“But, Lord! she wasn’t quite a bad woman, — poor Miss Harrit wasn’t, — and she wouldn’t have done so bad, if it hadn’t been for him. But he’d come and have prayers, and exhort, and den come prowling round my place like a wolf, looking at my chil’en.
“‘And, Milly,’ he’d say, ‘how do you do now? Lucy is getting to be a right smart girl, Milly. How old is she? Dere’s a lady in Washington has advertised for a maid, — a nice woman, a pious lady. I suppose you wouldn’t object, Milly? Your poor mistress is in great trouble for money.’
“I never said nothing to that man. Only once, when he asked me what I thought my Lucy would be worth, when she was fifteen years old, says I to him: —
“‘Sir, she is worth to me just what your daughter is worth to you.’
“Den I went in and shut de door. I didn’t stay to see how he took it. Den he’d go up to de house, and talk to Miss Harrit. ’Twas her duty, he’d tell her, to take proper care of her goods. And dat ar meant selling my chil’en. I ‘member, when Miss Susy came home from boarding-school, she was a pretty girl: but I didn’t look on her very kind, I tell you, ‘cause three of my chil’en had been sold to keep her at school. My Lucy, — ah, honey! — she went for a lady’s maid. I knowed what dat ar meant, well enough. De lady had a son grown, and he took Lucy with him to Orleans, and dere was an end of dat. Dere don’t no letters go ‘tween us. Once gone, we can’t write, and it is good as being dead. Ah, no, chile, not so good! Paul used to teach Lucy little hymns, nights, ‘fore she went to sleep. And if she’d ‘a’ died right off after one of dem, it would have been better for her. Oh, honey, ‘long dem times I used to rave and toss like a bull in a net — I did so!
“Well, honey, I wasn’t what I was. I got cross and ugly. Miss Harrit, she grew a great Christian, and joined de church, and used to have heaps of ministers and elders at her house; and some on ’em used to try and talk to me. I told ’em I’d seen enough of der old religion, and I didn’t want to hear no more. But Paul, he was a Christian; and when he talked to me, I was quiet, like, though I couldn’t be like what he was. Well, last, my missis promised me one. She’d give me my youngest child, sure and certain. His name was Alfred. Well, dat boy — I loved dat child better dan any of de rest of ‘em. He was all I’d got left to love; for when he was a year old, Paul’s master moved away down to Louisiana, and took him off, and I never heard no more of him. So it ‘peared as if dis yer child was all I had left. Well, he was a bright boy. Oh, he was most uncommon! He was so handy to anything, and saved me so many steps! Oh, honey, he had such ways with him — dat boy! — would always make me laugh. He took after larnin’ mighty, and he larned himself to read; and he’d read de Bible to me, sometimes. I just brought him up and teached him de best way I could. All dat made me ‘fraid for him was, dat he was so spirity. I’s ‘fraid ‘t would get him into trouble.
“He wa’n’t no more spirity dan white folks would like der chil’en fur to be. When white chil’en holds up der heads, and answers back, den de parents laugh, and say, ‘He’s got it in him! He’s a bright one!’ But if one of ourn does so, it’s a drefful thing. I was allers talking to Alfred ‘bout it, and telled him to keep humble. It ‘peared like there was so much in him, you couldn’t keep it down. Laws, Miss Nina, folks may say what dey like about de black folks, dey’ll never beat it out of my head; —— dere’s some on ’em can be as smart as any white folks, if dey could have de same chance. How many white boys did you ever see would take de trouble for to teach their selves to read? And dat’s what my Alfred did. Laws, I had a mighty heap of comfort in him, ‘cause I was thinkin’ to get my missis to let me hire my time; den I was going to work over-hours, and get money, and buy him; because, you see, chile, I knowed he was too spirity for a slave. You see he couldn’t learn to stoop; he wouldn’t let nobody impose on him; and he always had a word back again to give anybody as good as dey sent. Yet for all dat, he was a dear, good boy to me; and when I used to talk to him, and tell him dese things was dangerous, he’d always promise fur to be kerful. Well, things went on pretty well while he was little, and I kept him with me till he got to be about twelve or thirteen years old. He used to wipe de dishes, and scour de knives, and black de shoes, and such like work. But by and by, dey said it was time dat he should go to de reg’lar work; and dat ar was de time I felt ‘feard. Missis had an overseer, and he was real aggravating, and I felt ‘feard dere’d be trouble; and sure enough dere was, too. Dere was always somethin’ brewing ‘tween him and Alfred; and he was always running to missis with tales, and I was talking to Alfred. But ‘peared like he aggravated de boy so, dat he couldn’t do right. Well, one day, when I had been up to town for an errand, I come home at night, and I wondered Alfred didn’t come home to his supper. I thought something was wrong; and I went to de house, and dere sat Miss Harrit by a table covered with rolls of money, and dere she was a-counting it.
