Chains

By Tom Lewis

Though hungering for freedom, the slaves of Dunwoodie Plantation have little to live for: Fourteen-year-old Louise expects a life of total misery after her father, the governor general of Guadeloupe, sells her, and after she witnesses her mother’s murder aboard ship. Little does she know David, the lame yet handsome young groom, worships her. His half-brother, Samson, though unselfish and fiercely protective, is the loyal overseer for his master. Abraham, the strong and aloof blacksmith, desperately searches for freedom after avenging his wife’s murder.

They know no peace from the master and his family: stern Charles; his eccentric, bigoted wife, Ella; and their spoiled, arrogant son, Edward.

Life may change for all involved with the arrival of a young minister and his wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: McBryde Publishing
• Release date: Jun 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9780984039111

Book preview

Prelude

The main Island of Guadeloupe, April 20, 1857

THE YOUNG GIRL walked into the small house and found her mother crying. What is the matter, Maman?

Disaster, Lu Lu. We are to be sold tomorrow. Tears flowed in a steady stream from the dark eyes of Marie Betancourte. I must prepare you. Remove your clothes.

Stunned by her words, the girl called Lu Lu dutifully slipped out of the loose-fitting, bright red dress. Bewildered, she stood naked before her sobbing mother. Mon Dieu! But why?

Because it is the law. A law that has been ignored here, but the Inspector General has made a personal visit all the way from France to our island and is threatening the Governor and any others who still keep slaves.

But Maman, the Governor is my own father! Surely—

It cannot be helped, child. He has no choice. He is sad about it, but there is nothing anyone can do. A ship came in yesterday on the flood tide, and the Governor negotiated the sale with the Captain.

Sold? Like cattle or pigs?

We are considered no more than those animals ourselves, Lu Lu. Although you and I have become spoiled by the good life we have here, we are still slaves. The Governor’s private property. Mere chattel. Marie’s voice broke while hoarsely speaking those last words. Not trusting herself to say more, she seized her nude daughter’s slender shoulders, pushed her down onto a stool, and reached for the shears in her apron pocket. Working rapidly, she began to cut the copious black curls from her daughter’s head. Like small dead birds, they fluttered in thick clumps to the polished floor of the bedroom. The three-room, whitewashed house Marie had been given by her master was not large. It was, however, well situated on the leeward side of the hill, on top of which the Governor’s mansion stood, and which commanded a magnificent view of the town and harbor. Marie, the Governor’s personal house slave, had been given the house sixteen years before, along with a last name, after she had become his newest mistress. Lu Lu, whose actual name was Louise, had been born almost two years later.

He will call me again up to the big house tonight, after dark. Marie paused for a moment, glancing toward the north window, wiping her eyes. For one last time.

Only to humiliate you again. Still, he has been kind to us.

True. He has treated us well, including considerable education. Not many of our race on this island can even read or write. I know he feels angry about selling us, but there it is. Standing before the Inspector General, he is impotent. Helpless. There. I am finished with your hair. Stand up.

Lu Lu obeyed, and took a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door. Why are you doing this, Maman? I look like a boy!

Marie sighed heavily. Not yet, but that is my hope, child. My prayer. You are not quite fourteen, but you have grown into womanhood early. Much faster than I did. I intend to disguise you, so do not argue with me. Marie walked to the kitchen. She returned carrying a small bowl containing a mixture of cocoa oil and charcoal ash which she had prepared earlier. My skin is dark, Lu Lu, but because of him, yours is much lighter, which appeals greatly to white men. Stand still. I must apply this evenly, all over your body.

Within ten minutes, Marie was satisfied with the results, and made yet another trip to the kitchen. When she returned, she carried a bolt of raw muslin. Without another word, she began ripping lengths of fabric into long strips, like bandages. I am going to tightly wrap these around your chest. Your breasts are already more than buds, and I intend to flatten them as much as I can. It will make your breathing more difficult, but you will have all night to get used to it.

As instructed, Lu Lu raised her slender arms, and made several slow turns, while her mother snugly wrapped her with the material, from armpits to navel. Early tomorrow morning, her mother continued, I will soak a spot in the front with pig’s blood, as though you have suffered a serious wound. With luck, if anyone removes the boy’s shirt I have made for you, they will shrink back from an apparent infection.

Must I wear trousers?

"But of course. And allow your shoulders to sag. Try to look like that surly dog that follows you about the island. We must convince everyone that you are indeed a boy. I am sure you are adult enough now to know the probable consequences should those vile sailors discover otherwise. Your features, especially your face, are lovely. Not another year will pass before you blossom into a real beauty. That is, if you live long enough.

