The whip sizzled through the air with brutal force and cracked across the naked back of the Negro woman with savage cruelty. 

Mason Chamberlain, young heir to his recently deceased father’s neighboring plantation, bit the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing as the coarse leather bit into the girls tender flesh, cutting open the skin.  For a brief moment, there was only a bright streak where the stroke had fallen.  Then, as if fighting its way to the surface, blood began to ooze from the wound and ran down the girl’s back in rivulets joining with the nine other streaks already there.

Mason fought to keep his gorge as he looked on, hoping Benford Tucker would be good to his word and not go past the ten strokes he sentenced the girl to.  She had mercifully passed out at stroke five, but her recovery would be long and agonizing.  She hung limply from ropes slung over the lowest branch of a large oak, a burly Negro foreman holding the other ends, her torso shamelessly stripped, her shirt hanging now in a blood-soaked mess around her waist.

“All right,” Benford bellowed from beside Mason.  “That’s ten.  Cut her down and toss her in the slave quarters.”

“Aren’t you going to tend the wounds?” Mason said.

Benford cut him a sharp look, and Mason regretted his moment of mental lapse.

“What do you care if that nigger bleeds out or not?” he snarled. 

Mason worked hard to affect a look of innocence.  He shoved one trembling hand in a pocket to hide it and removed his hat with the other, using it to fan himself from the suffocating, South Georgia sun.

“Seems a waste to me.  That’s all.”  He forced himself to look into Benford’s cold green eyes and smile.  “I run a small operation compared to yours, Tuck.  I can’t afford to lose any of my slaves.  Then again, you’ve three times as many as me, so I guess you don’t have to worry about it so much.”

Benford Tucker, ten years Mason’s senior, nodded gravely. 

“Don’t kid yourself.  I ain’t lookin’ to lose money on no slaves either, but this one ain’t even worth carin’.  Nothin’ but stubborn trouble, that one.  I’m about ready to shoot her in the head and be done with her.  Tired of beatin’ her and it not gettin’ no better.”

Mason looked at the girl being dragged way, her slender back a mess of blood and welts that only partially obscured the numerous whipping scars already there. 

“She really that bad?”

Benford spat on the ground and rubbed it in with a filthy boot.  ”Worst I ever had.  Won’t do nothin’ right.  I swear she does it on purpose just to rankle me.”

Mason thought of something and spoke the words before his courage could fail him.

“Let me have her.”

Benford cocked an incredulous eyebrow.  “Are you kiddin’ me, boy?  You not heard a word I jest said?  That whore ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

Mason shrugged it off.  “I hear you.  Just saying, I’m shorthanded.  The girl’s a cook, right?  Old Betty’s nearly down on her back.  Good slave she is, but her body isn’t working well.  Nearly a cripple now.  I could use the extra hand around mealtimes.”  It was a lie.  Benford was still glaring at him like he’d lost his mind.  “I know what you’re saying, but let me give it a try.  You obviously don’t want to keep dealing with her.  Betty’s great with the younger slaves at my place.  Maybe she can talk some sense into the girl.”

Mason held his breath as Benford thought it over.  It was a long shot, but Mason was in now, and there was nothing left but to wait and see what the other man would decide.  Finally, he came to a decision.

“Look,” Benford said, “I ain’t gonna lie and say that I’m not ready to be done with her, but like I said before, I got half a mind to kill her just for being such a pain in my backside.  Still, I know you got need for the extra help, and I know losin’ your dad’s been hard on you.  I tell you what.  I’ll cut you a deal.  I ain’t gonna give her away, mind you.  You’re still runnin’ a profitable business over at your place far as I know.  But I’ll let you have her for half of what I paid.  That’s seventy-five dollars.”

Mason wanted to jump at the offer, but being too eager might make Benford suspicious. 

“That’s not bad,” he said thoughtfully, “but you said yourself the girl’s a lot of trouble.  I know you want to make a profit and there’s nothing wrong with that, but I’m taking a risk she’ll be as useless to me as she is to you.  Can you come down to fifty?”

Benford couldn’t hold back a smirk.  If Mason was willing to dicker, then he was serious about paying for the girl.  Mason figured the first offer was a high shot to test the waters.  Benford was trying to recoup something on what he considered to be a total loss already.

“You’re a good kid,” Benford said.  “And I thought the world of your pa.  If you really want her, I’ll let her go for sixty-five.”

“Sixty?” Mason said.

“You still want the mule?”

The reason Mason was here in the first place.  He needed another mule for the harvest, and like slaves, Benford had more than enough.

“Of course.  Just add it all together.  If you’re price for the slave is sixty, that is.”

This time, Benford chuckled out loud before slapping Mason on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle.  “Sold.  You can take her when you’re ready.”  He leaned in close and smiled through tobacco-stained lips.  “God help you, kid.  I hope you don’t regret it.”

––––––––

BETSY WALKED THROUGH the bedroom doorway carrying a basin filled with red-stained water.  The sight made Mason cringe.

“Has she said anything yet?” he asked the large woman as she passed.

“No sah, Masta Mason, “‘cept for a couple of thanks.”

He nodded.  “Is she decent?”

“Mosly, Masta.  She’s is layin’ face down, but her back’s exposed.”

“Thanks Betsy.  And please don’t call me Master.  You know I hate that.”

