October 2, 1851 Transcription

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Chapter XVII.—The Freeman’s Defence.


There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house as the afternoon drew to a close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly to and fro, collecting from her household stores such needments as could be arranged in the smallest compass, for the wanderers who were to go forth that night. The afternoon shadows stretched eastward, and the round, red sun stood thoughtfully on the horizon, and his beams shone yellow and calm into the little bed-room where George and his wife were sitting. He was sitting with his child on his knee, and his wife’s hand in his. Both looked thoughtful and serious, and traces of tears were on their cheeks.

“Yes, Eliza,” said George, “I know all you say is true. You are a good child—a great deal better than I am; and I will try to do as you say. I’ll try to act worthy of a free man. I’ll try to feel like a Christian. God Almighty knows that I’ve meant to do well—tried hard to do well—when when[1] everything has been against me; and now I’ll forget all the past, and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and read my Bible, and learn to be a good man.”

“And when we get to Canada,” said Eliza, “I can help you. I can do dress-making very well; and I understand fine washing and ironing, and between us we can find something to live on.”

“Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. Oh! Eliza, if these people only knew what a blessing it is for a man to feel that his wife and child belong to him! I’ve often wondered to see men that could call their wives and children their own, fretting and worrying about anything else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but our bare hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for any more. Yes, though I’ve worked hard every day, till I am twenty-five years old, and have not a cent of money nor a roof to cover me, nor a spot of land to call my own, yet, if they will only let me alone now, I will be satisfied—thankful; I will work, and send back the money for you and my boy. As to my old master, he has been paid five times over for all he ever spent for me. I don’t owe him anything.”

“But yet we are not quite out of danger,” said Eliza, “we are not yet in Canada.”

“True,” said George, “but it seems as if I smelt the free air, and it makes me strong.”

At this moment voices were heard in the outer apartment in earnest conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the door. Eliza started and opened it.

Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whom he introdueed as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall and lathy, red-haired, with an expression of great acuteness and shrewdness in his face. He had not the placid, quiet, unworldly air of Simeon Halliday; on the contrary, a particularly wide-awake and au fait appearance, like a man who rather prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keeping a bright lookout ahead—peculiarities which sorted rather oddly with his broad brim and formal phraseology.

“Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of importance to the interests of thee and thy party, George,” said Simeon; “it were well for thee to hear it.”

“That I have,” said Phineas, “and it shows the use of a man’s always sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as I’ve always said. Last night I stopped at a little lone tavern, back on the road. Thee remembers the place, Simeon, where we sold some apples, last year, to that fat woman, with the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving; and after my supper, I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the corner, and pulled a buffalo over me, to wait till my bed was ready, and what does I do but get fast asleep.”

“With one ear open, Phineas?” said Simeon, quietly.

“No; I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was pretty well tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found that there were some men in the room, sitting round a table, drinking and talking; and I thought, before I made much muster, I’d just see what they were up to—especially as I heard them say something about the Quakers. ‘So,’ says one, ‘they are up in the Quaker Settlement, no doubt,’ says he. Then I listened with both ears, and I found that they were talking about this very party. So I lay, and heard them lay off all their plans. This young man, they said, was to be sent back to Kentucky, to his master, who was[2] going to make an example of him, to keep all niggers from running away; and his wife, two of them was going to run down to New Orleans to sell, on their own account, and they calculated to get sixteen or eighteen hundred dollars for her; and the child, they said, was going to a trader, who had bought him; and then there was the boy, Jim, and his mother—they were to go back to their masters in Kentucky. They said that there were two constables in a town a little piece ahead, who would go in with ’em to get ’em taken up, and the young woman was to be taken before a judge; and one of the fellows, who is small and smooth spoken, was to swear to her for his property, and get her delivered over to him to take South. They’ve got a right notion of the track we are going to-night; and they’ll be down after us, six or eight strong. So, now, what’s to be done?”

The group that stood in various attitudes, after this communication, were worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who had taken her hands out of a batch of biscuit, to hear the news, stood with them upraised and floury, and with a face of the deepest concern. Simeon looked profoundly thoughtful; Eliza had thrown her arms around her husband, and was looking up to him. George stood with clenched hands and glowing eyes, and looking as any other man might look, whose wife was to be sold at auction, and son sent to a trader, all under the shelter of a Christian nation’s laws.

“What shall we do, George?” said Eliza, faintly.

“I know what I shall do,” said George, as he stepped into the little room and began examining his pistols.

“Aye, aye,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; “thou seest, Simeon, how it will work.”

“I see,” said Simeon, sighing; “the Lord grant[3] it come not to that.”