“‘Miss Harrit,’ says I, ‘I can’t find Alfred. Ain’t you seen him?’ says I.
“At first she didn’t answer, but went on counting — fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three. Finally I spoke again.
“‘I hope there ain’t nothing happened to Alfred, Miss Harrit?’
“She looked up, and says she to me, —
“‘Milly,’ says she, ‘de fact is, Alfred has got too much for me to manage, and I had a great deal of money offered for him; and I sold him.’
“I felt something strong coming up in my throat, and I just went up and took hold of her shoulders, and said I,—” ‘Miss Harrit, you took de money for thirteen of my chil’en, and you promised me, sure enough, I should have dis yer one. You call dat being a Christian?’ says I. “‘Why,’ says she, ‘Milly, he ain’t a great way off; you can see him about as much. It’s only over to Mr. Jones’s plantation. You can go and see him, and he can come and see you. And you know you didn’t like the man who had the care of him here, and thought he was always getting him into trouble.’
“‘ Miss Harrit,’ says I, ‘you may cheat yourself saying dem things; but you don’t cheat me, nor de Lord neither. You folks have de say all on your side, with your ministers preaching us down out of de Bible; you won’t teach us to read. But I’m going straight to de Lord with dis yer case. I tell you, if de Lord is to be found, I’ll find him; and I’ll ask him to look on ‘t, — de way you’ve been treating me, — selling my chil’en, all de way ‘long, to pay for your chil’en, and now breaking your word to me, and taking dis yer boy, de last drop of blood in my heart! I’ll pray de Lord to curse every cent of dat ar money to you and your chil’en!’
“Dat ar was de way I spoke to her, child. I was poor, ignorant cretur, and didn’t know God, and my heart was like a red-hot coal. I turned and walked right straight out from her. I didn’t speak no more to her, and she didn’t speak no more to me. And when I went to bed at night, dar, sure ‘nough, was Alfred’s bed in de corner, and his Sunday coat hanging up over it, and his Sunday shoes I had bought for him with my own money; ‘cause he was a handsome boy, and I wanted him always to look nice. Well, so, come Sunday morning, I took his coat and his shoes, and made a bundle of ‘em, and I took my stick, and says I, ‘I’ll just go over to Jones’s place and see what has ‘come of Alfred.’ All de time, I hadn’t said a word to missis, nor she to me. Well, I got about halfway over to de place, and dere I stopped under a big hickory-tree, to rest me a bit, and I looked along and seed some one a-coming; and pretty soon I knowed it was Huldah. She was one that married Paul’s cousin, and she lived on Jones’s place. And so I got up and went to meet her, and told her I was going over to see ‘bout Alfred.
“‘Lord!’ says she, ‘Milly, haven’t you heard dat Alfred’s dead?’
“Well, Miss Nina, it seemed as if my heart and everything in it stopped still. And said I, ‘Huldah, has dey killed him?’
“And said she, ‘Yes.’ And she told me it was dis yer way. Dat Stiles — he dat was Jones’s overseer — had heard dat Alfred was dreadful spirity; and when boys is so, some
times dey aggravates ’em to get ’em riled, and den dey whips ’em to break ’em in. So Stiles, when he was laying off Alfred’s task, was real aggravating to him; and dat boy — well, he answered back, just as he allers would be doing, ‘cause he was smart, and it ‘peared like he couldn’t keep it in. And den dey all laughed round dere, and den Stiles was mad, and swore he’d whip him; and den Alfred, he cut and run. And den Stiles he swore awful at him, and he told him to ‘come here, and he’d give him hell, and pay him de cash.’ Dem is de very words he said to my boy. And Alfred said he wouldn’t come back; he wasn’t going to be whipped. And just den young Master Bill come along, and wanted to know what was de matter. So Stiles told him, and he took out his pistol, and said, ‘Here, young dog, if you don’t come back before I count five, I’ll fire!’
“‘Fire ahead!’ says Alfred; ‘cause, you see, dat boy never knowed what fear was. And so he fired. And Huldah said he just jumped up and give one scream, and fell flat. And dey run up to him, and he was dead; ‘cause, you see, de bullet went right through his heart. Well, dey took off his jacket and looked, but it wa’n’t of no use; his face settled down still. And Huldah said dat dey just dug a hole and put him in. Nothing on him — nothing round him — no coffin; like he’d been a dog. Huldah showed me de jacket. Dere was de hole, cut right round in it, like it was stamped, and his blood running out on it. I didn’t say a word. I took up de jacket, and wrapped it up with his Sunday clothes, and I walked straight — straight home. I walked up into missis’ room, and she was dressed for church, sure enough, and sat dere reading her Bible. I laid it right down under her face, dat jacket. ‘You see dat hole!’ said I; ‘you see dat blood! Alfred’s killed! You killed him; his blood be on you and your chil’en! O Lord Godin heaven, hear me, and render unto her double!’”
