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As
she
stood
there
,
clad
in
her
rich
apparel
,
her
face
animated
with
pleasure
,
I
thought
I
had
never
looked
upon
a
human
being
half
so
beautiful
.
I
dwell
with
delight
upon
the
description
of
this
fair
and
gentle
lady
,
not
only
because
she
inspired
me
with
emotions
of
gratitude
and
admiration
,
but
because
I
would
have
the
reader
understand
that
all
slave-owners
on
Bayou
Bœuf
are
not
like
Epps
,
or
Tibeats
,
or
Jim
Burns
.
Occasionally
can
be
found
,
rarely
it
may
be
,
indeed
,
a
good
man
like
William
Ford
,
or
an
angel
of
kindness
like
young
Mistress
McCoy
.
Tuesday
concluded
the
three
holidays
Epps
yearly
allowed
us
.
On
my
way
home
,
Wednesday
morning
,
while
passing
the
plantation
of
William
Pierce
,
that
gentleman
hailed
me
,
saying
he
had
received
a
line
from
Epps
,
brought
down
by
William
Varnell
,
permitting
him
to
detain
me
for
the
purpose
of
playing
for
his
slaves
that
night
.
It
was
the
last
time
I
was
destined
to
witness
a
slave
dance
on
the
shores
of
Bayou
Bœuf
.
The
party
at
Pierce
's
continued
their
jollification
until
broad
daylight
,
when
I
returned
to
my
master
's
house
,
somewhat
wearied
with
the
loss
of
rest
,
but
rejoicing
in
the
possession
of
numerous
bits
and
picayunes
,
which
the
whites
,
who
were
pleased
with
my
musical
performances
,
had
contributed
.
On
Saturday
morning
,
for
the
first
time
in
years
,
I
overslept
myself
.
I
was
frightened
on
coming
out
of
the
cabin
to
find
the
slaves
were
already
in
the
field
.
They
had
preceded
me
some
fifteen
minutes
.
Leaving
my
dinner
and
water-gourd
,
I
hurried
after
them
as
fast
as
I
could
move
.
It
was
not
yet
sunrise
,
but
Epps
was
on
the
piazza
as
I
left
the
hut
,
and
cried
out
to
me
that
it
was
a
pretty
time
of
day
to
be
getting
up
.
By
extra
exertion
my
row
was
up
when
he
came
out
after
breakfast
.
This
,
however
,
was
no
excuse
for
the
offence
of
oversleeping
.
Bidding
me
strip
and
lie
down
,
he
gave
me
ten
or
fifteen
lashes
,
at
the
conclusion
of
which
he
inquired
if
I
thought
,
after
that
,
I
could
get
up
sometime
in
the
morning
.
I
expressed
myself
quite
positively
that
I
could
,
and
,
with
back
stinging
with
pain
,
went
about
my
work
.
The
following
day
,
Sunday
,
my
thoughts
were
upon
Bass
,
and
the
probabilities
and
hopes
which
hung
upon
his
action
and
determination
.
I
considered
the
uncertainty
of
life
;
that
if
it
should
be
the
will
of
God
that
he
should
die
,
my
prospect
of
deliverance
,
and
all
expectation
of
happiness
in
this
world
,
would
be
wholly
ended
and
destroyed
.
My
sore
back
,
perhaps
,
did
not
have
a
tendency
to
render
me
unusually
cheerful
.
I
felt
down-hearted
and
unhappy
all
day
long
,
and
when
I
laid
down
upon
the
hard
board
at
night
,
my
heart
was
oppressed
with
such
a
load
of
grief
,
it
seemed
that
it
must
break
.
Monday
morning
,
the
third
of
January
,
1853
,
we
were
in
the
field
betimes
.
It
was
a
raw
,
cold
morning
,
such
as
is
unusual
in
that
region
.
I
was
in
advance
,
Uncle
Abram
next
to
me
,
behind
him
Bob
,
Patsey
and
Wiley
,
with
our
cotton-bags
about
our
necks
.
Epps
happened
(
a
rare
thing
,
indeed
,
)
to
come
out
that
morning
without
his
whip
.
He
swore
,
in
a
manner
that
would
shame
a
pirate
,
that
we
were
doing
nothing
.
Bob
ventured
to
say
that
his
fingers
were
so
numb
with
cold
he
could
n't
pick
fast
.
Epps
cursed
himself
for
not
having
brought
his
rawhide
,
and
declared
that
when
he
came
out
again
he
would
warm
us
well
;
yes
,
he
would
make
us
all
hotter
than
that
fiery
realm
in
which
I
am
sometimes
compelled
to
believe
he
will
himself
eventually
reside
.
With
these
fervent
expressions
,
he
left
us
.
When
out
of
hearing
,
we
commenced
talking
to
each
other
,
saying
how
hard
it
was
to
be
compelled
to
keep
up
our
tasks
with
numb
fingers
;
how
unreasonable
master
was
,
and
speaking
of
him
generally
in
no
flattering
terms
.
Our
conversation
was
interrupted
by
a
carriage
passing
rapidly
towards
the
house
.
Looking
up
,
we
saw
two
men
approaching
us
through
the
cotton-field
.
*
*
*
Having
now
brought
down
this
narrative
to
the
last
hour
I
was
to
spend
on
Bayou
Bœuf
--
having
gotten
through
my
last
cotton
picking
,
and
about
to
bid
Master
Epps
farewell
--
I
must
beg
the
reader
to
go
back
with
me
to
the
month
of
August
;
to
follow
Bass
'
letter
on
its
long
journey
to
Saratoga
;
to
learn
the
effect
it
produced
--
and
that
,
while
I
was
repining
and
despairing
in
the
slave
hut
of
Edwin
Epps
,
through
the
friendship
of
Bass
and
the
goodness
of
Providence
,
all
things
were
working
together
for
my
deliverance
.
