JED SLOCUM HAD BEEN GONE so long that I sometimes pretended he wasn’t coming back at all.

Ma and I sat on the verandah, watching the mid-October sun set, and the slice of new moon climb over the long needle pines. We breathed in the last of Grandmother Ashton’s favorite magnolias and the first bite of autumn chill. Frost could not be far off. Ma wrapped her shawl tight around her, then linked her arm through mine. “Robert, I’m so proud of how you’ve taken hold here. All the—” But she stopped and stood, facing the drive. “What is that light?”

A ghostly flame danced through the trees to the beat of horse hooves. The raised torch bobbed closer, growing until its flickering light fell on a man’s face. I made out a figure on the ground—no, two figures—hobbling behind. Both were shackled—their wrists and ankles chained together. My neck prickled as the face of the man on the horse came into view. He rode directly to the heavy bell in the front yard and rang it wildly. It was the emergency signal for all of Ashland, slave and free, to run to the front drive. Ma raised her voice. “Mr. Slocum, what is the meaning of this?”

Still astride his horse Slocum held his torch higher and the pool of light grew. “Well, Miz Caroline.” He squinted toward us, then rode to the verandah, dragging his prisoners behind him. “I see you made it to Ashland.”

By this time lamps shone through the windows behind us. Lanterns sprang from the quarters. Grandfather opened the front door and a stream of light fell before him. “Slocum!”

“Mr. Ashton. Good to see you on your feet again.” But Slocum didn’t look glad, didn’t sound glad. “Brought back our runaways.”

“You were gone long enough.” Grandfather’s confidence didn’t match his words.

“Chased them clean up the Tioga Valley. It’s a long walk home.”

“You made them walk all the way home?” I couldn’t believe it.

Slocum stared me up and down. “Best way to teach a man not to run is to make him remember there’s no pleasure in walking home, and then to make sure he can’t never run again.” Slocum swung down from his horse and thrust his torch in the ground. “You, Boy!” He called to a slave I didn’t know by name. “Get me four more torches.” Then he called to a boy not yet ten, “Henry, get my axe. Now!”

Grandfather watched as Slocum unchained the prisoners. For the first time I realized that one was dark and older, maybe my pa’s age. The other one, farther from the light, couldn’t have been much older than me. Unless the night and the crazy torchlight did something to my eyes he was white, or nearly. Something pulled at my brain. Slocum chained the boy to a post and dragged the older man to the center of the ring of slaves. That was when I realized I’d seen them before—the same man who’d been pulled, unconscious, from the bottom of Mr. Heath’s wagon, and the boy that had followed him, the one who’d watched me from the Heaths’ attic window.

“Jacob!” A woman cried out, pushing through the ring. But Slocum cracked his whip, making her fall to her knees.

“Keep back! Let this be a lesson to every one of you thinking about running. You will never get free. I will track you down and find you, no matter what rock you hide under, no matter who helps you, no matter how far I have to go. You will always come back to me.” And then he turned. “Where is that fool boy with my axe?”

“Ma?” I whispered. “What’s he going to do?” And for the first time I realized that Ma was gripping my arm. The black woman who had called to Jacob cried and begged, “Please Mr. Slocum. Please, don’t do it. I promise he won’t never run again. I promise.”

“Hold her back. You’re sure right he won’t. Not without a foot.”

The young boy stepped through the parting crowd slowly, frightened, bearing the axe. “No, Ma. Please,” I whispered. Please stop him!”

“Papa?” Ma whispered. Then louder, “Papa, stop him! This isn’t necessary. It’s cruel!”

But Grandfather didn’t blink. He stared at Slocum, his eyes bright with fascination and something else I couldn’t take hold of—something eager and greedy. “This is not your business, Caroline. Let Slocum do his work.”

“But Papa! Ashland is your business! You are master here, not Slocum! This is not how you treat slaves, even if they do run!”

And then Grandfather turned on her. “I told you Slocum is in charge of the slaves, Caroline. This is a man’s world. Do what you want with the house slaves, but Slocum handles the rest. Go inside if you’ve no stomach for discipline.”

Ma started to speak again, but Grandfather’s glare cut her off. He looked down on her like a child he was ashamed of, and she lowered her eyes. I’m sure Slocum heard, but he didn’t give Ma time to go inside if she’d wanted. He raised his axe to the night sky. The man on the ground trembled. He begged Ma for mercy, but Ma did not look up. His eyes caught mine. The axe fell in one awful plunge and the voice of pain tore the night wide open. The leg jerked as the foot fell away, and blood spurted across the ground. I screamed. But mine was lost in the screams and cries of the circle of slaves reaching toward their fallen Jacob. Slocum wiped his axe on the grass. “Get him out of here.” A smaller ring of slaves swarmed the bleeding Jacob and lifted him, trying to bind the wound and stop the flow of blood and life. They were not yet gone when Slocum pulled the younger one, the nearly white boy, to the center.

