The Christian Slave

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

money,--the price of their blood! Then it seemed as if all good had forsaken 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 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 I 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. O,

  there was one man!--I shall never forget that man's face! He told him that he

  would n't get away so; that he had got to go in with him and get a lesson he 'd

  never forget. The poor child screamed, and looked in my face, and held on to me

  so that, when they tore him off, they tore the skirt of my dress half away; and

  they carried him in screaming "Mother! mother! mother!" I turned and ran; every

  step I heard him scream. I got to the house, all out of breath, into the parlor,

  and 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.-----Look here! Do you know

  something in my head snapped then?--snapped, you know! It 's never come right

  since. I saw a great knife--I caught it--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 was the last that I ever heard of him. Then he found where my

  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! So, when he was two

  weeks old, I took the little fellow in my arms, and I gave him laudanum. It did

  n't hurt him; it made him so quiet, and I held him close--close to my bosom, and

  he slept to death! And I 'm not sorry now! That 's one of the few things I 'm

  glad of. Yes, yes; he 's safe! They 'll never sell him--they 'll never whip him!

  No, no; nothing can hurt him! Ah! death is the best thing we can give our

  children. 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! [Cassy rises and walks about--stops suddenly.] You tell me there 's a

  God,--a God that looks down and sees all these things. May be it 's so. The

  sisters 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! I 'll send him

  where he belongs--a short way, too--one of these nights, if they burn me alive

  for it! [Sobs and struggles.] Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow?

  Shall I give you some more water?

  Uncle T.

  O, missis, I wish you would go to Him that can give living waters.

  Cas.

  Go to Him! Where is he? Who is he?

  Uncle T.

  Him you read of, the Lord Jesus!

  Cas.

  I used to see the picture of him over the altar; but he is n't here. No; he is

  n't here! There 's nothing here but sin--and long--long--long despair! Don't

  talk, poor fellow! it 's no use. Try to make yourself comfortable, and sleep if

  you can.

  [Exit Cassy.]

  SCENE V.--Sitting-Room.

  Legree. [Drinking.]

  Plague on that Sambo, to kick up his yer row between me and the new hands! The

  fellow won't be fit to work for a week now,--right in the press of the season.

  Cassy.

  Yes; just like you.

  Leg.

  Hah! you she-devil! you 've come back, have you?

  Cas.

  Yes, I have; come to have my own way, too!

  Leg.

  You lie, you jade! I 'll be up to my word. Either behave yourself, or stay down

  to the quarters, and fare and work with the rest.

  Cas.

  I 'd rather, ten thousand times, live in the dirtiest hole at the quarters, than

  be under your hoof!

  Leg.

  But you are under my hoof, for all that; that 's one comfort. So, sit down here

  on my knee, my dear, and hear to reason.

  Cas.

  Simon Legree, take care! You 're afraid of me, Simon; and you 've reason to be!

  But be careful, for I 've got the devil in me!

  Leg.

  Get out! I believe to my soul you have! After all, Cassy, why can't you be

  friends with me as you used to?

  Cas.

  Used to!

  Leg.

  Come, Cassy, I wish you 'd behave yourself decently.

  Cas.

>   You talk about behaving decently! And what have you been doing? You, who have

  n't even sense enough to keep from spoiling one of your best hands, right in the

  most pressing season, just for your devilish temper!

  Leg.

  I was a fool, it 's a fact, to let any such brangle come up; but when the boy

  set up his will, he had to be broke in.

  Cas.

  I reckon you won't break him in!

  Leg.

  Won't I? I 'd like to know if I won't! He 'll be the first nigger that ever came

  it round me! I 'll break every bone in his body but he shall give up!

  Cas.

  No, he won't!

  Leg.

  I 'd like to know why, mistress.

  Cas.

  Because he 's done right, and he knows it, and won't say he 's doing wrong.

  Leg.

  Who a cuss cares what he knows? The nigger shall say what I please, or-----

  Cas.

  Or you 'll lose your bet on the cotton crop by keeping him out of the field just

  at this very press.