Oh, Marie continued. I have made a special garment for you to wear under those trousers. It will fit rather snug. I have sewn a pocket on the inside, for two small stones, which hopefully will give the appearance of—well, you know.

You seem to have thought of everything.

Not quite. There is one more thing, Louise.

Lu Lu knew that what her mother was about to say was extremely important, since she had used her actual name. Oui, Maman?

He has given me some old gold coins. Quite valuable. That pocket is to conceal those as well. No matter what happens—to either of us—you must guard them as well as your virtue. You will know what to do with them when the time comes. Make sure you let your eventual master know you can read and write. This is very important.

Oh, Maman, this is all so terrible. Horrible!

I am sure there are words worse than those. Come, let us try on this shirt and trousers, along with the little girdle.

Lu Lu stared at the faded, coarse brown clothes, and screwed up her nose. These things are filthy! And they stink!

Just as you will look and smell tomorrow, my darling.

What will you wear?

Never mind. Hurry, now, and try these on. We need to cook his food, and some for ourselves later tonight. At least we will not go aboard that ship hungry, which was the way I arrived here. I looked like a stick, and was not much older than you are now. And, by the way, Lu Lu, we may also be in luck—to a small degree. The Governor told me the ship is just another island trader, not a slaver.

What if the ship was a slaver?

Marie stared out the window again. She waited half a minute before answering, this time in a whisper, I would have killed you tonight while you slept, and then myself.

Chapter 1

 — Lu Lu —

CLEMENT OSBORN, half owner and Master of the schooner Eleanor N. Dawson, stood at the port rail alongside his first mate, watching the small boat approaching. Looks like less than a dozen of them. Hardly worth my time.

Any women in the bunch, Cap’n?

Osborn lowered his glass and glanced sharply at his mate. Hiram Adams was without a doubt the meanest human being he had ever known; a man of no conscience whatsoever, and cruel in the bargain. Only a few, Mr. Adams. And mind you, I want every last one of them to arrive at Charleston in the same condition they board my ship. I trust you understand me.

Adams gave a mock salute. Aye, Captain Osborn. I do indeed. You say Charleston? I thought you would sell them at the market in Cuba.

Not enough of them to make it profitable. I would not get good prices for them there. Besides, putting in at Cuba would cost me nearly two weeks sailing time. I was fortunate enough to buy enough coffee and rum here to load the ship to the rails. No, I shall take the northern route, and sail directly to Charleston. We have been on this voyage long enough as it is.

Captain Osborn had another reason for skirting Cuba and making port as soon as possible. He wanted to rid his vessel of Hiram Adams at the first opportunity. The fact that Adams was an excellent sailing man and half-decent navigator was the only reason Osborn had not done so before. None of the crew liked the scoundrel, and an unhappy crew always made for a bad-luck ship. Unless Adams was off the schooner soon, Osborn knew he would have trouble finding good men to replace those who would likely quit the ship, like rats. Give a hand with the ladder, Adams. And call all hands to the deck.

Aye, sir.

Captain Osborn also knew he would not get top prices for this motley group of slaves at Charleston, but then, he had not paid much for them either. He suspected the French governor was under pressure to get rid of them as quickly as possible, and it was also likely that the chief auctioneer at the slave market in Charleston, who was married to Osborn’s own sister, might negotiate favorably. In any case, he would make at least a small profit. Osborn grunted sourly under his breath. His problem was where to stow them. There was no space at all below decks. They would have to make the voyage on the open deck, under an awning, with two oak buckets for slops and a wooden bowl each for food. Captain Osborn wanted them well fed, too, which would probably keep them better under control, even though they would be chained hand and foot. Weather this time of year should not be a problem. He and his crew would simply have to put up with the stink for the time being.

Osborn eyed the blacks now climbing aboard and counted heads; four old men, two very old women, two middle-aged men, two young women and one boy. The old men had probably been gardeners for the governor. The older women were possibly cooks and washerwomen. The two younger men were more than likely livestock tenders. Of the two younger women, one was dressed in clothes far better than the usual rags, and held her head up, like an aristocrat. Osborn smiled. He could easily guess what her primary task had been. The other younger female was probably the mother of the young boy, whose eyes were wide with fear. All of the women and a few of the men were crying.

