Summer's Harvest by Tom & Dianna Riley - HTML preview

3

GOOD BYE

Kirkland addressed his family at the dinner table in a grave tone, his fork clutched in his right hand. “This is by far the worst year; the drought has really cut the crop yield. Expectations for the last two summers’ harvest have fallen short. The bank is not gonna extend the loan because debts are pile’n up and I can’t pay them the way things are. Another bad crop and we’ll have to sell the plantation along with the slaves.” He glanced at his wife, “We’re gonna have to sell off some of the slaves to pay off some of the debt to the bank, include’n Annie Jane’s young buck, Jeremiah. They should bring a good price in New Orleans and this would cover the balance of the debt we owe. I’ve prepared for them to be auctioned off within the week, we just have to get them there.” He took a big bite of fried ham and followed it with a biscuit coated with red-eye gravy.

Unlike her husband, Mrs. Kirkland was a woman of high morals and religious sensibility and principle. She had a long straight nose and ginger red, curly hair, with its long widow’s peak accentuated in the square-cut jaw that was softened by the gentle curving of her cheeks. Her slanting dark eyes were shadowed by soft, long reddish-blonde lashes. She spoke in a soft slurring voice of a southerner with the barest trace of French accent.

She reprimanded with a sharp tone, “In Heaven’s name, you can’t be serious. Annie Jane is the salt of the earth, she’s both reliable and trustworthy. You realize that she has raised our boys since birth! Charles, she is my dowry Neegra – I brought her from the state of Virginia with me when we married and she’s been a loyal house Neegra since then. She’ll never part with that boy. Contemplation such as this is both barbaric and inhuman. Besides, we’ve told the slaves that we’d never sell members of their families. If you go through with this, you’d be go’n back on the promise you made to them,” she rebuked bitterly, her angry face reddening to the hue of her hair.

The two boys studied their parent’s irate faces and stayed mute.

“She’s only a slave to be bought and sold. A man does what he wants to with his slaves.

So, so much for that! Look, things change so I don’t have to keep my promise to Neegra slaves!

The next thing you’ll be requesting that I sell the plantation so we can keep the slaves!” he snapped while waving his fork in the air. “They will be sold so there is no point in trying to convince me otherwise.”

She softened her tone and leaned forward to him from her end of the table, “Won’t you reconsider? Please for my sake. I can’t imagine the unbearable agony if any of our boys was taken away. Annie Jane and Jessie have served us well and Jessie you’ve always said is your best worker. They adore that child. A mother is a mother, even if she’s a Neegra. You know it and I know it. If you take her child way, it’ll kill her.”

“You’re talking nonsense.” He said simply. “Good Lord woman! I’m run’n a business here and this is just a part of do’n business. These are only nigger slaves to be bought and sold like horses; you treat them like an equal.” He dug into a piece of sweet potato pie. “I hear the boy and the others should fetch a fair price in New Orleans.”

“ I need some fresh air!” Mrs. Kirkland said mournfully, her face turned red – like a person who’d received a stunning blow without warning and who, in the moment of shock, didn’t realize what has happened, abruptly leaving the table. On her way out, she glimpsed Annie Jane’s apron quickly withdrawing behind the opened kitchen door. The two boys looked at each other sorrowfully but with some surprise. The atmosphere had somewhat changed. The fine glow had gone out of the afternoon.

At the table, Dustin, the eldest son asked, “May I be excused, Father?”

“What for?”

“I also need some fresh.”

“No, you stay here,” he ordered. The boys averted their eyes from their father and any residual wrath. They busied themselves with finishing their meal.

“Dustin?” The eldest son, unlike his father, wanted everyone about him to be happy, including slaves. To this end, he always saw the best in everyone and remarked kindly upon it.

He snapped his curly redheaded countenance in his father’s direction.

“I need you and Blake to bring the slaves to New Orleans to be sold.”

“Really, Father?” he asked, his grey eyes full of excitement.

“Your mother is going to disapprove, but yeah, I’m sure.”

“Can I go, too?” whined the younger boy.”

“You’re too young for such a trip. Dustin’s the oldest he’s 16. They could run into trouble such as outlaws on the road. ”

“Dustin always gets to go places,” he protested. “I never get to go anywhere … that’s not fair! He pouted disappointedly, eyes welling with tears.

Charles Kirkland ignored his youngest son’s protest. “I’ve already talked to Blake, you and he will leave out at first light.”

