Uncle Tom’s Cabin · Volume I · Chapter 17 (3/3)

“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.

“O, 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 a while; we an’t 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 ’tan’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! jist 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 the bleeding.” And Phineas busied himself with making some offhand 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 mean well to thee; we bear no malice. Thee shall be taken to a house where they’ll nurse thee first rate, 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 him much. It has bled pretty freely⁠—pretty much drained him out, courage and all⁠—but he’ll get over it, and maybe 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 they’ll fix it⁠—man or beast. 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 fell in with them pretty considerably.”

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

“O, 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 an’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 farmhouse, 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.