“Well ain’t that the name for the young man of the house?  Masta.  I didn’t mean the slave ownin’ kind.”

He smiled at her, amused.  “I suppose so.”

She returned his smile.  She’d practically raised him and there was no secret of the bond between them.  His mother had died during childbirth, and though his father was loving and present, Betsy had taken on most of the responsibilities of the young one as Mason’s father was often occupied with the duties of making sure the plantation survived.  But her broad smile faltered a little.

“Yes sah, yes sah,” she mused.  “Supposin’ now though Mista Chamberlain be gone, you’s is the rightful Mista now.”

A moment of shared loss passed between them, and she turned away, but not before Mason saw tears collecting in the corners of her eyes.  He let her go, not caring to expose his own emotions at the recent loss of his father, Marcus Chamberlain, and turned the knob to the bedroom where the newly-purchased young woman had been nursed by Betsy.

It was late evening, and the only illumination in the room was the glow of the candles placed on the nightstand and chest of drawers.

He looked at the girl’s body, motionless on the bed.  A thin blanket was pulled over her hips and lower body, but from the waist up, her back was visible.  Thick strips of cloth, most of them tinged dark crimson, covered her skin and the salve he’d instructed Betsy to rub into the wounds.

For the thousandth time today, a murderous rage threatened to strangle him.  He’d never liked Benford; always known he was a savage brute with the intellect of an ass.  But today was the first time he’d seen Benford’s brutality in action.

He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down, trying to move slowly enough to minimize the creaking of the old wooden floorboards.  He assumed the girl would be asleep.  He’d had Betsy give her a generous dose of laudanum to combat the pain.  Her face was turned away, and her bushy hair, previously soaked with blood and unkempt, had been braided into long rows by Betsy’s expert hands.

Beneath the braids strung to the side to avoid her ravaged flesh, a slender, cocoa neck pulsed gently in the candlelight.

Mason reached a trembling hand out towards her, unaware of his own movement, drawn to her.  Something about that neck, about the soft battered body, compelled him to reach out.  Something about the girl demanded that she be cared for, caressed.  Mason was dumbfounded that Benford could treat a woman, no matter her color, with such demonic insensitivity.

He caught himself at the last moment, realizing what he was doing, his fingers pausing less than an inch above the place where her neck and hairline met in a dark ridge.  At that moment, she turned, not quickly, her face grimacing in pain as she did so.

He jerked his hand away, embarrassed, and caught his breath.  The girl’s face had been obscured from his vantage point during the beating, and he’d not seen her since she’d been delivered to him.  He’d been tied up completing the payment and deed with Benford for the girl and the mule.  But now, as the fullness of her face swam into the dancing light, he found himself speechless.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  Even through the drug-pain haze of her eyes, the caramel brown irises bloomed with sleepy awareness, taking him in, his hand still partially outstretched.

“Are you going to make me your concubine?”

The words slapped him in the face, as much for their flawless diction as for their meaning.

“What?  No!”  He dropped his partially outstretched arm, knowing it must have looked like he’d been attempting to fondle her.  “No, I’m...I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I wasn’t trying to be improper.”

The girl didn’t speak.  Only stared at him, expressionless. 

He forced himself to sit back, still stunned by her beauty.  The only thing that kept repeating through his mind was that the Queen of Sheba, the Biblical African queen that had visited King Solomon, could not have been any more beautiful than this woman.

“Why should I believe you?” she said.  “It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been treated such.”

This time, he ignored the words, again fascinated by the clarity and lack of broken English.

“Your diction is perfect,” he said, noting his own drawl.  “Better than my own.”

Her face remained stoic – the laudanum.  “I was born in this country.  The man who owned my mother and father had me educated alongside his daughter.  There was no school nearby, and a full-time tutor lived on the plantation.  The girl had no playmates and took a liking to me.  Unlike Benford, he was gentle with his slaves.  He thought it would be good for the girl to have me around during her studies.  I was allowed to participate.”

“Benford!”

The girl managed to raise a sleepy eyebrow.

“You say his name like you hate him as I do.”

“There’s a great deal of truth to that,” he said, having found his voice again.  “I’m sorry for what he did to you.  He said you’re stubborn.  Is that true.”

Her brow furrowed, and something changed in her eyes.  Mason wasn’t sure, but thought it might have been doubt or fear.

She no longer made eye contact.  “I wasn’t rebellious, Mister...?”

“Mason.  Just call me Mason.  And please.  You having nothing to fear from me.  I’ll never hurt you.”

She remained silent.

“May I ask your name?” he said.

The girl’s eyes had closed, but she opened them groggily.

“Amanda.”

“No it’s not.  Not really.  You’re welcome to use that name if you like.  Miss Betsy likes her Christian name.  But I want to know your real name, if you’ll tell me.”

She hesitated.  “My parents named me Hadiya.  Amanda was the name given by my owner at birth.  I’ve never used my real name.”  She paused.  “You would really let me?”

He leaned in, again feeling pulled towards her.  “Of course.  If that makes you happy.”

“Why should you care if a slave is happy?”

He answered with another question.  “What does it mean?  Your name?  Does it have a meaning?”

Her eyes were slipping closed again, the laudanum working on her.  “Gift,” she said, her voice trailing off into a whisper.

“Gift,” he repeated.

