Running South

By Ritchie Allen Greer

In the dead of night, three young slave kids, Isaac, Felicia, and Samuel, are suddenly awoken from their slumber by their parents, Duke and Elizabeth.

Moments later, the confused kids are dragged through the dew-covered cotton fields and into the forest. Felicia then pleads for an explanation but only gets silence from her parents.

The kids are pushed by Duke and Elizabeth further than they've ever been before. Then, without warning, they arrive at a valley that has train tracks cutting through the heart of it. As they try to catch their breaths, their Ma and Pa inform them that they are to stow away on a train that will take them North, to freedom.

As the ground beneath them begins to tremble, the mighty train approaches. It is then when they realize that they'll be taking this journey alone and that these are the final moments they'll ever spend with their parents.

Tears fill their eyes as the kids make a mad dash to board the last remaining boxcar. Their hearts race, which seems to increase their speed, as they lunge towards and cling on to the train of freedom.

The kids crouch in the corner in the back of the boxcar, their minds reeling from the life-altering event. It isn't long until they discover that the route has changed. Instead of the train heading North, it turns further South where the Civil War is raging.

Isaac, Felicia, and Samuel are lost and alone and must find a way North through treacherous terrain while being pursued by slave hunters who will stop at nothing to retrieve their prize. Along the way, they stumble upon something that could possibly turn the tides of the War. But the question remains: What sacrifices are they willing to make for not only their freedom but also for the freedom of an entire race?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496906779

Ritchie Allen Greer

As a young boy, Ritchie Greer had dreamed of one day writing a great novel, which seemed out of reach, since at no time was he considered an intellectual type. But as he grew up, he quickly discovered that he had a passion for writing and creating great stories that not only captured people's minds but also grabbed their hearts. Ritchie's dream of writing took him from his small town of North Wilkesboro, NC to Los Angeles, CA where he lives today with his girlfriend. He has two wonderful teenaged kids and hopes that through his passion and perseverance, he would be able to provide a better life for them as well as teach them to follow their dreams, no matter how beyond their reach it may seem.

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© 2014 Ritchie Allen Greer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/29/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0678-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0677-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907531

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

About The Author

Special thanks to Matthew Eldridge, Gail Weissman, and Malou Tecson.

Chapter 1

My name is Isaac Dawson and the story I’m about to tell you, you won’t find in any history book or hear about in any classroom. It had basically remained forgotten, at least up until now . . .

It all started in the sweltering summer of 1864. Although it was so many years ago, I swear to you I can still see the fields just as clear as if I were standing in them today.

As I think back on that time and place, I don’t have to remind myself that there was a certain beauty in it: the way the sun hung silently in the bright sky, the way the thousands of cotton plants swayed back and forth in unison, the way the lush green plants emerged and stretched out from the chocolate brown soil which ultimately collided with the ocean blue horizon, and the way the wind sounded as it ruffled through the reeds around you. It was a symphony of well-orchestrated sights and sounds that seemed to be put together for my sole benefit—almost like a gift from God and Mother Nature herself. There’s no doubt those moments could take you away, if you let it.

But back in those days, us slaves weren’t supposed to waste time daydreaming or appreciating the scenery. That kind of thing would get you into serious trouble. Even so, I would always find a moment to stand tall, close my eyes, and take a big, deep breath. In those moments, I would imagine myself somewhere else. Maybe on a tall mountain. Maybe by a beach, watching the ocean brush against the sand. Maybe even in a classroom somewhere, listening to stories about people and places in history. As pretty as the fields could be, I was always disappointed when I opened my eyes again and found myself standing right where I’d been a minute before.

My only comfort and my only regret was that my family was also there with me in those fields. You see, my family and I had the distinct and prestigious honor of picking cotton for one of the South’s most ruthless slave owners. His name was Jefferson Tomstin III, and his family had owned my family for longer than anyone cared to remember. I was born a slave under Tomstin’s employment. My brother, sister, my mother, even my father were all born in the ramshackle cabins that we called home. It was all we knew.

Although Master Tomstin was a cold and heartless man, he was no dummy. As the grandson of a slave owner, he was handed down all the tricks of the trade. He knew how to keep the laborers working. He knew how to keep every man, woman, and child productive. He was also very learned on how to keep order in the fields.

So to keep every one of us working at peak efficiency, Master Tomstin had hired on a Slave Master by the name of Cornelius Slate to not only oversee the work being done but to make sure that we all knew our place.