Nina drew in her breath hard, with an instinctive shudder. Milly had drawn herself up, in the vehemence of her narration, and sat leaning forward, her black eyes dilated, her strong arms clenched before her, and her powerful frame expanding and working with the violence of her emotion. She might have looked, to one with mythological associations, like the figure of a black marble Nemesis in a trance of wrath. She sat so for a few minutes, and then her muscles relaxed, her eyes gradually softened; she looked tenderly but solemnly down on Nina. “Dem was awful words, chile; but I was in Egypt den. I was wandering in de wilderness of Sinai. I had heard de sound of de trumpet, and de voice of words; but, chile, I hadn’t seen de Lord. Well — I went out, and I didn’t speak no more to Miss Harrit. Dere was a great gulf fixed ‘tween us; and dere didn’t no words pass over it. I did my work — I scorned not to do it; but I didn’t speak to her. Den it was, chile, dat I thought of what my mother told me, years ago; it came to me, all fresh—’ Chile, when trouble comes, you ask de Lord to help you;’ and I saw dat I hadn’t asked de Lord to help me; and now, says I to myself, de Lord can’t help me; ‘cause he couldn’t bring back Alfred, no way you could fix it; and yet I wanted to find de Lord, ‘cause I was so tossed up and down. I wanted just to go and say, ‘ Lord, you see what dis woman has done.’ I wanted to put it to him, if he’d stand up for such a thing as that. Lord, how de world, and everything, looked to me in dem times! Everything goin’ on in de way it did; and dese yer Christians, dat said dat dey was going into de kingdom, doing as dey did! I tell you, I sought de Lord early and late. Many nights I have been out in de woods and laid on de ground till morning, calling and crying, and ‘peared like nobody heerd me. Oh, how strange it used to look, when I looked up to de stars! winking at me, so kind of still and solemn, but never saying a word! Sometimes I got dat wild, it seemed as if I could tear a hole through de sky, ‘cause I must find God; I had an errand to him, and I must find him.
“Den I heard ’em read out de Bible, ‘bout how de Lord met a man on a threshing-floor, and I thought maybe if I had a threshing-floor he would come to me. So I threshed down a place just as hard as I could under de trees; and den I prayed dere — but he didn’t come. Den dere was coming a great camp-meeting; and I thought I’d go and see if I could find de Lord dere; because, you see, missis, she let her people go Sunday to de camp-meeting. Well, I went into de tents and heerd dem sing; and I went afore de altar, and I heerd preaching; but it ‘peared like it was no good. It didn’t touch me nowhere; and I couldn’t see nothing to it. I heerd ’em read out of de Bible, ‘ Oh, dat I knew where I might find him. I would come even to his seat. I would order my cause before him. I would fill my mouth with arguments;’ and I thought, sure enough, dat ar’s just what I want. Well, came on dark night, and dey had all de camp-fires lighted up, and dey was singing de hymns round and round, and I went for to hear de preaching. And dere was a man, — pale, lean man he was, with black eyes and black hair. Well, dat ar man, he preached a sermon, to be sure, I never shall forget. His text was, ‘ He that spared not his own Son, but freely delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him freely give us all things?’ Well, you see, the first sound of dis took me, because I’d lost my son. And the man, he told us who de son of God was, — Jesus, — Oh, how sweet and beautiful he was! How he went round doing for folks. O Lord, what a story dat ar was! And den, how dey took him, and put de crown of thorns on his head, and hung him up bleeding, bleeding, and bleeding! God so loved us dat he let his own dear Son suffer all dat for us. Chile, I got up, and I went to de altar, and I kneeled down with de mourners; and I fell flat on my face, and dey said I was in a trance. Maybe I was. Where I was, I don’t know; but I saw de Lord! Chile, it seemed as if my very heart was still. I saw him, suffering, bearing with us, year in and year out — bearing — bearing — bearing so patient!’Peared like, it wa’n’t just on de cross; but, bearing always, everywhar! Oh, chile, I saw how he loved us! — us all — all — every one on us! — we dat hated each other so!’Peared like he was using his heart up for us, all de time — bleedin’ for us like he did on Calvary, and willin’ to bleed! Oh, chile, I saw what it was for me to be hatin’, like I’d hated. ‘O Lord,’ says I, ‘I give up! O Lord, never see you afore; I didn’t know. Lord, I’s a poor sinner! I won’t hate no more!’ And oh, chile, den dere come such a rush of love in my soul! Says I, ‘ Lord, I ken love even de white folks!’ And den came another rush; and says I, ‘Yes, Lord, I love poor Miss Harrit, dat’s sole all my chil’en, and been de death of my poor Alfred! I loves her.’ Chile, I overcome — I did so — I overcome by de blood of de Lamb — de Lamb! — Yes, de Lamb, chile!—’cause if he’d been a lion I could ‘a’ kept in; ’twas de Lamb dat overcome.