He spoke no more.  Instead, he sat, watching her sleep, not waking her.  Her breathing was steady and unlabored.  Her wounds may have been egregious, but her body was strong.  She would recover, as she had all the times before.  At long last, he rose and started to leave, but turning back on impulse, he reached out and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.  Her skin was warm and soft, but at that moment, Betsy entered the room without knocking, and he jerked his hand away, hoping she’d not seen.

––––––––

MASON SAT AT THE TABLE, sipping a cup of coffee that steamed like a small locomotive.  The roast was caustic and harsh, and he made a mental note to have Sam pick up another bag of beans from the general store the next time he went to town for supplies.  Coffee beans were not one of the crops Mason grew.  For his part, Sam sat at the other end of the table enjoying his after-meal coffee with evident relish.  Mason supposed he would let the man finish out the current batch if he liked it all that much.

Sam was husband to Betsy, and served as head of household for Mason as he had done for Mason’s father. 

“Did you see to all of the worker’s getting their meals?” he asked Sam.  He was merely making conversation.  Sam never failed to care for all of the workers – Mason never called them slaves – and make sure they had plenty to eat at mealtimes.  Most of them did their own cooking over campfires or the few stoves in the worker’s cabins, but Sam made sure their supplies were well-stocked.

“Yes sah, Mista Mason.  They’s all good and fed.  You not careful, you gon’ make em fat and lazy.”

“Well, they deserve it.  They’ve worked without tire bringing in the harvest.  I’ve a good mind to give them half a day off on Friday.”

He thought of Benford, who was in the middle of his own harvest, and how he would be pushing his Negros at the end of a whip.  Having seen them on his recent visit, the one where he acquired Hadiya, he’d noticed that they did not work as fast as his own workers by a third despite the constant haranguing and beating.  When he’d mentioned this to Sam, Sam had replied simply that Mason’s workers loved him, like they’d loved his father, and that was why they worked so hard.

Robert Chamberlain had not always treated Negros with kindness and respect.  Not until he’d met Mason’s mother, Wilhelmina.  Wilhelmina had been born in England and had a distaste for slavery and everything related to it. 

“If your own government says all men are created equal, that means all of them Robert, regardless of their skin color.” 

That was what Robert had often told Mason his mother would say, and it was a lesson Robert had handed down to his son.

In general, slave owners saw Negros as less than men.  To them they were just stubborn animals bred and built only to work and serve.  Wilhelmina thought that the Good Book gave plenty of evidence that this way of thinking was contrary to the nature of everything God had created.  Eventually, she’d won Robert over, though Mason believed it was Robert’s own conversion to Christianity that had spurred his final change of heart.

“What about the girl?  Did she eat anything?”

“A little, sah,” Sam said.  “Her appetite be growin’ a little day by day.”

Mason nodded in approval. 

“Good,” he said.  He sat back and crossed his arms.  “Sam, has she talked to you?”

It was Betsy that answered.  She sat to Sam’s left.  Until now, she’d been staring out the window, and Mason had assumed she was ignoring them.

“She be talkin’ all the time Mista’ Mason.  That girl don’ never shut up.”

“Really?  She hardly says a word to me.  I have to pry conversation out of her.”

“That’s cause she scared of you.”

“What?  Why would she be scared of me?  I told her she’s safe here, and I think my actions speak for themselves.”

“Don’ matter, Mista Mason.  She terrified.  Think you gon’ come down hard on her any momen’.”

He tried to put himself in the girls place and resisted the urge to be offended.  Still, he didn’t understand.

Betsy saw his internal struggle and continued.

“Here’s the thang, sir.  Hadiya told me she never shoulda talked to you the way she did that firs’ night.  Said it wasn’ fittin’.  Dangerous says she for a slave girl to speak to a white man like that.”  Here Betsy lowered her head and spoke as if revealing a dark secret.  “She said that laudanum you gave her made her speak like a fool.  Tell you things she wouldn’ normally tell a masta.”

“What things?”

“She don’t say much bout that, but I thinks I know.” 

Sam nodded solemnly.  They’d had this conversation before.

“We thinks she don’ wanna offend us, don’ wanna act all high and mighty.  She’s a good gal.  I believe that.  But we’s think it’s on account of her edecation.  She didn’ want you to know.”

Mason understood.  At least he thought he did.  But he wished the girl had taken him at his word.  She really had nothing to fear from him.

They lapsed into silence.

Betsy rose and bustled about clearing the empty plates and dishes from the table, but stopped when she turned.

“Mista Mason.”

Mason looked up and saw Betsy staring out the window.  He followed her gaze to see Benford Tucker riding up the lane on his chestnut mare.  Mason rose immediately.

“Get up, Sam.  Quickly now.”

Sam moved, mimicking Mason’s urgency, grabbing up his own plate and cup and moving to the other room where Betsy had just disappeared, letting the door swing behind him.

Mason forced himself to take a deep breath and moved out of the dining room and down the hall to the entryway.  Sam reappeared at his side, having retrieved and donned his waistcoat, now looking every bit again the part of a house servant. 

Robert Chamberlain’s instructions echoed in Mason’s mind.  “Always remember son.  The United States doesn’t recognize the humanity of slaves.  We treat our people well, but there are plenty who would wish violence upon us if they ever found out.  When outsiders are around, you must play the part.  Make sure they see only what they expect to see.”

