MY SENSES WERE OVERLOADED, DULLING my desire to investigate the inevitable conclusion for the slaves. I fought the desire to turn and run. Run from what lay beyond my view. Something pushed me on. I parted the tall grass and my feet edged forward.

My imagination couldn’t prepare me for what I found. I staggered back, a scream catching in my throat as my eyes beheld the massacre of the Barry slaves. Men, women, and children—the mob had left no survivors. Blood flecked the green foliage and shallow puddles of stagnant water were crimson with their blood. A man lay with his hand intertwined with his woman’s. A grandpa and grandma lay tucked in each other’s embrace. Beneath a mother’s corpse, a tiny pair of legs protruded.

My stomach rioted. Vomit burst from my lips. Tears burned my cheeks and my vision blurred. And—I saw him. My watcher.

He stood in plain sight, his face shadowed by the same lowered hat brim he’d worn the last time. I’d forgotten about him for a time. Why did he now step from the shadows Father had confined him to? The stranger appeared to be fighting an inner battle of some sort as he watched me. For some reason, I didn’t mind his presence. With him there, I didn’t feel so small and abandoned in this gloomy everglade. The limited companionship he offered gave me a sense of comfort. I brushed away my tears.

As I walked amongst the dead, I deceived myself with the hope that I might find a survivor. I bent and checked for a pulse again and again. And with each one, my heart descended further into despair. I checked over my shoulder for the stranger, to find he had faded into the shadows he had emerged from.

I dropped to my knees beside the mother and child and pushed the dead weight of the mother aside. The child was a boy of maybe four years of age. His hair had been shorn scalp-short. His small fist was clenched tight even in death.

Why, God? He was but a babe. His life had barely begun. I reached for the boy’s hand and lightly enfolded it in mine. I stroked his wee hand, my fingers tracing his knuckles. Placing his hand reverently in his mother’s, I caressed his innocent face with the back of my hand.

He blinked. His eyes opened and I wrenched back in alarm.

“Mama?” he said quietly. Then he saw me and he began to scream, “Mama!” He rose to his knees and saw his mother lying dead beside him, and released a gut-twisting wail. “Mama…” He gently shook at her. Then, as fear gripped his heart, he shook her with frantic intensity.

I slowly moved toward him and reached for him. His cries stopped and his small body became rigid when I touched him, but his head turned to look at me. “No, no!” He pushed my hand away.

“I won’t hurt you,” I said in a soothing voice.

“I want my mama,” he whimpered.

“I know you do.” He fought me as I cradled him to my breast. “Mama has gone to heaven. Do you understand that?”

He shook his head.

“Your mama is free.”

“But Mama promised she gwine take me wid her.” He hiccupped.

“Your mama was going to, sweet boy, but those bad men came,” I whispered. My heart ached as the child grew silent.

Minutes passed before I spoke. “We must leave this place now.” I waited for his acknowledgment, but he remained mute. I struggled to stand on my wobbly legs, and guided us out of the swamps.