47

16.

My back was on fire when I came awake in the slave cabin that afternoon.

"You niggahs really messed up," Pritchard said.

I couldn't see the lame carpenter but I knew that he was standing there behind me.

"Yessiree," Pritchard cackled, "you niggers just had to act all uppity and now you see what you get. Mud Albert dead, Champ Noland in the Tomb. They say that Mama Flore is in her closet gettin' ready for her harp."

"Mama Flore dyin'?" I cried. "Naw it ain't true."

"You see?" Pritchard said. He came into view on my left side, leaning on his crutch and grinning. "You see? Talkin' back to your betters is why you got them sores on yo back. That's why Numbah Twelve out in Mr. Stewart's killin' shack right now. That's why Mud Albert is dead in the barn."

My heart was devastated. Mud Albert dead, Mama Flore dying. Champ Noland, the most powerful man anyone had even seen, chained and beaten. All of that happened because I asked John to save Eloise. And even though he had saved the girl and even though I was happy that she was alive, I was miserable at the cost of her survival. Everyone I had ever loved was destroyed.

I was in terrible pain but still I lifted myself from the slave cot. I wasn't surprised that my feet weren't chained. The wounds on my back were so bad that they probably expected me to die. The bullwhip does dreadful damage to human skin. It tears all the way down to bone. I was bleeding from a dozen crisscrossed tears in my flesh, but still I got to my feet at the foot of the bed.

"Are you crazy, niggah?" Pritchard cried. "Git back in that bed before somebody white sees you."

"Get away from me, Pritchard," I said. "I'm small and I'm hurtin' but I will find a way to get back at you if you get in my way."

"It ain't me you got to worry 'bout, boy. It's Tobias an' Stewart and every white man from here to the border of Tennessee that's gonna be after you."

I made my way to the cabin door. Every step I took I worried about falling down. But I kept on walking because of the hatred in my heart. I had never felt like that before. Tobias had taken everything from me, everything except John and I would die before I let Mr. Stewart destroy him.

I had never been to the killin' shack before but I knew where the path was that led there. I stumbled out behind the slave cabin and then down the trail that had been the doom of so many black souls. There were birds crying at my passage but to my wounded heart they sounded like

the tormented voices of all of the slaves Mr. Stewart had tortured and killed.

I didn't know what I would do when I got to my destination. I probably wouldn't live out the day but I didn't care. My friend needed me and I would not let him down.

I lumbered through the vegetation, feeling the raw wounds on my back with every step. When I looked down I could see the blood trickling to my feet. But that didn't stop me. I just took one step after another down the evil lane.

After some time I came to an open yard. Across from where I stood was a dilapidated cabin. I knew that was where I'd find Mr. Stewart and Tall John. I reached down and picked up a throwing rock that had sharp corners on two sides. I took one step and then someone grabbed me by my arm. I turned to hit that someone with my rock but before I could swing I saw that it was Eighty-four standing there in her worn blue dress.

"What you doin' heah, Forty-seven?" she cried, pulling me from the road.

"I came for John."

"Me too," she said.

"That's the killin' shack," I said.

"I s'pose it is," Eighty-four agreed. "Mr. Stewart is in there right now killin' my baby."

"I guess we got to go in there if'n we wanna save him," I said.

"Yeah," she said.

But neither one of us moved. Faced with the certain death of the killing shack we were frozen. Our entire lives we had been trained to fear Mr. Stewart. Our entire lives we were told that the white overboss had complete power over us. Our fear was like an invisible wall standing in the middle of that yard.

Eighty-four reached out a finger and touched my cheek.

"You cryin'," she said.

It was her touch that pushed me past the line of our fear.

"You git a big stick," I said. "Git a big stick and then we gonna go up on that porch. I'ma go in an' th'ow my rock an' when he chasin' me out the do' you try an' hit 'im on the head."

Eighty-four nodded and looked around for a stick. She found a tree branch that was as big as a club. That was the first time I looked at her as something other than chattel. She was a young woman and beautiful as Tall John had said. She was stronger than many men I knew and the love in her heart for John found a companion in me.

We strode toward the door of the cabin. Eighty-four moved to the side and I pushed the door wide.

When I got into the room I took in everything at once. The first thing that assailed me was the smell. It was as if Mr. Stewart had stored rotted meat in the walls. It stank and burned my eyes. There was a long table in the middle of the floor and John was stretched out across it. The leather bands lashed to his wrists and ankles were attached to

heavy baskets that had cannon balls in them for weight. My friend wasn't screaming but I could see the pain in his face.

Mr. Stewart was standing over the table with his back to me. When I hefted my stone I realized that my strength was waning. I had only one chance to hit Stewart and then run. I doubted that I would have been able to make it across the yard.

I threw the stone. But even as the missile left my hand Stewart must have sensed my presence, because he turned as the rock flew through the air. Everything worked together and my rock met his left eye. Stewart grabbed at his head and then fell to the floor.

I staggered to my friend's side. On a shelf next to the table was a knife. I used this to cut the bonds that held John's hands. I expected the basket connected to his wrists to fall but I was surprised when he was dragged down to the other end of the table. Then I realized that the heavy basket tied to his feet no longer had the counterbalance of the other basket and it pulled my friend to the other end.

John sat up and grabbed his ribcage.

"It hurts," he moaned. "It hurts. So this is what it means to suffer."

"Can you git up?" I asked him.

"Pain," he replied.

I used the knife to cut the bonds around his ankles and then I helped him to the side of the table. He tried to get to his feet but his legs gave out like they were rubber. I got down on my knees to help him but just as I did a shadow fell over us.

"I'll kill botha you niggahs!" Mr. Stewart shouted.

He was there above us, blood coming from his ruined eye.

Before I could do anything he was on me. I felt his hands close around my throat.

"Damn you!" I shouted, thinking that at least I could condemn his evil soul to hell before he killed me.

"Huh!" he exclaimed, and his grip loosened.

I thought that maybe my curse had instant effect. Stewart fell to the side and there above me stood Eighty-four, the club clutched in her hands. She dropped the log and helped both me and John to our feet.

"Take me to my yellow sack," he whispered in my ear as we went through the door.

John could hardly walk and I was weak from the bleeding wounds on my back. Without Eighty-four we would never have made it. She nearly carried John and I supported myself by holding onto her shoulder.

After a long time we came upon the tree where John kept his shiny yellow sack. He opened it up and took out a little red lacquer box. From this he brought out a metal disk that stood upon a spindly tripod. He did something with the legs, and the disk started turning slowly. Then he collapsed.

"We'll be safe for a while," he whispered. "Have to sleep."

He fell unconscious and soon after I followed.

In my dreams I was being chased by a one-eyed monster who was at once one of the Calash and the wounded Mr. Stewart.