“But dat ain’t all, Marse John; an’ you kno’ you ax me to tell it all! Who wus it nussed you, day an’ night, when you had de chills an’ fever in camp round Atlanter? Who wus it stood by yo’ side at de bridge, whar de giner’l tole you to hol’ wid yo’ kumpny tell dey capture you or kill you, an’ when de Yankees cum lak bees er swarmin’, an’ shot you outen de saddle, an’ dey captured you, bleedin’ to def—who pick you up an’ kerry you quick to de Yankee surgun’s tent an’ tied de art’ry dat sabed yo’ life? An’ who nussed you in de hospital, day an’ night, er stealin’ aigs fur you when hard-tack would er kilt you, an’ young chickens when bacon meant def? An’ when you got well ernuf ter be keeried to Johnson’s Islan’, who wus it, ’stid ob gwine on wid Sherman’s army to freedom, nurver to be er slave enny mo’, gether’d up yo’ things, took de letter you writ, an’ footed it all de way to Alabama to tell Miss Mary you wus safe an’ well? An’ when he got dar, an’ seed Miss Mary—Gord bless ’er—er cryin’ in de door, an’ de chillun cryin’ erroun’ er’, ’kase when dey seed me bringin’ back yo’ things dey dun gib you up fur dead, lak de papers sed, an’ when I got up close ernuf ter tell ’er you wus safe an’ well, an’ gib ’er de letter you saunt, an’ tell ’er how I cum jes’ ter bring yo’ letter an’ things an’ sword an’ pistol home, who wus it but de statelies’ an’ queenlies’ ’oman in de State—now, thang Gord, one ob de anguls in heaben—dat wept ober an’ clung to dis ole black han’ dat now you say am de han’ ob de hog-theef, an’ fit only fur de pen’tenshury; an’ es ’er tears ob gladness drapt on it, she smiled sweetly through it all, an’ say: ‘Oh, Tom! Tom! Gord will reward you sum day fur this, fur though you am po’ an’ black an’ a slave, you have acted the whites’ ob de white; you chose yo’ duty befo’ yo’ own freedom!’
“Dat’s whut she sed, Marse John; yo’ own blessed wife an’ my Mistis’ dat’s in heab’n an’ de grandes’ women dat now libs in dat lan’ ob light! An’ dar I staid, Marse John, an’ ’tended de place an’ wurked de crap, an’ tuck keer ob Miss Mary an’ de chilluns tell you cum home yo’se’f. Dat’s de truf, Marse John, es you kno’ it is yo’se’f; and now I’ve tole it all es you ax me.”
And Tom sat down.
From suppressed laughter in the beginning of Tom’s speech, the entire court had now dropped into subdued sympathy, and even tears. The old Judge himself blew his nose vigorously, and looked carefully over his charges again, while the major came up and whispered in his ear. Finally he said, quietly, yet subduedly:
“The court is of opinion it has been too hasty in this matter, for, on reading carefully the second charge submitted by the defendant’s counsel, the court is convinced it erred in not giving this charge to the jury. The verdict is, therefore, set aside, and a new trial will be given the defendant.”
And Tom walked out quietly and solemnly, but a free man yet. But the case never came to a trial again. Tom was not himself from that day on. He was sobered, subdued, crushed. He seemed to think “Marse John had gone back on him.” He quit drinking, fighting, and disputing on things religious. He even quit telling his experience “endurin’ de wah,” and, more wonderful still, he actually went to work. All this was too much for him. As the day approached for the trial he became melancholy, morbid, and finally took to his bed in earnest. At first they thought he would get up soon, but he grew rapidly worse; and a week before the trial, the doctor said that Tom would never “furage” again. The old Judge was holding court in another county, and had not heard of Tom’s sickness. He promptly called the case in its order on the docket. Tom’s lawyer read the physician’s certificate as to Tom’s condition. The old Judge looked worried—even troubled. Then he glanced around the court—the major was not there. He took up his pen and wrote quickly across the docket: “Case nolle prossed; no prosecutor!” and as soon as the court adjourned he went by Tom’s cabin to see if he wanted anything, and to tell him about the nol prossing his case. As he neared the cabin he heard the uncanny music of the negro mourning song, and it startled him as he went in and found them chanting it around Tom’s bed.
He looked at Tom; he was sober, but dying.
The old Judge went up, sat by the bed, and took Tom tenderly by the hand. The negro’s face lit up for a moment with its old-time light as he recognized the old Judge. Then he remembered:
“Will dey try me ergin; will dey convict de old man ergin, Marse John?” eagerly asked Tom.
“Not while I am Judge of this circuit, Tom—never!” as he gripped Tom’s hand.