Part I

THE ROAD The dirt receding before my prophetical screams

—Walt Whitman

Chapter One

Frederick sets his feet upon the road

The long day was ending. Now that the sun had dropped behind scrawny pine trees, little eddies of dust stirred along the road. A bit of air from the bay lifted the flaccid leaves and lightly rustled the dry twigs. A heap of rags and matted hair that had seemed part of the swampy underbrush stirred. A dark head lifted cautiously. It was bruised and cut, and the deep eyes were wide with terror. For a moment the figure was motionless—ears strained, aching muscles drawn together, ready to dive deeper into the scrub. Then the evening breeze touched the bloated face, tongue licked out over cracked, parched lips. As the head sagged forward, a single drop of blood fell heavily upon the dry pine needles.

Water! The wide nostrils distended gratefully, tasting the moisture in the air—cool like the damp bricks of the well. Cracked fingers twitched as if they wrapped themselves around a rusty cup—the rough red cup with its brimming goodness of cool water. It had stood right at the side of his grandmother’s hut—the old well had—its skyward-pointing beam so aptly placed between the limbs of what had once been a tree, so nicely balanced that even a small boy could move it up and down with one hand and get a drink without calling for help. The bundle of rags in the bushes shivered violently. Benumbed limbs were coming alive. He must be quiet, lie still a little longer, breathe slowly.

But the stupor which had locked his senses during the heat of the August day was lifting. Pain which could not be borne made him writhe. He gritted his teeth. His head seemed to float somewhere in space, swelling and swelling. He pressed against the ground, crushing the pine needles against his lips. Faces and voices were blurred in his memory. Sun, hot sun on the road—bare feet stirring the dust. The road winding up the hill—dust in the road. He had watched his grandmother disappear in the dust of the road. His mother had gone too, waving goodbye. The road had swallowed them up. The shadows of the trees were blotting out the road. There were only trees here. He lay still.

Darkness falls swiftly in the pine woods. He raised himself once more and looked about. A squirrel scurried for cover. Then everything was still—no harsh voices, no curses, no baying of hounds. That meant they were not looking for him. With the dogs it would have been easy enough. Covey had not bothered to take time out from work. Covey knew he could not get away.

Masters who sent their slaves to this narrow neck of stubborn land between the bay and the river knew their property was safe. Edward Covey enjoyed the reputation of being a first-rate hand at breaking “bad niggers.” Slaveholders in the vicinity called him in when they had trouble. Since Covey was a poor man his occupation was of immense advantage to him. It enabled him to get his farm worked with very little expense. Like some horse-breakers noted for their skill, who rode the best horses in the country without expense, Covey could have under him the most fiery bloods of the neighborhood. He guaranteed to return any slave to his master well broken.

Captain Auld had turned over to Covey this impudent young buck who had been sent down to the Eastern Shore from Baltimore. Among the items of his wife’s property, Captain Auld had found this slave listed as “Frederick.”

“Sly and dangerous!” The Captain’s voice was hard. “Got to be broken now while he’s young.”

“Frederick!” Covey had mouthed the syllables distastefully, his small green eyes traveling over the stocky, well-formed limbs, broad shoulders and long brown arms. “Too much name—too much head!” The comment was a sort of low growl. But his tones were servile as he addressed the master.

“Know his kind well. Just leave him to me. I’ll take it out of him.”

Then Frederick had lifted his head. His broad, smooth face turned to his master. His eyes were eloquent. Why? But his lips did not move. Captain Auld spoke sternly.

“Watch yourself! Don’t be bringing him back to me crippled. He’ll fetch a fair price in a couple of years. Comes of good stock.”

Thomas Auld (why “Captain” no one knew) had not been born a slaveholder. Slaves had come to him through marriage. The stench of the whole thing sickened him, but he despised himself for his weakness. He dreaded his wife’s scorn. She had grown up on the Lloyd plantation where there were more slaves than anybody could count and there was always plenty of everything. Colonel Lloyd never had trouble with his slaves, she taunted her husband. Auld would tighten his colorless, thin lips. God knows he tried hard enough—starved himself to feed a parcel of no-good, lazy blacks. He thoroughly hated them all. This one now—this sleek young buck—he’d been ruined in the city by Hugh Auld. By his own brother and by that milk-faced wife of his. Teaching him to read! Ruining a good, strong field hand! Well, he’d try Covey. See what he could do.

“Take him along!”

That had been shortly after “the Christmas.” It was now hot summer. For Frederick a long, long time had passed. He was indeed “broken.”

A shuddering groan escaped the boy. Part of Covey’s irritation could be understood. He had been clumsy and slow about the fields and barn. But he dared not ask questions, and since nobody took the trouble to tell him anything his furrows were shallow and crooked.

He failed at running the treadmill. He had never even seen horned cattle before. So it was not surprising that his worst experiences had been with them. The strong, vicious beasts dragged him about at will, and day after day Covey flogged him for allowing the oxen to get away. Flogging was Covey’s one method of instruction.

At first Frederick tortured himself with questions. They knew he’d never learned field work. “Old Marse” had sent him to Baltimore when he was just a pickaninny to look after the favorite grandchild, rosy-cheeked Tommy. He remembered that exciting trip to Baltimore and the moment when Mrs. Auld had taken his hand and, leading him to her little son, had said, “Look, Tommy, here’s your Freddy.”

The little slave had shyly regarded his equally small master. The white child had smiled, and instantly two small boys became fast friends. Fred had gone everywhere with Tommy. No watchdog was ever more devoted.

“Freddy’s with Tommy,” the mother would say with assurance.

It was perfectly natural that when Tommy began to read he eagerly shared the new and fascinating game with his companion. The mother was amused at how quickly the black child caught on. She encouraged both children because she considered the exchange good for Tommy. But one day she boasted of Freddy’s accomplishment to her husband. Mr. Auld was horrified.

“It’s against the law,” he stormed. “Learning will spoil the best nigger in the world. If he learns to read he’ll never be any good as a slave. The first thing you know he’ll be writing, and then look out. A writing nigger is dangerous!”

It was difficult for Mrs. Auld to see the curly-headed dark boy as a menace. His devotion to Tommy was complete. But she was an obedient wife. Furthermore she had heard dreadful stories of slaves who “went bad.”

“Oh, well, no harm’s done,” she consoled herself. “Freddy’s just a child; he’ll soon forget all about this.” And she took pains to see that no more books or papers fell into his hands.

But Freddy did not forget. The seed was planted. Now he wanted to know, and he developed a cunning far beyond his years. It was not too difficult to salvage school books as they were thrown away. He invented “games” for Tommy and his friends—games which involved reading and spelling. The white boys slipped chalk from their schoolrooms and drew letters and words on sidewalks and fences. By the time Tommy was twelve years old, Freddy could read anything that came his way. And Tommy had somehow guessed that it was best not to mention such things. Freddy really was a great help.

The time came when they were all learning speeches from The Columbian Orator. Freddy quite willingly held the book while they recited Sheridan’s impressive lines on the subject of Catholic emancipation, Lord Chatham’s speech on the American War, speeches by the great William Pitt and by Fox. Some things about those speeches troubled the boys—especially those on the American Revolution.

“Them folks—you mean they fight to be free?” Freddy asked.

The four boys were comfortably sprawled out on the cellar door, well out of earshot of grownups, but the question made them look over their shoulders in alarm.

“Hush your big mouth!”

“Slaves fight?” Freddy persisted.

“Wasn’t no slaves!”

“Course not, them was Yankees!”

“I hate Yankees.”

“Everybody hates Yankees!”

The crisis had passed. Freddy thoughtfully turned the page and they started on the next speech.

Then suddenly Tommy was growing up. It was decided to send him away to school. And so, after seven years, his dark caretaker, no longer a small, wide-eyed Pickaninny, was sent back to the Eastern Shore plantation.

“Old Marse” had died. In the division of property—live stock, farm implements and slaves—Frederick had fallen to Colonel Lloyd’s ward, Lucille, who had married Captain Thomas Auld. So the half-grown boy went to a new master, whose place was near the oyster beds of St. Michaels. The inhabitants of that hamlet, lean and colorless as their mangy hounds, stared at him as he passed through. They stared at his coat and eyed the shoes on his feet—good shoes they were, with soles. They could not know that inside his bundle was an old copy of The Columbian Orator.

The book had brought him into Covey’s hands. At the memory came a sudden stab of pain, blotting out everything in a wave of nausea. The trees assumed diabolical forms—hands stretching out to seize him. Words flaming in the shadows—leaping at him—burning him. What did he have to do with books? He was a slave—a slave for life.

His new master’s shock and horror had been genuine. Nothing had prepared him for such a hideous disclosure. Fred, arriving at the plantation, had been quiet and obedient. Captain Auld appraised this piece of his wife’s inheritance with satisfaction. The boy appeared to be strong and bright—a real value. But before he had a chance to show what he could do, “the Christmas” was upon them and all regular work on the plantation was suspended.

Throughout the South it was customary for everybody to knock off from work in the period between Christmas Day and New Year’s. On the big plantations there were boxing, wrestling, foot-racing, a lot of dancing and drinking of whiskey. Masters considered it a good thing for the slaves to “let go” this one time of the year—an exhausting “safety valve.” All kinds of wild carousing were condoned. Liquor was brought in by the barrel and freely distributed. Not to be drunk during the Christmas was disgraceful and was regarded by the masters with something like suspicion.

Captain Auld’s place was too poor for much feasting; but complete license was given, and into half-starved bodies were poured jugs of rum and corn whiskey. Men and women careened around and sang hoarsely, couples rolled in the ditch, and little boys staggered as they danced, while the overseers shouted with laughter. Everybody had a “good time.”