Osborn guessed that none of them had ever worn shackles and chains, and were having great difficulty clambering over the rail. All of them were filthy, and unpleasantly odoriferous, which moved him to put a scented handkerchief to his nose.

He noticed that his entire crew of eight men had gathered behind him to watch the spectacle. Once all the slaves had come aboard and were gathered in a tight group on deck. Osborn turned to the crew. Hear this. There is no room below decks for these niggers. I want a tarp stretched beneath the foremast boom to keep them out of the sun. They can have old canvas spread on deck to sleep on. He glanced at the cook. Jones, they are to eat exactly what the crew eats, with ample water. I do not wish to arrive at Charleston with a dozen skeletons. Another thing: These blacks speak French. I doubt if any of them understands one word of English, so bear that in mind.

With a stern face, and steely eyes on his first mate, he added, The women are not to be touched by any man on my ship. We are but a fortnight from port. I am certain you can all wait for your sin until then, just as I must. All right, then, prepare to weigh anchor. The tide is already beneath us. When we clear the harbor, the off-watch may go back below. With that order, he turned and walked to his customary place of command, on the poop. Two hours later, his ship stood out to the open sea.

Chapter 2

HIRAM ADAMS waited until late of the eighth night. He had not been impatient, mainly because he had wanted the ship to be in a regular routine, with the slaves more or less forgotten about. Now, two hours before dawn, the schooner was sailing smoothly before the wind, and all was normal above and below decks. All the slaves were asleep. In a whisper, Adams told his only friend, Ducky Traynor, This is it, Ducky. Half a moon, and the Captain’s in his cabin, snoring like a sawmill. He will not come awake until sun-up. Come on, and keep quiet.

Traynor grinned, exposing twin rows of bad teeth. He knew what Hiram had in mind, having heard him describe his plan over and over for a week. Without a word, he grabbed two buckets with three fathoms of rope spliced to their handles, and followed the mate to the leeward rail. In seconds, he and Adams lowered and filled the buckets with seawater, and hauled them aboard, careful not to make noise. Now, listen, Adams said. The men are shackled together with leg irons and chains, with another chain through their neck shackles, but the women and the boy only have leg irons. From his pocket, he extracted a key. I want that pretty nigger with the orange dress. You can have the other one after I finish. Or maybe the boy, if that be your fancy.

Traynor nodded, looking around. Where is everybody?

Quiet! I said. Old Ben is asleep like he usually is by the main cabin door. Walker’s at the helm. Got your shiv?

From his belt, Traynor pulled a short-bladed knife, double edged. Right here.

Good. You know what to do. Let’s go, then.

Both men moved silently to the port side where the women were squeezed together, fast asleep.

By the Christ, they stink! Traynor whispered.

A good dousing of salt water’ll take some of it away, Ducky.

Traynor answered with a wink and a snicker. Both knew that the water buckets were only for show, in case they were surprised in the act. To himself, Adams silently recited the plausible excuse. ‘Cap’n, their smell was so bad, it’s damned hard for the crew to work around it, so I give ‘em a quick bath. If it don’t do no good, it sure won’t do no harm.’

The moment Adams turned the key in the padlock, both women gasped in alarm. The boy lying between them stirred a little, but remained asleep. Adams stared into the wide, dark eyes of the slave he had chosen. She squirmed, trying to sit up. Before she could cry out, Adams placed a forefinger over her lips and one over his own, while Traynor moved his blade to the throat of the second young woman. The unspoken message was clear to both slaves, who held their breath. Making as little noise as possible, Adams slid the chain through the open shackles, and grabbed the woman’s arm. Come along, Miss Sweetmeat. Time for a little sport. He pulled her to her feet while Traynor refastened the last link of the chain with the padlock. Then, leaving Traynor to guard the others, and with his left hand clamped tightly over her mouth, he dragged her to the rail, where they had left the two buckets. He was somewhat surprised that she did not put up a fight. She did not even resist when he seized her left breast and squeezed it. His lowered voice became hoarse. Damned if you don’t have two nice tops’ls, gal. Pretty lines to boot. Now let’s see what you’ve got below decks.

The moment he attempted to reach under her skirts, the woman’s right arm wrenched free, and she jammed her hand down into the recesses of her apron. When it came back up, Adams saw the open razor flash in mid-arc. His reflex was automatic, but he only had split-second time enough to jerk his left arm up, which saved him from having his throat cut. The razor sliced a gash to the bone between wrist and elbow. For a brief instant, Hiram Adams stared back into the eyes of the woman, not quite believing what she had done. His eyes moved from hers to his bloody left arm, which was now starting to produce sharp pain. He felt faint at the sight of it. From the corner of his eye, Adams saw the blade again move, lightning-fast, this time toward his neck. He backed away, but not quick enough to keep it from laying open a second slice across his chest.

