Tuesday concluded the three holidays Epps yearlyallowed us. On my way home， Wednesday morning，while passing the plantation of William Pierce， thatgentleman hailed me， saying he had received a line from263
Epps， brought down by William Varnell， permitting himto detain me for the purpose of playing for his slavesthat night. It was the last time I was destined to witnessa slave dance on the shores of Bayou Boeuf. The party atPierce’s continued their jollification until broad daylight，when I returned to my master’s house， somewhat weariedwith the loss of rest， but rejoicing in the possession ofnumerous bits and picayunes， which the whites， who werepleased with my musical performances， had contributed.
On Saturday morning， for the first time in years， Ioverslept myself. I was frightened on coming out of thecabin to find the slaves were already in the field. They hadpreceded me some fifteen minutes. Leaving my dinnerand water-gourd， I hurried after them as fast as I couldmove. It was not yet sunrise， but Epps was on the piazzaas I left the hut， and cried out to me that it was a prettytime of day to be getting up. By extra exertion my rowwas up when he came out after breakfast. This， however，was no excuse for the offence of oversleeping. Bidding mestrip and lie down， he gave me ten or fifteen lashes， at theconclusion of which he inquired if I thought， after that， Icould get up sometime in the morning. I expressed myselfquite positively that I could， and， with back stinging withpain， went about my work.
The following day， Sunday， my thoughts were uponBass， and the probabilities and hopes which hungupon his action and determination. I considered theuncertainty of life； that if it should be the will of Godthat he should die， my prospect of deliverance， and allexpectation of happiness in this world， would be whollyended and destroyed. My sore back， perhaps， did nothave a tendency to render me unusually cheerful. I feltdown-hearted and unhappy all day long， and when Ilaid down upon the hard board at night， my heart wasoppressed with such a load of grief； it seemed that it mustbreak.
Monday morning， the third of January， 1853， we werein the field betimes. It was a raw， cold morning， such asis unusual in that region. I was in advance， Uncle Abramnext to me， behind him Bob， Patsey and Wiley， with ourcotton-bags about our necks. Epps happened （a rarething， indeed，） to come out that morning without hiswhip. He swore， in a manner that would shame a pirate，that we were doing nothing. Bob ventured to say thathis fingers were so numb with cold he couldn’t pick fast.
Epps cursed himself for not having brought his rawhide，and declared that when he came out again he wouldwarm us well； yes， he would make us all hotter than thatfiery realm in which I am sometimes compelled to believehe will himself eventually reside.
With these fervent expressions， he left us. Whenout of hearing， we commenced talking to each other，saying how hard it was to be compelled to keep up ourtasks 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 menapproaching us through the cotton-field.
Having now brought down this narrative to the lasthour I was to spend on Bayou Boeuf—having gottenthrough my last cotton picking， and about to bid MasterEpps farewell—I must beg the reader to go back with meto the month of August； to follow Bass’ letter on its longjourney to Saratoga； to learn the effect it produced—andthat， while I was repining and despairing in the slave hutof Edwin Epps， through the friendship of Bass and thegoodness of Providence， all things were working togetherfor my deliverance.