“I don’t want to involve any one with or for me,” said George. “If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I will drive alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in strength, and brave as death and despair—and so am I.”

“Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, “but thee’ll need a driver, for all that. Thee’s quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee knows; but I know a thing or two about the road that thee doesn’t.”

“But I don’t want to involve you,” said George.

“Involve,” said Phineas, with a curious and keen expression of face. “When thee does involve me, please to let me know.”

“Phineas is a wise and skillful man,” said Simeon. “Thee does well, George, to abide by his judgment; and,” he added, laying his hand kindly on George’s shoulder, and pointing to the pistols, “be not over hasty with these—young blood is hot.”

“I will attack no man,” said George. “All I ask of this country is to be let alone, and I will go out peaceably; but”—he paused, and his brow darkened and his face worked. “I’ve had a sister sold in that New Orleans market. I know what they are sold for; and am I going to stand by and see them take my wife and sell her, when God has given me a pair of strong arms to defend her? No; God help me! I’ll fight to the last breath before they shall take my wife and son. Can you blame me?”

“Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood could not do otherwise,” said Simeon. “Wo unto the world because of offences, but wo unto them through whom the offence cometh.”

“Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?”

“The Lord grant I be not tried,” said Simeon; “the flesh is weak.”

“I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong in such a case,” said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the sails of a windmill. “I ain’t sure, friend George, that I shouldn’t hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any accounts to settle with him.”

“If man should ever resist evil,” said Simeon, “then George should feel free to do it now; but the leaders of our people taught a more excellent way: for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God; but it goes sorely against the corrupt will of man, and none can receive it save they to whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not tempted.”

“And so I do,” said Phineas; but if we are tempted too much——why, let them look out—that’s all.”

“It’s quite plain thee wasn’t born a Friend,” said Simeon, smiling. “The old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong, as yet.”

To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted backwoodsman—a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck—but, having wooed a pretty quakeress, had been moved by the power of her charms to join the Society in his neighborhood; and though he was an honest, sober, and efficient member, and nothing particular could be alleged against him, yet the more spiritual among them could not but discern an exceeding lack of savor in his developments.

“Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said Rachel Halliday, smiling; “but we all think that his heart is in the right place, after all.”

“Well,” said George, “isn’t it best that we hasten our flight?”

“I got up at four o’clock, and came on with all speed full two or three hours ahead of them, if they start at the time they planned. It isn’t safe to start till dark, at any rate, for there are some evil persons in the villages ahead, that might be disposed to meddle with us if they saw our wagon, and that would delay us more than the waiting; but in two hours I think we may venture. I will go over to Michael Cross, and engage him to come behind on his swift nag, and keep a bright lookout on the road, and warn us if any company of men come on. Michael keeps a horse that can soon get ahead of most other horses, and he could shoot ahead and let us know if there were any danger. I am going out now to warn Jim and the old woman to be in readiness, and to see about the horse. We have a pretty fair start, and stand a good chance to get to the stand before they can come up with us. So, have good courage, friend George—this isn’t the first ugly scrape that I’ve been in with thy people,” said Phineas, as he closed the door.

“Phineas is pretty shrewd,” said Simeon. “He will do the best that can be done for thee, George.”

“All I am sorry for,” said George, “is the risk to you.”

“Thee’ll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more about that. What we do we are conscience bound to do; we can do no other way. And now, mother,” said he, turning to Rachel, “hurry thy preparations for these friends, for we must not send them away fasting.”

And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn cake and cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the et ceteras of the evening meal, George and his wife sat in their little room, with their arms folded about each other, in such talk as husband and wife have when they know that a few hours may part them forever.

“Eliza,” said George, “people that have friends, and houses, and lands, and money, and all those things, can’t love as we do, who have nothing but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature ever had loved me but my poor, heart-broken mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that morning the trader carried her off. She came to the corner where I was lying asleep, and said, ‘Poor George, your last friend is going. What will become of you, poor boy?’ And I got up and threw my arms round her, and cried and sobbed, and she cried too; and those were the last kind words I got for ten long years; and my heart all withered up, and felt as dry as ashes, till I met you. And your loving me! why, it was almost like raising one from the dead! I’ve been a new man ever since! And now, Eliza, I’ll give my last drop of blood, but they shall not take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my dead body.”

“Oh, Lord, have mercy,” said Eliza, sobbing. “If he will only let us get out of this country together, that is all we ask.”

