in the night, carrying water
to such as you.”
“Thank you, Missis,” said Tom, when he
had done drinking.