“You can count on me, Father I’ll be ready. !” Dustin said, filled with enthusiasm. The final stages of the evening sun were low across the peaceful newly – plowed fields and the tall trees that silhouette the plantation were looming with bad news. The hot night brought a measure of quiet but it was a sinister quiet. All night, Annie Jane, knowing her son was to be sold, cried as she lay next to Jeremiah’s daddy, Jessie, in their quarters some distance from the main house.

She desperately wanted a plan to flee somewhere with her son, a sliver ray of hope. Anything but what was destined to happen. But Jessie was powerless to offer more than his muscular comforting arms as he fought back his own tears.

Annie Jane’s weeping aroused the entire slave population sending shockwaves  throughout the night with speculations about who else was slated to be sold. They realized that their families could be torn apart without warning and emotions were high.

It was unreal, grotesquely unreal that the morning sky which dawned so tenderly blue could be so profanes with sad news. Blake, the plantation overseer, began loading the chosen slaves into an open wagon hitched to a team of six snorted horses. As he called out names, murmurs of disbelief and anguish rippled throughout the crowd.

“Jeremiah!” Blake bellowed, reading from a list. When no response was forthcoming, he elbowed his way through the throng until he found Annie Jane holding her son close to her body.

The seven-year-old was on his tiptoes, welded to his mama, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, “Gimme the boy, Annie Jane.” She burst into a paroxysm of grief.

“Please don’t take my boy.” She resisted and held the boy in a viselike embrace, Blake’s long dirty finger nails digging into her flesh to break the bond. “NO! NO! Ya can’t take my boy!” she screamed squeezing the child in her arms. Blake grabbed her by the arm and puller her roughly but she only clung to the boy tighter. “NOOOOO!” she screamed in one long hymn.

“Get those slaves on the wagon!” Charles Kirkland demanded from his perch atop his saddle, as he rode right through the gathering.

“She won’t turn the boy over, Sir.” Said Blake.

Kirkland’s eyes narrowed, he would not have any of his slaves disobeying him. “Annie Jane you turn that boy over or I’ll sell you too! ” She gripped the boy even tighter. With a look of anger, when his words were not heeded, he then turned his attention to Jessie. “You get over here and control your woman.

“Yes Suh, Massa,” Jessie uttered without making a move. His head was downcast to hide the results of biting down on his lower lip – from rage and the inability to act. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. He slowly raised his dark face and as an act of defiant he stared directly into Kirkland eyes. A stare of pure hatred, with both his fist tightly balled.

“Crazy slaves, Kirkland said in a low tone.” He then turned his attention back to Blake.

“Do like I told you! Get that boy on that wagon! I won’t have any of my slaves’ disobey’n me.” Kirkland said doggedly.

“I’ll take care of it, Sir,” Blake determined. He ripped crying Jeremiah out from the grip of Annie Jane’s arms, knocking her to the ground. Then he yanked him over to the wagon, lifted and flung the seven-year-old into the wagon with five other slaves – one being female and the supplies that were needed for their trip. The marked slaves aboard the wagon were cast into a state of utter dejection, panic and terror.

Annie Jane sprung from the earth and trailed Blake to the wagon, while wringing her hands in anguish.

Jessie followed too. He looked up at Kirkland on his stallion and implored, “I’se do da woik of two bucks if’n ya le’me keep my boy, Massa Suh,” as he wiped the trickling blood with the back of his hand.

“Noth’n do’n. He’s gonna be sold.”

“Den you can sell me… Please, Massa Suh!” Jessie begged, falling on his knees, his bloody fingers clasped, as in prayer, but it was all in vain.

“ I need you here to work the fields! ”

All the frowns and threats of Kirkland could not silence Annie Jane. She kept on begging and beseeching him as she rushed and hugged his leg, and cried out, “OH GOD, please don’t take my boy! No, not my boy! Please Massa, Suh! Oh God, no I’se woik da fields along side Jesse, I’se do anything to keep my boy!”

“I’ve had enough of this!” Kirkland announced. He freed his foot from the stirrup and kicked out forcefully. She stumbled backwards. “You two get that wagon out of here! Kirkland barked.

“I’m gonna handle the reins,” Dustin announced jubilantly as he scrambled into the driver’s post. Blake hoisted himself up besides Dustin.

“Here’s the papers you’re gonna need,” gestured Charles. “It’s a long hard ride between here and New Orleans. Now you too be careful. I’ll be expect’n y’all back in about two weeks.