“Is God on their side?” said George, speaking less to his wife than pouring out his own bitter thoughts. “Does he see all they do? Why does he let such things happen? And they tell us that the Bible is on their side; certainly all the power is. They are rich and healthy and happy; they are members of churches, expecting to go to heaven; and they get along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way; and poor, honest, faithful Christians—Christians as good or better than they—are lying in the very dust under their feet. They buy ’em and sell ’em, and make trade of their heart’s blood and groans and tears—and God lets them.”

“Friend George,” said Simeon, from the kitchen, “listen to the Psalm; it may do thee good.”

George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her tears, came forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:

“But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well nigh slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. They are not in trouble like other men, neither are they plagued like other men. Therefore pride compasseth them as a chain—violence covereth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness—they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerning oppression—they speak loftily. Therefore his people return, and the waters of a full cup are wrung out to them, and they say, How doth God know? and is there knowledge in the Most High?”

“Is not that the way thee feels, George?”

“It is so, indeed,” said George—“as well as I could have written it myself.”

“Then hear,” said Simeon: “When I thought to know this, it was too painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of God. Then understood I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou castedst them down to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so, oh Lord, when thou awakest thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless, I am continually with thee; thou hast holden me by my right hand. Thou shalt guide me by thy counsel, and afterwards receive me to glory. It is good for me to draw near unto God. I have put my trust in the Lord God.”

The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, stole like sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of George; and after he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued expression on his fine features.

“If this world were all, George,” said Simeon, “thee might indeed ask, where is the Lord? But it is often those who have least of all in this life whom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him, and, no matter what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter.”

If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent exhorter, from whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and rhetorical flourish, proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps they might not have had much effect; but coming from one who daily and calmly risked fine and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, they had a weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor desolate fugitives found calmness and strength breathing into them from it.

And now Rachel took Eliza’s hand kindly, and led the way to the supper table. As they were sitting down, a light tap sounded at the door, and Ruth entered.

“I just ran in,” she said, “with these little stockings for the boy—three pair nice, warm, woollen ones. It will be so cold, thee knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza?” she added, tripping round to Eliza’s side of the table, and shaking her warmly by the hand, and slipping a seed cake into Harry’s hand. “I brought a little parcel of these for him,” she said, tugging at her pocket to get out the package. “Children, thee knows, will always be eating.”

“Oh, thank you; you are too kind,” said Eliza.

“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,” said Rachel.

“I couldn’t any way. I left John with the baby and some biscuits in the oven, and I can’t stay a moment—else John will burn up all the biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar in the bowl. That’s the way he does,” said the little Quakeress, laughing. So good bye, Eliza—good bye, George—the Lord grant thee a safe journey;” and, with a few tripping steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.

A little while after supper, a large covered wagon drew up before the door—the night was clear starlight—and Phineas jumped briskly down from his seat to arrange his passengers. George walked out of the door, with his child on one arm and his wife on the other. His step was firm, his face settled and resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them.

“You get out a moment,” said Phineas to those inside, “and let me fix the back of the wagon there for the women folks and the boy.”

“Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. “Make the seats as comfortable as may be; it’s hard riding all night.”

Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who clung to his arm and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the pursuer every moment.

“Jim, are your pistols all in order?” said George, in a low, firm voice.

“Yes, indeed,” said Jim.

“And you’ve no doubt what you shall do, if they come?”

“I rather think I haven’t,” said Jim, throwing open his broad chest, and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I’ll let them get mother again?”

During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leave of her kind friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by Simeon, and, creeping into the back part with her boy, sat down among the buffalo skins. The old woman was next handed in and seated, and George and Jim placed on a rough board seat front of them, and Phineas mounted in front.

“God bless you all,” said Simeon from without.

“God bless you,” answered all from within.

And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road.

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the roughness of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle therefore rumbled on, through long, dark stretches of woodland—over wide, dreary plains—up hills and down valleys—and on, on, on they jogged, hour after hour. The child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother’s lap. The poor frightened old woman at last forgot her fears; and even Eliza, as the night waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes from closing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of the company, and beguiled his long drive with whistling certain very unquaker-like songs as he went on.

But about three o’clock, George’s ear caught the hasty and decided click of a horse’s hoof coming behind them at some distance, and jogged Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses, and listened.

“That must be Michael,” he said. “I think I know the sound of his gallop;” and he rose up and stretched his head anxiously back over the road.

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a distant hill.

“There he is! I do believe,” said Phineas. George and Jim both sprang out of the wagon before they knew what they were doing. All stood intensely silent, with their faces turned towards the expected messenger. On he came—now he went down into a valley where they could not see him; but they heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and nearer—at last they saw him emerge on the top of an eminence within hail.

“Yes, that’s Michael!” said Phineas; and raising his voice, “Halloa, there, Michael!”