All this was new to the boy, Frederick. He had never witnessed such loose depravity. He was a stranger. Eagerly he inquired for those he had known as a child. No one could tell him anything. “Old Marse’s” slaves had been divided, exchanged, sold; and a slave leaves no forwarding address. The youth had no feeling of kinship with the plantation folks. He missed Tommy and wondered how he was getting along without him. On the other hand, the field workers and oyster shuckers looked upon the newcomer as a “house nigger.”

For a while he watched the dancing and “jubilee beating,” tasted the burning liquid and then, as the afternoon wore on, slipped away. The day was balmy, with no suggestion of winter as known in the north. Frederick had not expected this leisure. He had kept his book hidden, knowing such things were forbidden. Now, tucking it inside his shirt, he walked out across the freshly plowed fields.

So it happened that Captain Auld came upon him stretched out under a tree, his eyes fastened on the book which lay before him on the ground, his lips moving. The boy was so absorbed that he did not hear his name called. Only when the Captain’s riding whip came down on his shoulders did he jump up. It was too late then.

And so they had called in Covey, the slave-breaker. All that was seven months ago.

The moon over Chesapeake Bay can be very lovely. This night it was full, and the pine trees pointing to a cloudless sky were bathed in silver. Far out on the water a boat moved with languid grace, her sails almost limp, sending a shimmering ripple to the sandy shore.

The dark form painfully crawling between the trees paused at the edge of the cove. The wide beach out there under the bright moonlight was fully exposed. Should he risk it?

“Water.” It was a moan. Then he lifted his eyes and saw the ship sailing away on the water. A free ship going out to sea. Oh, Jesus!

He had heard no sound of footsteps, not the slightest breaking of a twig, but a low voice close beside him said,

“Rest easy, you! I get water.”

The boy shrank back, staring. A thick tree trunk close by split in two, and a very black man bent over him.

“I Sandy,” the deep voice went on. “Lay down now.”

The chilled blood in Frederick’s broken body began to race. Once more he lost consciousness. This time he did not fight against it. A friend was standing by.

The black man moved swiftly. Kneeling beside the still figure he slipped his hand inside the rags. His face, inscrutable polished ebony, did not change; but far down inside his eyes a dull light glowed as he tore away the filthy cloth, sticky and stiff with drying blood. Was he too late? Satisfied, he eased the twisted limbs on the pine needles and then hurried down to the river’s edge where he filled the tin can that hung from a cord over his shoulders.

Frederick opened his eyes when the water touched his lips. He sighed while Sandy gently wiped the clotted blood from his face and touched the gaping wound in the thick, matted hair. His voice sounded strange to his own ears when he asked,“How come you know?”

“This day I work close by Mr. Kemp. Car’line come. Tell me.”

At the name Frederick’s bones seemed to melt and flow in tears. Something which neither curses, nor kicks, nor blows had touched gave way. Caroline—Covey’s own slave woman, who bore upon her body the marks of his sadistic pleasure, who seldom raised her eyes and always spoke in whispers—Caroline had gone for help.

Sandy did nothing to stay the paroxysm of weeping. He knew it was good, that healing would come sooner. Sandy was very wise. Up and down the Eastern Shore it was whispered that Sandy was “voodoo,” that he was versed in black magic. Sandy was a full-blooded African. He remembered coming across the “great waters.” He remembered the darkness, the moans and the awful smells. But he had been fortunate. The chain which fastened his small ankle to the hold of the ship also held his giant mother, and she had talked to him. All through the darkness she had talked to him. The straight, long-limbed woman of the Wambugwe had been a prize catch. The Bantus of eastern Africa were hard to capture. They brought the highest prices in the markets. Sandy remembered the rage of the dealer when his mother was found dead. She had never set foot on this new land, but all during the long journey she had talked—and Sandy had not forgotten. He had not forgotten one word.

This mother’s son now sat quietly by on his haunches, waiting. Long ago he had learned patience. The waters of great rivers move slowly, almost imperceptibly; big trees of the forest stand still, yet each year grow; seasons come in due time; nothing stays the same. Sandy knew.

After a long shuddering sigh Frederick lay silent. Then Sandy sprang up.

“We go by my woman’s house. Come,” he said.

Frederick made an effort to rise. Sandy lifted the boy in his strong arms and stood him on his feet. For a moment he leaned heavily; then, with Sandy supporting him, he was conscious of being half-dragged through the thicket. His body was empty of pain, of thought, of emotion. Otherwise he might have hesitated. He knew that Sandy was married to a free colored woman who lived in her own hut on the edge of the woods. In her case the penalty for sheltering or aiding a recalcitrant slave might be death. “Free niggers” had no property value at all. Further, they were a menace in any slaveholding community. Their lot was often far more precarious than that of plantation hands. Strangely enough, however, the slaves looked upon such rare and fortunate beings with almost awesome respect.

On the other side of the woods, where good land overlooked the bay, the woman, Noma, sat in the opening of her hut gazing at the fire. It was burning low. The pieces of coke, glowing red in the midst of charred wood, no longer turned the trees around the clearing to flickering shadows. On this warm evening the woman had built her fire outdoors and hung the iron pot over it. The savory odor coming from that pot hung in the air. It was good, for into it had gone choice morsels put by during the week of toil. Noma was part Indian. Here on the shore of the Chesapeake she lived much as her mother’s people had lived for generations back. She made and sold nets for shad and herring, and she fished and hunted as well as any man. She was especially skillful at seine-hauling. Sandy had built the hut, but she planted and tended her garden. Six days and nights she lived here alone, but on the evening of the seventh day Sandy always came. Except in isolated communities and under particularly vicious conditions slaves did little work on Sunday. Sandy’s master allowed him to spend that one day a week with his wife. She sat now, her hands folded, waiting for Sandy. He was later than usual, but he would come.

The fire was almost out when she heard him coming through the brush. This was so unusual that she started up in alarm. She did not cry out when he appeared, supporting a bruised and battered form. She acted instantly to get this helpless being out of sight. They carried the boy inside the hut and gently deposited him on the soft pile of reeds in the corner. No time was lost with questions.

Quickly she brought warm water and stripped off the filthy rags. She bathed his wounds and wrapped a smooth green leaf about his head. She poured oil on the back, which all along its broad flatness lay open and raw, an oozing mass. A rib in his side seemed to be broken. They bound his middle with strips which she tore from her skirts.

Then she brought a steaming bowl. Frederick had had nothing to eat all day. For the past six months his food had been “stock” and nothing more. Now he was certain that never had he tasted anything so good as this succulent mixture. Into the pot the woman had dropped bits of pork, crabs and oysters, a handful of crisp seaweed and, from her garden, okra and green peppers and soft, ripe tomatoes. In the hot ashes she had baked corn pone. Frederick ate greedily, smacking his lips. Sandy squatted beside him with his own bowl. A burning pine cone lighted them while they ate, and Sandy smiled at the woman.

But hardly had he finished his bowl when sleep weighted Frederick down. The soothing oil, the sense of security and now this good hot food were too much for him. He fell asleep with the half-eaten pone in his hand.

Then the other two went outside. The woman poked the fire, adding a few sticks. Sandy lay down beside it. He told his wife how that afternoon he had spied Caroline hiding in the bushes near where he worked. She acted like a terrified animal, he explained, so he had gone to her. Bit by bit she told him how Covey had beaten Captain Auld’s boy, striking his head and kicking him in the side, and left him in the yard. She had seen the boy crawl away into the woods. Surely this time he would die.

“I do not think he die now. Man die hard.” Sandy thought a moment. “I help him.”

“How?” Noma’s question took in the encircling woods, the bay. How could this boy escape? Sandy shook his head.

“He no go now. This one time, he go back.”

The woman waited.

“I hear ’bout this boy—how he read and write. He smart with white man’s learning.”

“Ah!” said the woman, beginning to understand.

“Tonight I give him the knowing of black men. I call out the strength in his bones—the bones his mother made for him.”

Sandy lay silent looking up through the tall trees at the stars. He spoke softly.

“I see in him great strength. Now he must know—and each day he will add to it. When time ripe—he go. That time he not go alone.”

And the woman nodded her head.

It was not the dawn flooding the Bay with splendor which woke Frederick, though the sun did come up like a golden ball and the waters turned to iridescent glory. Nor was it the crying of crows high up in the pine trees, nor even the barking of a dog somewhere down on the beach. Rather was it a gradual awareness of flaming words. Had he found a book, a new book more wonderful even than his precious Columbian Orator? He didn’t see the words; yet they seemed to be all around him—living things that carried him down wide rivers and over mountains and across spreading plains. Then it was people who were with him—black men, very tall and big and strong. They turned up rich earth as black as their broad backs; they hunted in forests; some of them were in cities, whole cities of black folks. For they were free: they went wherever they wished; they worked as they planned. They even flew like birds, high in the sky. He was up there with them, looking down on the earth which seemed so small. He stretched his wings. He was strong. He could fly. He could fly in a flock of people. Who were they? He listened closely. That’s it: he was not reading, he was listening. Somebody was making a speech. But it wasn’t a speech—not like any he had ever heard—not at all like the preacher in Baltimore.

Frederick opened his eyes. The dream persisted—a shaft of brightness surrounding a strange crouching figure swaying there beside him, the flowing sound of words. The light hurt his eyes, but now Frederick realized it was Sandy. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, head erect, eyes two glowing balls of fire, making low musical sounds. If they were words, they conveyed no meaning to Frederick. Bright sunshine poured through an opening in the cabin where a door hung back. Outside a rooster crowed, and memory jerked Frederick to full consciousness. He raised his hand to his eyes. The flow of sound ceased abruptly, and while the boy stared a mask seemed to fall over the man’s shining face, snuffing out the glow and setting the features in stone. For a moment the figure was rigid. Then Sandy was on his feet. He spoke tersely.