“No!” screamed Nanny Sara. I hadn’t seen her until now, but she shadowed the boy Slocum dragged. She didn’t beg Slocum, but ran to Grandfather and fell at his feet, tears streaming from her face and anger in her voice. “You promised, Masta Marcus! You promised! Not my Jeremiah! Not my Ruby’s son!”

“He shouldn’t have run!” Grandfather spat back.

“You promised! On my Ruby’s selling you promised!”

“Ruby’s son? What do you mean, Nanny Sara?” Ma tried to lift Nanny Sara from the step, but she would not be moved.

“You ast him, you ast your own papa what I mean!”

Ma looked to Grandfather but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “That’s enough, Sara.” Then to Slocum, “Fifty lashes. And take it to the quarters.”

Slocum, his axe ready, challenged Grandfather. “Lashes won’t teach this uppity buck not to run. You’d best let me do as I intend.” But something in his challenge woke the sleeping dragon in Grandfather.

“You heard me. Fifty lashes.” And he turned, and walked into the house.

“Fifty lashes kill my boy!” Nanny Sara cried. But the door shut and Ma tried to lift the old woman to her feet.

“Ma! Can’t you stop this?”

“Obviously I cannot, Robert. Help me get Nanny Sara inside.” But Nanny Sara pushed us away.

“I won’t go inside! I’m going to the whipping post with my grandson, my own Ruby’s boy. I will not leave him. You go ast Masta Marcus. You ast him!”

“Nanny Sara!” Ma called, but the old woman was already stumbling away, following the ring of slaves as Slocum led them to the whipping post in the quarters, dragging Jeremiah with him.

“Ma!” I pleaded. But Ma turned on me.

“Robert! Grow up! This is the way things are here! If a slave runs he must be punished. I don’t agree with the severity, but there must be some accountability. It’s Papa’s decision. If he lets Mr. Slocum do this, we can’t stop him. It is better than cutting off his foot or hanging the boy.”

“You mean you won’t stop him!”

“Robert.” She sounded weary and reached for me. But I didn’t want her to touch me. A person that weak couldn’t be my mother.

“If you won’t help I’ll get someone who will, someone who’s not afraid of Grandfather, someone who can stand up to Slocum! Nobody does this!” I stumbled down the steps and ran.

“Robert! Robert!” she cried. I shut her out.

Run, run, run! My heart beat out the rhythm as I pounded down the drive and out onto the road through the darkness. I ran hard the mile to Mitchell House, gasping for breath, letting the air rush past me, cooling the sweat of fear and revulsion that poured from inside, only to pour it all again. The house was already dark. A single lamp burned in the window of Cousin Albert’s study. I pounded on the door with both fists, but couldn’t wait, so pushed it open, nearly falling into Cousin Albert’s arms.

“Robert! What is it? Is Caroline—”

But I shook my head, trying to catch my breath to speak. “Slocum—” I gasped. “Slocum is back! Cut off foot—” I couldn’t breathe.

Cousin Albert nodded, as if he understood already. “Come in, Robert. Come in and sit with me.”

“No!” I gasped. “You’ve got to come! That man will die! And he’s going to beat a boy with fifty lashes! Nanny Sara’s grandson! You’ve got to come and stop him!”

Cousin Albert raised his eyebrows, but shook his head. “I can’t, Robert.”

“If anybody can stop him you can, Cousin Albert! Grandfather’s too weak and doesn’t care, but you don’t treat slaves that way. I know you don’t!”

Cousin Albert sat heavily on the arm of his chair. “No, I don’t. But Ashland’s slaves belong to Uncle Marcus, not to me. I have no say in how he treats them or how he lets Slocum treat them. They are his property.”

“His property?”

“That should not be news to you, Robert,” he said quietly.

I backed away from him, disgusted, unbelieving, and shot back, “Pa would never do this. He’d never sit back and do nothing. Pa was right—about everything!” The look Cousin Albert returned was pierced with pain and flushed with anger. I didn’t care if I’d hurt him. He was just as bad as the rest of them. They were all weak and full of talk. Talk could not return Jacob’s foot or rescue Jeremiah from the lash. I backed out of Mitchell House, tears streaming my face, and spat on the doorstep.

By the time I reached Ashland again, the square in the quarters was cleared. I wasn’t sorry. I didn’t want to see. The sound of keening bled through the closed doors in the quarters. I stumbled to my bed and finally slept near morning. The old dream came again. I was in the field hoeing beside black bodies—no names, no faces. Only the field was Ashland, not Laurelea, and the eyes that looked up at me, pleading, the arms that reached for me belonged not to William Henry, but first to Jacob, then to Jeremiah. The wind came up, the funnel grew, the earth spun, and the skin that ripped a seam and wrapped around me was Jeremiah’s nearly white skin. I screamed, “Ma! Ma!” Still she stood above me, hate seared in her soul. She whistled for the hounds. This time they found me, jumped, and ripped my life away.