“Phineas! is that thee?”

“Yes; what news—they coming?”

“Right on behind, eight or ten of them—hot with brandy—swearing and foaming like so many wolves.”

And just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of galloping horsemen towards them.

“In with you! quick, boys! in!” said Phineas. “If you must fight, wait till I get you a piece ahead.” And with the word, both jumped in, and Phineas lashed the horses to a run—the horseman keeping close beside them—the wagon rattled, jumped, almost flew over the frozen ground; but plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of pursuing horsemen behind. The women heard it, and looking anxiously out, saw, far in the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party of men looming up against the red streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their pursuers had evidently caught sight of their wagon, whose white cloth-covered top made it conspicuous at some distance, and a loud yell of brutal triumph came forward on the wind. Eliza sickened, and strained her child closer to her bosom; the old woman prayed and groaned, and George and Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of despair. The pursuers gained on them fast; the carriage made a sudden turn, and brought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that rose in an isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all around it, quite clear and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose up black and heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed to promise shelter and concealment. It was a place well known to Phineas, who had been familiar with the spot in his hunting days, and it was to gain this point he had been racing his horses.

“Now, for it,” said he, suddenly checking his horses, and springing from his seat to the ground. “Out with you, in a twinkling, every one, and up into these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon, and drive ahead to Amariah’s, and get him and his boys to come back and talk to these fellows.”

In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.

“There,” said Phineas, catching up Harry, “you each of you see to the women; and run,
now, if you ever did run!”

There needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, the whole party were over the fence, making with all speed for the rocks, while Michael, throwing himself from his horse, and fastening the bridle to the wagon, began driving it rapidly away.

“Come ahead,” said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, and saw, in the mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly marked footpath leading up among them; “this is one of our old hunting dens. Come up!”

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the boy in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his trembling old mother over his shoulder, and George and Eliza brought up the rear. The party of horsemen came up to the fence, and with mingled shouts and oaths were dismounting to prepare to follow them. A few moments’ scrambling brought them to the top of the ledge; the path then passed between a narrow defile, where only one could walk at a time, till suddenly they came to a rift or chasm more than a yard in breadth, and beyond which lay a pile of rocks, separate from the rest of the ledge, standing full thirty feet high, with its sides steep and perpendicular as those of a castle. Phineas easily leaped the chasm, and sat down the boy on a smooth, flat platform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the rock.

“Over with you!” he called; “spring, now, once, for your lives!” said he, as one after another sprang across. Several fragments of loose stone formed a kind of breast-work, which sheltered their position from the observation of those below.

“Well, here we all are,” said Phineas, peeping over the stone breast-work to watch the assailants, who were coming tumultuously up under the rocks. “Let ’em get us, if they can. Whoever comes here, has to walk single file between those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys, d’ye see?”

“I do see,” said George; “and now, as this matter is ours, let us take all the risk, and do all the fighting.”

“Thee’s quite welcome to do the fighting, George,” said Phineas, chewing some checker=
berry leaves as he spoke; “but I may have the fun of looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows are kinder debating down there, and looking up, like hens when they’re going to fly up on to the roost. Hadn’t thee better give ’em a word of advice before they come up—just to tell ’em handsomely they’ll be shot if they do?”

The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the dawn, consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and Marks, with two constables, and a posse consisting of such rowdies at the last tavern as could be engaged by a little brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of niggers.

“Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed,” said one.

“Yes, I see ’em go up right here,” said Tom; “and here’s a path. I’m for going right up. They can’t jump down in a hurry, and it won’t take long to ferret ’em out.”

“But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks,” said Marks. “That would be ugly, you know.”

“Ugh!” said Tom, with a sneer. “Always for saving your skin, Marks. No danger! niggers are too plaguy scared!”

“I don’t know why I shouldn’t save my skin,” said Marks. “It’s the best I’ve got; and niggers
do fight like the Devil sometimes.”

At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock above them, and, speaking in a calm, clear voice, said—

“Gentlemen, who are you down there, and what do you want?”

“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker. “One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim Selden, and an old woman. We’ve got the officers here, and a warrant to take ’em: and we’re going to have ’em, too. D’ye hear? ain’t you George Harris, that belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?”

“I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did call me his property. But now I’m a free man, standing on God’s free soil, and my wife and my child I claim as mine. Jim and his mother are here. We have arms to defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can come up if you like; but the first one of you that comes within the range of our bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next, and so on till the last.”

“Oh, come! come!” said a short, puffy man, stepping forward, and blowing his nose as he did so. “Young man, this ain’t no kind of talk at all for you. You see we’re officers of justice. We’ve got the law on our side, and the power, and so forth—so you’d better give up peaceably, you see; for you’ll certainly have to give up at last.”