Slate was tall and thin, and had the kind of tough, leathery face hardened by a lifetime of failures and disappointments. To me, he had almost a military way about him. I had seen a few Confederate soldiers on the plantation over the past couple of years and Mr. Slate always reminded me of them. Maybe it was the way he sat straight up in the saddle like he had a beanpole tied around his back. Maybe it was the way his eyes were always searching, like a soldier looking for a threat. Or maybe it was because of the way he looked at us, the slaves, like we were the enemy he was facing, like he hated us more than anything on earth.

I remember thinking that the hatred towards us wasn’t towards us at all. I would like to think that the hatred was more within, like there was an unresolved battle going on inside him that had nothing to do with us; a battle that he was desperately trying to hide.

I never dared ask Mr. Slate himself. That would be a right stupid thing to do. I would do my best to even keep from looking at the man. Every slave in those fields was afraid to make even the slightest rule infraction while under his watch. He had a taste for the whip. Pa even said that half the lashes Slate handed out were just because he was bored and wanted something to do. If I’d had any money, I would have bet every penny that Pa was right. Only a plain fool would deliberately go against Master Tomstin or Mr. Slate.

As it so happened, that’s exactly what I was doing on that fateful summer morning. The sun was just brightening up the sky, cutting through the thin clouds that the night had left behind. The air was still cool and inviting, and the river that Georgeo and I sat next to was quiet and peaceful.

The rain poured down onto the tin roof, I read aloud, squinting my eyes at the book in my lap. Though I knew the words, they felt strange in my mouth, like I couldn’t quite wrap my lips around them properly. I was making great progress, but they still felt foreign on my tongue.

Reading was a tricky thing for a ten-year-old boy who had never done it before. I had learned to speak at an early age—earlier than my siblings, according to my parents—but reading was something different entirely. I knew how the words sounded, but they seemed so different when they were written down. Imagine hearing a sound and then trying to draw how it sounded. That’s what words seemed like to me. I could understand and recognize them more and more as time went on, but it was still strange that those black markings on the paper were actually the same words that I was speaking.

I pushed the wire-framed glasses up on the bridge of my nose and focused once more on the page. The rain poured down onto the tin roof, making music for all to hear.

That’s right! Georgeo said with a smile. That’s good! Keep going!

Each drop was a call to me, I continued, causing Georgeo to nod enthusiastically beside me. Each drop whispered my name, asking me to come into the storm.

Fantastic, Georgeo said. I’m telling you, you’ve come a long way since we started!

Every week, he would make a similar statement. I think it genuinely surprised him how fast I caught on. It was probably because for the past several months, these secret classes with him had been the thing I looked forward to most in the world. I would focus all my energy on what I had learned and on what I was going to learn.

The reason I was doing this was not only to spend time with Georgeo. There was something else—something bigger, something greater. You see, the truth is, I wanted to be a writer. Not someone who could just write his name, but someone who could use words to weave magic into even the simplest of stories. But to do that, you must first learn to read, which I knew wasn’t allowed.

And I wasn’t the only one who was risking a lot down by the river. You see, Georgeo was, in fact, Georgeo Tomstin, the son of Master Jefferson Tomstin himself. A slave owner’s son befriending one of the slaves, well… it was obvious why we had to keep our lessons a secret. If we met more than once a week, we stood a better chance of being found out. If Georgeo was discovered teaching me to read, I knew I would get a beating that would likely leave me useless for weeks, if not outright dead. I’d hate to think what would happen to Georgeo. He never cared what the color of my skin was. It didn’t matter to him that I was black and he was white. He was the only such person I had ever encountered. He was taking an awful risk just by being my friend. I didn’t say it, but that meant more to me than he’d ever really know.

boys%20reading%20book%20by%20tree%20(picture%201).jpg

As I laughed with exhilaration at my literary development, I leaned my head back against the tree that we were sitting under. As I did so, I noticed that the air had become warmer. One look at the sun stole the laughter right out of my mouth.

As if reading my mind, Georgeo plunged his hand into his shirt pocket and retrieved a large, brass-plated watch from it. He glanced at it for less than a second before scrambling to his feet. Time to go! We’re really late! he exclaimed.

Not again! I cried as I leapt up from the grass.

It always seemed so bizarre to me. When I was out in the field, I would try and will the sun to go faster, to drift quickly across the blue sky and let us be done for the day. A few hours in the cotton took ages to pass, but a few hours with my best friend always flew by in the blink of an eye. Today was no different, and now I feared I would be late for the count.

Any minute now, Mr. Slate and Sam, his lackey, would be lining everyone up on the edge of the field for the morning count. It was their way of making sure everyone was still there. They didn’t want any of their slaves trying to escape.

