Part I

_There was once a slave_...

SHIRLEY GRAHAM

_The heroic story of_

FREDERICK DOUGLASS

JULIAN MESSNER, Inc., NEW YORK

THERE WAS ONCE A SLAVE, _The Heroic Story of Frederick Douglass_

by Shirley Graham, received the sixty-five hundred dollar JULIAN

MESSNER AWARD FOR THE BEST BOOK COMBATING INTOLERANCE IN AMERICA. The

judges were: Carl Van Doren, Lewis Gannett, and Clifton Fadiman. Miss

Graham’s work was selected from over six hundred manuscripts submitted

in the contest. The original award was augmented by a grant from the

Lionel Judah Tachna Memorial Foundation, established by Max Tachna in

memory of his son who lost his life in the Battle of the Coral Sea.

PUBLISHED BY JULIAN MESSNER, INC.

8 WEST 40TH STREET, NEW YORK 18

COPYRIGHT, 1947

BY SHIRLEY GRAHAM

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BY MONTAUK BOOK MANUFACTURING CO., INC.

To Peoples on the March

_You cannot hem the hope of being free

With parallels of latitude, with mountain range or sea;

Put heavy padlocks on Truth’s lips, be callous as you will,

From soul to soul, o’er all the world, leaps the electric thrill._

--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

_Contents_

_Prologue_ ix

PART I · THE ROAD

CHAPTER PAGE

1 _Frederick sets his feet upon the road_ 3

2 _The road winds about Chesapeake Bay_ 16

3 _An old man drives his mule_ 29

4 _Frederick comes to a dead end_ 36

5 _One more river to cross_ 63

PART II · THE LIGHTNING

6 _Is this a thing, or can it be a man?_ 83

7 _Jobs in Washington and voting in Rhode Island_ 103

8 _On two sides of the Atlantic_ 119

9 “_To be henceforth free, manumitted and discharged ..._” 137

10 _A light is set in the road_ 155

PART III · THE STORM

11 _The storm comes up in the west and birds fly north_ 175

12 _An Avenging Angel brings the fury of the storm_ 190

13 “_Give us arms, Mr. Lincoln!_” 208

14 _Came January 1, 1863_ 223

PART IV · TOWARD MORNING

15 _When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed_ 229

16 _Moving forward_ 240

17 _Fourscore years ago in Washington_ 256

18 “_If slavery could not kill us, liberty won’t_” 272

19 _Indian summer and a fair harvest_ 288

20 _The Môle St. Nicolas_ 294

_Epilogue_ 309

_Bibliography_ 311

_Footnotes_

_Prologue_

I keep my eye on the bright north star and think of liberty.

--FROM AN OLD SLAVE SONG

They told him that he was a slave, that he must bend his back, walk

low, with eyes cast down, think not at all and sleep without a dream.

But every beat of hoe against a twisted root, each narrow furrow

reaching toward the hill, flight of a bird across the open field, creak

of the ox-cart in the road--all spoke to him of freedom.

For Frederick Douglass had his eyes upon a star.

This dark American never knew the exact date of his birth. Some time in

1817 or 1818 or 1819 he was born in Talbot County on the Eastern Shore

of the state of Maryland. Who were his people? “Genealogical trees,” he

wrote in his autobiography, “did not flourish among slaves. A person of

some consequence in civilized society, sometimes designated as father,

was literally unknown to slave law and to slave practices.”

His first years were spent in a kind of breeding pen, where, with dogs

and pigs and other young of the plantation, black children were raised

for the fields and turpentine forests. The only bright memories of his

childhood clung round his grandmother’s log hut. He remembered touching

his mother once. After he was four or five years old he never saw or

heard of her again.

This is the story of how from out that breeding pen there came a Man.

It begins in August of the year of our Lord, 1834. Andrew Jackson was

in the White House. Horace Greeley was getting a newspaper going in

New York. William Lloyd Garrison had been dragged through the streets

of Boston, a rope around his neck. Slavery had just been abolished

wherever the Union Jack flew. Daniel O’Connell was lifting his

voice, calling the people of Ireland together. Goethe’s song of the

brotherhood of man was echoing in the hills. Tolstoy was six years old,

and Abraham Lincoln was growing up in Illinois.

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:

“O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good; for his mercy endureth

for ever.

Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath redeemed from the

hand of the enemy;

And gathered them out of the lands, from the east, and from the

west, from the north, and from the south.

They wandered in the wilderness in a solitary way; they found no

city to dwell in.

Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them.

Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble and he delivered them

out of their distresses.

And he led them forth by the right way, that they might go to a city

of habitation.”

“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:

“O for a thousand tongues to sing

My great Redeem’s praise,

The glories of my God and King,

The triumphs of his grace.”

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!”