John Campell, a tall, foreboding figure that favored his left hand, was a man of few words. Throughout his life, others looked at him with a disdain that transcended the fact that he was a slave and an overly clumsy individual. Both his masters and the other slaves disliked him for his grotesque face and gnarled arms and hands. On the day he was born the doctor had written off the deformity as a birth defect, but that didn't stop everyone around him from giving Campbell a wide berth.
However, what the man lacked in charm or beauty, he made up for in strength and in diligence. At an early age, his master put him to work in the boiler room, assigning Campbell to keeping the fires stocked and well stoked with a healthy stream of chopped wood. The massive furnace was a gluttonous and demanding device, one that kept Campbell away for most of the day, chopping and splitting wood for his master's needs.
"After all, if it wasn't for your hard work, the master's bath would be cold," the others would say, for they were well aware of the endless hours that the poor wretched man would spend chopping wood all so that the masters could lavish themselves with the spoiled comfort of the upper crust of society.
One particularly cold and harsh winter day, Campbell had fallen ill with a terrible cold and was too weak to chop any wood. The other servants and slaves tried to cover Campbell's duties, but were unable to make up the difference. When the pompous master of the house arose early that morning to find his bath was merely lukewarm, he stormed to the servant's quarters.
"You disgusting, lazy sows. You're all pathetic in fulfilling your duties. I demand a reason for this heinous depravity," roared the master.
Fearing their master's wrath, the servants blamed the slave Campbell. Aghast at his lack of duty and laziness, his cruel master had Campbell taken from his cot and whipped mercilessly, before demanding his return to work. With an iron will that few men could understand, the beaten and tortured man returned to his station after the flogging.
Campbell was hardly able to move. Every breath that escaped his stricken lungs emitted a shaken and rattled sound and his open wounds bled freely. Yet the stubborn slave worked on, every swing of his well-trained axe cleaving the portly stumps of wood in two chops.
The other servants watched with fear and pity as they hurriedly attended to their duties to, yet they dared not stop him, for the fire in Campbell's eyes was like death itself. The rage and anger that creased the lines on his decrepit face were as deep and gnarled as the bark of the wood he so maliciously split. Chop. Chop. Chop.
When evening came the other servants and slaves prepared the evening meal, served it, and ate. Campbell, however, continued his methodical work. None of them dared to stop him as he worked on and on, severing the logs and tossing them into the ever growing pile.
The master of the house was preparing himself for bed, and had stepped into his bedchamber, when he noticed the rhythmic chopping sound. "Blasted Campbell, is that witless slave still at it?" he grumbled to himself.
The master ordered one of his servants to go down and stop Campbell from chopping the wood. But the sound still persisted. Chop, chop, chop. Again he sent another servant down and again, the noise persisted.
Frustrated, the master hefted his girth from his cushioned bed, and marched down to the cellar. "Dammit, Campbell! I order you to stop that incessant racket you're making!" He snarled as he descended the stairs with his flogging whip in hand. "For Pete's sake, enough with the—"
Chop.
The ax head once more descended, but it was not wood that it split this time. It was not the melted snow from outside that pooled upon the floor at the foot of the chopping block. It was not wood that was stacked upon the pile, ready to be burned in the furnace.
"Dear God, man," pleaded the master. "What have you done?"
Campbell raised his axe and was about to swing it once more, but stopped upon hearing the voice of his master. He slowly turned, the firelight from the boiler casting dark and terrible shadows upon his face. "Why master, I'm readying the boiler for your next bath."
"You deranged lunatic!" screamed the master. "I'll have you beheaded for this cold-blooded murder!"
But Campbell only smiled, a wicked grin made all the more deranged by his broken teeth. "But, master, I haven't chopped enough wood." Campbell pulled the ax back toward his left shoulder and let out a low growl as he hurled it in the direction of his master.
Chop.