So he did play the part, as well as all of his “slaves”.  They all knew the way things were to go when outsiders were around.  They protected him because he protected them.

He reached the front door and pulled it wide, moved onto the porch, and waited for the approaching Benford.  It was not just a show of welcome.  Mason didn’t want the man in his home, and if he met him outside, maybe he could prevent that.

Benford rode up and reigned in the horse.  Mason was glad when he didn’t dismount.

“Mason,” the older man said cheerfully. 

Mason nodded politely, forcing a smile.  “Tuck.  What brings you out this time of evening?”

Sam stepped up behind Mason, but kept his head bowed, not looking up at Benford.

“Oh, just out for ride.  I went down to call on Miss Lilly.  You know, Mister Pickett’s oldest daughter.”

Franklin Pickett was another plantation owner five miles to the south of Mason’s place.  If you crossed the fields, the path from Benford’s to Pickett’s ran by Mason’s eastern tobacco field.  Mason almost breathed a sigh of relief, chalking the visit of Benford up to “just passing through”. 

“I do,” Mason said.  “Though admittedly not very well.”

Benford gave a salacious smile.  “Mighty pretty, that one,” he said.  “Real proper Southern lady.  All smiles and manners and pink rosy cheeks.”

So why would she ever be interested in you?

“That got me to thinkin’,” Benford continued.  “How’s that wench you bought off me last week?”

Mason was careful to keep his expression passive.  Behind him, he heard Sam shuffle.

“She’s coming along.  Still recovering I’m afraid.  You gave her a pretty good beating.”

“What?  Come now, Mason.  I’d have had her out workin’ again a couple days later.  That’s the thing about niggers.  They got tough hides.  You gotta hit ‘em hard to get sense through to ‘em, and even so, they come around quick.  Sturdier than pack mules they are.”

Animal. 

Benford shifted in the saddle, the old leather creaking under his large frame.  Benford was a thick man, a generous stomach that poked over his belt.  But he was also strong, with heavy arms and powerful legs.  Overall, he was an intimidating personage, and given his proclivity for violence, it was no wonder even the whites on his plantation feared his ire.

Benford looked over Mason’s shoulder.  “Sam, ain’t it?”

Sam stepped forward at being addressed.  “Ye.,s sah.  That’s right, Mister Tucker sah.”  He looked up for a fleeting moment, then back at his shoes.

“Yeah.  I thought so.  Listen, boy.  Why don’t you head back in the house and let me talk alone with your master for a few minutes.”

Mason bristled at Benford dismissing his man.  If Benford noticed, he didn’t show it.  Didn’t care.

Sam’s eyes met Benford’s again.  This time, they held there for a moment.  Then, in an act of what Mason knew to be defiance, he looked to Mason to know if he should really go or not. 

Easy, Sam.  It’s not worth stirring up a hornet’s nest.  He hoped his friend could read the caution in his expression.  After a moment, Mason adopted an uncaring affectation, and nodded for Sam to go inside.  Sam made a slight bowing gesture and moved back through the front door, closing it behind him.

Mason’s prior misgivings at having Benford show up at his home resurfaced, and he turned back, expecting bad news.

Now that Sam was gone, Benford smiled his predatory grin – the one that showed the ungainly chip in his front incisor.  It only made him look more like a beast.

“Listen, Mason.  I’ll be honest with you.  I have a request.”

Mason waited, unspeaking.

“I’m not what you’d call a Christian man.  I go to church cause it’s what my father and mother taught me to do, but I I’ve never held much to the traditions.  Being with Lilly tonight...well, it stirs up a certain manly passion, if you know what I mean.  But of course, Miss Lilly isn’t gonna get involved in anything like that before she’s married, and old man Pickett would soil his breeches if she did.  Probably try to shoot me.”

Mason could only wish.

“Ah, I’m just gon’ come right out and say it.  I didn’t think it through too well, sellin’ that nigger girl to ya.  She’s a right pain in the rear, no doubt about it.  But she’s also nice to look at for a nigger.  There was at least one advantage to having her around.”

Mason couldn’t speak.  He felt sick inside.

“Anyway, when I was ridin’ by, I got to thinkin’ maybe you an’ me could work something out.  Maybe we could come to an understandin’ that if I visit on occasion, you could let me relieve some of those manly tensions with her.”

Was he really asking this of him?  Not that it should have surprised him, but Benford was admitting to having abused the girl sexually in the past and still wanting to do so even though she had been sold to another man.  It was unbelievable.  Owners bedding slaves was nothing new, but that didn’t make it any less distasteful to Mason.  All the more so that Benford didn’t own the girl anymore.

Mason knew he had to be careful now.  His anger had risen to the point it was difficult to hide, but the words of Robert Chamberlain pleaded with him for restraint.  Play the part, Mason.  Play the part.

He cleared his throat to make sure he had control of his voice before he spoke actual words.

“Tuck,” he said, as placating as he could manage, “I understand those...needs...you’re describing.  Heck, I’m hoping to find a wife soon enough to take care of my own.  You know I’m a religious man.  I understand she’s just a slave and a nigger, but I have to admit I don’t feel right about it happening in my house.”

Benford looked surprised.  “You got that wench livin’ in your house?”

