Randa Worth ran like the wind. She had always been fast on her feet. And she’d always loved to run for the sheer fun of it, to have the earth flash by and feel the air on her face. She often took part in races with other children, and she nearly always won.
Now her speed was being put to the test. All Randa could think of was reaching her family. She was so scared, her belly was a knot of pain. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. To think that a man—a white man, no less, and a master of the plantation—wanted her, wanted her that way, shocked her more than anything, ever.
Boys had always liked her. Like all the girls, she had played with them, swam in the creek with them, did all the things girls and boys did for fun, and never, ever had cause to give any thought to that. It was only recently that the boys started to take notice of her in a new way. “You are blossomin’ into a woman,” her mother told her, and Randa wasn’t so sure she wanted to. Not if all some boys wanted to do was touch her.
Then Master Brent himself took notice.
Randa was shocked when he came up to her in the field the week before last and started talking to her. Just up and talked about the weather and the cotton and other things as if they were the best of friends, when in truth, neither he nor any of the other whites had spoken ten words to her since she was born. Except Master Frederick. He always greeted everyone warmly, and according to her mother, was the best master anyone could have.
But Master Brent was nothing like his father. He wore a perpetual scowl, as if scorning the world and everyone in it. And he hardly ever had a warm word for the slaves who worked his land. If he talked to them at all, it was to snap at them for not doing their work right or to scold them for being lazy. He also liked to use his whip.
Randa had heard rumors about something else he liked. About how he would pay black girls visits in the dark of night. Some of the girls didn’t mind; some even liked it. But those who didn’t had to do that whether they wanted to or not. The stories had scared her, but since it always happened to older girls, and since Master Brent hardly ever looked in her direction, she figured it wouldn’t happen to her.
She was wrong.
The night before, Randa had been with several of her friends, talking quietly by a fire, when Master Brent appeared out of nowhere, took her by the elbow, and said they should go for a walk. Speechless with fright, Randa rose and let him lead her into the trees. He said things, words she barely caught, having to do with the moon and the cool night air and didn’t she look fine in her cotton dress. And then he had pressed her against a cedar and touched her.
Randa had smelled the liquor on his breath. His nearness, his touch, turned her fear to anger. How dare he do that to her. How dare he take liberties without her wanting him to. She had pushed him away, but he came at her again, grinning as if they were playing at some sort of game. But it was no game to her. And when he touched her anew, Randa did the unthinkable; she slapped him, hard.
Master Brent had stepped back in surprise. He wasn’t mad, not yet, but he told her not to do that again, and reached for her.
Randa was wiry, but she was strong. She’d balled her fist and struck at him but he was tight against her and she couldn’t land a blow where it would really hurt. His fingers had fumbled at her dress. In a panic, she did the only thing she could think to do. She drove her knee up between his legs.
That did it. Master Brent tottered back, clutching himself and sputtering, and fell to his knees.
“Leave me be!” Randa had said, jabbing a finger at his face, and ran off. She half feared he would follow her home, but he didn’t.
Her mother had been sitting on the steps to their shack, and right away she sensed something was wrong. Randa broke down in her arms and told her. But quietly, so as not to wake up her father.
They both hoped that was the end of it. Her mother said that if Master Brent bothered her again, she would go to Master Frederick. Randa had wiped the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve and gone in to sleep. She prayed that all would be well and asked God to watch over her, then pulled the blanket to her chin, curled into a ball, and quietly wept until she drifted off.
All day Randa had lived in dread of the coming night. All day she kept looking for Master Brent to show up, but he never did. The sun was dipping to the horizon when the foreman called out that they could quit for the day, and she was almost to the end of the field when a shadow fell over her and a rough hand clamped on her wrist.
“We have unfinished business, you and me,” Master Brent growled. This time he had his whip with him, and he shook it, adding, “And if you act up like you did last night, you will suffer the consequences.”
Fear rooted her, but only until Master Brent started to pull her toward a patch of woods. Then Randa’s anger returned, hotter than ever, and she broke free and pushed him and ran.
He came after her.
Randa flew. And now all she could think of was reaching her parents. They would help her. They would not let Master Brent do what he wanted to do. When she came in sight of their shack, she poured on an extra burst of speed. She saw them come out, and relief coursed through her. Relief that was short-lived, for the next moment iron fingers seized her arm and a foot hooked her ankle and she was thrown brutally to the ground.
Randa’s head swam. She blinked up into a face twisted with rage.
Master Brent gripped her by the hair and shook her. “Bitch, you are in for it now.”
“Please,” Randa gasped. She pushed at his arm, but he was too strong. “I never did you no harm.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Brent demanded. Suddenly stepping back, he uncoiled his whip with a flick of his wrist.
“No!” Randa pleaded, thrusting out a hand to ward off the blow. “You wouldn’t.”
Brent Sullivan laughed. “You are the stupidest darkie I ever met. I own you, you cow. I have the right to do whatever I want with you. Make love to you if I want. Beat you if I want.” He drew back his arm.
Randa cringed. She had seen a man whipped once, and it had been horrible. The sickening sound the lash made as it tore the skin, the hideous shrieks and wails. She’d heard that a whip could flay a person’s flesh down to the bone. It could easily take out an eye or rip off an ear. “Please, Master Brent!”
“Beg some more. I like it when they beg.”
And then someone was between them. Legs planted firm, looming like a pillar of solid rock, Samuel Worth shook his head and said quietly, “I can’t let you do this, Master Brent. I can’t let you whip my girl.”
Brent’s mouth fell open but he closed it again, quick, and growled, “Out of the way, Samuel.”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said get the hell out of my way!” Brent’s arm moved, and the whip described a lightning arc.
Samuel never flinched as the lash bit into his arm. A thin red line appeared but he didn’t even look at it. “I’m askin’ you nice not to do this, Master Brent. I don’t want no trouble.”