“Good. You wake. Time you go.”

The words were hard and compelling, and Frederick sat up. His body felt light. His sense of well-being was very real, as real as the smell of pine which seemed to exude from every board of the bare cabin. He looked around. The woman was nowhere in sight, but his eyes fell on a pail of water near by; and then Sandy was back with food. The bowl was warm in his hands, and Sandy stood silent waiting for him to eat. Frederick drew a long breath.

He was remembering: black men, men like Sandy, going places! He must find out—He looked up at Sandy.

“When—When I sleep—You talking.” Sandy remained silent. Frederick rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. Suddenly he felt a little foolish. He’d had a silly dream. But—Something drove him to the question.

“You talk to me?”

“Yes.” The simple statement made him frown.

“But, I do not understand. What you saying? I was asleep.”

A flicker of expression crossed Sandy’s face. When he spoke his voice was less guttural.

“Body sleep, the hurt body. It sleep and heal. But you,” Sandy leaned over and with his long forefinger touched Frederick lightly on the chest, “you not sleep.”

“But I—How could I—?” Before the steady gaze of those calm eyes Frederick’s protest died. He did not understand, but he was remembering. After a moment he asked simply, “Where am I going?”

This was what it meant. Sandy had a plan for him to run away. Well, he would try it. He was not afraid. Freedom sang in his blood. And so Sandy’s reply caught him like a blow.

“Back. Back to Covey’s.”

“No! No!”

All the horror of the past six months was in his cry; the bowl dropped to the floor; shivering, he covered his face.

The pressure of Sandy’s hand upon his shoulder recalled him. The terror gradually receded and was replaced by something which seemed to surround and buoy him up. He could not have told why. He only knew he was not afraid. But he wanted to live. He must live. He looked up at Sandy.

“Covey will kill me—beat me to death.” There was no terror in his voice now, merely an explanation. Sandy shook his head.

“No.” He was picking up the thick bowl. It had not broken, but its contents had spilled over the scrubbed floor. Sandy scraped up the bits of food and refilled the bowl from an earthen erode on the hearth. Frederick sat watching him. Sandy observed how he made no move—just waited. And his heart was satisfied. This boy will do, he thought. He has patience—patience and endurance. Strength will come. Once more he handed the bowl to Frederick.

“Eat now, boy,” he said.

And Frederick ate, emptying the bowl. The food was good and the water Sandy gave him from the pail was fresh and cool. Frederick wondered where the woman had gone. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to thank her before—he went back. He said, “I’m sorry I dropped the bowl.”

Then Sandy reached inside the coarse shirt he was wearing and drew out a small pouch—something tied up in an old piece of cloth.

“Now, hear me well.”

Frederick set the bowl down.

“No way you can go now. Wise man face what he must. Big tree bend in strong wind and not break. This time no good. Later day you go. You go far.”

Frederick bowed his head. He believed Sandy’s words, but at the thought of Covey’s lash his flesh shivered in spite of the bright promise. Sandy extended the little bag.

“Covey beat you no more. Wear this close to body—all the time. No man ever beat you.”

Frederick’s heart sank. He made no move to take the bag. His voice faltered.

“But—but Sandy, that’s—that’s voodoo. I don’t believe in charms. I’m—I’m a Christian.”

Sandy was very still. He gazed hard into the boy’s gaunt face below the bloodstained bandage wrapped about his head; he saw the shadow in the wide, clear eyes; he thought of the lacerated back and broken rib, and his own eyes grew very warm. He spoke softly.

“You be very young.”

He untied the little bag and carefully shook out its contents into the palm of his hand—dust, fine as powder, a bit of shriveled herb and several smooth, round pebbles. Then he held out the upturned hand to Frederick.

“Look now!” he said. “Soil of Africa—come cross the sea close by my mother’s breast.”

Holding his breath Frederick bent his head. It was as if a great hand lay upon his heart.

“And here”—Sandy’s long fingers touched the withered fragment—“seaweed, flowered on great waters, waters of far-off lands, waters of many lands.”

Holding Frederick’s wrist, Sandy carefully emptied the bits upon the boy’s palm, then gently closed his fingers.

“A thousand years of dust in one hand! Dust of men long gone, men who lived so you live. Your dust.”

He handed Frederick the little bag. And Frederick took it reverently. With the utmost care, lest one grain of dust be lost, he emptied his palm into it. Then, drawing the cord tight, he placed the pouch inside his rags, fastening the cord securely. He stood up, and his head was clear. Again the black man thought, He’ll do!

The boy stood speechless. There were things he wanted to say, things he wanted to promise. This day, this spot, this one bright morning was important. This man had saved his life, and suddenly he knew that his life was important. He laid his hand on the black man’s arm.

“I won’t be forgettin’,” he said.

They walked together out into the morning and stood a moment on the knoll, looking down at the bay. Then Frederick turned his back and walked toward the trees. At the edge of the woods he stopped and waved his hand, then disappeared in the hidden lane.

Chapter Two

The road winds about Chesapeake Bay

The roof of the colorless house needed mending. Its sagging made the attic ceiling slope at a crazy angle. Rainy weather—it always started in the middle of the night—it leaked, and Amelia had to pull her bed out onto the middle of the floor. The bed was a narrow iron affair, not too heavy to move. Amelia never complained. She was grateful for the roof her sister’s husband had put over her head.

Edward Covey was considered a hard man. Amelia’s neighbors could barely hide their pity when she announced that she was going to live with her sister.

“You mean the one who married Ed Covey?”

Then they sort of coughed and wished they hadn’t asked the question. After all, where else could Tom Kemp’s poor widow go? Lem Drake chewed a long time without a word after his wife told him the news. Then he spat.

“’Melia never did no harm to nobody,” he said.

“Old devil!”

Lem knew his wife was referring to Edward Covey. Otherwise he would have reproved her. Wasn’t fitting talk for a woman.

So Amelia Kemp came down to the Bay to live in Edward Covey’s house. Amelia was still bewildered. At thirty, she felt her life was over. Seemed like she hadn’t ought to take Tom’s death so hard. She’d known her husband was going to die: everybody else did. But Tom had kept on pecking at his land up there on the side of the hill. His pa had died, his ma had died, his brother had died. Now he was dead—all of them—pecking at the land.

Edward Covey was different. He was “getting ahead.” Her sister Lucy had stressed that difference from the moment of her arrival. Unnecessarily, Amelia was sure; because in spite of her heavy heart she had been properly impressed. What almost shook the widow out of her lethargy was her sister Lucy. She wouldn’t have known her at all. True, they had not seen each other for years, and they were both older. Amelia knew that hill women were apt to be pretty faded by the time they were thirty-four. But Lucy, living in the low country, looked like an old hag. Amelia was shocked at her own thoughts.

“Mr. Covey’s a God-fearing man.”

These were almost her sister’s first words, and Amelia had stared at her rather stupidly. All of her thoughts kept running back to Tom, it seemed. Amelia was sure her sister hadn’t meant to imply that Tom hadn’t been a “God-fearing” man. Though, as a matter of fact, she was a little vague in her own mind. She’d never heard Tom say anything about fearing God. He’d never been very free with talk about God.

That was before she met Mr. Covey. She had come up on the boat to St. Michaels where, on the dock, one of Edward Covey’s “people” was waiting for her. This in itself was an event. There weren’t any slaves in her county, and she felt pretty elegant being driven along the road with an obsequious black man holding the reins. After a time they had turned off the highway onto a sandy lane which carried them between fields jutting out into the bay. She could see the place from some distance, and in the dusk the sprawling building with barn and outhouses loomed like a great plantation manor. This impression hardly survived the first dusk, but Covey’s passion to “get ahead” was plain to see.

Very soon Amelia Kemp was glad that she had been given a bed in the attic. The first few evenings, climbing up the narrow ladder from the lower floor, she had wondered about several rooms opening out on the second floor. They seemed to be empty. Soon she blessed her good fortune, and it wasn’t long before she became convinced the idea had been her sister’s—not Covey’s.

Only when she lowered the attic trap door could she rid herself of him. Then she couldn’t see the cruel, green eyes; she didn’t feel him creeping up behind her or hear his voice. It was his voice particularly that she wanted to shut out, his voice coming out of the corner of his mouth, his voice that so perfectly matched the short, hairy hands. At the thought of the terrible things she had seen him do with those hands her flesh chilled.

Lucy had married Covey down in town where she had gone to work. He had not come to her home to meet her folks. So Amelia didn’t know about the “slave-breaking.” When she saw the slaves about, she assumed that her brother-in-law was more prosperous than she had imagined; and that first evening she could not understand why her sister was so worn.

Her education began the first morning, when they called her before dawn. She was used to getting up early, only she’d thought folks with slaves to do their work could lie abed till after sun-up. Though she dressed hastily and hurried downstairs, it was quite evident she was keeping them waiting in the big room. The stench of unwashed bodies stopped her in the doorway.

Her first impression was one of horror. Covey seated at the table, a huge book spread open in front of him, thrust his round head in her direction and glared wolfishly. The oil lamp’s glare threw him into sharp relief. The light touched Lucy’s white face and the figure of another man, larger than Covey, who gave her a flat, malignant stare. But behind them the room was filled with shadows frozen into queer and grotesque shapes.

“You’re late, Sister Amelia.” Her brother-in-law’s tone was benign. “This household starts the day with worship—all our big family.”

He waved his arm, taking in all the room. A ripple of movement undulated the darkness, quivered, and then was gone.

“I’m so sorry,” Amelia managed to murmur as she groped her way to a chair. Gasps came from behind her. She dared not turn around, and sat biting her lips. Covey seemed to hear nothing. He was peering at the book, his short, stubby finger tracing each word as he began to read slowly and painfully:

“Praise the Lord!” added Covey and closed the Bible with a heavy thump. “Now then, Fred, lead us in song.”