Mason cursed his stupidity and backpedaled.  “During her recovery.  Then she’ll be moved to the slave quarters.”

He thought Benford looked satisfied with the answer.

“Mind you, I have no place in telling you what to do with your own slaves.  But I demand purity from my own.  Please forgive me if I beg of you to not request this from me.”

A flash of anger shone in Benford’s eyes like two small flames, but it was brief.  Either it passed, or Benford hid it away.  Instead, he gave the snake’s grin again.

“Yeah.  I understand that.  Thought I’d ask seein’ as I was passin’ by and all.”  Pulling the reigns and giving a bump of his boots to the horse’s belly, he turned to leave.  As the horse trotted away, he called back.  “If you ever change your mind, let me know.  Like I said, she’s a handful.  May find soon enough you want help breakin’ her spirit.”

“Goodnight, Tuck,” he said through teeth clenched so tightly it was painful.

“G’night, Mason.”

With that, the hated man rode away into the evening, leaving Mason to seethe.

––––––––

THE NEXT COUPLE OF weeks passed in much the same way. Everyone went about their daily duties.  Hadiya spent her time with Betsy, learning how to be a better cook.  She still kept doggedly silent when Mason was around and only spoke when spoken to. 

For his part, Mason was increasingly intrigued by her every day.  Despite her dour mood and overplayed silence, her beauty shone through the sullenness, and every time he looked at her, he felt a sting of desire.

He examined his motives over and over again, knowing the danger of going down such a path.  Was it just attraction?  Was it an empathetic connection because of Hadiya’s sufferings?  He certainly thought it was both, at least in part.  And yet, he felt there was more to it.  There was a gentle grace to the girl, and despite her near-constant terror of him, there was also a kindness in her that was impossible to hide.  It was evident in the way she spoke to Betsy and Sam and the other workers.  When she thought he wasn’t looking, he would sometimes see her smiling, and those moments brought him immense joy.

He’d let her stay in the room in the house she’d been treated in so he could keep an eye on her continued recovery.  As it so happened, the room was down the hallway from his.  He would lie awake, deep into the night, thinking of her, almost able to feel her nearness; often, he wanted to go to her, to see her, to catch a glimpse of her sleeping.  Of course, he would never do that.  As frightened of him as she was, if she caught him looking in on her in the night, she would retreat into a shell and never come out again.

It was late in the evening of a Tuesday night that he found her sitting alone on the back porch of the plantation house.  The night was hot, stifling.  There were few nights in Georgia between the months of March and November that were not. Sometimes not even then.  The moon was high and full, illuminating the fields and the line of pines beyond that. 

He had gone for a swim in the creek at the western border of his land, something he was fond of.  He often went there in the night on his own.  The cool water had the effect of soothing his body while reinvigorating his mind.  It seemed he did his best thinking in the water.  New ideas would come to him as he waded in, his bare feet sliding and slipping over the moss-covered stones at the bed.  He’d never told anyone of his excursions, though he suspected all of the workers probably knew.  But they left him to it, a time for him to relax and wash away the stress of managing the plantation.

As was his custom, he’d been walking back from the creek only in his trousers, his chest bare, drying from the evening breeze, when he came upon the girl.  The full grass gave off no sound with his steps, and by the time he was within sight, she had risen, spooked and prepared to run.

“Easy.  It’s just me, Hadiya.”

He strode up the steps as she sat back down, but instead of going inside the house, he walked over and took the rocker beside hers.

Her ebony eyes raked over him for a fleeting moment as he approached, taking in his upper body.  The act made him smile, though he was careful to conceal it from her.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all, sir.”  Her voice was cautiously even, light like a feather.  “This is your home.  You needn’t ask permission of a slave.”

He tried to tell if there was cynicism in her voice, but could detect none.

“Hadiya, I’d hoped by now you would understand that I’m different from other owners you may have had.  In fact, I don’t even like the word “owner”.  I don’t consider myself anything other than a friend, if you’ll have me as one.”

Hadiya twisted ever-so-slightly in her chair and stopped rocking, the long, dark fingers of her hands working nervously.

“May I speak, sir?”

“Of course.  You don’t need my permission either.  I would love it if you would speak to me freely.  Anytime you please.”

It was darker under the porch eaves, and his eyes were still adjusting, but he though he saw the corners of her mouth lift.

Her voice trembled, the familiar fright still there, but she forged ahead.  “I can’t figure you out, Mister Mason.”

“Why is that?  I don’t think I’m complicated at all.”

“For a slave owner, you’re the most complicated man I’ve ever met.”

Patiently.  “Again, I don’t like that label.  I like to think that I buy those cursed to slavery in order to free them, albeit freedom within the confines of my estate.”

“Is that true freedom, sir?”

He was thoughtful.  It was an intelligent question, and one with a difficult answer. 

“Not fully, no.  But it’s what I can do.  It’s my way of trying to save them from the harsh world around us.  I don’t have the ability to fix their lives completely.  Some have been torn from family, stolen from their homeland, beaten...” she stiffened at his words.  “At least I can protect them while they’re here.”

“And you do, sir.  I see that now.  At first, I thought you were like all the rest – full of lies and hatred.  You’re not. 