Blake, you take care of my boy, now.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Father. I’ll be alright!”

“I will, Sir.” Blake chuckled as he gave Kirkland a reassuring wink. “I know more ‘bout that part of the country than a jackrabbit knows ‘bout run’n.”

“That’s what I’m worried ‘bout. Keep him away from whores.”

Dustin was touched; he’d never witnessed such intense, unmeasured and unbounded grief displayed by Annie Jane. He slapped the reins upon the horses back, and the wagon began to move. He looked back and waved goodbye with a grin of adventurous anticipation. Mrs.

Kirkland stood in the newly sunshine on the front porch and watch with utter disbelief, a feeling of unutterable sorrow overwhelmed her as tears flow down her cheeks.

She watched as Annie Jane ran behind the wagon, her left hand grasping the bottom rough board of the rear gate. Her right arm extended upward toward Jeremiah who knelt inside the wagon box with both small arms stretched between the barriers . Tears fell from his face like rain. And they did touch … until Blake looked back, saw the two, then whistled though his teeth to the team. The wagon lurched forward and broke mama and son’s connection . She fell to the ground, breathlessly breathing, crying like she’d never stop, then raised her head to see Jeremiah…until the wagon pulled out of the main gate … and clouds of dust blocked her tearstained vision. It was all that Mrs. Kirkland could take, she turned her back and entered the house.

The wagon maintained a daily breakneck pace with the team’s high-stepping gallop through their home state with the exception of replacing a busted wheel in the Georgian pine forests. They were continuously jostled upon reaching the rocky terrain. The ride was noisy from cookware, tools, buckets and chains clanging. Blake frequently warned the passengers to cut the noise, but to do so they had to brace the offending contents of their laps, under their arms or between their knees. They were loath to cradle the utensils on their cushions assembled from blankets and sacks of horse feed.

Jeremiah stayed to himself as much as room would allow. He was glad for the company of people he knew but didn’t want to appear weak and needy as he did on the day they left. His childhood had ended at seven years-of-age . I’se not gonna cry no mo. Dat’s fa babys. Jeremiah’s view of the landscape was through the planks on the rear gate – looking backward, measuring the distance home, memorizing the way.

As the hot days wore on, their backs and knees were aching. At night no air moved and the flames from the campfire made the air hotter the group stopped at length only once a day for the noon meal, prepared by the female slave, just as she readied breakfast and supper whenever they made camp. Additional stops were at sites with water for the horses inasmuch as they had only one barrel of water on board. The last stop each day enlisted the male slaves help in attending to the horses. Jeremiah pitched in. it was evident he inherited his daddy’s large frame but lacking the bulk and muscle sure to come later, he appeared gangly. Routinely, they stripped off their harnesses, a sack of feed was eased off the wagon and laid out, horseshoes were examined for loose nails and those that needed it were repaired.

They slept five hours a night under the stars. When it rained, Blake and Dustin slept under the wagon while the slaves fended for themselves … as best possible while chained. In daylight, rain showers were a refreshing break from hot summer elements, particularly since breeze from the fast-moving wagon dried its occupants and contents quickly.

Jeremiah overheard his fellow travelers talk boldly at night when they were out of their captors’ earshot. They’d head up north were life was better for Negroes – where changes were beginning. They say they’d make a run for it, if they could.

The band of wayfarers ventured into the thick woods of Alabama, then the increasingly-rugged terrain of Mississippi. The horses pulled the wagon across acres of high plains and rolling fields. The tall grass appeared on the fifth day out, streaming for miles like a green ocean.

Blake’s shortcut took them into meadow grass that snared the wheel’s spokes and had to be cleaned out every mile or so. The tug of deep-rooted grass in the wheels slowed the horses down considerably, tiring them. Before long, the team’s tail hung limp and their heads dropped low from strain.

The small cloud to the south had blown up swiftly into a large sullen storm cloud that blocked out the sun momentary, it was as though noon day had turned into night. Dustin could hear the faint booming sound of thunder in the far distance of an approaching storm. It was coming from the South. An uneasiness came over the horses. He’d tanned and hardened from journey, commenting, “The horses need water’n, Blake. How far is it to New Orleans now?”

“Over 100 miles.”

“How long you figure before we could stop to water the horses?”