  Leg.

  But he will give up; of course he will. Don't I know what niggers is? He 'll beg

  like a dog this morning.

  Cas.

  He won't, Simon; you don't know this kind. You may kill him by inches, you won't

  get the first word of confession out him.

  Leg.

  We 'll see. Where is he?

  Cas.

  In the waste-room of the gin house.

  [Exit LEGREE.] Cas. [Solus.]

  Would it be a sin to kill such a wretch as that?

  Enter EMMELINE. Emmeline.

  O, Cassy! is it you? I 'm so glad you've come! I was afraid it was ----- O, you

  won't know what a horrid noise there has been, down stairs, all this evening!

  Cas.

  I ought to know; I 've heard it often enough.

  Em.

  O, Cassy! Do tell me,--could n't we get away from this place? I don't care

  where,--into the swamp among the snakes,--anywhere! Could n't we get somewhere

  away from here?

  Cas.

  Nowhere but into our graves!

  Em.

  Did you ever try?

  Cas.

  I 've seen enough of trying, and what comes of it?

  Em.

  I 'd be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark from trees. I an't

  afraid of snakes! I 'd rather have one near me than him.

  Cas.

  There have been a good many here of your opinion; but you could n't stay in the

  swamps. You 'd be tracked by the dogs, and brought back, and then--then--

  Em.

  What would he do?

  Cas.

  What would n't he do, you 'd better ask! He 's learned his trade well among the

  pirates in the West Indies. You would n't sleep much, if I should tell you

  things I 've seen,--things that he tells of, so metimes, for good jokes. I 've

  heard screams here that I have n't been able to get out of my head for weeks and

  weeks. There 's a place way out down by the quarters, where you can see a black,

  blasted tree, and the ground all covered with black ashes. Ask any one what was

  done there, and see if they will dare to tell you.

  Em.

  O, what do you mean?

  Cas.

  I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And, I tell you, the Lord only knows

  what we may see to-morrow, if that poor fellow holds out as he 's begun!

  Em.

  Horrid! O, Cassy, do tell me what I shall do!

  Cas.

  What I 've done. Do the best you can--do what you must, and make it up in hating

  and cursing!

  Em.

  He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy; and I hate it so--

  Cas.

  You 'd better drink. I hated it too; and now I can't live without it. One must

  have something--things don't look so dreadful when you take that.

  Em.

  Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing.

  Cas.

  Mother told you! What use is it for mothers to say anything? You are all to be

  bought and paid for, and your souls belong to whoever gets you. That 's the way

  it goes. I say, drink brandy; dr ink all you can, and it 'll make things come

  easier!

  Em.

  O, Cassy, do pity me!

  Cas.

  Pity you!--and don't I? Have n't I a daughter?--Lord knows where she is, and

  whose she is now,--going the way her mother went before her, I suppose, and that

  her children must go after her! There 's no end to the curse--forever!

  Em.

  I wish I 'd never been born!

  Cas.

  That 's an old wish with me. I 've got used to wishing that. I 'd die if I dared

  to!

  Em.

  It would be wicked to kill one's self.

  Cas.

  I don't know why;--no wickeder than things we live and do day after day. But the

  sisters told me things, when I was in the convent, that make me afraid to die.

  If it would only be the end of us, why then--

  Legree. [Calling.]

  Cassy!--I say!--Emmeline!

  Cas.

  There he is!--What now?

  [Exeunt.]

  SCENE VI.--Moonlight. UNCLE TOM--Solus. [Sings.]

  "Way down upon the Swanee river,

  Far, far away,

  Dere's whar my heart is turning, ever,

  Dere's whar the old folks stay.

  All the world am sad and dreary,

  Everywhere I roam;

  O, Chloe, how my heart grows weary,

  Thinkin' of ye all at home!"

  [A pause. Looks up. His face brightens. Sings.]

  "When I can read my title clear

  To mansions in the skies,

  I bid farewell to every fear,

  And wipe my weeping eyes.