Georgeo and I sprinted as fast as we could through the thin edge of the forest that kept us hidden from the world. The temperature was rising as we went, causing a twinge of panic to race through me. I could not be late. I had cut it close a dozen times, but I had never been late for the count before. I wasn’t sure what I feared more: the lash… or my father’s disappointed glare.

I had to keep my lessons a secret from my family, just the same as anyone else. Georgeo had told me not to tell a soul. If one person had loose lips, a rumor like that would spread like wildfire, and I would be caught and punished. I loved my family more than anything, but I had to keep it from them, just in case.

Tree branches whipped lightly against my bare arms as I ran. The hot, moist air was rushing in and out of my lungs in large gasps as I bounded over fallen logs and moss-covered rocks. Sweat was already collecting on my forehead, causing the spectacles to slip down to the end of my nose. I slapped them back in place just as Georgeo and I came upon the fork in the path. This was where we always parted ways. This was where we sometimes shared a final joke or finished a final story. Today, however, there was no time for either.

For a brief second, we both paused at the fork, our chests heaving, and stared at one another. Next week? I asked.

Georgeo nodded, taking a few spry steps backward. Yes! Now, go! Hurry!

With a wide grin on my face, I dashed forward several yards. Maybe I could still make it on time.

Isaac! I heard from behind me. I skidded to a stop and whirled around at the sound of my name. Georgeo trotted over to where I stood, holding out his hand. My spectacles! he said.

I had nearly forgotten. Georgeo would always allow me to wear them while I was studying. He and I had the same problem with fuzzy eyesight. It didn’t stop me from working or doing anything else, but when I had to focus on small words and sentences, I needed something to sharpen up my vision.

With a simultaneous laugh, we both jaunted off in separate directions again. It always took a few minutes for my brain to get used to my eyes seeing without the spectacles. I managed just fine without them, but I sure would have liked to have a pair of my very own. The entire world seemed a little bit clearer with them.

Now that there was a clear, defined path for me to follow, I could really turn on the speed. My legs had saved me plenty of times in the past, and I was counting on them to do the same today. I had to get back. I had to be there for the count. I wasn’t about to be the reason for anyone to be punished. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone taking a blow from a whip because of something I did. That thought alone pushed me even faster.

The lush green forest was whizzing by me as I ran. Squirrels and chipmunks scattered in front of me, terrified at the sound of my feet pounding heavily on the dirt. In a matter of a few seconds, I had exploded out from the forest and into the cotton field. In the distance, I could make out a line of dark-skinned workers spread out just in front of the fields. Sam was doing the count.

No, no, no! I screamed in my mind. Not yet!

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Chapter 2

I lowered my head and barreled forward, snatching lightning-fast handfuls of cotton as I went. The bushes were high, and I could remain hidden as long as I kept my head down and didn’t kick up too much dust. It seemed to take an eternity to cross that field, grabbing as much warm, fluffy cotton as I could, but I finally managed to edge up behind Sam just as I heard him finish his count.

One fifty-five? he muttered to himself, sounding puzzled. He took a moment to scan the line of slaves, absentmindedly scratching his shin with his thumb. Dawson, he said after a moment. Isaac Dawson.

Yes, sir? I said, raising my head and showing my position just a few feet behind him. I was trying my best to hide my ragged breathing, but Sam noticed immediately.

Where you been, boy? he asked, looking me up and down.

I swallowed hard and shrugged my shoulder. Nowhere, Mr. Sam. I’ve been right here working.

Sam narrowed his dark eyes at me. Why’re you all sweaty and out of breath?

It’s ’cause I work hard for you, Mr. Sam. Real hard! I said, doing my best to appear genuine. I turned and showed him the armful of cotton that I had plucked while running through the field. See?

Sam pursed his lips as he stared down at me. At that moment, I was suddenly terrified that he was going to explode with anger and demand to know what I’d really been doing. The sweat rolling off me now was more from my rattling nerves than it was from the heat. After a second, though, Sam just shrugged and turned back around to face the sound of hooves as Mr. Slate rode up to him on his horse.

Everything in place? Slate asked, his gravelly voice low and steady.

Sam took a big breath and stood as straight as he could. Yes, Mr. Slate. No problems.

With nothing more than a curt nod, Slate dug his heels into the flank of his white horse and galloped away, leaving everyone to deflate and relax, including Sam.

All right, then! Sam shouted for all to hear. Everyone get to work!

Just the same as they did each morning, every slave started forward, sauntering into the fields and spreading out to cover as much ground as they could. I fell in with my family as they pushed into the cotton. I didn’t have a sack yet, but I knew Pa would have grabbed it for me. Sure enough, as I approached him, I was relieved to