Amelia heard the choked gasp behind her. She could feel the struggle that cut off the panting breath. Waiting was unbearable.

“You, Fred!” The command jerked a cry from the shadows. A memory flashed across Amelia’s mind. Sid Green lashing his half-crazed horse, which had fallen in the ditch—Tom grabbing the whip and knocking Sid down.

Then a strained voice began to quiver. It missed several beats at first but gathered strength until Amelia knew it was a boy behind her, singing. In a moment, from Covey’s twisted mouth there came uneven, off-key notes, then Lucy’s reed-like treble sounded. From the shadows the music picked up, strange and wild and haunting. At first Amelia thought this was an unfamiliar chant, then she recognized the rolling words:

When the music died away Covey fell on his knees, his face lifted beside the oil lamp. His words poured forth with a passion and fervor which pounded like hammers in the stifling gloom. He groveled in shameless nakedness, turning all the hideousness of his fear upon their bowed heads. Then he rose, face shining and picking up a heavy, many-pronged cowhide from the corner, drove the shuffling figures out into the gray morning. Amelia remembered the cold: she had shivered in the hallway.

The only slave left to help her sister was a slow, silent creature who now moved toward the kitchen.

“We’ve et. The—the—” Lucy was speaking with a hesitation which Amelia recalled later. “The—woman will show you. Then you can help me with the renderin’.”

It was warm in the big kitchen. A smoking lamp hanging from the ceiling swayed fretfully as the door closed and Lucy threw a piece of wood on the fire. Remains of a hasty meal were scattered upon the table.

“Clean up this mess and give Miss Amelia some breakfast.”

Amelia saw her sister shove the woman forward as she spoke. The tight hardness in her voice fell strangely upon Amelia’s ears. Without another word Lucy disappeared into the pantry.

Amelia was afraid. She suddenly realized that it had been fear that had first stopped her on the threshold, and nothing had taken place to dissipate that fear—not the scripture reading, not the singing, not the prayer. She was afraid now of this silent, dark woman, whose face remained averted, whose step was noiseless. Surely some ominous threat lay behind the color of such—such creatures. Irrelevantly she remembered Tom’s black horse—the one on which he had come courting. Amelia made a peremptory gesture.

“I’ll eat here!” Fear hardened her voice. She would eat like a grand lady being served by a nigger.

And then the woman turned and looked at her. She was not old. Her brown skin was firm and smooth, her quivering mouth was young, and her large eyes, set far apart, were liquid shadows.

A man could drown himself in those shadows. The thought was involuntary, unwilled, horrible—and instantly checked—but it added to her fear.

She picked up bits of information throughout the long morning, while Lucy stirred grease sizzling in deep vats, dipped tallow candles and sewed strips of stiff, coarse cloth. The work about the house seemed endless, and Lucy drove herself from one task to another. Amelia wondered why she didn’t leave more for the slave woman. Finally she asked. The vehement passion in Lucy’s voice struck sharply.

“The lazy cow!” Then, after a pause she added, “She’s a breeder.” Her lips snapped shut.

“A breeder? What’s that? Does she have some special work?”

Lucy laughed shortly.

“Ain’t they no niggers up home yet?” she asked.

Amelia shook her head.

Lucy sighed. It was a sound of utter weariness.

“Mr. Covey says you can’t git ahead without niggers. You jus’ can’t.”

“But you said—” began Amelia.

“Mr. Covey bought her,” Lucy explained with a sort of dogged grimness, “for—for more—stock. Mr. Covey’s plannin’ on buyin’ all this land. Niggers come high. You wouldn’s believe what Mr. Covey paid for that there Caroline.” Pride puckered her lips like green persimmon.

Amelia swallowed. Her mouth felt very dry. She cleared her throat.

“Well, he’s makin’ a good start.”

“Oh, them!” Lucy bit her thread. “They ain’t all hissen. He takes slaves over from the plantations hereabouts to—train.”

“Then he—”

A cry of stark terror coming from the yard brought Amelia up in alarm. Lucy calmly listened a moment.

“Sounds like Mr. Covey’s having to whop that Fred again,” she said. “He’s a bad one!”

What Amelia was hearing now bleached her face. Lucy’s composed indifference rebuked her. She tried to control the trembling of her lips.

“You mean—the boy—who sang this morning?”

“That’s him—stubborn as a mule. Reckon that singin’ will be a mite weaker tomorrow.”

And Mrs. Covey giggled.

The day unwound like a scroll. By mid-afternoon fatigue settled all along Amelia’s limbs. Outside the sun shone brightly—perfect February weather for early plowing. The kitchen door stood open to the sunshine, and Amelia paused a moment looking out toward the bay.

A small child two or three years old crawled out from under a bush and started trotting across the littered back yard. Amelia stood watching her. Beneath the tangled mass of brown curls the little face was streaked with dirt. It was still too cool for this tot to run about barefoot, Amelia thought, looking around for the mother. She held out her hand and the child stopped, staring at her with wide eyes.

“Well, little one, where do you come from?” There was no answering smile on the child’s face. In that moment Amelia heard a swift step behind her.

“Don’t touch that nigger!” Lucy’s voice cracked like a whip. Her face was distorted with fury. Amelia saw the dark woman, bending over a tub in the corner, lift her head. Lucy leaped at her and struck her full in the face.

“Get that brat out of here,” she screamed. “Get her back where she belongs. Get her out!”

With one movement the woman was across the floor and outside the door. She swept up the child in her arm and, holding her close, ran behind the barn.

“How dare she! How dare she!”

Lucy was shaking as with an ague—she seemed about to fall. Still Amelia did not understand.

“But, Lucy—what are you saying? That child’s white.”

“Shut up, you fool!” Her sister turned on her. “You fool! It’s her’s. It’s her’s, I tell you. And what is she? She’s a nigger—a filthy, stinking nigger!”

She began to cry, and Amelia held her close, remembering the large green eyes, set in the little girl’s pinched face.

Nothing much was happening in Maryland that spring of 1834. In Virginia they hanged Nat Turner. John Brown, on a wave of prosperity, was making money in his Ohio tannery. William Lloyd Garrison was publishing the Liberator in Boston, and a man named Lovejoy was trying to start an Abolitionist paper out West, trying both Kansas and Ohio. But Maryland had everything under control.

The Coveys had no neighbors. The farm, surrounded on three sides with water, lay beyond a wide tract of straggling pine trees. The trees on Covey’s land had been cut down, and the unpainted buildings were shaken and stained by heavy northwest winds. From her attic window Amelia could see Poplar Island, covered with a thick black forest, and Keat Point, stretching its sandy, desert-like shores out into the foam-crested bay. It was a desolate scene.

The rains were heavy that spring, and Covey stayed in the fields until long after dark, urging the slaves on with words or blows. He left nothing to Hughes, his cousin and overseer.

“Niggers drop off to sleep minute you turn your back,” he groaned. “Have to keep right behind ’em.”

Amelia battled with mud tracked from one end of the house to the other.

Then came summer with its oppressive heat and flashing thunder storms that whipped the waters to roaring fury.

“Family” prayers were dispensed with only on Sunday mornings. Regardless of the weather, Mr. Covey and his wife went to church. It was regrettable that the slaves had no regular services. Big plantations could always boast of at least one slave preacher. Mr. Covey hadn’t reached that status yet. He was on his way. He observed the Sabbath as a day of rest. Nobody had to go to the fields, and nothing much had to be done—except the cooking, of course.

So Amelia could lie in bed this Sunday morning in August. All night the attic had been like a bake-oven. Just before dawn it had cooled a little, and Amelia lay limp. By raising herself on her elbow she could see through a slit in the sloping roof. White sails skimmed across the shining surface of the bay. Amelia sighed. This morning the white ships depressed her. They were going somewhere.

The heat, she thought, closing her eyes, had made things worse than usual. Mr. Covey would certainly kill that Fred—that is, if he wasn’t already dead. Well, why didn’t he do his work? She had thought at first the boy had intelligence, but here of late he’d lost every spark of sense—just slunk around, looking glum and mean, not paying any attention to what was told him. Then yesterday—pretending to be sick!

“Reckon I ’bout broke every bone in his body,” Mr. Covey had grunted with satisfaction.

“Captain Auld won’t like it,” Lucy warned.

That made Mr. Covey mad as hops. Lucy kept out of his way the rest of the evening. Amelia saw him twist Caroline’s arm till she bent double. That wench! She wasn’t so perk these days either—sort of dragged one leg behind her.

Well, Amelia thought, swinging her own bony shanks over the side of the bed, I’m glad they didn’t send the hounds after him. He was sulking somewhere in the woods. But Mr. Covey said the dogs would tear him to pieces. A bad way to die—even for a nigger.

“He’ll come back,” Covey had barked. “A nigger always comes crawlin’ back to his eatin’ trough.”

Amelia left the cotton dress open at the neck. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hot today. Lucy was already down, her eyes red in a drawn face. Her sister guessed that she had spent a sleepless night, tossing in the big bed, alone. Caroline was nowhere in sight.

When he appeared, dressed in his Sunday best, Mr. Covey was smiling genially. This one day he could play his favorite rôle—master of a rolling plantation, leisurely, gracious, served by devoted blacks. He enjoyed Sunday.

“Not going to church, Amelia?” he asked pleasantly as he rose from the table.

Amelia was apologetic. “No, Mr. Covey, I—I don’t feel up to it this mornin’. Got a mite of headache.”

“Now that’s too bad, Sister. It’s this awful heat. Better lie down a while.” He turned to his wife. “Come, my dear, we don’t want to be late. You dress and I’ll see if Bill has hitched up.” Picking his teeth, he strolled out to the yard.