“The way I figure, the next town should be Biloxi, Mississippi, and it’s ‘bout an hour away.” Blake removed a sack of tobacco and paper from his picket and rolled a cigarette. As he lit it, his eyes traveled to the sky as a peal of thunder rumbled. The team snorted. A massive blanket of dusky clouds quickly surrounded the heavens, casting dark shadows beneath its path.

“Looks as though there’s a storm brew’n up from the southeast., I reckon we’d better find some shelter. I know a place not far from here. Let me take the reins, Dustin.” Blake grabbed them, the cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. “Ya! Ya!” he urged the horses ahead as he snapped the reins against their withers and croups.

“We’d better find it fast, ‘cause the sky looks like it’s ‘bout to unleash its fury, as father would say,” Dustin hollered over the cracks of lightening.

“Yep! We’re gonna be caught up in the full force of this storm if we don’t find cover soon!” Blake agreed. The wind picked up, and was gusting fitfully when he spotted the farm he had in mind about a quarter of a mile away. “We’d better stop there and wait the storm out!” he yelled. The horses sensed something ahead that made them pick up the pace on their own. “I’ll be damned! Even the team wants shelter!” he chortled.

The wagon pulled into a dirt road leading to a run-down farmhouse flanked by a small rickety barn. Blake stopped the team by the barn’s entrance. He descended from the bench, rubbed his lower back, and began detaching bridles from the horses.

With far-off rumbling of thunder in his ear, Dustin jumped down, headed to the rear of the wagon and unlatched the gate. “Everybody off! Help unhitch the horses then pull the wagon into the barn when they’re free” he ordered ash heavy raindrops attacked. He looked up at the black sky as the southerly winds increased, signaling an approaching storm. Plump drops smacked his face. “It’s gonna be one hell of a gully washer,” he predicted in Blake’s slang.

“Dustin!” Blake called out over the roar of the wind. “Get those Neegras chained up and the barn while I take the horses ‘round back.”

Just as the slaves pulled the wagon into the barn, a hard rain began to fall. Dustin lit a lantern. They got their blankets and chains from the rear. Dustin started chaining them to beam posts. They allowed themselves to be fettered but their eyes were alert and darting. When Dustin got to Jeremiah, the he was huddled next to a haystack.

“You feel’n alright?” He looked down on the small ebony orphaned figure that was close to the age of his younger brother.

“I’se fine as the udda men heah,” Jeremiah replied with bravado. He had a slight under-bite which distended his bottom lip out a bit, giving him an air of pouty defiance.

“Well, maybe you won’t need to be chained tonight,” Dustin allowed. He tossed the extra chain to the side.

Moments later, Blake ran in through a barn door with his hat in his hand, soaking wet including his salt and pepper hair. He glanced around, “What about the boy? Why ain’t he shackled?”

“He’s scared. I didn’t think he needed to be chained up.”

“Well, hope that’s not a mistake. I’m go’n to the house. My pal’s gonna be surprised to see me. Lights are out so looks like I’ll have to wake him.” He paused. “Unchain the girl. You two bring some foodstuffs from the wagon so she can cook up their supper in the fireplace.”

Dustin got to it. Blake went to the barn door and opened it. A hard gust of wind snatched it from his hand, slamming it against the exterior wall. With effort he closed it, then he ran off.

Shortly thereafter, Dustin and the girl departed, toting a sack of beans, fixings and post.

Jeremiah’s obsidian eyes darted around the dim barn interior. He looked over at his fettered traveling companions.

“Jeremiah, come ova heah, Boy,” the oldest male slave urged, making a chain-rattling gesture with his arm.

The boy threw off his blanket and scrambled over, “Watcha want?”

“If’n ya thank’n of run’n now ‘s da time, Boy? I’se no ya been thank’n about can see it in yo eyes.”

“Maybe,” Jeremiah acknowledged hesitantly.

“ya gotta grow up fast, Boy. Cause ya can neva go back! Ya gotta fa-get bout yo ma and paw ya on yo own.”

“We’s almose ta New Awlins. Wheah ya gonna be sold. Ya gonna get a nah Massa.

Now is ya chance to get away ya’se gots no chains on ya” Jeremiah turned and ran to the barn door, pushing with all his might against the wind.

“Look out fo da dogs, Jeremiah!” the man warned loudly.

