IT WAS EARLY MORNING, AUGUST 21, THE DAY OF THE whipping. The long days had dragged by for Sarah without a word from Margaret Cunningham or her papa. She awakened to an aching back and the sound of rain pounding heavily on the roof. Sleeping had been close to impossible in a room full of strangers on a hard, narrow bunk. She was exhausted. The remnants of her courage were fading fast. She realized that her destiny was in a race against time. What, in such a short time, could her papa and Margaret accomplish?
Praying became part of her daily routine to remain strong and hopeful. She wondered if fear had kept the Birchtowners away. There had been but three visitors. Thomas faithfully came by each day after work with updates on the petition. It was proving difficult to get signatures. Either the Birchtowners were scared of retaliation in the form of violence or loss of work, or they believed it would not do any good. To Sarah’s surprise, Reece came by twice. It was comforting to hear him say that he supported her right to defend herself. He wanted her to know that he had visited his mother several times and that, in Fibby’s care, she was holding on. The wait to hear from Amelia was keeping her strong. The third visitor was Priscilla Hayward. She came by, she said, to express sadness over such a crime against her friend. Though her sentiments felt genuine, she did not leave without letting it be known that she had finally caught Reece’s attention. Happiness to them both, Sarah thought. They deserve it.
Noon came quickly and still there was no news from Papa and Margaret. Her stomach was about to explode when the keeper arrived with a plate of stew and tea. The gravy was cold and thick with a nasty scum, the bread was hard, not cut but torn from a loaf, and the tea cold. More pig slop, she thought, as hunger forced her to approach the table. In the end, she could not eat. She sat on the bench staring at the wall, the butterflies in her stomach caught up in a hurricane.
When the bailiff came, he stood with his face in a mocking grin. “Half an hour remaining,” he said. Sarah’s head felt heavy. She pictured herself tied to the whipping post before the jeering crowd. She thought of all the times Cecil had called the slaves from their work to witness some type of miserable act: the removal of a limb, a hanging or a whipping. She thought of her mother and that gave her courage. She would show them the willpower a slave could muster in the face of pain. She would not scream and she would not tremble! She closed her eyes and felt her brain do a dance of sorts. There was no way to track the time, but the hour was looming. What had become of Papa and Margaret? Where was Thomas? Had they been successful in finding Justice Moody or anyone who might believe her innocence and keep her from this punishment?
It was fifteen minutes before the hour when she heard the keys clang as the sheriff unlocked the door. He led her in chains down muddy King Street. Without her coat, she shivered as the biting cold of nerves nipped her courage. Her hope for salvation was retreating, but she walked queenly with her back straight to the rhythm of the clinking shackles around her ankles. She focused on the end of her ordeal now, rather than the beginning. He took her down Water Street to a spot the locals called Stanhope Hill. The whipping post stood like a crucifix. She saw Reece and Priscilla at the front of the crowd. Enos was there, too. The three were rigid, expressionless, and she turned away.
At the whipping post, the sheriff said, “Step up to the pole. Turn your back to the crowd.” He freed her hands.
She heard the loud jeers and slurs about Negroes, the name-calling and threats. Despite the apples and eggs that pelted her, she looked directly into the crowd before turning and retreating into herself. In these last minutes, she did not beg for compassion as she had seen slaves do, for she knew such wickedness did not know mercy. She stood erect and defiant.
A man wearing a black suit, black gloves and a three-cornered black hat greeted her with a quick nod. In his right hand, a whip curled like a serpent. His long white hair hung beneath the hat and framed his head like a fringe. Sarah turned her head and eyed him sharply. His eyes were barren. He was ready to perform his duty. He ordered her to remove her top garments. With her upper body exposed, her bare back facing outward, the sheriff tied her to the post with a rope.
She watched the whip unfold from his hand. The full length of it—six feet—fell to the ground. In a loud, ringing voice, the sheriff announced, “On the count of three … One,” he screamed.
Sarah murmured, “Do not scream.”
“Two.”
Sarah murmured, “Do not tremble.”
“Three.”
Sarah stiffened. The first blow came down with a whistle.
The onlookers gasped as their eyes followed the rise and fall of the long whip. It bit into her shoulder and opened her flesh. Bright red splatters of blood flew past her face. The blood running down her cold back felt like warm water. The pain was scorching hot.
After the first taste of blood, a spasm jarred the crowd, making them cringe and fall into an eerie silence. Sarah squeezed her eyes tight and held her breath. She stiffened and gritted her teeth as the sheriff skipped the countdown and yelled, “Two!”
Again, the whip danced, making a loud snap as it caught the air the second time. She waited in fear for the whip to strike and when it did, she sprang from the ground. Her blood sprayed in the air like water from a fountain.
The whip whistled again and circled around catching the wind for the third strike. “Three!” the sheriff screamed. The leather came down with a thud and she felt the burn of the rope on her wrists as she slid a few inches down the pole.
Thirty-seven to go, she thought. The rest of the lashes meant nothing now. She was already weak. Her mind was floating away. She was nearly unconscious, hearing, seeing and feeling little. The sound of the whip whirling high above her head was faint. The muted cries ringing out in the crowd came from a distance. They were blurry and she strained and forced herself to hear.
“Stop it. Stop the whipping.” And again, “Stop the whipping.” The voices were louder now, sharper, clearer. Was she dreaming? Was that Thomas’s voice?
Again the shouting came, “Stop this execution.” The crowd stirred and, to her ears, sounded like the hum of a world of bees.
Justice Moody screamed above the uproar. “Stop it, I say. My God, man, stop. It is by order of the magistrate. Stop this butchering.”
The man in black let the whip fall and asked, “Who be you to bring such an order?”
Justice Moody shouted, “I, Justice Moody, bring the order. It is an order from the Provincial Magistrate’s Office.”
The crowd swelled with noise and became unruly chaos. The sheriff raised his gun and fired twice. Justice Moody stepped forward and took the whip from the man’s hand. He then shouted at the top of his lungs, making a declaration to the crowd: “Due to an error, Justice Smithfield’s decision has been overturned. The accused, having undergone a wrongful conviction, will not undergo further punishment. Please go home now. Go about your business.”
The show was over and the onlookers made their way to the alehouses where both disappointment and relief manifested into a rowdy night of drunkenness and brawls.
The sheriff untied the rope and unchained Sarah’s feet. Her back and skirt were drenched in blood. After two steps, she keeled over and lay in a red puddle beside the whipping post. She could barely see Thomas when he took off his jacket and spread it around her shoulders. Fortune scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the wagon.
At first, the long, deep gashes would not stop weeping. Sarah lay quiet in her bed for three days suffering from the shock of her punishment. For weeks Margaret and Fibby took turns caring for the terrible lacerations, bathing them with wild herbs collected at the roadside and ointment from Mrs. MacLeod’s store. The lashes would leave scars, thick rides as tough as rolled leather, but by the third week, when she was feeling somewhat herself, she knew they would become reminders for when she needed strength and determination.