第 四十 章 · The Martyr

. The Martyr

“Deem not the just by Heaven forgot!

Though life its common gifts deny,—

Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,

And spurned of man, he goes to die!

For God hath marked each sorrowing day,

And numbered every bitter tear,

And heaven’s long years of bliss shall pay

For all his children suffer here.” BRYANT.[1]

[1] This poem does not appear in the collected works of William Cullen

Bryant, nor in the collected poems of his brother, John Howard Bryant.

It was probably copied from a newspaper or magazine.

The longest way must have its close,—the gloomiest night will wear on

to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying

the day of the evil to an eternal night, and the night of the just to

an eternal day. We have walked with our humble friend thus far in the

valley of slavery; first through flowery fields of ease and indulgence,

then through heart-breaking separations from all that man holds dear.

Again, we have waited with him in a sunny island, where generous hands

concealed his chains with flowers; and, lastly, we have followed him

when the last ray of earthly hope went out in night, and seen how, in

the blackness of earthly darkness, the firmament of the unseen has

blazed with stars of new and significant lustre.

The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains, and gales

and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unclosing.

The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper of

Legree to the last degree; and his fury, as was to be expected, fell

upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the

tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom’s eye, a

sudden upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he

did not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to

do it; but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when

commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his

hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.

Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him to

pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives.

When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-working

hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gather in a deadly and

desperate form. Had not this man braved him,—steadily, powerfully,

resistlessly,—ever since he bought him? Was there not a spirit in him

which, silent as it was, burned on him like the fires of perdition?

“I _hate_ him!” said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his bed; “I

_hate_ him! And isn’t he MINE? Can’t I do what I like with him? Who’s

to hinder, I wonder?” And Legree clenched his fist, and shook it, as if

he had something in his hands that he could rend in pieces.

But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and, although Legree

hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat

of a restraint to him.

The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; to assemble a

party, from some neighboring plantations, with dogs and guns; to

surround the swamp, and go about the hunt systematically. If it

succeeded, well and good; if not, he would summon Tom before him,

and—his teeth clenched and his blood boiled—_then_ he would break the

fellow down, or—there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul

assented.

Ye say that the _interest_ of the master is a sufficient safeguard for

the slave. In the fury of man’s mad will, he will wittingly, and with

open eye, sell his own soul to the devil to gain his ends; and will he

be more careful of his neighbor’s body?

“Well,” said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she reconnoitred

through the knot-hole, “the hunt’s going to begin again, today!”

Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the space in

front of the house; and one or two leashes of strange dogs were

struggling with the negroes who held them, baying and barking at each

other.

The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the vicinity; and

others were some of Legree’s associates at the tavern-bar of a

neighboring city, who had come for the interest of the sport. A more

hard-favored set, perhaps, could not be imagined. Legree was serving

brandy, profusely, round among them, as also among the negroes, who had

been detailed from the various plantations for this service; for it was

an object to make every service of this kind, among the negroes, as

much of a holiday as possible.

Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning air blew

directly towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of the

conversation. A grave sneer overcast the dark, severe gravity of her

face, as she listened, and heard them divide out the ground, discuss

the rival merits of the dogs, give orders about firing, and the

treatment of each, in case of capture.

Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, and said, “O,

great Almighty God! we are _all_ sinners; but what have _we_ done, more

than all the rest of the world, that we should be treated so?”

There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as she spoke.

“If it wasn’t for _you_, child,” she said, looking at Emmeline, “I’d

_go_ out to them; and I’d thank any one of them that _would_ shoot me

down; for what use will freedom be to me? Can it give me back my

children, or make me what I used to be?”

Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of the dark

moods of Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made no answer. She only took

her hand, with a gentle, caressing movement.

“Don’t!” said Cassy, trying to draw it away; “you’ll get me to loving

you; and I never mean to love anything, again!”

“Poor Cassy!” said Emmeline, “don’t feel so! If the Lord gives us

liberty, perhaps he’ll give you back your daughter; at any rate, I’ll

be like a daughter to you. I know I’ll never see my poor old mother

again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or not!”

The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her, put her

arm round her neck, stroked her soft, brown hair; and Emmeline then

wondered at the beauty of her magnificent eyes, now soft with tears.

“O, Em!” said Cassy, “I’ve hungered for my children, and thirsted for

them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here!” she said,

striking her breast, “it’s all desolate, all empty! If God would give

me back my children, then I could pray.”

“You must trust him, Cassy,” said Emmeline; “he is our Father!”

“His wrath is upon us,” said Cassy; “he has turned away in anger.”

“No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in Him,” said

Emmeline,—“I always have had hope.”

The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and, with

grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree, as, weary and

dispirited, he alighted from his horse.

“Now, Quimbo,” said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the

sitting-room, “you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away! The

old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter; and I’ll have it

out of his old black hide, or I’ll know the reason why!”

Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were joined in one

mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them, at

first, that he had bought him for a general overseer, in his absence;

and this had begun an ill will, on their part, which had increased, in

their debased and servile natures, as they saw him becoming obnoxious

to their master’s displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed, with a

will, to execute his orders.

Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all the

plan of the fugitives’ escape, and the place of their present

concealment;—he knew the deadly character of the man he had to deal

with, and his despotic power. But he felt strong in God to meet death,

rather than betray the helpless.