The boy slipped through the opening, letting the door re-close with a bang muffled by the storm’s roar. The winds were strong. Stinging raindrops attacked while he ran past the now illuminated farmhouse toward the muddy road leading to it. His bare feet were sucked into hog-fat-like mire with each stride. He hunched his bantam shoulders against forceful gusts of wind, fighting to advance. Lightning flashed bright, zipped close to him and stung his eyes as it found its mark on a tree bordering the road – splitting it down to the trunk with a kaboom! Jeremiah heard the freed section groan toward him and quickly turned back just as the ground quaked from fallen debris. Gotta hide in da woods heah. Almose got hit! He wove into dense foliage and hunched down amongst wet leaves and brambles, burying his head in his drawn-up knees.

Although he was sheltered from the rain, wind encircled his hiding place and chilled his soaked clothing. He began shivering … then crying despite his earlier vow not to. It seemed like hours passed.

“Jeremiah! Where are you?” a voice called. A dim spot of light swung from a hand-held lantern, buffered by the wind.

Jeremiah crept toward the road to see the caller. He saw Dustin fighting to walk against the wind-driven sheets of rain, his normally-curly hair matted to his head like a skullcap. A loud thunder clap frightens Jeremiah from his hidden place.

“There you are!” Dustin shouted triumphantly. As the boy ran across his path illuminated by a quick flash of lighten. “Why did you run away?” He asked as he caught-up with the boy and grabbed him by the arm.

Jeremiah jerked back. “I’se wanna go back ta wheah my mama and daddy is.”

“You can never go back there. You’ll just be punished and sent to be sold again. Now come out of the rain, Jeremiah. We gotta go back. Yu did a foolish thing by cut’n out.”

“I ain’t go’n back deah ta dat ole bwn! I’se wanna go home!”

“You may want to, but you never can. Come on, Jeremiah!” Dustin commanded,.he put his free hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him back to the barn. They wrestled their way through the door.

Blake was waiting for them, and angry scowl on his face. He roughly grabbed Jeremiah’s arm and yanked the boy toward him. “Where you been, Boy?” He escaped Blake’s hold and ran behind Dustin. “Why you slippery little polecat. You come back here!”

“Leave him alone, Blake.” He turned to the boy, “Go over there, take off your wet clothes and wrap your blanket around you.”

“I should…” Blake started threatening, then turned around to Dustin. “You think you can handle them out here tonight?” he queried dubiously.

The barn door flung open. In came the slave girl and a tall, gaunt elderly man in a rain slicker with the collar turned up to his ears, his silver hair wet with rain. He was carrying a smoking pot of beans and loaves of bread. “Got the Neegras’s supper,” the man announced.

“Ours is up at the house, Blake.” Dustin and the girl scooped out portions and broke up the bread, then handed the meal out. Jeremiah boy was huddled dejectedly in his blanket, apart from the others.

“Dustin, you chain up the girl and that boy,” Blake ordered. “He’s trouble. We’re not let’n him run off again.” He and his chum from the house watched as Dustin shackled the girl, then Jeremiah. “I think you’re get’n too friendly with the Neegras, Dustin.” He turned to his pal with a smirk, “Let’s go eat our supper … and have some of that moonshine you bragged about.”

The men left. Dustin served Jeremiah then himself, choosing to remain in the company of the slaves rather than Blake and his friend.

After Dustin ate, he collected the dish ware, then set it outside the barn door to be rained clean. He wrapped himself in a blanket up in the wagon. The barn clattered from the storm.

Occasionally, the odor of human excrement wafted through the interior but was quickly dispelled by probing wind.

Jeremiah vowed to make his next escape good. He was lulled into restless sleep by the drumming of rain on the barn’s tin roof and the plop of drops into puddles from leaks in the structure.

The storm ceased before sunrise. In its stead, a blue and cloudless sky emerged. The air was kissed by a whispering warm wind.

The barn bustled as all hands ate breakfast, tidied up the barn, and readied the wagon and team for the last leg of the trip into New Orleans. The eldest slave discretely took Jeremiah aside.

“Tole ya betta not run lass night. Gotta have a plan first. And ya gots to be a man ta be strong enough ta make it. Wait ‘til ya sees da Missippi Ribber. Den go North. Ya lucky ya wudn’t whupped fa dat.”

“I’se gonna go home ta my mama and daddy.”

“No, Boy. Can’t neva go back deah. Fa-git dat idea. Gotta make a new life fa yoself in anudda place.”

Once they departed, the gray light of the morning was fast breaking away and the Storm’s damage was evident. The morning sky which dawned so tenderly blue had become profaned with oppressive heat. The progress was slower now; they often had to clear the road of debris.

