CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“We can’t marry you in the ways we would normally do so,” said Melba. “We’ll say some words that mean somethin’ and do some things that might seem strange. But you’ll be married all the same.”
Grover and Tia smiled, nodding at the old woman. It was Sunday, the usual day off for them. They’d bathed, put on the best clothing they had, and hoped to make this one day of their confined lives a happy day.
As they were enjoying their wedding dinner, cooked by all the women in the slave quarters, the boss walked up, smiling at them.
“Well, well, well. You two should produce lots of little negroes for me,” he chuckled. Grover wanted to punch him in the face but knew what the punishment would be. Tia just smiled, nodding at him.
“Melba, you married ‘em?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said, nodding.
“Good. They ain’t done nothin’ yet, right?” Melba slowly nodded her head, knowing what was coming. “That’s good. As boss, I get first rut.”
“What?” gasped Grover. “No. No, she’s my wife!”
He backhanded Grover, sending him to the ground, a slice across his face from that damn ring he wore all the time.
Tia tried to kneel to help her husband up, but it was of no use.
Dragged, kicking and screaming, she wouldn’t get away.
When Grover attempted to stand, the butt of a rifle was rammed into the side of his head.
He didn’t know how much later it was, but it was dark. He tried to roll over, but the wave of nausea paused his movement.
“Hold still, baby,” said Melba in a sad voice.
“Wh-where is Tia? Where is my wife?” he asked. Melba looked up at her husband, and he knelt beside the younger man.
“There was nothin’ we could do, Grover. He kept her in that barn for hours. When he came out, he told his men to sell her to someone upriver, far away.”
“No,” said Grover, shaking his head. “No! He can’t do that!”
“He can, boy. We’re his property. He can do whatever his likes.” Grover stood, wobbling at first, then steadying himself.
“I am no man’s property.”
There were five attempts at escape after that. Grover didn’t care about the beatings and whippings. The pain reminded him of what he needed to do. He had to get away. He had to find his wife and get as far north as possible.
On the sixth attempt, he found his way upriver in a place called Missouri. He’d heard that Tia was sold to a man there, living on a farm. Making his way through the darkness, he went shack to shack asking for her.
“Boy, you gonna get us all killed,” whispered an old man. “Ain’t no girl here named Tia.”
“I think he’s talkin’ about the new girl that came a few months ago. Came from New Orleans, right?” asked another man.
“Yes. Yes, that’s her!”
“I’m sorry, boy. The boss, he used her. Used her bad. She went crazy and tried to kill him.” Grover shook his head back and forth. “He hanged her. Right out there from that tree.”
Grover backed out of the shack, staring at the massive mansion in the darkness. Without thinking of his own life, he ran toward the mansion, breaking through one of the long front windows. He could hear talking upstairs and looked around for a weapon.
On the wall, hanging from a coatrack was a whip.
Gripping the leather handle, he heard the creak of leather beneath his fingers.
As he raced up the stairs, he turned toward what should be the master bedroom and found a large, rotund man rubbing his body against a young, barely a teenager, black girl.
Taking the whip, he reared back and let it strike the man’s backside. He howled in pain, rolling off the girl. She stared at the ceiling, not moving.
“Run,” he said to the girl. She didn’t move, and he yanked her arm, pulling her out of bed. “Did you hear me? Run.”
The girl finally moved slowly, obviously in pain.
“Boy, you picked the wrong man to come after. I’ll slice you to ribbons!”
“You killed my wife,” he said calmly. He reached back, cracking the whip again. The fat man fell to the floor, his gelatinous body jiggling with every breath. He whipped him three more times, enjoying the sight of the man’s blood.
“Stop! I beg you, stop!” he cried.
“Beg me? You beg me? You rape little girls, beat men and women for pleasure. You work them like animals in the fields, day and night, for nothing!”
“You are animals, boy,” he chuckled, his fat flesh moving in a sickening rhythm. “You’re all nothin’ but animals.”
Grover lost control. He whipped the man over and over again until his body ceased any movement at all. Staring at the broken skin, blood, and the horror of what he’d done, Grover knew he was a dead man.
So he ran.
He ran until his body couldn’t run any longer. He followed the river, hoping to get as far north as possible, maybe make it into the northern territories, and hide in the wilderness.
But the river is a fickle lady. She had twists and turns, bends and tributaries.
Without knowing it, Grover found himself in a place he didn’t want to be.
Asleep against a tree, the sun was just coming up over the horizon when he realized his fatal mistake. Someone tapped the bottom of his foot.
“Lookee here, boys. We caught ourselves a runaway.”