He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, “Into thy

hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, oh Lord God of

truth!” and then quietly yielded himself to the rough, brutal grasp

with which Quimbo seized him.

“Ay, ay!” said the giant, as he dragged him along; “ye’ll cotch it,

now! I’ll boun’ Mas’r’s back ’s up _high!_ No sneaking out, now! Tell

ye, ye’ll get it, and no mistake! See how ye’ll look, now, helpin’

Mas’r’s niggers to run away! See what ye’ll get!”

The savage words none of them reached that ear!—a higher voice there

was saying, “Fear not them that kill the body, and, after that, have no

more that they can do.” Nerve and bone of that poor man’s body vibrated

to those words, as if touched by the finger of God; and he felt the

strength of a thousand souls in one. As he passed along, the trees and

bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation,

seemed to whirl by him as the landscape by the rushing ear. His soul

throbbed,—his home was in sight,—and the hour of release seemed at

hand.

“Well, Tom!” said Legree, walking up, and seizing him grimly by the

collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of

determined rage, “do you know I’ve made up my mind to KILL YOU?”

“It’s very likely, Mas’r,” said Tom, calmly.

“I _have_,” said Legree, with a grim, terrible calmness,

“_done—just—that—thing_, Tom, unless you’ll tell me what you know about

these yer gals!”

Tom stood silent.

“D’ye hear?” said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an

incensed lion. “Speak!”

“_I han’t got nothing to tell, Mas’r_,” said Tom, with a slow, firm,

deliberate utterance.

“Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t _know_?” said

Legree.

Tom was silent.

“Speak!” thundered Legree, striking him furiously. “Do you know

anything?”

“I know, Mas’r; but I can’t tell anything. _I can die!_”

Legree drew in a long breath; and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by

the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said, in a terrible

voice, “Hark ’e, Tom!—ye think, ’cause I’ve let you off before, I don’t

mean what I say; but, this time, _I’ve made up my mind_, and counted

the cost. You’ve always stood it out again’ me: now, _I’ll conquer ye,

or kill ye!_—one or t’ other. I’ll count every drop of blood there is

in you, and take ’em, one by one, till ye give up!”

Tom looked up to his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick, or

in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d _give_ ye my heart’s

blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would

save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave his for

me. O, Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you

more than ’t will me! Do the worst you can, my troubles’ll be over

soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’t _never_ end!”

Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull of a

tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment’s blank pause. Legree

stood aghast, and looked at Tom; and there was such a silence, that the

tick of the old clock could be heard, measuring, with silent touch, the

last moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.

It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause,—one irresolute,

relenting thrill,—and the spirit of evil came back, with seven-fold

vehemence; and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the

ground.

Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What man

has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. What brother-man and

brother-Christian must suffer, cannot be told us, even in our secret

chamber, it so harrows the soul! And yet, oh my country! these things

are done under the shadow of thy laws! O, Christ! thy church sees them,

almost in silence!

But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an instrument of

torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol of glory, honor, and

immortal life; and, where His spirit is, neither degrading stripes, nor

blood, nor insults, can make the Christian’s last struggle less than

glorious.

Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing

up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes?

Nay! There stood by him ONE,—seen by him alone,—“like unto the Son of

God.”

The tempter stood by him, too,—blinded by furious, despotic will,—every

moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the innocent.

But the brave, true heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his

Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save;

nor could utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayers and

holy trust.

“He’s most gone, Mas’r,” said Sambo, touched, in spite of himself, by

the patience of his victim.

“Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him!—give it to him!” shouted

Legree. “I’ll take every drop of blood he has, unless he confesses!”

Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. “Ye poor miserable

critter!” he said, “there ain’t no more ye can do! I forgive ye, with

all my soul!” and he fainted entirely away.

“I b’lieve, my soul, he’s done for, finally,” said Legree, stepping

forward, to look at him. “Yes, he is! Well, his mouth’s shut up, at

last,—that’s one comfort!”

Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul? that soul,

past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never

shall be quenched is already burning!

Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers had

struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks, who had been the

instruments of cruelty upon him; and, the instant Legree withdrew, they

took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him back to

life,—as if _that_ were any favor to him.

“Sartin, we ’s been doin’ a drefful wicked thing!” said Sambo; “hopes

Mas’r’ll have to ’count for it, and not we.”

They washed his wounds,—they provided a rude bed, of some refuse

cotton, for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealing up to the

house, begged a drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he was

tired, and wanted it for himself. He brought it back, and poured it

down Tom’s throat.

“O, Tom!” said Quimbo, “we’s been awful wicked to ye!”

“I forgive ye, with all my heart!” said Tom, faintly.

“O, Tom! do tell us who is _Jesus_, anyhow?” said Sambo;—“Jesus, that’s

been a standin’ by you so, all this night!—Who is he?”

The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few

energetic sentences of that wondrous One,—his life, his death, his

everlasting presence, and power to save.

They wept,—both the two savage men.

“Why didn’t I never hear this before?” said Sambo; “but I do believe!—I

can’t help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!”

“Poor critters!” said Tom, “I’d be willing to bar all I have, if it’ll

only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these two more souls, I

pray!”

That prayer was answered!