Двенадцать лет рабства

           Wekeptonourlonelycoursethroughthe"BigCane"severalmiles,whenweenteredaclearing,knownas"Sutton’sField." Manyyearsbefore,amanbythenameofSuttonhadpenetratedthewildernessofcanetothissolitaryplace. Traditionhasit,thathefledthither,afugitive,notfromservice,butfromjustice. Herehelivedalone—recluseandhermitoftheswamp—withhisownhandsplantingtheseedandgatheringintheharvest. OnedayabandofIndiansstoleuponhissolitude,andafterabloodybattle,overpoweredandmassacredhim. Formilesthecountryround,intheslaves’quarters,andonthepiazzasof"greathouses,"wherewhitechildrenlistentosuperstitioustales,thestorygoes,thatthatspot,intheheartofthe"BigCane,"isahauntedplace. Formorethanaquarterofacentury,humanvoiceshadrarely,ifever,disturbedthesilenceoftheclearing. Rankandnoxiousweedshadoverspreadtheoncecultivatedfield—serpentssunnedthemselvesonthedoorwayofthecrumblingcabin. Itwasindeedadrearypictureofdesolation. 

           Passing"Sutton’sField,"wefollowedanew-cutroadtwomilesfarther,whichbroughtustoitstermination. WehadnowreachedthewildlandsofMr.Eldret,wherehecontemplatedclearingupanextensiveplantation. Wewenttoworknextmorningwithourcane-knives,andclearedasufficientspacetoallowtheerectionoftwocabins—oneforMyersandEldret,theotherforSam,myself,andtheslavesthatweretojoinus.