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 sisterLucy 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 Tomsayanything 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 singMy great Redeem’s praise,The glories of my God and King,The triumphs of his grace.”
“O for a thousand tongues to singMy great Redeem’s praise,The glories of my God and King,The triumphs of his grace.”
“O for a thousand tongues to singMy great Redeem’s praise,The glories of my God and King,The triumphs of his grace.”
“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. Coveypaid 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 theLiberatorin 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 theSabbath 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!Shewasn’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.