Amelia started scraping up the dishes.

“Leave ’em be.” Lucy spoke crossly. “Reckon Caroline can do something.”

So Amelia was out front and saw Fred marching up the road! Funny, but that’s exactly the way it seemed. He wasn’t just walking. She was digging around her dahlias, hoping against hope they would show a little life. She had brought the bulbs from home and set them out in front of the house. Of course they weren’t growing, but Amelia kept at them. Sometimes dahlias surprised you.

She straightened up and stared. It was Fred, all right, raising a dust out there in the road.

Mr. and Mrs. Covey were coming down the porch steps just as Fred swung in the gate. He kept right on coming. Poor Lucy’s mouth sagged open, but Mr. Covey smiled like a saint.

“Well, now, you’re back, and no worse for wear.” He paused, taking in the discolored bandage and the spattered tatters. He spoke impatiently. “Get yourself cleaned up. This is Sunday.” The boy stepped aside. Mr. Covey and his wife moved toward their buggy. As Fred turned to go around back, Mr. Covey called to him. “Oh, yes, round up those pigs that got into the lower lot last night. That’s a good boy.”

Then the master leaned over, waved his hand at Amelia and drove away, sitting beside his good wife. It made a pretty picture! Amelia could see Fred, standing at the side of the house, facing the road. There was a funny look on his face.

Amelia’s thoughts kept going back to the way he’d come marching up the road. Her mind kept weaving all sorts of queer fancies. Did slaves really think like people? Covey had beaten him half to death. How could he walk so? Just showed what a thick skin they had. And that great head of his! She hadn’t noticed how big it was till this morning.

Covey’s manner didn’t fool her a mite. He never flogged slaves on Sunday, but he’d sure take it out of that boy in the morning.

She woke up Monday morning thinking about the look on Fred’s face and hurried downstairs. Seemed like Mr. Covey cut the prayers short. Maybe he had something on his mind, too. As they started out, Amelia heard him tell Fred to clean out the barn. That meant he wouldn’t be going to the fields with the others. Covey lingered a few minutes in the house, tightening the handle on his lash.

Amelia had always tried to get away from the awful floggings. Lucy said she was chicken-hearted. But this morning she was filled with an odd excitement. She wanted to see. She decided against going out in the yard. With a quick look at Lucy’s bent back, she slipped out of the kitchen and almost ran up the stairs. Her attic window overlooked the yard.

It was fully light now. Covey and the overseer were standing a few feet from the back door. Hughes held a looped cord in his hand and was showing something to Covey, who listened closely. Amelia could see them plain enough, but they were talking too low for her to hear. Then Fred swung the barn doors back and fastened them. Both men turned and watched him. He certainly was going about his job with a will. He wasn’t wasting any time standing around. Evidently he was getting ready to lead out the oxen.

She saw Hughes start away, stop and say something. Then she heard Covey’s, “Go ahead. I’ll manage.”

Her attention was attracted by the way Fred was handling the oxen. They were ornery beasts, but he didn’t seem afraid of them at all. Covey too was watching. Amelia couldn’t see what he had done with his lash. He held in his hand the cord Hughes had handed him. Fred seemed to be having some trouble with one of the oxen. He couldn’t fasten something. He backed away, turned and in a moment started climbing up the ladder to the hayloft.

The moment the boy’s back was turned, Covey streaked across the yard. The movement was so unexpected and so stealthy that Amelia cried out under her breath. She saw what he was going to do even before he grabbed Fred by the leg and brought him down upon the hard ground with a terrible jar. He was pulling the loop over the boy’s legs when, with a sudden spring, the lithe body had leaped at the man, a hand at his throat! Amelia gripped the ledge with her hands and leaned out. They were both on the ground now, the dark figure on top. The boy loosened his fingers. Amelia could see Covey’s upturned face. He was puffing, but it was bewilderment, not pain, that made his face so white and queer. The boy sprang up and stood on his guard while Covey scrambled to his feet.

“You ain’t resistin’, you scoundrel?” Covey shouted in a hoarse voice.

And Frederick—body crouched, fist raised—said politely, “Yessir.” He was breathing hard.

Covey made a move to grab him, and Fred sidestepped. Covey let out a bellow that brought Lucy running to the door.

“Hughes! Help! Hughes!”

Amelia saw Hughes, halfway across the field, start running back. Meanwhile the boy held his ground, not striking out but ready to defend himself against anything Covey could do.

The slave boy has gone mad! She’d heard of slaves “going bad.” She ought to go down and help. They’d all be murdered in their beds. But she couldn’t leave her window. She couldn’t take her eyes off the amazing sight—a dumb slave standing firmly on his feet, his head up. Standing so, he was almost as tall as Covey.

Now Hughes came bolting into the yard and rushed Fred. He met a kick in the stomach that sent him staggering away in pain. Covey stared after his overseer stupidly. The nigger had kicked a white man! Covey dodged back—needlessly, for Fred had not moved toward him. He stood quietly waiting, ready to ward off any attack. Covey eyed him.

“You goin’ to keep on resistin’?”

There was something plaintive about Covey’s question. Amelia had a crazy impulse to laugh. She leaned far out the window. She must hear. The boy’s voice reached her quite distinctly—firm, positive tones.

“Yessir. You can’t beat me no mo’—never no mo’.”

Now Covey was frightened. He looked around: his cowhide—a club—anything. Hughes, at one side, straightened up.

“I’ll get the gun,” he snarled.

Covey gave a start, but he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“It’s in the front hall.”

Amelia saw Hughes coming toward the house; his face was livid. Then she heard Lucy’s shrill voice and Hughes’s curses. She guessed what Lucy was saying—that they dare not kill Captain Auld’s slave.

The boy had not moved. He was watching Covey, whose eyes had fallen on a knotty piece of wood lying just outside the stable door. He began easing his way toward it. Amelia’s breath was coming in panting gulps. Her knees were shaking.

Her fingers felt numb on the splintery wood of the ladder. She nearly slipped. Her legs almost doubled up under her when she leaned over the banister, peering down into the hall below. She couldn’t see the gun, but she could still hear Hughes’s angry voice out back.

Shadows seemed to clutch at her skirts, the stairs cracked and creaked as she crept down, while the thick, heavy smell that lurked in the hall nearly sickened her. Her cold, shaking fingers clutched the barrel of the gun standing upright in the corner, and she somehow managed to get up the stairs before the door at the back of the hall opened. She crouched against the wall, listening, not daring now to climb her ladder. She heard Hughes clumping about below, his heavy boots kicking objects aside. She heard him curse, at first softly, then with a roar. A few feet away a door stood partly open. Holding the gun close, she tiptoed along the wall and into one of the rooms.

Meanwhile, Frederick knew that Hughes had gone for a gun, but that was not as important as Covey’s cautious approach to the thick, knotty stick of wood.

He’ll knock me down with it, Frederick thought. He breathed evenly, knowing exactly what he was going to do. The moment Covey leaned over to grab the stick, the boy leaped forward, seized his shirt collar with both hands and brought the man down, stretched out full length in the cow dung. Covey grabbed the boy’s arms and yelled lustily.

Feet, suddenly no longer tired, were hastening toward the back yard. The news was spreading.

Bill, another of Covey’s “trainees,” came around the house. He stared—open-mouthed.

“Grab him! Bill! Grab him!” Covey shouted.

Bill’s feet were rooted to the ground, his face a dumb mask.

“Whatchu say, Massa Covey, whatchu say?”

“Get hold of him! Grab him!”

Bill’s eyes were round. He swallowed, licking out his tongue.

“I gotta get back to mah plowin’, Massa. Look! Hit’s sun-up.” With a limp hand he indicated the sun shooting its beams over the eastern woods and turned vaguely away.

“Come back here, you fool! He’s killing me!”

A flash of interest flickered across the broad, flat face. Bill took several steps forward. Frederick fixed him with a baleful gaze and spoke through clenched teeth.

“Don’t you put your hands on me!”

Bill sagged. “My God, ye crazy coon, I ain’t a-gonna tech ye!” And he shuffled around the barn.

Covey cursed. He could not free himself. The boy was like a slippery octopus, imprisoning him with his arms and legs.

Frederick was panting now. His heart sank when he saw Caroline. She must have been milking in the shed, for she carried a brimming pail. Covey could make her help him. She really was a powerful woman, and Frederick knew she could master him easily now, exhausted as he was.

Covey, too, saw her and called out confidently. Caroline stopped. She set down the pail of milk. Covey relaxed, an evil grin on his face.

And then—Caroline laughed! It wasn’t loud or long; but Covey sucked in his breath at the sound.

“Caroline! Hold him!” The iron in his voice was leaking out.

Caroline’s words were low in her throat—rusty because so seldom used. Two words came.

“Who? Me?”

She picked up the pail of milk and walked toward the house, dragging her leg a little.

Frederick felt Covey go limp. And in that moment he sprang up, himself grabbed the knotty chunk of wood and backed away. Covey rolled over on to his side. He was not hurt, but he was dazed. When he did get to his feet, swaying a bit, the yard seemed crowded with dark, silent forms. Actually only four or five slaves, hearing the outcries, had come running and now showed the whites of their eyes from a safe distance. But Covey’s world was tottering. He must do something.

The boy stood there, holding the stick. Now Covey went toward him. Frederick saw the defeat on his face, and he made no move to strike him. So Covey was able to take him by the shoulders and shake him mightily.

“Now then, you wretch,” he said in a loud voice, “get on with your work! I wouldn’t ’a’ whipped you half so hard if you hadn’t resisted. That’ll teach you!”