“I told you my first master was kind to his slaves.  That was untrue.  He didn’t physically harm us, but there was no kindness in him.  He didn’t allow me to be educated along with his daughter.  I only said that to protect myself from what you might have thought of me.  I was a plaything to her.  A living doll.  Mister Kensington had no liking for me being in his home, but the one thing he always caved to was the wishes of his little girl.  I was in the same room during her lessons because she wanted me there.  She liked the company.  I wasn’t being taught directly, but I paid attention.  If he’d known a slave was getting educated, he would not have been pleased, but I don’t think he gave it any thought.  He believed Negros were too dull to understand more than rudimentary levels of learning.”

“And you thought I would be angry with you if I knew you picked up on the girl’s lessons of your own accord?”

“Most white men don’t like “smart niggers”?  It’s an affront to them.”

“You’ll never be an affront to me.  And I’m sure you understand intelligence is not a matter of what one knows.  There’s no difference in the intelligence level of a black man or a white man or a red man or a yellow one.  Only in what that person has been taught or not taught.”

“Do you know the penalty for a slave learning to read and write is twenty lashes for the slave and a fine of one hundred twenty-five dollars for the owner?”

Mason was aware of this, but had chosen not to bring it up.

“Again, you have nothing to fear from me.”

“But why?  What makes you different?”

“God, I suppose.  That’s the simplest way I can put it.”

“God?” She said. 

“Of course.  I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I think the Bible is pretty clear that all men have value regardless of their color of skin.  Don’t you think so?”

As soon as he asked the question, he realized she may not share his belief.  After all, it would be easy for her to say no.  In her eyes, white men may have had no value for the very fact that so many of them deemed her to have none. And if he was honest with himself, she would have been justified in feeling so.

“Were your parents religious?  Did they feel the same way?” She asked.  “Or is this something you developed on your own?”

He thought of something.  “Have you not asked Betsy or Sam about any of this?”

“A little,” she confessed.  “But I want to hear it from you.”

He smiled.  So she’d already been asking to know the truth, which meant she really did see a difference in him and other men.  That made him feel light inside, glad, even happy.  It gave him the idea she was at least in some way pleased with him, and he very much wanted that.

“My mother did- feel the same way I mean – and she influenced my father.  He wasn’t always of the same mind regarding slavery, but he saw the error of his ways.  When he realized the injustice of slavery, he was already a plantation owner with crops and slaves and a home to care for.  He decided he could uproot everything, possibly lose the slaves – workers, he corrected – to someone who wouldn’t care for them, and try to move somewhere else.  Or he could stay, tend the land he had, and try his best to befriend the people under his charge, to protect them.  He didn’t stop there.  He sought out others.  People he could rescue.  That’s why the plantation isn’t more profitable.  We’ve always sunk most of the profits into taking in new workers.”

“Like me,” she said.

He leaned closer, again the inexorable desire to be near her.

“Yes.  Of course.”

“So you took me to protect me from Benford Tucker.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“That first night, the night Betsy was treating me.  I was heavily drugged, but when I turned once, I thought I saw you pull away from me?  You seemed...guilty.”

He wanted to deny it.  Wanted to pretend it was something else.  Not for fear of the truth, but for fear of rejection.

“I did,” he said finally.  “I meant no ill-intent.  I would never treat you in an inappropriate way, Hadiya.”

“And yet, you weren’t touching me to treat me, were you?”  There was fear in the question, uncertainty.  Despite everything he’d shown her about the type of man he was, she feared there was a limit.  To imply some level of sexual interest to a slave-owner was dangerous, despite the fact that many owners did indeed abuse their slaves in such ways.

Something about the question broke a wall for Mason.  It seemed that the unspoken affection he felt for the girl had been exposed, and now, it shone in the moonlight, as did her face.  He took a deep breath, trying to still the beating of his heart, and when he spoke again, his voice was a husky whisper.

“Ever since that first night, I’ve been drawn to you.”

She said nothing, but for the first time, she met his eyes fully.  There was understanding there, and he hoped, reciprocity.

“Is that objectionable to you, Hadiya?”

It took a long time for her to respond, and he could see the conflict going on behind her eyes.  At last, she managed the smallest shake of her head.

“No.”

The word hung in the air, neither of them able to continue, the revelation of mutual attraction drowning out the heat of the night, the buzzing of the cicadas, the harsh reality of the warped world in which they lived.

“Please excuse me,” she said, and rose.  “I believe it’s time for me to go to sleep.”

He stood as well and gave a small bow.  In that moment, he wanted more than anything in the world to reach out to her, to touch her, to pull her close to him and feel the exquisite softness of her body against his.  But he couldn’t.

Instead, he stood aside and let her pass.

Whether by accident, or intent – and Mason prayed it was intent – her bare shoulder brushed his chest as she passed close by him.  The same shoulder he’d so longed to caress that first night.  That exquisite shoulder, so smooth and tantalizing, perched above the pitiful scars on her back.

The slight touch sent shock waves of fire through him and his body came alive with desire.  She felt it too.  She had too.  He couldn’t believe otherwise.  The feeling was too powerful to have only been one way.  No, Mason believed with all his heart something beautiful had passed between them.  It was more than physical.  It was a connection of souls. 

She glanced back briefly as she opened the door and went inside, her lips parted, her eyes alight.

“Goodnight, sir.”  With that, she closed the door behind her. 

He stood for some time, trying to compose himself.  At last he said to the air, “Goodnight, Hadiya.  My Gift.”

