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

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.