“When I come to, I felt like a chile. I went home to Miss Harrit; and I hadn’t spoke peaceable to her since Alfred died. I went in to her. She’d been sick, and she was in her room, looking kinder pale and y aller, poor thing; ‘cause her son, honey, he got drunk and ‘bused her awful. I went in, and says I, ‘Oh, Miss Harrit, I’s seen de Lord! Miss Harrit, I ain’t got no more hard feelin’s; I forgive ye, and loves ye with all my heart, just as de Lord does.’ Honey, ye ought to see how dat woman cried! Says she, ‘Milly, I’s a great sinner.’ Says I, ‘Miss Harrit, we’s sinners, both on us, but de Lord gives hisself for us both; and if he loves us poor sinners, we mustn’t be hard on each other. Ye was tempted, honey,’ says I (for you see I felt like makin’ scuses for her); ‘but de Lord Jesus has got a pardon for both on us.’
“After dat, I didn’t have no more trouble with Miss Harrit. Chile, we was sisters in Jesus. I bore her burdens, and she bore mine. And, dear, de burdens was heavy; for her son he was brought home a corpse; he shot hisself right through de heart trying to load a gun when he was drunk. Oh, chile, I thought den how I’d prayed de Lord to render unto her double; but I had a better mind den. Ef I could have brought poor Mas’r George to life, I’d ‘a’ done it; and I held de poor woman’s head on my arm all dat ar night, and she a-screamin’ every hour. Well, dat ar took her down to de grave. She didn’t live much longer; but she was ready to die. She sent and bought my daughter Lucy’s son, dis here Tom, and gin him to me. Poor thing! s
he did all she could.
“I watched with her de night she died. Oh, Miss Nina, if ever ye ‘re tempted to hate anybody, think how ‘t’ll be with ’em when dey comes to die.
“She died hard, poor thing! and she was cast down ‘bout her sins. ‘Oh, Milly,’ says she, ‘the Lord and you may forgive me, but I can’t forgive myself.’
“‘And,’ says I to her, ‘oh, missis, don’t think of it no more! de Lord’s hid it in his own heart!’ Oh, but she struggled long, honey; she was all night dyin’, and ‘t was ‘Milly! Milly!’ all de time; ‘Oh, Milly, stay with me!’
“And, chile, I felt I loved her like my own soul; and when de day broke de Lord set her free, and I laid her down like she’d been one o’ my babies. I took up her poor hand. It was warm, but the strength was all gone out on ‘t; and, ‘ Oh,’ I thought, ‘ ye poor thing, how could I ever have hated ye so?’ Ah, chile, we mustn’t hate nobody; we’s all poor creatures, and de dear Lord he loves us all.”
CHAPTER XVII
UNCLE JOHN
ABOUT four miles east of Canema lay the plantation of Nina’s uncle, whither Harry had been sent on the morning which we have mentioned. The young man went upon his errand in no very enviable mood of mind. Uncle Jack, as Nina always called him, was the nominal guardian of the estate, and a more friendly and indulgent one Harry could not have desired. He was one of those joyous, easy souls whose leading desire seemed to be that everybody in the world should make himself as happy as possible, without fatiguing him with consultations as to particulars. His confidence in Harry was unbounded; and he esteemed it a good fortune that it was so, as he was wont to say, laughingly, that his own place was more than he could manage. Like all gentlemen who make the study of their own ease a primary consideration, Uncle Jack found the whole course of nature dead-set against him. For as all creation is evidently organized with a view to making people work, it follows that no one has so much care as the man who resolves not to take any. Uncle Jack was systematically, and as a matter of course, cheated and fleeced by his overseers, by his negroes, and the poor whites of his vicinity, and worst of all, continually hectored and lectured by his wife therefor. Nature, or Destiny, or whoever the lady may be that deals the matrimonial cards, with her usual thoughtfulness in balancing opposites, had arranged that jovial, easy, care-hating Uncle John should have been united to a most undaunted and ever-active spirit of enterprise and resolution, who never left anything quiet in his vicinity. She it was who continually disturbed his repose, by constantly ferreting out, and bringing before his view, all the plots, treasons, and conspiracies with which plantation life is ever abounding; bringing down on his devoted head the necessity of discriminations, decisions, and settlements, most abhorrent to an easy man.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 83