“I know very well that you’ve got the law on your side, and the power,” said George, bitterly. “You mean to take my wife to sell in New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf in a trader’s pen, and send Jim’s old mother to the brute that whipped and abused her before, because he couldn’t abuse her son. You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped and tortured and ground down under the heels of them that you call masters; and your laws will bear you out in it—more shame for you and them. But you haven’t got us; we don’t own your laws; we don’t own your country; we stand here as free under God’s sky as you are; and by the great God that made us, we’ll fight for our liberty till we die.”

George stood out in fair sight on the top of the rock, as he made his declaration of independence—the glow of dawn gave a flush to his swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation and despair gave fire to his dark eye; and as if appealing from man to the justice of God, he raised his hand to heaven as he spoke.

If it had been only a Hungarian youth now bravely defending in some mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping from Austria into America, this would have been sublime heroism; but as it was a youth of African descent, defending the retreat of fugitives through America into Canada, of course we are too well instructed and patriotic to see any heroism in it; and if any of our readers do, they must do it on their own private responsibility. When despairing Hungarian fugitives make their way against all the search warrants and authorities of their lawful Government to America, press and political cabinet ring with applause and welcome. When despairing African fugitives do the same thing, what is it? It is——.[4]

Be it as it may, it is certain that the altitude,[5] eye, voice, manner, of the speaker, for a moment struck the party below to silence. There is something in boldness and determination that for a time hushes even the rudest nature. Marks was the only one who remained wholly untouched. He was deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence that followed George’s speech, he fired at him.

“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky,” he said, coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat sleeve.

George sprang backward—Eliza uttered a shriek—the ball had passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of his wife, and struck in the tree above.

“It’s nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly.

“Thee’d better keep out of sight with thy speechifying,” said Phineas; “they’re mean scamps.”

“Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are all right, and watch that pass with me. The first man that shows himself I fire at; you take the second, and so on. It won’t do, you know, to waste two shots on one.”

“But what if you don’t hit?”

“I shall hit,” said George, coolly.

“Good! now, there’s stuff in that fellow,” muttered Phineas, between his teeth.

The party below, after Marks had fired, stood for a moment rather undecided.

“I think you must have hit some on ’em,” said one of the men. “I heard a squeal!”

“I’m going right up for one,” said Tom. “I never was afraid of niggers, and I ain’t going to begin[6] now. Who goes after?” he said, springing up the rocks.

George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol, examined it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where the first man would appear.

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and, the way being thus made, the whole party began pushing up the rock—the hindermost pushing the front ones faster than they would have gone of themselves. On they came, and in a moment the burly form of Tom appeared in sight almost at the verge of the chasm.

George fired—the shot entered his side—but though wounded, he would not retreat, but with a yell like that of a mad bull, he was leaping right across the chasm into the party.

“Friend,” said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting him with a push from his long arms, “thee isn’t wanted here.”

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, bushes, logs, loose stones, till he lay bruised and groaning thirty feet below. The fall might have killed him, had it not been broken and moderated by his clothes catching in the branches of a large tree; but he came down with some force, however—more than was at all agreeable or convenient.

“Lord help us, they are perfect devils!” said Marks, heading the retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than he had joined the ascent, while all the party came tumbling precipitately after him—the fat constable, in particular, blowing and puffing in a very energetic manner.

“I say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick up Tom there, while I run and get on to my horse to go back for help—that’s you;” and, without minding the hootings and jeers of his company, Marks was as good as his word, and was soon seen galloping away.

“Was ever such a sneaking varmint!” said one of the men; “to come on his business, and he clear out and leave us this yer way!”

“Well, we must pick up that feller,” said another. “Cuss me if I much care whether he is dead or alive.”

The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled through stumps, logs, and bushes, to where that hero lay groaning and swearing with alternate vehemence.

“Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. “Ye much hurt?”

“Don’t know. Get me up, can’t ye? Blast that infernal Quaker; if it hadn’t been for him, I’d a pitched some on ’em down here, to see how they liked it.”

With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted to rise, and, with one holding him up under each shoulder, they got him as far as the horses.

“If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, and stop this infernal bleeding.”

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three ineffectual attempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.

“Oh, I hope he isn’t killed,” said Eliza, who, with all the party, stood watching the proceeding.

“Why not?” said Phineas; “serves him right.”

“Because, after death comes the judgment,” said Eliza.

“Yes,” said the old woman, who had been groaning and praying in her Methodist fashion during all the encounter, “it’s an awful case for the poor crittur’s soul.”

