“Yonder comes the devil!” said one of the women whose row was near Harry’s.

“Yes,” said another, “He’s trying to scare Harry with his gun.”

“Let him try as he pleases,” said Harry, in his low, deep, determined tones, “He may shoot me, but he can’t whip me.”

Huckstep came swearing on:  when within a few yards of Harry he stopped, looked at him with a stare of mingled rage and drunken imbecility; and bid him throw down his hoe and come forward.  The undaunted slave refused to comply, and continuing his work told the drunken demon to shoot if he pleased.  Huckstep advanced within a few steps of him when Harry raised his hoe and told him to stand back.  He stepped back a few paces, leveled his gun and fired.  Harry received the charge in his breast, and fell instantly across a cotton row.  He threw up his hands wildly, and groaned, “Oh, Lord!”

The hands instantly dropped their hoes.  The women shrieked aloud.  For my own part I stood silent with horror.  The cries of the women enraged the overseer, he dropped his gun, and snatching the whip from my hand, with horrid oaths, and imprecations fell to whipping them, laying about him like a maniac.  Upon Harry’s sister he bestowed his blows without mercy, commanding her to quit her screaming and go to work.  The poor girl, whose brother had thus been murdered before her eyes, could not wrestle down the awful agony of her feelings, and the brutal tormentor left her without effecting his object.  He then, without going to look of his victim, told four of the hands to carry him to the house, and taking up his gun left the field.  When we got to the poor fellow, he was alive, and groaning faintly.  The hands took him up, but before they reached the house he was dead.  Huckstep came out, and looked at him, and finding him dead, ordered the hands to bury him.  The burial of a slave in Alabama is that of a brute.  No coffin—­no decent shroud—­no prayer.  A hole is dug, and the body (sometimes enclosed in a rude box,) is thrown in without further ceremony.

From this time the overseer was regarded by the whole gang with detestation and fear—­as a being to whose rage and cruelty there were no limits.  Yet he was constantly telling us that he was the kindest of overseers—­that he was formerly somewhat severe in managing his hands, but that now he was, if any thing, too indulgent.  Indeed he had the reputation of being a good overseer, and an excellent manager, when sober.  The slaves on some of the neighboring plantations were certainly worse clothed and fed, and more frequently and cruelly whipped than ours.  Whenever the saw them they complained of over working and short feeding.  One of Flincher’s, and one of Sturtivant’s hands ran away, while I was in Alabama:  and after remaining in the woods awhile, and despairing of being able to effect their escape, resolved to put an end to their existence and their slavery together.  Each twisted himself a vine of the muscadine grape, and fastened one end