“Am I not a man and a brother?” On Shelby’s ground, the bargain fell. A debt, a chair, a sold-off spell. Eliza heard the steps in snow and took her child where rivers go. “Mas’r, if ye please—” that broken plea. Crossed ice, crossed fear, crossed the sea of me. Am I not a man and a brother? Am I not a man and a brother? “Am I not a man and a brother?” The heart says yes, though the lash says no. Tom was sold from hearth and hymn to St. Clare’s house, then deeper in. Little Eva’s hands grew thin and light, like candle-flame against the night. “Take this poor soul,” the garden sighed, where innocence and sorrow bide. Am I not a man and a brother? Am I not a man and a brother? “Am I not a man and a brother?” The heart says yes, though the lash says no. Then Legree’s house with iron breath, with Cassy’s grief, with Shelby’s debt. Tom would not bend, would not betray. “Who—who made thee?” the silence prayed. “Death, what is it? A transition.” I’ve seen the face of the Lamb in affliction. And when the cane-house drank the light, Tom whispered: “This world is not my home.” Am I not a man and a brother? Am I not a man and a brother? “Am I not a man and a brother?” The heart says yes, though the lash says no. North Star… I see you. Am I not a man and a brother? Am I not a man?