“On my word, they’re leaving him, I do believe,” said Phineas.

It was true; for after some appearance of irresolution and consultation, the whole party got on their horses and rode away. When they were quite out of sight, Phineas began to bestir himself.

“Well, we must go down and walk a piece,” he said. “I told Michael to go forward and bring help, and be along back here with the wagon; but we shall have to walk a piece along the road, I reckon, to meet them. The Lord grant he be along soon; it’s early in the day; there won’t be much travel afoot yet awhile; we aint much more than two miles from our stopping place; if the road hadn’t been so rough last night, we could have outrun ’em entirely.”

As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the distance, along the road, their own wagon coming back, accompanied by some men on horseback.

“Well, now, there’s Michael, and Stephen, and Amariah,” exclaimed Phineas, joyfully. “Now we are made—as safe as if we’d got there.”

“Well, do stop, then,” said Eliza, “and do something for that poor man; he’s groaning dreadfully.”

“It would be no more than Christian,” said George; “let’s take him up and carry him on.”

“And doctor him up among the Quakers!” said Phineas; “pretty well, that! Well, I don’t care if we do. Here, let’s have a look at him;” and Phineas, who, in the course of his hunting and backwoods life, had acquired some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded man, and began a careful examination of his condition.

“Marks,” said Tom, feebly, “is that you, Marks?”

“No; I reckon ’tain’t, friend,” said Phineas. “Much Marks cares for thee, if his own skin’s safe. He’s off long ago.”

“I believe I’m done for,” said Tom. “The cussed sneaking dog, to leave me to die alone. My poor old mother always told me ’twould be so.”

“La sakes! jest hear the poor crittur. He’s got a mammy, now,” said the old negress. “I can’t help kinder pityin’ on him.”

“Softly, softly; don’t thee snap and snarl, friend,” said Phineas, as Tom winced and pushed his hand away. “Thee has no chance, unless I stop this bleeding.” And Phineas busied himself with making some off-hand surgical arrangements with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as could be mustered in the company.

“You pushed me down there,” said Tom, faintly.

“Well, if I hadn’t, thee would have pushed us down, thee sees,” said Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. “There, there, let me fix this bandage. We means well to thee; we bears no malice. Thee shall be taken to a house where they’ll nurse thee first rate—as well as thy own mother could.”

Tom groaned and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigor and resolution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the flowing of the blood; and the gigantic fellow really looked piteous in his helplessness.

The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of the wagon. The buffalo skins, doubled in fours, were spread all along one side, and four men, with great difficulty, lifted the heavy form of Tom into it. Before he was gotten in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, in the abundance of her compassion, sat down on the bottom and took his head in her lap. Eliza, George, and Jim, bestowed themselves, as well as they could, in the remaining space, and the whole party set forward.

“What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by Phineas in front.

“Well, it’s only a pretty deep flesh wound; but then tumbling and scratching down that place didn’t help it much. It has bled pretty freely—pretty much dreaned him out, courage and all—but he’ll get over it, and may be learn a thing or two by it.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said George. “It would always be a heavy thought to me if I’d caused his death, even in a just cause.”

“Yes,” said Phineas, “killing is an ugly operation any way thee’ll fix it—man or beast. I’ve been a great hunter in my day, and I tell thee I’ve seen a buck that was shot down and a dying, look that way on a feller with his eye that it reely most made a feller feel wicked for killing on him; and human creatures is a more serious consideration yet, bein’, as thy wife says, that the judgment comes to ’em after death. So I don’t know as our people’s notions on these matters is too strict; and, considerin’ how I was raised, I fall in with them pretty considably.“

“What shall you do with this poor fellow?” said George.

“Oh, carry him along to Amariah’s. There’s old Grandmam Stephens there—Dorcas they call her—she’s most an amazin’ nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and ain’t never better suited than when she gets a sick body to tend. We may reckon on turning him over to her for a fortnight or so.”

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farm-house, where the weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed than he had ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and shutting his eyes on the white window curtains and gently gliding figures of his sick room, like a weary child. And here, for the present, we shall take our leave of one party.



This Stowe Center edition reproduces the National Era serial text of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The wording of the newspaper in many cases differs from publisher John P. Jewett’s first edition. At the conclusion of each installment, notes are provided on a small selection of textual variants, those which have the greatest interpretive significance. The model for these notes is editor John Bryant’s concept of fluid-text editing, which foregrounds the interpretation of textual variants as an act of critical reading. Readers who hold alternate interpretations are encouraged to submit comments to the blog. For general comments on the text and the bibliography, see the Note on the Text.