  Should earth against my soul engage,

  And hellish darts be hurled,

  Then I can smile at Satan's rage,

  And face a frowning world." [Enter LEGREE, unperceived.]

  "Let cares like a wild deluge come,

  And storms of sorrow fall,

  May I but safely reach my home,

  My God, my heaven, my all!" Leg.

  [Aside.] So, ho! he thinks so, does he! How I hate these cursed Methodist hymns!

  [To TOM, aloud.] Here, you nigger! 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!

  Uncle T.

  Yes, Mas'r.

  Leg. [Beating him.]

  There, you dog! see if you feel so comfortable after that!

  [Exit TOM.]

  SCENE VII.--Night. Before UNCLE TOM'S Cottage.

  Enter CASSY. She raps. UNCLE TOM opens the door. Cassy.

  Come here, father Tom! come here; I 've news for you!

  Uncle Tom.

  What, Misse Cassy?

  Cas.

  Tom, would n't you like your liberty?

  Uncle T.

  I shall have it, misse, in God's time.

  Cas.

  Ay, but you may have it to-night! Come on!

  [UNCLE TOM holds back.] Cas.

  Come! 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 is 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!
>
  Uncle T.

  Not for ten thousand worlds, misse!

  Cas.

  But think of all these poor creatures. 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.

  Uncle T.

  No, no! good never comes of wickedness. I 'd sooner chop my right hand off!

  Cas.

  Then I shall do it.

  Uncle T.

  O, misse Cassy! 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.

  Cas.

  Wait! 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!

  Uncle T.

  No, no, no! 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!

  Cas.

  Love! love such enemies! it is n't in flesh and blood.

  Uncle T.

  No, misse, it is n't; 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! Misse Casse, if you could only 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.

  Cas.

  Would you try it with us, father Tom?

  Uncle T.

  No; 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.

  Cas.

  I know no way but through the grave! 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 the 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?

  Uncle T.

  He that saved Daniel in the den of lions--that saved the children in the fiery

  furnace--He 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 will pray with

  all my might for you.

  Cas.

  Father Tom, I 'll try it!

  [Exit CASSY, UNCLE TOM.

  SCENE VIII.--A Room. Evening.

  CASSY and EMMELINE sorting and arranging baggage. Cassy.

  These will be large enough; now on with your bonnet, and let 's start.

  Emmeline.

  Why, they can see us yet.

  Cas.

  I mean they shall. Don't you know they must have that chase after us, at any

  rate? See here, now, their way will be just this: We steal out of the back door,

  and run down by the Court House. Sambo or Quimbo wil l be sure to see us. They

  will give chase, and we will get into the swamp. Then I can't go any further

  till they go up and turn out the dogs; and while they are blundering around, and

  tumbling over each other, as they always do, you and I will just slip along to a

  creek, and run into the water, till we get back to the house; that will put the

  dogs all at fault; for scent won't lie in the water. Every one will run out of

  the house to look after us, and then we 'll whip into the back door, and then to

  the garret, where I have got a nice bed made up in one of the great boxes. We

  must stay there a good while; for, I tell you, he will raise heaven and earth

  after us. He boasts that no one ever got away from him. He 'll muster all the

  old overseers on the other plantations, and have a great hunt, and they 'll go

  over every inch of ground in that swamp. We 'll let him hunt at his leisure.

  Em.

  But won't he come to the garret?

  Cas.

  Not he, indeed! He is too much afraid of that place.

  Em.

  Cassy, how well you have planned it! Who would ever have thought that of you?

  Cas. [Reaching her hand to EMMELINE.]

  Come.

  SCENE IX.--A Wood. EMMELINE and CASSY stealing cautiously through the trees.

  Enter LEGREE at a distance. Perceives them. Legree.

  Hallo! you, there!

  Emmeline. [Staggers and catches hold of CASSY'S arm.]

  O, Cassy, I am going to faint!

  Cassy. [Holding up a dagger.]

  If you do, I 'll kill you!

  [She seizes EMMELINE under the arm and holds her up, as they disappear.] Legree.

  [Coming in sight, and looking after them.]