Quaker.  His spirit don’t move.  I’ll see if another spirit wont move it.”  He compelled the old preacher to swallow the brandy; and then told him to preach and exhort, for the spirit was in him.  He set one of the Bibles on fire, and after it was consumed, mixed up the ashes of it in a glass of water, and compelled the old man to drink it, telling him that as the spirit and the word were now both in him, there was no longer any excuse for not preaching.  After tormenting the wearied old man in this way until nearly midnight he permitted him to go to his quarters.

The next day I saw Uncle Solomon, and talked with him about his treatment.  He said it would not always be so—­that slavery was to come to an end, for the Bible said so—­that there would then be no more whippings and fightings, but the lion the lamb would lie down together, and all would be love.  He said he prayed for Huckstep—­that it was not he but the devil in him who behaved so.  At his request, I found means to get him a Bible and a hymn-book from the overseer’s room; and the old man ever afterwards kept them concealed in the hen-house.

The weeding season of 1836, was marked by repeated acts of cruelty on the part of Huckstep.  One of the hands, Priscilla, was, owing to her delicate situation, unable to perform her daily task.  He ordered her to be tied up against a tree, in the same manner that I had been.  In this situation she was whipped until she was delivered of a dead infant, at the foot of the tree!  Our men took her upon a sheet, and carried her to the house, where she lay sick for several months, but finally recovered.  I have heard him repeatedly laugh at the circumstance.

Not long after this, we were surprised, one morning about ten o’clock, by hearing the horn blown at the house.  Presently Aunt Polly came screaming into the field.  “What is the matter, Aunty?” I inquired.  “Oh Lor!” said she, “Old Huckstep’s pitched off his horse and broke his head, and is e’en about dead.”

“Thank God!” said little Simon, “The devil will have him at last.”

“God-a-mighty be praised!” exclaimed half a dozen others.

The hands, with one accord dropped their hoes; and crowded round the old woman, asking questions.  “Is he dead?”—­“Will he die?” “Did you feel of him—­was he cold?”

Aunt Polly explained as well as she could, that Huckstep, in a state of partial intoxication, had attempted to leap his horse over a fence, had fallen and cut a deep gash in his head, and that he was now lying insensible.

It is impossible to describe the effect produced by this news among the hands.  Men, women and children shouted, clapped their hands, and laughed aloud.  Some cursed the overseer, and others thanked the Lord for taking him away.  Little Simon got down on his knees, and called loudly upon God to finish his work, and never let the overseer again enter a cotton field.  “Let him die, Lord,” said he, “let him.  He’s killed enough of us:  Oh, good Lord, let him die and not live.”