Note 1

to do well—when when everything has | Era pg. 157
to do well,—when everything has | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 269

In the Era the word “when” is repeated, an obvious error. This is the first of four obvious errors in the serial text, which are corrected in the Jewett edition. This error is noted and corrected, but subsequent errors that seem reasonably obvious as errors are listed here but corrected silently in the Stowe Center text: “their master’s in Kentucky” (Era) becomes “their masters in Kentucky” (Jewett); “little room and begun examining.…” becomes “little room, and began examining.…”; “Thee’s quite welceme …” becomes “Thee ’s quite welcome.…”; and the quotation in serial is not reopened after George speaks “bitterly” and begins “You mean to.…” The reopened quotation is marked properly in the Jewett edition.

In two cases above, however, the concept of obvious error admits of doubt or qualification. Phineas Fletcher’s speech tends more toward a backwoods informality in serial but a Quaker formality in the Jewett edition. Therefore, “master’s” is intriguingly odd for perhaps participating in a backwoods dialect. Similarly, Stowe’s use of verb forms like “began” and “begun” is not rigidly consistent. Even the form “welceme” could conceivably echo the form “dreaned.” And the dialect speech of characters sometimes begins to infect, inadvertently or deliberately, Stowe’s narrative voice. In these cases, I am guided by the belief that the more likely cause of wording variation is inadvertent error, so I have corrected silently the Stowe Center text. The lower level of formal correctness in the Era serial reflects the influence of typesetting from manuscript rather than previously printed copy, the greater formality imposed by the book publisher, and the opportunity for author and publisher personnel to proofread the book copy. Readers should compare Stowe’s revision of Fletcher’s dialect. See note 2. [Back]

Note 2

of them was going to | Era pg. 157
of them were going to | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 270

In the Era, Phineas Fletcher speaks in a dialect indicative of limited education, a Midwestern backwoods dialect which echoes dialects that Stowe may have encountered while living in Cincinnati. Regardless, Fletcher in the Era says “was” when the number of the noun is plural; the proper form is “were,” the form in the Jewett edition. Three other examples below suggest that Stowe in the serial intended deliberately that Fletcher speak in an informal dialect. In the Era when speaking to Tom Loker, Fletcher says “We means well…” and “we bears no malice”; in the Jewett edition, he says “We mean well.…” and “we bear no malice.”

These word forms reflect a significant aspect of Fletcher’s character. His process of Quakerisation remains incomplete in both texts: he has married a Quaker woman but continues to sing unquakerlike songs (when alone). He is presumably capable of switching between dialect registers. Fletcher might in the Era be switching to the backwoods dialect when addressing the coarse and unrefined Loker—see “means” and “bears” above. Possibly the most intriguing illustration of Fletcher’s incomplete process of Quakerisation is another alteration. In the Era Fletcher while addressing the Harris’s, Jim, and Jim’s mother (not Loker), says, “I fall in with them pretty considably.” In the Jewett edition he says, “ I fell in with them pretty considerably.” That is, in the serial Fletcher’s process of “falling in” with the Quakers remains ongoing. In the Jewett edition, he has been more thoroughly Quakerized—he “fell in.” These other instances of variant passages are not marked in the Stowe Center text.

I am inclined to believe that Stowe’s intent was to keep Fletcher only partially Quakerized in the serial but decided to convert him more thoroughly to Quakerism in the Jewett edition. Because the manuscript is not extant, one cannot determine the degree to which George C. Rand’s compositors or Jewett’s editors nudged Fletcher’s process of Quakerization further along than Stowe might have intended. It is also conceivable in this instance (was and were) that Fletcher is echoing the less formal dialect of the slave hunters. But the consistency of the revision of his speech along dialect registers suggests otherwise. Also see note 3. [Back]

Note 3

Simeon, sighing; “the Lord grant it come | Era pg. 157
Simeon, sighing; “I pray it come | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 271

In the Era, Simeon Halliday uses the subjunctive to express a desire about a future outcome. He asks the Lord to “grant” his prayer. In the Jewett eedition, he also uses the subjunctive, but he emphasizes his own role as the one addressing the deity. In both cases the subordinate conjuction “that” is omitted.

This is the first of three similar revisions. Halliday in serial says “ The Lord grant I be.…” In the Jewett edition, he says, “ I pray that I be.…” Halliday in the serial says “God bless you all,” but in the Jewett edition he says “Farewell, my friends.” However, the phrase “Lord grant” is retained for the Jewett edition, said once by Simeon Halliday and once by Phineas Fletcher.