“Robert! Robert!” Ma called. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up, Son.”

I sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. There was only love and worry etched in Ma’s face, but I remembered last night, and rolled over, pushing her away. No one called me for breakfast or to take Alex fishing.

I kept thinking of Pa, and the Heaths, and the Henrys, and all they’d done to help and protect Jacob and Jeremiah. I thought of how Jed Slocum had done all he could to destroy them. And Grandfather had loved it. My mind could see the misery lust in his eyes as he’d watched Slocum work, and it made me sick. And then I thought of William Henry, and remembered that he’d been allowed in the Heaths’ house even though I wasn’t—at least that day they first took Jacob and Jeremiah in. I wondered if Jeremiah knew William Henry. I kept seeing Jeremiah’s face in the attic window.

Late in the afternoon Cousin Albert, Alex, and Emily came calling. I tried to avoid them, but Emily came looking for me. She found me slumped in a chair in the darkened back parlor. “Robert, Papa told us what happened last night.” She sat beside me and reached for my hand. “I’m so sorry. It must have been awful.” I wanted to pull away. I could barely breathe, barely hold my anger. But I wanted to punish somebody, so I punished Emily.

“Awful? Yes,” I said. “It was awful.” How could I make her understand? “A runaway horse would never be beaten or crippled like that. It’s awful to own people, to have the power to do whatever you want to them. Slavery ruins people, the people that are slaves and the people that buy and sell other people. I’m sick that I ever came here.” I turned away. “I’m sick that any kin of mine own slaves, and I’m ashamed.”

Emily didn’t move. “What Mr. Slocum did was a horrible thing. But not everyone treats their people that way. Papa never would. You know that.”

I stood and walked to the window. “It doesn’t matter. He has the power to do whatever he wants with the people he owns. I didn’t understand before what that means. Not everybody uses their power in the same way; not everybody treats their slaves or their animals the same. The power to own people is a wicked thing, and it ought to be stopped!”

Emily stood. “Sometimes I’ve wondered if there was a way to do without it. But I don’t see how. How would the land for cotton or tobacco or rice or sugarcane be worked? Papa says that without the help of the slaves we could not survive.”

I couldn’t help my smirk.

“Maybe that sounds simple to you, but the whole country depends on those things. Where would the mills in the North be without our cotton? Papa says this country couldn’t finance itself without tobacco and cotton. How can these things be done without the slaves?”

I turned on her. “Pay them. Free them and pay them—like regular workers. That’s what Mr. Heath’s done at Laurelea. He and my Pa work side by side in those fields with coloreds. They are not too proud to dirty their hands. They’ve given their lives to helping colored people be free, even outside the law. And not just free, but to make a living on their own.” And with the talking I grew prouder and prouder of my pa. I wished I’d known it sooner.

Emily shot a worried look toward the door. “I see what you’re saying, but you must be careful, Robert. Not everyone would understand. People here fear slave uprisings, and they won’t tolerate such talk.”

I laughed. “Should I care?”

“Yes.” She lifted her head. “If you want to make a difference. If you want to do more than just talk.” That hit a nerve. “Robert, don’t you see? You are in a position to make change. You are Uncle Marcus’s true heir. Someday Ashland and all its slaves could be yours—one of the biggest tobacco plantations in the South, or it once was and might be again. Perhaps you could free the slaves here as your Mr. Heath has done. You could be the first to show a new way of doing things, though I still don’t see how you could ever afford to pay them all, or how they would manage…. Something my Grandmother Mitchell used to say, and I think it’s true—‘Change comes slowly, like plants taking root.’”

“You don’t sound like Cousin Albert.”

“Papa has done the best he knows how. He’s good to our people, Robert. He doesn’t beat them.”

“But he still owns them. He buys and sells them, Emily— human beings.”

Emily heaved a sigh and sat down. “I know. I know. But you’ve got to be careful, Robert. They tar and feather people for such talk.”

“Is that a threat?” I wanted to believe that Emily understood, that she was on my side.

“Of course it’s not a threat!”

That’s when we heard the shuffle by the cracked door. Emily and I locked eyes. “Alex,” she whispered. My heart caught in my throat. It would be like Alex to eavesdrop. He’d like nothing more than to make trouble for me by tattling to Grandfather. For all my own big talk of freedom and helping outside the law, my heart beat faster in my chest. I pressed my finger to my lips and tiptoed across the room. But when I flung open the heavy oak door we did not see Alex, only the dark brown of Nanny Sara’s skirts disappearing around the corner.

Emily clutched my arm and whispered, “You’ve got to be more careful, Robert. You can’t trust slaves any more than you can trust Alex. They turn on each other for the least favor from overseers and owners. Even Nanny Sara won’t hesitate to bring trouble on you if it gains her favor with Uncle Marcus.”