When he dropped his hands and turned around, the dark figures had slipped away. He stood a moment blinking up at the sun. It was going to be another hot day. He wiped his sleeve across his sweating face, leaving a smear of barnyard filth on his cheek. The kitchen door was closed. Just like that skunk, Hughes, to go off and leave me! He’d send him packing off the place before night. But he didn’t want to go into the house now. He was tired. Covey walked over to the well and stood looking out toward the bay.

Frederick once more started up the ladder. He would get some sweet, fresh hay for the oxen. Then he could lead them out.

Chapter Three

An old man drives his mule

When Covey came down sick right after Hughes was fired, his wife was certain things would go to rack and ruin. Strangely enough, they did not. The stock got fed; the men left for the fields every morning; wood was cut and piled, and the never-ending job of picking cotton went on.

Amelia thought she’d never seen anything prettier. Cotton didn’t grow up in the hills, and now the great green stalks with their bulbs of silver fascinated her. With no more floggings going on out back, she began to notice things. She found herself watching the rhythm of a slave’s movements at work, a black arm plunged into the gleaming mass. She even caught the remnants of a song floating back to her. There was peace in the air. And the boy Fred went scampering about like a colt.

Inside the house, Covey groaned and cursed. After a time he sat silent, huddled in a chair, staring at the wall.

He’d sent Hughes packing, all right. But there had been hell to pay first. Hughes had been all set to go in town and bring out the authorities. The nigger had struck him, he blubbered, and should get the death penalty for it. The young mule certainly had given his dear cousin an awful wallop. Had Covey let himself go, he would have grinned. But, after all, it was unthinkable for a black to strike a white man. The bastard! But had it got about that he, Covey, couldn’t handle a loony strippling—not a day over sixteen—he would be ruined. Nobody would ever give him another slave to break. So Hughes’s mouth had to be shut. He was willing to go, but he had forced a full month’s salary out of Covey. The worst thing was Hughes’s taking the gun along in the bargain!

Hughes swore he couldn’t find the gun. But Covey knew he had cleaned that gun just the day before and stood it right behind the hall door. That’s where he always kept it, and he knew it was there. No use telling him one of the boys took it. A black won’t touch a gun with a ten-foot pole. No, it had gone off with Hughes, and he’d just have to get himself another one next time he went to Baltimore.

By now Covey had convinced himself that most of his troubles stemmed from Hughes. Take the matter of Captain Auld’s boy. After Hughes left, he’d handled him without a mite of trouble.

Frederick for his part had tasted freedom—and it was good. “When a slave cannot be flogged,” he wrote many years later, “he is more than half free.”

So it was as a free man that he reasoned with himself. He would prove to Covey—and through him to Captain Auld—that he could do whatever job they assigned. When he did not understand, he asked questions. Frederick was not afraid. He was not afraid of anything. Furthermore, his fellow-workers looked up to him with something like awe. Until now he had been just another link in the shackles that bound them to the mountain of despair. Their hearts had been squeezed of pity, as their bodies had been squeezed of blood and their minds of hope. But they had survived to witness a miracle! They told it over and over, while they bent their backs and swung their arms. They whispered it at night. Old men chewed their toothless gums over it, and babies sucked it in with their mothers’ milk.

The word was passed along, under cover, secret, unsuspected, until all up and down the Eastern Shore, in field and kitchen, they knew what had happened in “ole man Covey’s back yard on ’at mawnin’!” And memories buried beneath avalanches of wretchedness began to stir.

Something heard somewhere, someone who “got through!” A trail—footprints headed “no’th”—toward a star! And as they talked, eyes that had glazed over with dullness cleared, shoulders straightened beneath the load, and weary, aching limbs no longer dragged.

It was a good fall. Even Covey, forcing himself through the days, had to admit that. Crops had done well, and the land he had put in cotton promised much. Undoubtedly cotton was the thing. Next year he would buy a gin and raise nothing else. But now it was a big job to weigh, bale, and haul his cotton into town.

Covey’s strength came back slowly. He had Tom Slater in to help him for a spell, but Tom wasn’t much good at figuring; and figuring was necessary, if he didn’t want those town slickers to cheat him out of every cent.

One Sunday evening he was sitting out front, waiting for it to get dark so he could go to bed. Around the house came Amelia, trowel in hand. Covey didn’t mind Amelia’s flowers. That little patch of purple was right nice. But Amelia had hardly knelt down when from out back came the boy Fred. He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed.

“You sent for me, Miss Amelia?”

Covey sucked his tongue with approval. They had said this nigger was house-broke. He sure had the manners. Amelia had jumped up and was talking brightly.

“Yes, Fred. I wonder if you can’t fix that old gate. Even with our netting this yard has no protection as long as the gate’s no good.”

She indicated the worm-eaten boards sagging between two rotten posts. Fred turned and studied them a moment before replying.

“Miss Amelia,” he said slowly, “I better make you a new gate.”

Damn! thought Covey.

“Can you do that?” Amelia was delighted.

“Yes, ma’m. I’ll measure it right now.”

Covey watched him hurry across the yard, draw a piece of string from somewhere about him, and with clear-cut, precise movements measure the height and width between the two posts.

“I’ll have to allow for straightenin’ these posts and the swing in and out, but I’m sure I can find the right sort of pieces in the barn,” he explained. “If it’s all right with Mr. Covey.”

“Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

The next thing, Amelia was coming toward him. His wife’s sister certainly wasn’t as droopy as she used to be. Didn’t seem to be moping around any more.

“Mr. Covey, don’t you think it would be very nice if Fred makes us a new gate? He says he can. It’ll help the appearance of the whole yard.”

Yes, she sure had perked up.

“Go ahead,” he grunted.

Fred made one last calculation with his string. “I’ll go see about the wood right away,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Wait till tomorrow,” Covey barked. “It’s still the Sabbath.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fred, and disappeared around the house. Amelia bent over her flowers.

A thought was breaking through the thick layers of Covey’s brain. Damned if that fresh nigger didn’t sound just like one of those city slickers! The way he had measured that opening! I’ll bet he can figure!

It was a staggering thought and struck him unprepared. Full on like that, it was monstrous. But when the first shock had passed—when the ripples sort of spread out—he calmed down and began to cogitate.

He went back over what Captain Auld had said—how the buck had been ruined by the Captain’s city kin, coddled and taught to read until he was too smart for his own or anybody else’s good.

“Take it out of him!” Captain Auld had stormed. “Break him!”

And he had promised he would. Well!

Covey was so still that Lucy, coming to the door and peeping out, thought he was dozing. She went away shaking her head. Poor Mr. Covey! He’s not himself these days.

He was turning it over in his mind, weighing it. Really big plantations all had some smart niggers on them, niggers who could work with tools, niggers who could measure and figure, even buy and sell. Naturally he hated such niggers when he came across them in town, often as not riding sleek, black horses. But having one on your own plantation was different. Like having a darky preacher around, like being a Colonel in a great white plantation house with a rolling green and big trees.

The last faint streaks of color faded from the sky. For a little while the tall pines in the distance loomed blade against soft gray. Then they faded, and overhead the stars came out.

Covey rose, yawned and stretched himself. Tomorrow he would talk to Fred about that figuring. It was still the Sabbath.

There was nothing subtle about Covey the next day. He was clumsy, disagreeable and domineering. Frederick suspected that he was being tricked. But there was no turning back. He said, “Yes, sir, I can chalk up the bales.”

So he marked and counted each load of cotton, noted the weighing of the wheat and oats, set down many figures. And Covey took his “chalk man” to town with him. It got about among the white folks that the “Auld boy” could read and write. The white masters heard other whisperings too—vague, amusing “nigger talk.” But it was disturbing. Couldn’t be too careful these days. There had been that Nat Turner! And a cold breath lifted the hair on the backs of their necks.

Frederick’s term of service with Edward Covey expired on Christmas day, 1834. The slave-breaker took him back to Captain Auld. The boy was in good shape, but Captain Auld regarded both of them sourly. The talk had reached his ears, and he had been warned that he had better get rid of this slave. “One bad sheep will spoil a whole flock,” they said. Captain Auld dared not ignore the advice of his powerful neighbors. His slave holdings were small compared to theirs. Yet he did not want to sell a buck not yet grown to his full value. Therefore he arranged to hire the boy out to easy-going Mr. William Freeland, who lived on a fine old farm about four miles from St. Michaels.

Covey covered the dirt road back to his place at a savage pace. He was in a mean mood. That night he flogged a half-wit slave until the black fainted. Then he stomped into the house and, fully dressed, flung himself across the bed. Lucy didn’t dare touch him and Caroline wouldn’t.

Frederick’s return to the Auld plantation was an event among the slaves. Little boys regarded him with round eyes; the old folks talked of his grandmother. There were those who claimed to have known his mother; others now recalled that they had fed from the same trough, under the watchful eye of “Aunt Katy.” He had returned during “the Christmas” so they could wine and dine him. He saw the looks on their faces, felt the warm glow. For the first time he saw a girl smiling at him. Life was good.

Early on the morning of January 1 he set out from St. Michaels for the Freeland plantation. He had been given a fresh allotment of clothes—a pair of trousers, a thin coarse jacket, and even a pair of heavy shoes. Captain Auld did not intend his slave to show up before “quality” in a state which would reflect shame on his owner. Though not rich, the Freelands were one of the first families of Maryland.

Life would be easier for him now, Frederick knew. But, as he walked along the road that morning, he was not hastening toward the greener grass and spreading shade trees on Mr. Freeland’s place. He was whistling, but not because he would sleep on a cot instead of on the floor, nor because his food would be better and ampler. He might even wear a shirt. But that wasn’t it. Two strong, brown legs were carrying his body to the Freeland plantation, but Frederick was speeding far ahead.

