“No. No, he’s never acted as though he can see me, and I even got right up close to him and whispered, ‘who are you?’ He didn’t respond to me at all. Not even a blink of the eye.”
“Well, we’ll put some security around the Square to keep an eye on him,” said Ian. “Then we need to figure out why all this is so important to Mr. Snow.”
CHAPTER TEN
1791
Four years. Four years as a slave toiling in the earth. Picking cotton, growing crops. From dawn to dark without a moment’s rest, Grover was slowly dying before he was even thirty. His hands were bleeding, his body aching from the stress and hard work.
Once a day, for just twenty minutes, they were allowed to drink some water and eat a biscuit or piece of dried meat. Then, they were ordered to go back to work. In those twenty minutes, the boss would take one of the young girls behind the shacks and abuse her body in the way that only a husband should be allowed to do.
They hated him. They all hated him, and many had tried to kill him and suffered the same fate. He enjoyed the cat and mouse game of allowing them just enough space to come for him, then beating them to death. Old Rove, who wasn’t really old at all, was forced to watch as the boss abused his wife and two little girls. Then he killed him and the children, selling the woman to another planter.
One of the other men, Russell, tried to stop him once. He was beaten so badly he died from his wounds. Miss Melba tried to save him. She washed his back really well, put some salve on it, but it didn’t matter. Russell wanted to die. When she couldn’t save him, they beat her too, telling her to try harder next time.
Just as Grover finished the last of his biscuit, someone gripped his upper arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Get in the wagon,” said Josiah.
Grover nodded, not understanding what was happening. He watched as Josiah walked around tapping other men andthree women. Without a word, he drove them toward town, never giving any indication as to what might happen.
When the wagon stopped in the Square, Grover knew. There, beneath the old oak tree, was a wooden platform with naked men and women, all negroes, being sold.
“This lot is worth more than fifteen dollars,” said the auctioneer. “I need at least twenty.”
“Twenty?” whispered Grover. “We’re human beings, not cattle.”
“You’re nothin’ but flesh and bone and muscle to them, boy,” said Obe. Obe was one of the oldest slaves on their property, but he was still as strong as an ox.
The gate of the wagon was lowered, and the men and women were ordered toward the platform. They were stripped of their clothing, nothing except their shame to cover them.
“Now here’s a fine lot,” smirked the auctioneer. “We know Mr. Tom always has the strongest, finest blacks around. Big, strong men, fine lookin’ women that can produce more for you. Yes, sir. This lot here is worth at least fifty dollars.”
“I’ll bid fifty,” said a man. Josiah sucked in a breath, and Grover turned to stare at the older man.
“What? What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“That man there is the devil himself. Ain’t no man or woman ever survived his plantation. I ain’t goin’. I ain’t.”
“Josiah, don’t,” muttered Lilah behind her hand. “He’ll kill you.”
“I’m already dead,” he said, staring at the crowd. Without a thought, Josiah jumped from the platform and took off toward the river. He knew how to swim, and if he could get across theriver and get lost in the swamps, he might be able to make his way north.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
“Gotta get your boy,” said the auctioneer, staring at their boss.
He shoved them all in the wagon and headed back to the plantation. Relieved and terrified to be back home, they quickly dressed and were ordered back in the fields.
Grover thought maybe that would be the end of it all, but three days later, they were ordered into the wagon again. Only this time, when they arrived in the Square, there was a familiar face.
A beaten, bloodied, swollen, disfigured face. The face of Josiah.
“Dear God in heaven,” whispered Grover.
“Ain’t no negroes gonna run from us!” said the auctioneer.