Chapter 5 #4
Dripping wet, chest heaving from his own exertion, Buck gripped my elbow, aiding us to our feet. He was ordered otherwise when he attempted to assist by carrying my daughter.
“She ain’t crippled! Put her down and leave her be.”
Mister Peterson added his two cents. “Nigras sure know how to find ways to get out of working. But that’s a new one, being too damn lazy to do something as simple as walking.”
I clutched Abigail’s hand, despising the callous insensitivity of cruel men.
Heartless bastards would want the world to stop if the situation was reversed and one of their children suffered what mine did!
I swallowed bitter sentiment and positioned Abigail in front of Master Ryland. Gaze downcast, I explained what happened. The retelling was as horrible as the occurrence, making my heart hammer in my chest. My eyes were tearless, yet my soul wept.
I flinched when he dismounted that evil-eyed horse of his, stepped to Abigail and gripped her face without gentleness. He turned her head side to side, peered in her eyes, then checked her teeth as if that muddy bank was an auction block. “She’ll live.”
“Boy, you the one who went in the water and saved this whelp?”
Buck stepped forward, drenched yet trying to control his shivering in the cold rain. “Yes, sir, Mister Peterson.”
“Tolliver, give the boy a raise for sparing your workforce a deficit.”
Those plantation men laughed, their throats filled with irreverence, as if we were ever paid a wage to raise, as if my child hadn’t been divinely spared the grave.
“How the devil she get in the water in the first place?”
Master Ryland’s voice was drenched with such vexation that I took an involuntary step backward, pulling Abigail with me. “She slipped off the oxcart—”
“There’s nothing slippery about an oxcart.”
“Must’ve been some mishandling.” Peterson’s summation had both men turning towards the oxcart transporting the children. “That boy and his driving cost us unnecessary time.”
I feared their focusing on July and instantly regretted not embellishing the truth. With the help of others, he’d managed to free the wheel and had the oxen moving in the right direction. That would mean little against the anger of plantation men.
“Pardon us for troubling you with this mishap, Master Ryland… Mister Peterson, sir.” I spoke loudly so Lovie could hear. My voice brimmed with urgency, wanting to spare my nephew any undue chastening. “We’ll take more care crossing from here on out.”
Lovie stood at the edge of the stream with a second wave of children waiting for the crossing of the first group to finish. My words had her attention, sent her into action. My stomach burned with fear as she waded into that water, dress sodden by the stream, sharply calling her son’s name.
She was taller, stronger than Abigail. Still, I panicked, afraid she’d be whisked off her feet, injuring herself or her unborn baby.
I breathed, relieved, when she climbed aboard the oxcart’s front seat.
I cringed when she smacked July soundly.
“Pay better attention! Master Ryland don’t have time for your carelessness. ”
Silence engulfed us. Even the sound of the burgeoning stream seemed to lessen as July’s head lowered and he mumbled a shame-filled “yes, ma’am.”
A moment passed before Ryland Tolliver hawked up something and spat it in the grass, readjusted his rain slicker and mounted his horse again.
“Tolliver, might be best to let these brats ride here on out rather than at certain times. They oughta be small enough to fit on the oxcarts without upsetting household goods.”
“I agree. It’s that or risk good property that ain’t even reached breeding age. Plus, we’ll cover more ground that way.” Master Ryland shouted instructions as they moved off. “Get to moving. Gotta recoup the time these shenanigans cost us!”
The pandemonium of Abigail’s near drowning was replaced by urgent action.
Children were lifted aboard wagons that hadn’t crossed yet.
We remaining adults wrapped ropes about our waists, linking ourselves together for safety’s sake.
I glanced at Lovie and noted her tight face.
I knew my sister enough to know she hated striking July—yet it had been preemptive.
She’d chastised him hoping to satisfy plantation men and prevent far worse consequences.
Lord, today! We have to hurt our own children in the name of keeping them safe?
My head and heart felt divided as I clung to that oxcart carrying my children.
One side of me praised God for Abigail’s rescue and wellbeing.
The other cursed those plantation men for not caring a bit about our children being too little to walk from here to eternity—whose only consideration was the impact on their money-making ability.
Hot rage poured like sweat from my skin as I trudged beside that oxcart, despising a system where children’s lives and welfare weren’t considered, where their worth was measured by their labor and potential reproduction. Not their human dignity. I gritted my teeth, lifted my chin and prayed.
Lord, tear down this system… or gimme strength to get my girls free. Even if that don’t include strength enough for me.