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BENFORD TUCKER WATCHED from the trees to the left of the house across the cotton field.  He’d been going often to see Lilly Pickett.  At least a few times a week. 

After his last talk with Mason Chamberlain and his silly religious refusal to let him sleep with the slave whore, he’d been careful not to cross within sight of the younger man’s plantation.  Not out of fear, but annoyance.  That didn’t stop him, however, from spying on them every chance he got. 

Benford was a hard man, as had been his father, and his father before him.  Old man Tucker had been nearly as brutal with his sons as he had with his slaves.  That was just the way it was, and if someone had asked him, Benford would have seen nothing out of the ordinary with it.  It was only natural that he had developed into the same kind of man.  The kind of man that hit first and asked questions later, if he asked them at all.  In his mind, it was simple.  Strike hard, and you’ll keep order.

One day, Lilly Pickett would find that out firsthand.  Right now, she acted the part of the young Southern lady, but the South reckoned wives had about as much say in the affairs of their husbands as slaves did.  On paper, they were little better than pieces of property.  Of course, they were usually treated better than slaves.  After all, they were white and were a step up from the animals, but you still needed to beat some sense into them sometimes.

He had no doubt he would marry the girl.  He knew she didn’t care all that much for him, but her father only had one son to leave the plantation to, and he was of a sickly lot.  Benford suspected he was a lunger, and it was only a matter of time before the scrawny little runt would be sent out west for dryer air.  Even if he were to stay, he would never have the fortitude to manage the plantation.

No.  Pickett knew if the plantation was going to survive him, it would be because he married his daughter off to a strong man with a strong arm who knew how to keep things running smoothly.  Benford had worked to earn the old man’s trust, and Pickett had all but assured him his daughter’s hand. Benford was about to become much wealthier than he already was.  In his darkest thoughts, he even plotted ways to bring about the old man’s demise sooner, but so far he’d been unable to think of a way to make it look like a convincing accident.

Despite his good fortune, however, he kept drifting towards Mason’s farm on his nighttime rides back home, watching for Amanda.  For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling Mason had somehow tricked him into selling the girl.  He didn’t know why it concerned him so much.  She’d certainly been the prettiest of his slaves – pretty for a nigger that is – but there were others that were passable.  And if he was drunk enough, he didn’t even care about that.  They all had the same equipment to satisfy a man.

Did they fight him?  Some did.  When they did, it only made him more excited.  He preferred the fight.

Still he was drawn here.

Tonight, he finally saw her.  Saw them.  Talking together in rocking chairs on the porch.  It was hard to make out their faces from this distance, in the dark, but he knew. 

He’d always liked Mason well enough, but the man was a bit too easy with his slaves.  Benford had always thought one day that would come back to bite Mason on the butt.  The only way to keep a nigger in submission was to lay into her hide hard enough to break through to that thick noggin’ of hers. 

Now, seeing Mason sit there by Amanda in the darkness, he recognized the friendliness in the man’s posture that spoke of something more.  He was too stupid to have put it into words, but he knew it instinctively.  Men had a way of knowing if another man was interested in a woman.  That made him angry.  Very angry.

Maybe that was why Mason had bought the girl.  He wanted her for himself.  He’d caught Benford in a fit of rage and annoyance and had managed to weasel him out of his best lay.  All his holy piety was a farce to disguise the fact he didn’t want to share her.  That had to be it. 

When at last the girl rose and entered the house, followed a short time later by Mason, Benford’s suspicions were confirmed.  The nigger slut was living in there, probably sharing a bedroom with a white man.  Knowing Mason, he was treating the girl well, something no slave deserved.  In Benford’s mind, that made Mason no better than the girl.  A man unworthy of respect.

He stayed there in the trees, gazing across the field, seething at the younger man.  No one crossed Benford Tucker.  One of these days, he’d show him.  Somehow, he’d make Mason Chamberlain regret playing him for a fool.

Yes, a reckoning was coming. 

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HADIYA SPENT THE FOLLOWING day in a blur.  The conversation from the night before both frightened and tantalized her.  There was no doubt something passed between her and Mason Chamberlain, and try as she may, she couldn’t suppress the feelings that sought to overwhelm her. 

She had been raised to hate white men.  There were very few she’d ever met that she didn’t.  White men, even if they were kind on an individual level, were still part of the same race of savages that kept her people in tortured oppression.  How could she ever feel anything but loathing for such a person?

Mason Chamberlain had shown her something new.  Over the time she’d spent at the plantation, he’d been good to his promise.  He had treated her with gentility, even respect.  And it wasn’t just her.  He was the same with all of his slaves – workers.  He even seemed to share genuine friendship with them all.

He was not the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but that was little matter.  In fact, sexual attraction wasn’t something she even wanted to think about.  She’d been the victim of unwanted lust too many times to count.  The thought of physical intimacy with a man, even a good one, was something she could not bring herself to think of.

This feeling she had for Mason was different.  He was...good.  As hard as it was to admit it to herself, he was good.  She believed it.  She knew it.

Working in the manor had previously kept her from him most days.  Like many slave owners who owned smaller plantations like this one, the masters often worked alongside of their slaves in order to keep the place running.  Mason was one of these men.  It was only on occasion during the daily routine that he came inside.  But today, he was in and out frequently, and each time they ended up crossing paths.  Hadiya didn’t think it was an accident.