She-devil! I’ll kill you for that! He slammed a vicious kick to her stomach that doubled her over. Before she could recover, he snatched a belaying pin from the rack at the rail and swung it against her head. The first blow struck her on her right temple and she fell sideways to the deck. In an uncontrollable rage, Adams cursed and swung the heavy pin back and forth, beating her around the head and neck until Traynor pulled him away.

Lord God, man, she’s dead enough. What happened to your arm?

Razor. She had a razor in her pocket. Go fetch old Ben. Quick, Ducky. It was only then that Adams noticed that the other slaves were all wide awake, wailing and caterwauling, which in turn rapidly brought the off-watch crew and the Captain rushing to the deck. Dressed only in his nightshirt, with a pistol in his right hand, Osborn took in the grisly scene at a glance and demanded, What in hell happened here?

Adams was sitting on the deck in a spreading puddle of blood, holding two flaps of his arm against his body. Despite the pain, his mind was not dulled. Cap’n, these niggers stink so bad, the crew can’t hardly work around ‘em. He pointed to the two buckets of seawater. Me and Ducky decided to give ‘em a bath, one at a time, but the woman came at me with a razor. Cut me up pretty bad, Cap’n. I hit her, but she went after me again. I swear it.

A bath? For one of the most valuable and best looking woman in the bunch? Osborn said, doubt showing all over his face. And at this time of night? I believe I can see the picture. Ben, can you do something for this man’s arm?

Ben Smith, the ship’s carpenter and oldest member of the crew was the only man aboard who had any experience dealing with shipboard wounds or accidents. With Traynor prodding him, he shoved his way through the gathering crowd and bent over the body of the woman. With an effort, he straightened and looked at the Captain. Ain’t nothing can be done for that one, sir. Here, mate, let’s have a look at that arm.

While he was making his examination, Traynor jumped forward and bellowed, What he said was true. It was self-defense, Cap’n. I seen it all. She cut Mr. Adams twice before he struck her.

Captain Osborn ignored the man. Well, Ben?

Aye, Cap’n, the old salt replied. I’ll clamp it with a dozen fishhooks and bend ‘em with pliers. That’ll close it enough for me to sew it up. His chest, too. That cut don’t look too deep. He’s lost a lot of blood, and that arm could go rotten ‘fore we reach port. If that happens, I reckon I can saw off an arm easy as I can a deck plank. Somebody fetch me some rum.

Osborn nodded his approval, and issued further orders, pointing, You men, there, throw that carcass overboard. Adams, this is coming out of your pay. Traynor, since you were so thoughtful to produce those buckets of water, you can clean this deck with it, and put your back into it. The rest of you men off-watch, go on back to sleep. This is enough commotion here for one night. He called aft to the helmsman, Steady as she goes.

Captain Osborn lingered only long enough to see that his orders were being carried out, mumbled a few more choice words, and made his way back to his cabin, leaving Ben Smith in charge. No one had noticed that the slaves had all become silent as ghosts, although there was stark white around every open eye.

The slave called Anne had kept her hand over Lu Lu’s mouth during the entire scene. In French, she gently whispered, "Listen to me, and do not cry out. I am sure you saw it all, and I am equally certain you understand all. Marie gave her life for you—and for us. Have you not guessed why she wore her best clothes to come onto this ship? All the rest of us, you included, look like the scum of the earth, while she looked like a grand lady. She did that on purpose, Lu Lu. So that none of those beasts would pay much attention to you, or even to me. Because of her, we are all probably safe now.

She died quickly, but she would have cut her own throat before she allowed that creature to rape her. I know this must be difficult, but you must continue to remain silent. Your life depends on it. I am so very sorry, precious girl. I was fond of Marie. We all were. She tilted the girl’s head against her own. Please, please try to sleep now.

But Louise Betancourte slept very little the rest of that night, or during the remaining uneventful days and nights of the voyage. She only wished that she had died with her mother.

IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON of the same day the Eleanor N. Dawson made port at Charleston, a train stopped briefly at the small village of Hertford, North Carolina. A porter unloaded two suitcases and three steamer trunks belonging to the new pastor of the local Methodist church, and his wife. A small committee had gathered at the tiny depot to welcome them. For both Reverend Alfred Torrence and Agnes, his young bride of three weeks, nothing in the world they had ever known before could have prepared them for the future they were about to face.