He carried his shoes in his hand. Might need those good, strong shoes! They’d take him over sharp rocks and stubby, thorn-covered fields and through swamplands. Rub them with pepper and they leave no scent! He kicked the sand up with his bare feet. It felt good. He stamped down hard, leaving his footprints in the damp earth.

He met an old man driving a mule.

“Whar yo’ goin’, boy?” the old man asked.

“I’m on my way!” It was a song.

The old man peered at him closely. He was nearly blind and knew his time was almost over. But he wanted to see the face of this young one who spoke so.

“Whatchu say, boy?” He spoke sharply.

“My master’s sending me over to Mr. Freeland’s place,” Frederick explained.

“Oh!” the old man said, and waited.

Frederick lowered his voice, though there was no one else in sight.

“It is close by the bay.”

The old man’s breath made a whistling sound as it escaped from the dried reeds of his throat.

“God bless yo’, boy!” Then he passed on by, driving his mule.

Several hours later Amelia passed the same old man. She had offered to drive into town and pick up some things for the house. When Covey had snarled that all the boys were busy, she said cheerfully she could drive herself.

“I did all of Tom’s buying,” she reminded him. Covey frowned. He didn’t like opinionated women.

Amelia urged Lucy to go along; the drive would do her good. But poor Lucy only shrank further into herself and shook her head.

The fact was that Amelia was expecting some mail at the post office. Also, she wanted to mail a letter. She was writing again to Tom’s cousin who lived in Washington.

Tom had missed Jack terribly when he went away. They had shot squirrels and rabbits together, but Jack never took to plowing. He was kind of wild. Jack had urged Tom to give up, to leave the hills. Tom had hung on—and now he was dead. They had told Amelia she must be resigned, that it was “God’s will.”

When Amelia began to wonder, she wrote Jack. Why did Tom die? she asked him. From there she had gone on to other questions, many questions. Words had sprawled over the thin sheets. She had never written such a long letter.

Jack had replied immediately. But that letter had been only the first. He had sent her newspapers and books. As she read them her astonishment increased. She read them over and over again.

Now she was thinking about going down to Washington. She was thinking about it. She hardly saw the old man, driving his mule.

The old man did not peer closely at her. His mule turned aside politely.

Chapter Four

Frederick comes to a dead end

William Freeland, master of Freelands, gave his rein the slightest tug as he rode between the huge stone columns. It was good to be alone and let all memory of the Tilghmans drain from his mind, including Delia’s girlish laughter. He was glad the Christmas was over. Now he could have peace.

Just inside the wrought-iron gates, where the graveled drive was guarded by a stately sycamore, the big mare came to a quivering pause. She knew this was where her master wished to stop. From this spot the old dwelling far up the drive, with tulip poplars huddled around it, was imposing.

It was a good house, built in the good old days when Maryland boasted noble blood. Beside the winding staircase of the wide hall hung a painting of Eleanor, daughter of Benedict Calvert, sixth Lord Baltimore. William Freeland was not a Calvert; but the families had been close friends, and the lovely Eleanor had danced in those halls. That was before Maryland had broken her ties with England. For a long time there were those who regretted the day Maryland signed the Articles of Confederation; but when ambitious neighbors crowded their boundaries, loyal Marylanders rallied round; and in 1785 William Freeland’s father, Clive Freeland, had gone to Mount Vernon to contest Virginia’s claim to the Potomac. He had spoken eloquently, and Alexander Hamilton had accompanied the young man home. There Hamilton had been received by Clive’s charming bride, had rested and relaxed and, under the spell of Freelands, had talked of his own coral-strewn, sun-drenched home in the Caribbeans.

In those days the manor house sat in the midst of a gently rolling green. Spreading trees towered above precise box borders; turfed walkways, bordered with beds of delicate tea-roses, crossed each other at right angles; Cherokee rose-vines climbed the garden walls; and wisteria, tumbling over the veranda, showed bright against the whitewashed bricks, joined with pink crêpe myrtle by the door and flowed out toward the white-blossomed magnolias in the yard. The elegant, swarthy Hamilton lingered, putting off his return to New York as long as he could. He told them how he hated that city’s crooked, dirty streets and shrill-voiced shopkeepers.

All this was fifty years ago. The great estate had been sold off in small lots. On the small plantation that was left, the outhouses were tumbling down, moss hung too low on the trees, the hedges needed trimming and bare places showed in the lawn. Everything needed a coat of paint. Slowly but surely the place was consuming itself, as each year bugs ate into the tobacco crop.

“It will last out our time.” More than that consideration did not concern the present master of Freelands.

There was a faint wild fragrance of sweet shrub in the air—the smell of spring. It was the first day of January, but he knew that plowing must be got under way. Spring would be early. He sighed. Undoubtedly, things would have been very different had his elder brother lived. For Clive, Jr., had had will and energy. He would have seen to it that the slaves did their work. He would have made the crops pay. Clive had been a fighter. In fact, Clive had been killed in a drunken brawl. The whole thing had been hushed up, and young William sent off to Europe. For several years they spoke of him as “studying abroad.” Actually, William did learn a great deal. He met lots of people who became less queer as the days and months passed. He ran into Byron in Italy.

A cable from his mother had brought him hurrying back home. His father was dead when he arrived.

Everything seemed to have shrunk. For a little while he was appalled by what he saw and heard. Then gradually the world outside fell away. His half-hearted attempts to change things seemed silly. He had forgotten how easy life could be in Maryland.

Now he looked at the substantial old house. Someone was opening the second-floor shutters. That meant his mother was getting up. He smiled, thinking how like the house she was—untouched, unmarred, unshaken by the passing years. At seventy she was magnificent—the real master of Freelands. He bowed to her every wish, except one. Here he shook his head and laughed softly. At forty, he remained unmarried.

His mother could not understand that the choice young bits of femininity which she paraded before him amused, but did not intrigue, him. So carefully guarding their pale skin against the sun, so daintily lifting billowing flowered skirts, so demure, waiting behind their veils in their rose gardens. He knew too well the temper and petty shrewishness that lurked behind their soft curls. In some cases there would be brains, too, but brains lying dormant. None of them could hold a candle to his mother! He would tell her so, stooping to kiss her ear.

The mare pawed restlessly. Someone was whistling just outside the gate. Freeland drew up closer to the low wall. It was a black who had sat down on the stump beside the road. He was pulling on a shoe. The other shoe lay on the ground beside him. Apparently he had been walking along the sandy road in his bare feet. Freeland chuckled. Just like a nigger! Give them a good pair of shoes, and the minute your back’s turned they take them off. Don’t give them shoes, and they say they can’t work. This fellow was undoubtedly turning in at Freelands and didn’t want to appear barefoot.

He was standing up now, brushing himself off carefully. A likely looking youngster, well built. Freeland wondered where he belonged. He wasn’t black, rather that warm rich brown that indicated mixed blood.

“Bad blood,” his mother always called it. And she would have rapped her son smartly with her cane had he questioned the verdict. Why should he? It would seem that the Atlantic Ocean produced some queer alchemical changes in bloods. In Europe “mixed blood” was, well, just mixed blood. Everybody knew that swarthy complexions in the south of France, in Spain, in Italy, indicated mixed blood. Over here things were different. Certainly there was nothing about slavery to improve stock. He had seen enough to know that.

He suspected that his mother had doubts and suspicions which she did not voice. Her feverish anxiety to get him safely married didn’t fool him. He shrugged his shoulders. She need not worry. He knew men who blandly sold off their own flesh and blood. He rubbed elbows with them at the tobacco market, but he never invited them to his table.

In the road Frederick stood looking at the gates a moment. They were swung back, so he had no hesitancy about entering; but he had never seen such large gates before. He touched the iron trimmings. Close by a horse neighed. Frederick turned and knew it must be the master sitting there so easily on the big red mare. He jerked off his hat and bowed.

“Well, boy, what do you want?” The voice was pleasant.

“I’m Captain Auld’s boy, sir. He sent me to work.”

Freeland studied the brown face. This young darky was unusual; such speech was seldom heard on the Eastern Shore. He asked another question.

“Where are you from, boy?”

Frederick hesitated. It was hardly likely that his master had told his prospective employer about the year at Covey’s. Had he heard from some other source? That would be a bad start. He temporized.

“I walked over from St. Michaels just now, sir.”

“Must have got an early start. We haven’t had breakfast here yet.”

The master slid easily to the ground, tossing the reins in the boy’s direction. “Come along!”

He had not the faintest idea what this was all about. But things had a way of clearing up in time. He started walking up the driveway toward the house. Frederick followed with the horse.

“Did you bring a note?” Freeland asked the question over his shoulder.

“No, sir. Captain Auld just told me to get along.”

Who the devil is Captain Auld? Oh, he remembered, St. Michaels—yes. Had said he could send him some help this spring, a good strong hand. Now what would poor trash like Auld be doing with a slave like this? He spoke his thoughts aloud, impatiently.

“You’re not a field hand! What do you know about tobacco?”

Frederick’s heart missed a beat. He didn’t want him; didn’t like his looks! He saw the big gates of Freelands—this lovely place—swinging shut behind him. He swallowed.

“I—I can do a good day’s work. I mighty strong.”

Freeland flipped a leaf from a bush with his riding crop before he spoke.

“You weren’t raised up at St. Michaels, and you’re no field hand. Don’t lie to me, boy!” He turned and looked Frederick full in the face. The boy stopped but did not flinch. Nor did he drop his eyes in confusion. After all, the explanation was simple.

“When I was little, Old Marse sent me to Baltimore to look after his grandson, Tommy. I was raised up there.”

“I see. Who’s your folks?”

The answer came promptly. “Colonel Lloyd’s my folks, sir.”

“Oh!”