The effect of these revisions is very slight. One effect of the revision is to reduce the repetion of the same phrase. The serial offers a somewhat more reassuring Simeon Halliday, who expresses confidence that a Christian God watches over George and Eliza Harris and will see them through this journey to freedom. In the Jewett edition, his words have a greater degree of appeal to God than of confident assurance. More significantly, if Halliday speaks the phrase four times, Fletcher’s use may be an adoption of Quaker phraseology (Era). If Halliday speaks the phrase only once as he does in the Jewett edition, then Fletcher’s use does not so markedly link him to Quakerism. See note 2. [Back]

Note 4

the same thing, what is it? It is——. ¶ Be it | Era pg. 157
the same thing,—it is—what is it? ¶ Be it | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 284

In the Era, George’s speech elicits the narrator’s question about his parallel to a revolutionary Hungarian hero, and the serial reader is invited to fill in a blank. This “thing, what is it? It is——.” In the Jewett edition, by contrast, the question follows the incomplete statement: this “thing,—it is—what is it?”

For both serial readers (and the initial Jewett readers) George Harris formed an obvious parallel to Louis Kossuth, a mid-century hero of the Hungarian Revolution. Kossuth during his tour of the United States was celebrated in the young American Republic as a present-day European reincarnation of George Washington. Kossuth’s triumphalist American tour coincided with the serialization of Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin in the Era.

This alteration of the text reverberates through Stowe’s work. In the Era, the double em dash signifies a pregnant pause or an uncompleted statement that the reader is invited to complete. Other serial examples include the bubbling up of Marks’s fear as he contemplates crossing the icy Ohio river (ch. 8, 17 July 1851); Uncle Tom weeping over his sleeping children when Eliza informs him that he is to be sold (ch. 5, 26 June 1851); Senator Burr’s inability to finish a statement that explains to his wife the need for a fugitive slave law (ch. 9, 31 July 1851); the narrator’s derision toward the American legislative condmenation of the illegal foreign slave trade while allowing a legal domestic trade (chapter 12, 28 August 1851); Miss Ophelia’s disgust toward Eva’s kissing of servants (chapter 15, 18 September 1851); and Eva’s reasons for lying awake nights (ch. 16, 25 September 1851). Also, the work’s 8 May 1851 serial subtitle, “The Man That Was a Thing,” replaced in the first installment by “Life Among the Lowly,” is evoked here by the invitation to a reader to fill in blank that explains what “thing” that George Harris’s heroism is.

In the Jewett edition, by contrast, because the serial’s long em dashes are removed, this moment is elevated in rhetorical significance. It rises to the level of chapter 12 incident on legislative hypocrisy (28 August 1851) as one of the text’s most pregnant moments, when the Declaration of Independence’s higher law ideals about liberty are contrasted to the Constitution’s legal enshrinement of chattel slavery. The Jewett edition reader is offered a rhetorical question about the identity of George Harris’s heroism. The altered form, which removes the longer em dash, distinguishes this moment as more significant than the catalog of instances marked by a pregnant pause in the serial text.

I do not imply that this moment is not rhetorically powerful in the Era, and perhaps singularly important as a critique of the American state, but I do suggest that Stowe in the serial with the em dashes offered a more extended series of punctuating marks for significant passages. We in the present are shaped by a history of reading reprints of the Jewett edition. I also mention but cannot explore here that Stowe for the John P. Jewett illustrated edition (1853) restored many of the serial’s longer em dashes to that reprint text. [Back]

Note 5

that the altitude, eye, voice, manner, | Era pg. 157
that the attitude, eye, voice, manner, | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 284

In the Era, George Harris’s elevated position above Loker, Marks, and the sherrif’s posse of deputies—his “altitude”—aids his ability to render them silent for a moment. His physical position reinforces the personal qualities by which he is contrasted to the lesser men at a lower altitude. In the Jewett edition, physical position is not invoked. George Harris’s personal qualities—his “attitude” as reflected in his eye, voice, and manner— silence the men briefly. [Back]

Note 6

going to begin now. Who | Era pg. 158
going to be now. Who | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 285

In the Era, Tom Loker states that this moment is not one in which he will “begin” being afraid of black slaves. In the Jewett edition, by contrast, he states that he will not “be” afraid in this moment. As a man of the lowest class, he will use the derogatory insult in reference to black people. The Era version is slightly more formal, so Stowe may have sought by this revision for the Jewett edition to lower the level of Loker’s verbal refinement. [Back]

Copyright 2011. For introduction and annotation, all rights reserved. The text is distributed under a Creative Commons License. Creative Commons License Uncle Tom’s Cabin: National Era by Harriet Beecher Stowe is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at Copyright Commons License.

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