Chapter 3

 — Kwanni —

Dunwoodie Plantation, near Hertford, North Carolina

July 14, 1857

WITH HER OWN HOE, Clive Mackey forced the slave called Clara to dig a hole in the corn row deep enough for her swollen belly. The woman was more than eight months pregnant, and prayed her punishment would not harm her unborn child. Bawling, and wishing she had a strip of leather or at least a stick to bite down on, she positioned her prone body over the depression dug into the soft earth. She begged Jesus to keep the overseer from giving her the full fifteen lashes.

Her tears and prayers were ignored by the burly white man with the bullwhip. Mackey yanked her cotton dress up, exposing her nakedness for all the other helpless field slaves to see. Ten vicious blows to her bare back were delivered with full force before the overseer noticed that her body was no longer twitching and that her muffled shrieks had ceased. Blood was still pouring from the open stripes on her back, but Clara’s thirty-two-year-old heart had burst.

Mackey finally realized he was whipping a dead body. Feeling cheated, he gave Clara’s still form a booted kick. Damn you, you ol’ bitch! He recoiled the black whip and glared at the stunned witnesses. Some of you niggers pick this here wench up and take her to the graveyard. The rest of you, git on back to work, or else take a big dose of the same medicine.

With her only clean apron covering her face, Clara was gently laid in the ground shortly after noon...

STANDING ON HIS WIDE FRONT PORCH, as was his custom at sundown every Saturday, Charles Dunwood watched his slaves come to the yard to be counted. Just past his fiftieth birthday, Charles was a tall, sinewy man with long arms and calloused hands; a man used to hard work. His lined, sunburned face beneath a thick shock of graying hair was somewhat softened by blue eyes that sparkled whenever he smiled. But Charles Dunwood was not smiling now. He counted twice, not failing to notice the hanging heads of the men and streaming tears of the women. Mackey, where is Clara?

If that’s her name, she’s dead, Mr. Dunwood. We buried her Christian, though.

Charles’ eyes turned icy, staring hard at his overseer. Clive Mackey was midway through his second year on the job, and his snide answer made up the two longest sentences Charles had ever heard him speak. What happened?

Like a dutiful soldier, Mackey retorted, This was the fourth day in a row she was shirkin’ her work. I whupped her again and she up and died on me.

Despite his fury, Charles managed to keep his voice even. I have warned you more than once not to whip the women severely. They cannot stand so much as the men. This time you have cost me a good field slave. Clara was worth four hundred dollars, which I judge you now rightfully owe me. You have two choices. Either you work for no wages until your debt is paid, or I will have you arrested and tried for murder. And, by God, I will see to it that you get the harshest sentence allowed by the law and that it is carried out to the letter. Which shall it be?

Clive Mackey spat between his boots. The shame of being so seriously upbraided in front of more than fifty smelly slaves was almost beyond humiliation, but he was damned if he would show it. Not now, at least. Sir, I ‘spect I can work it off.

I reckon you will. Charles took a step forward, to the porch banister. I have to be away for about two weeks, starting tomorrow. When I return, I had better not hear of any more of this sort of behavior. Your job is to make sure they all work their best, not to punish them to a point that produces the opposite. Is that clear?

Yes, sir.

Charles eyed his slaves. You all had best learn from this, too. Get on home now, work hard and keep out of trouble. If you do not, I may take some skin off of you myself.

He waited until the slaves began trudging toward their quarters, and with one final warning glance at his overseer, he stomped inside slamming the front door. Without removing his hat, he made straight for the sideboard in the parlor and poured himself a whiskey. After the first gulp, he noticed Molly standing in the doorway of the dining room. "Well, what are you looking at?"

Nothin’, Massa, nothin’ a’tall, the elderly house slave answered. But you shoulda charged dat oberseer a heap more’n fo’ hundred dollah.

Charles immediately surmised Molly had heard every word that had been spoken outside. Why do you say that?

‘Cause Clara wuz gon’ drop a youngun nex’ month. Now you’s short two niggers. With those caustic words, the stooped, white-headed woman shuffled back through the dining room to her kitchen sanctuary.

Charles sighed heavily. He took his hat off and hung it on the hall tree. Glass in hand, he climbed the stairs to his wife’s bedroom. He knocked softly twice and walked in. Although the heat was stultifying, the two large windows were closed and shuttered. His wife of eighteen years was a small lump beneath two quilts. I came up to see how you are feeling, Ella. You know I must leave early tomorrow morning. Will you come down for supper?