So that was it! Colonel Edward Lloyd—one of the really great places in Talbot County—secluded, far from all thoroughfares of travel and commerce, sufficient unto itself. Colonel Lloyd had transported his products to Baltimore in his own vessels. Every man and boy on board, except the captain, had been owned by him as his property. The plantation had its own blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers and coopers—all slaves—all “Colonel Lloyd’s folks.” Freeland’s mother had known dashing Sally Lloyd, the Colonel’s eldest daughter. They had sailed together in the sloop called the Sally Lloyd. Yes, the old master was dead now. Naturally many of the slaves had been sold. He was in luck.

They had reached the house. Freeland mounted the veranda steps. He did not look around. His words were almost gruff.

“Go on round back. Sandy’ll take care of you.”

He disappeared, leaving Frederick’s “Yessir” hanging in the air.

Frederick patted the mare’s neck and whispered in her ear, “It’s all right, old girl. Let’s go find Sandy!”

From the road the big house and its tangled yard made a charming picture of sleepy tranquility. But “round back” all was bustling activity. “The Christmas” was over. Aunt Lou had emphasized the fact in no uncertain terms.

“Yo black scamps clean up all dis hyear trash!”

Rakes, brooms, mops and wheelbarrows were whisking. There were sleepy groans and smart cuffs. Already one round bottom had been spanked. Everybody knew New Year’s was a day to start things right. Aunt Lou’s standards and authority were unquestioned. Mis’ Betsy would be coming along soon. And Lawd help if everything wasn’t spick and span by then! ’Course Master William was already up and out on that mare of hissen. But nobody minded Master William too much. Though he could lay it on if he got mad! Most of the time he didn’t pay no ’tention to nothin’—not a thing.

Then came a strange nigger leading Master William’s horse. Well! The young ones stopped and stared, finger in mouth. Susan, shaking a rug out of an upstairs window, nearly pitched down into the yard. John and Handy regarded the intruder with eager interest. Sandy turned and just looked at him.

Frederick’s pulse raced, but he made no sign of recognition either.

Then “voodoo” Sandy smiled, and everybody relaxed. So!

In the high wainscoted dining room young Henry was serving breakfast. Old Caleb always served dinner—and even breakfast when there were guests—but Henry was in training under the eye of his mistress. Polished silver, gleaming white linen and sparkling glasses—all the accoutrements of fine living were there. A slight woman in a soft black silk dress with an ivory-colored collar, sat across from Master William. Her hair was white, but her blue-veined hands had not been worn by the years and her eyes remained bright and critical. The mistress of Freelands had not aged; she had withered.

“Henry!” She rapped the table with her spoon. “Be careful there! How many times have I told you not to use those cups for breakfast?”

“Please, Mis’ Betsy.” Henry’s tone was plaintive. “’Tain’t none of mah fault. Caleb set ’em out, ma’m. They was sittin’ right hyear on tha sideboard.”

“Stop whining, Henry!” Her son seldom spoke with such impatience. Mrs. Freeland glanced at him sharply.

“Yessah, Massa William, but—” began Henry.

“He’s quite right, Mother,” Freeland interrupted. “Caleb served coffee to the Tilghmans before they left. I had a cup myself.”

“I’m glad of that.” The cups were forgotten. “I had no idea they were leaving so early. I should have been up to see my guests off.”

“No need at all, Mother. I accompanied the carriage a good piece down the road. They’ll make it back to Richmond in no time.”

“It was nice having them for the holidays.” She tasted her coffee critically.

Mornings were pleasant in this room. The canary, hanging beside the window, caught the gleam of sunshine on its cage and burst into song. Some place out back a child laughed. The mistress suppressed a sigh. It would be a black child. Her son lounged so easily in his chair. She bit her lips.

“I never thought Delia Tilghman would grow up to be such a charming young lady.” She spoke casually. “She’s really lovely.”

“She is, indeed, Mother,” her son assented; but at his smile she looked away.

“I reckon Caleb better wash these cups himself.” Her eyes grew indulgent as they rested on Henry. He shuffled his feet as she added, “Henry here was probably out skylarking all night.”

“Yes, ma’m.” Henry gave a wide grin before vanishing kitchen-ward.

His master’s snort was emphatic. “Henry probably slept twelve hours last night. The silly ass!”

“Really, William, I do not understand your attitude toward our own people. Henry was born right here at Freelands.”

He laughed and took another hot biscuit.

“Which undoubtedly should make him less an ass. But does it?” At his mother’s stricken look he was contrite. “Forgive me, Mother, but I’ve just found much better material for you to work on, worthy of your efforts.”

“What are you talking about?”

Henry had returned with golden-brown baked apples, swimming in thick syrup.

“Henry,” Freeland said, “step out back and fetch in that new boy.” Henry’s eyes widened, but he did not move. “Run along! You’ll see him.”

Henry disappeared, moving faster than was his wont. Freeland smiled at his mother.

“I took on a new boy this morning. You’ll like him.”

Mrs. Freeland was incredulous. “You bought a boy this morning?”

“I’m hiring this fellow from a peckawood over at St. Michaels.” His mother’s sniff was audible. “But he’s really one of Colonel Lloyd’s people.”

“Oh! That’s different. Should be good stock.”

“Unquestionably. I’d like to buy him.”

The old lady’s eyes had grown reminiscent. She shook her head.

“I wonder if that fine old place is going to pieces. How sad that the Colonel died without a son.”

The door behind her was shoved open noisily, admitting Henry who breathed as if he had been running.

“Hyear he is!” he blurted out.

Frederick stopped on the threshold. The room made him hold his breath—sunlight reflected on rich colors and pouring through the singing of a little bird. He wanted to stoop down to see if his shoes carried any tiny speck of sand or dust. He must step softly on the beautiful floor.

“Come in, boy!”

The man’s voice was kind. Mrs. Freeland turned with a jerk and stared keenly at the new acquisition. She noted at once his color, or lack of color. That meant—the thought was rigorously checked. Who was this boy her son had picked up in St. Michaels? Why this sudden interest in buying the half-grown buck? She spoke brusquely.

“Come here!”

He drew near, walking quietly but firmly, and bowed. Under her merciless scrutiny he neither shuffled his feet nor lowered his eyes. It was the master who broke the silence.

“Well, Mother—”

She waved him to silence with a peremptory gesture.

“Do you have a name?” she questioned.

“My name is Frederick, ma’m.” His words were respectfully low and distinct.

The man nodded his head in approval. His mother did not move for a moment. When she spoke there was a harsh grating in her voice.

“Who gave you such a name?”

Frederick was conscious of something tightening inside of him. His name always surprised people. He had come to wish that he did know how he got it. From his grandmother? His mother? His father? In Baltimore he and Tommy had talked about it. Then the young master had said to his little slave, “Aw, fiddlesticks! What difference does it make? That’s your name, ain’t it? Just tell ’em!”

“Answer me, boy!” this frightening old lady was saying.

His back stiffened and he said in the same respectful tone, “Frederick is my name, ma’m.”

She struck him, hard, with her cane. The master pushed back his chair and half rose.

“Mother!”

“Impudence!” Her eyes blazed. “Get out of my sight!”

Frederick backed away. He dare not run, he dare not answer. He would not cower. He had no need of asking how he had offended her. He had the fierce satisfaction of knowing. “Impudence” could be committed by a slave in a hundred different ways—a look, a word, a gesture. It was an unpardonable crime. He knew he was guilty. Henry had backed to the wall, eyes popping, mouth open.

Now William Freeland was on his feet. He spoke to Henry rather than to Frederick, and his voice was hard.

“Take him out back. I’ll come along in a moment.”

Frederick had a crazy impulse to laugh at Henry’s face as he came toward him. The lumbering dark fellow was heavier, perhaps a year or two older, but in a fair fight Frederick knew he could outmarch him. There was no question of resistance in his mind now, however. The timid way Henry took his arm was silly.

The moment the door had closed behind them, Henry’s entire demeanor changed.

“Look-a-hyear, boy,” he whispered, dropping Frederick’s arm, “ain’t you dat crazy nigger what whopped a white man?”

Frederick shrugged his shoulders. His tiny spurt of exaltation had passed. He felt sick.

“I am crazy.” His words were a groan.

“I knowed it!” exulted Henry. “I knowed it! Come on out to tha barn. I gotta tell tha others.” There was no suggestion of whine in his voice, nor was his head cocked to one side.

At Henry’s silent arm-wavings they gathered round—the numerous yard boys and men working in the stables and barns. Frederick dropped on an empty box, but Henry delivered a dramatic account of what had just occurred. They kept their voices low, and when Handy slapped his knee and laughed out loud, John whirled on him.

“Shut yo’ big mouth! Wanta bring tha house down on us?”

“Standin’ up to Ole Missus!”

“Lawd! Lawd! She’ll skin you!”

They looked at him admiringly. Only Sandy shook his head. “Not good!” was his only comment.

And Frederick, sitting there on the empty box, agreed with Sandy.

Mrs. Freeland’s cane slipped to the floor as the door closed behind the two slaves. Her hand was shaking. Her son was puzzled as he bent to pick up the cane.

“Mother, you have upset yourself. I’m so sorry. But I declare I don’t see why.”

The small white head jerked up.

“You don’t! So this is your idea of better material. That—That mongrel!” Her words were vehement.

“Oh, Mother! For heaven’s sake!” The scene he had witnessed suddenly took on meaning. Was “bad blood” getting to be an obsession with her?

“Strutting in here with his airs and impudence!”

“I’ll confess he is a little cocky.” Then he sought to mollify her. “He’s probably been spoilt. I told you he was from Colonel Lloyd’s place. He’s not just a common hand.”

She managed to control the trembling of her lips. I must not fight with William. She pressed back her tears and got to her feet.