Brent’s face was almost purple. “You will do as I say, or by God I will have you in shackles!”
“If that’s to be, it’s to be,” Samuel said. “But you won’t hurt my girl. No sir, not ever will you hurt my girl.”
“Did you just threaten me? Did you just threaten your master?”
“Please, Master Brent. I’m askin’ you, man to man. She’s my child. What else can I do?”
Brent shook the whip at him. “You can listen to your betters, is what you can do! I am through talking. For the last time, get out of my way.”
From many of the shacks and out of the dark came other slaves, but they stayed well back. To interfere was to court a whipping, or worse. Randa heard a woman say, “Someone should fetch Master Justin.”
“None of you move!” Brent roared. “This is between me and these upstarts. They must be taught a lesson.”
“No, Master Brent,” Samuel said.
“No, what? Hasn’t it sunk through that wooly head of yours yet? You don’t ever have a say. You don’t ever tell me what to do. I tell you. And I’m telling you now, Samuel Worth, that you have stepped over the line. You have crossed a line no nigger should ever—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What?”
“Don’t use that word on me. I don’t like that word. I ain’t never liked it.”
“Whites have been calling blacks that since before my granddaddy was born,” Brent sneered.
“That don’t make it right.”
Brent shook his head in amazement. “The gall you have. Now you get to decide what is right and what is wrong? Is that how it goes? When did you become God Almighty? It would be comical if you weren’t so stupid.”
“There you go again.”
Brent glowered and started to sidle to the right while wagging the whip at his side. “Enough talk. I have given you fair warning and you’ve refused to heed. What happens next is on your shoulders, not mine.”
“Can’t I just take my girl and go?”
Brent laughed, and the next moment his whip sizzled the air. It caught Samuel across the chest, opening his shirt and the skin underneath and drawing blood. Samuel simply stood there.
“What the hell is the matter with you? Didn’t you feel that?”
“I felt it, all right,” Samuel said sadly.
“Then let’s see if you are so calm after I take out an eye.” Brent grinned and drew back his arm to swing again, only to have his wrist seized.
Emala had taken all she could endure. She couldn’t just stand there and watch her man be cut to ribbons. “Please, Master Brent. I’m beggin’ you. Let me take them home and we can forget this ever happened.”
Brent Sullivan reared as if to strike her, but instead he wrenched his arm free and stepped back. “How dare you lay a hand on me.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Master Brent.”
Brent pointed at Randa. “Did you daughter mean no offense when she tried to cripple me?” He pointed at Samuel. “Did your husband mean no offense when he threatened me just now?” Brent swore bitterly. “Do you know what I think? I think your whole family are malcontents. I bet all of you have been talking behind our backs.”
“Sir?” Emala said.
“Don’t play the innocent. You’ve been listening to those whites up north who say slavery is evil and all you darkies should be set free. So now you put on airs and turn on those who provide the clothes on your backs and the food on your table.” Brent turned to Samuel and raised his arm. “This whipping is just the start. I will see you hanged.”
Emala couldn’t help herself. She lunged and gripped hold of his arm a second time.
“Damn you!” Brent shoved her as hard as he could.
Tottering, Emala lost her balance and fell on her back in the dirt.
“Leave her be!” Samuel cried. He moved to help her to her feet. But as he bent, the whip cracked, and agony shot up and down his back.
Brent cackled and swung, laying the lash across Samuel’s shoulders. Samuel made a grab for it, but Brent snapped the lash out of his reach and began to circle him. “Did those hurt? There’s worse to come. A lot worse.” He streaked the whip at Samuel’s thigh and drew more blood.
Clenching his fists, Samuel stood over Emala, shielding her body with his in case Brent went for her.
“Cat got your turncoat tongue?”
“I’ve nothin’ more to say, Master Brent. I’ve done told you all I care about is not havin’ my family come to harm. I’ll take whatever you dish out so long as they are spared.”
“Who said they would be?” Suddenly whirling, Brent drove the whip out and down.
Randa was so afraid for her mother and father, she hadn’t given any thought to herself. She was still on the ground, an easy target, and she cried out at the pain and the up welling of blood.
“No!” Samuel started for Brent, but Emala clutched his leg. He tried to take a step, dragging her with him. “Let go of me, woman.”
“No. I won’t have you hanged.”
Brent moved toward Randa as she frantically scrambled back, her elbows and heels churning. “This is your fault. All you had to do was give me what I wanted.” He cracked the whip in front of her face, the lash nearly slicing her cheek. “I will carve you into bits and pieces.”
“Noooooooo!” Out of the ring of onlookers charged Chickory. Fists flying, he yelled, “Get away from my sister! Stop hurtin’ her!”
Uttering an inarticulate roar of pure rage, Brent backhanded Chickory across the face, knocking him to the earth. Chickory sought to get back up, but Brent slammed his boot down onto the boy’s chest, pinning him. Brent’s free hand disappeared under his jacket. “That was the last straw.”
A dagger gleamed, and Randa screamed.
Samuel kicked loose of Emala. He reached Brent Sullivan just as Brent cocked his arm to stab Chickory. Samuel swung his big fist, intending to hit their mad-dog master on the jaw. But Brent heard him rush up and half-turned, directly into Samuel’s fist. Samuel’s walnut-sized knuckles connected with Brent’s throat, not his jaw. Connected, and crushed it, as a sledge hammer would crush a melon.
Dropping the whip and dagger, Brent staggered. He placed his hands to his throat and tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled whine, spittle, and blood. The whites of his eyes showed as he turned in a complete circle, then slowly sank down. A few twitches, a final gasp, and he was dead.
“Oh, Samuel,” Emala said in the stunned silence that fell. “What have you done?”