He got no answer, but Charles knew she was not asleep. He moved to the edge of the high bed, bent down and kissed Ella’s damp cheek. Obtaining no response, he turned and left her room, shaking his head in frustration that bordered on anger. Six months like this, he reminded himself. Six months, and no more than a few words a day. Or to Dr. Alexander Porter either, who had examined her a dozen times, and was equally perplexed. I can’t find a thing wrong with her, Charles. What is ailing her is inside her head, and no doctor I know of can treat that. Just give her more time, he had said.

Under his breath, Charles cursed again. More time. Always more time... He loved his wife. Well, he had once loved her, but physical passion for her had faded rapidly within weeks after Edward was born. Having endured two miscarriages, Ella suffered through an extremely difficult pregnancy with Edward, but the child had nevertheless been brought forth squalling and healthy. And from that day, the boy had consumed each waking minute of her life. Ella had lavished every ounce of her love on their son, leaving precious little for Charles.

This domestic state of affairs had lasted until Edward’s sixteenth birthday, when Charles had packed the spoiled boy off to the Virginia Military Academy. Ella hated him for that. Worse, every time Charles had wanted—and then demanded—his marital rights, Ella had submitted, but with the enthusiasm of a corpse. Within a year after Edward’s birth, Charles had begun paying occasional nocturnal visits to the widow Turner. Alma Turner’s services in her house at Hertford was, deservedly, the subject of most of the area gossip.

Charles clumped back downstairs into the parlor, which now also served as his temporary office. Another thing that was straining his patience to the limit was the time it was taking to finish the new buildings being erected on the edge of town where he had installed the recently purchased cotton gin, an investment he hoped would eventually double his wealth. He finished his whiskey and yelled, Molly, I want my supper now!

He found his food already on the table. Having little appetite, Charles toyed with the stewed chicken and dumplings, mashed potatoes, string beans and totally ignored the peach cobbler, but he drank another whiskey.

Arms crossed, Molly watched as her carefully prepared supper went to waste. It was not the first time, and she knew it would not be the last. And, she knew why. Massa, kin I have p’mission to talk plain?

Charles grunted. You have been speaking plain for years, old woman. What’s on your mind this time?

Dat’s jus’ it, Massa. Time. Years. I’s gittin’ old. De Lord knows, I wuz old when you got me, an’ now I’s gittin’ feeble, too. I knows you’s goin’ down to South C’lina to buy some more slaves. I wants you to git one fo’ de house, too. I needs some help ‘round here bad.

I will think on it.

Yassuh, an—

And what? Speak up, Molly.

Well, suh, Missy ain’t a-gittin’ no better. I don’ b’lieve she will, neither, ‘less de boy comes back home.

Charles gave her a stony look. This time, Molly had touched a nerve. Get out of here and tell William to saddle my horse. I’m going into town.

Molly picked up her calico skirts and hurried out. She knew exactly where in town her master was going, and why. Still, she believed she had managed to get her point across. Moving as fast as her skinny legs would carry her, she trotted down to the stables, calling at the top of her voice, Willy! Wake up. Git de Massa’s hoss ready—right dis minute!

FIVE HUNDRED YARDS AWAY from the big house, the remaining slaves of Dunwoodie Plantation had gathered around open fires for their own supper. On Saturday nights it was normally a veritable feast, including the new ration of pork, fried chickens, cornbread, sweet potatoes, and fried apples. Yet, this fine meal also went mostly to waste in spite of the hunger in every belly. Clara’s death beneath the cruel overseer’s lashing had robbed them all of any semblance of appetite. Only the innocent small children ate—greedily. As well, the usual good feelings around the fires, when each slave knew that none of them would have to work on God’s day, had given way to soft mutterings and whispered prayers.

One by one, they sidled over to hug Clara’s husband and move tearfully away. But Abraham, who had jumped the broom with Clara only a year before, had spoken not one single word since hearing about the tragedy in the field.

Every man and woman waited patiently for Abraham—who preferred to be called Kwanni—to say something. They all had to wait for two hours!

Finally, Kwanni stood. He was well over six feet and blacker than the night around him. His blacksmith’s tensed muscles glistened with a mixture of tears and sweat. At last he spoke, his voice low but resonant across the clearing. "Dat oberseer don’ know it yet, but he’s done whupped his las’ nigger. He kilt my Clara an’