The team of horses struggled in two-inch deep mud, their hooves audibly sucking the quagmire.

Several times, Dustin and the slaves had to push the wagon to free it from mud. The muck clung to Dustin’s boots and the slaves’ feet. The wagon lurched precariously from side-to-side, as they slowly made their way through the mud holes, tossing them to and fro. Blake began skirting them through rain-soaked fields, when possible, leaving snaking wagon-wheel tracks behind, making an embroidered landscape.

With the sun now in procession, they past Biloxi around midday. The hot air begun to dry the land. Dustan sat on the bench next to Blake, scraping the mud from his encrusted boots with a six-inch knife. “I just bought these boots,” he noted glumly.

Blake ignored him while squinting beneath his hat’s brim shade to make out approaching riders in the distance, accompanied by barking dogs. “Heads up, Dustin,” he alerted. “Could be trouble.” Dustin’s eyes narrowed in the harsh sunshine, heat shimmering in the distance as he made out four men on horseback with rifles across their saddlebows, galloping their way. “Check the ammo. Make sure the rifles and guns are loaded full up.”

Dustin got busy. “Who are those men? Outlaws? Robbers?” he asked with a tinge of excitement.

The gap between the two groups narrowed so Blake slowed the team to give Dustin more time. “Your guess is as good as mine. You through there?”

“Yep. Just.”

“Gimme my rifle and you ready yours,” Blake ordered tensely. “The odds are against us.

Two of us, four of them, and the Neegras would slit out throats in a minute.” He mopped his brow with his loosened neckerchief.

The front rider, with a wide-brimmed, black Stetson hat that sat on one side of his head, and in his holster were two ivory-handled, long-barreled pistols. He drew reins in front of the wagon’s path and held up his hand motioning them to halt. There was a carefully ferocity in his dark face, a ruthlessness that made Dustin uneasy. When they stopped, the three other hard faced riders blocked the road while the leader rode to the rear of the wagon. Blake was taciturn as he sized things up the slaved seated in the rear.

The slaves sat quietly, somber-faced. Jeremiah sensed fear. He rode to the front again, and pitched his hat back slightly on his head. “Where you two boys come’n from?”

“Savanah, Georgia,” Blake answered tersely, the reins slack in his hands.

“We had three niggers run from a plantation last night. I’m gonna need to see papers on those in the back of your wagon.

Dustin reached for a saddle bag under the seat, drew out the papers and nervously handed them to the stranger.

The leader looked them over, refolded them and handed them back to Dustin. “Were you headed?”

“New Orleans,” Blake replied.

“Alright. Be on your way.” He nodded his head to the other riders, “Let’em go by.” The leader looked back at Blake and Dustin and touched the brim of his hat as if offering an apology.

The men galloped off in a hurry.

Blake put the horses into motion. Before long, the wheels met a harder surface and the team’s pace quickened.

As they rounded the curve and jolted slowly down the dusty dirt road, a tall muscular man with skin as black as a crow’s wing, clad in only a pair of tattered shorts that was too tight for his large frame, dashed from the head-high weeds onto the dirt road. He ran toward Dustin, looking up breathlessly with frightened eyes. He clutched hold to the wagon, his hands as big as hams. “Ya gotta help me. Dey’s gone kill me!” he pleaded out of breath. Blake drew the reins and the horses stopped and snorted.

He glanced over. “Must be one of those runaways.”

“We’ve gotta help him, Blake.”

“Hell no! We don’t want no trouble.” Blake said as he snapped the reins smartly across the horses back.

“Please help! Dey’s sho ta kill me!” he called out, dropping back from the wagon’s increased speed. The slave ran toward the waist-tall grass as fast as he could. The same band of men spotted their prey as they galloped out of nowhere after him. One of the men was waving his hat and yelling enthusiastically, his golden curls jerking out behind him, whipping the dogs into a frenzy. The slave tried to reach the heavy foliage before they could over-take him, but one of their dogs gripped him by the leg and held him fast. The other dogs joined in as the slave rolled on the ground, trying to fight them off.

Blake pulled the team to a stop. All eyes were on the chase, especially Jeremiah’s. The dog trainer drew his horse’s rein and called out a command to the dogs.

The slave slowly struggled to his feet and the rider in the black hat rode up and mercilessly struck the slave’s skull with the rifle butt so hard that he fell to his knees in a di