Chapter Chapter 34 · The Quadroon’s Story

. 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.

[Illustration: CASSY MINISTERING TO UNCLE TOM AFTER HIS WHIPPING.]

“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.

“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 isn’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 shouldn’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? Wasn’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 mistress taught her to read the Bible; and she’s

brought her 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. Didn’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 doesn’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? Tomorrow 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 that, they can’t do no

more. I’m clar, I’m set! I _know_ the 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 visitors 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 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 treated me strangely, but didn’t know. There

was a young 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 didn’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 didn’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 couldn’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,

wasn’t I that man’s wife? Wasn’t I faithful? For seven years, didn’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 then he called me his good angel, and said I’d saved his life.

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 couldn’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 didn’t

deceive me. I knew that the time had come; I was just like one turned

into stone; I couldn’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 live in daily fear and dread. I tried to make

the child 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 didn’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 wasn’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 wouldn’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, in tearing 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 thought that I heard him

scream. I got into the house; ran, 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 didn’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 didn’t mean to get well, and hoped I shouldn’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 wasn’t gayer, and didn’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. 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! 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 sobbing 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 isn’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

comforts she could, Cassy left the shed.