The next day was the same, and the next.  Days turned to weeks, and every moment spent together brought them closer.  No longer did they merely pass each other, but found themselves in deep and meaningful conversations. 

There was no denying their feelings.  It was inevitable, and he was not ashamed.  He was true to his nature and did nothing to hide his affections in front of the other workers.  Betsy had starting asking not-so-sly questions about their relationship, and had even begun to complain that Mason was stealing her help.  Hadiya tried to protest, but Betsy would brush her off.

“Girly, yous’ can say what’ere you want with yo mouth, but yo body tells a diffen’ story.”

Then it happened.

Late one evening, Hadiya sate beside Mason on the back porch of the manor, the same as they had done on that night several weeks past when they’d had the conversation that had begun to lay bare the mutual affection growing in them like a rose.

Unlike that night, this one was as dark as pitch.  No moon shone to illuminate the fields, and it was difficult to see more than a few feet in the fevered darkness.

They spoke no words, content to be close, and Hadiya was beginning to fight the prickles of sleepiness when his hand brushed hers.  At first, she believe it was an accident – a passing of their hands on the arms of their rockers, but then she realized his rocker was still.  Without realizing it, she brought hers to a halt.  When she did, his hand found hers.  Hesitantly, his fingers caressed the top of her wrist and slid down until their fingers met.  When she didn’t resist, he entwined his fingers into hers.

The pull became too much to deny.  It was as undeniable as the turning of the seasons or the colliding of waves with the beach, and of a sudden they were standing, their bodies pressed hard together.  Their lips converged and locked in a passion that burned through both of them with the heat of an oven.

Desire boiled inside of her, the prior abuses momentarily forgotten in the newness of the experience, and she clutched hard to his back, desperate to be closer, to eliminate any space between them.

He shifted, and before she knew it, a strong hand ran gently up her stomach and cupped her breast.  Her exhilaration reached a new height.

But just as quickly, he jerked back and stepped away, releasing her.  Their breath came in gasps, bodies trembling, and Hadiya ached at the abrupt distance.  What had she done wrong?  Had she displeased him?

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.  “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you?  I thought I had done something wrong.”

He came to her now, pulling her again into an embrace.  This time, is was gentle, not driven by the power of lust and desire that had pulled them together a moment before. 

“No, Hadiya.  You did nothing wrong.  It was me.  I should not have done that.”

She struggled to understand.  “But I want you to.  I...”

“That’s not it.”  He leaned back, and in the closeness, it was easy to see the smile of happiness lighting his face like a candle.  “I want you as well.  More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.  But not like this.  I will not take advantage of you.”

A pregnant pause filled the air.

“Hadiya, I love you.”

Oh, God.  Those words.  They were unexpected and unreal.  They were words she thought she’d never hear. 

Slaves didn’t have the luxury of love.  Most were put with other slaves in order to bear offspring for the masters according to their whims.  If a slave rebelled, it was a beating or worse.  Now, against all probability, Hadiya had found the love of a man, and not just any man.  For she cared not that he was white.  She wouldn’t have cared if he was white or black or purple.  What she cared about was that he was noble.

“I know it’s sudden, but I want you to marry me.” He said.

She was so stunned she couldn’t speak.  He must have taken her silence for uncertainty, because he rushed ahead.

“If that’s what you want.  Only that way.  I mean, more than anything I want you to be my wife if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, Mason.”  She leaned her forehead against his.  “I would have you over infinite lifetimes.  I would love to be your wife, but there’s no one in this country that would accept us,” she said sadly.  “Not even in the North.  And certainly no minister would perform such a ceremony.”

She expected a rebuttal.  Instead, he laughed.  “I know that.  So we don’t have one.  Did Adam and Eve have a minister?

“We’ll say our vows to each other in the sight of God and our friends.  I think God will be fine with that.”

He was crazy.  Crazy and beautiful and remarkable.

She nodded her head and finally found her voice.

“Yes.  Yes, Mason.  I’ll be your wife, and I love you too.”

A week later, they said their vows in front of Betsy and Sam and the other workers, and embarked on what they believed would be a hard but happy life of hiding their relationship from the public while enjoying each other behind closed doors for as long as they both lived.

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

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HADIYA HUMMED TO HERSELF as she drew the last of the eggs from under the hens and positioned them in the small basket Betsy had given her for the task.  She went through the routine, barely thinking of what she was actually doing.  In her mind, she kept replaying the night before – the feel of Mason’s flesh against her own, the gentle urgency of his kisses, the ecstasy of their bodies entangled.  And most of all, above all else, the overwhelming sense of love, of belonging, of acceptance.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined loving a white man, but for Mason, it had been easy. 

Despite all of the terror wrought on her by men like Benford Tucker, there was an earnestness in Mason that was unmistakable and impossible to doubt – the way he looked at her, touched her, smiled when she entered a room. 

When it came time to consummate their marriage, the memories of her nightmarish past came back with a vengeance.  Despite his gentle assurances, the foremost thing in her mind was the abuse at the hands of Benford.  Try as she may, she could not easily put off the thoughts and shame of what he had done to her time and again.  But Mason had been angelic, offering to wait as long as she felt necessary, be it hours, days, or weeks.  He implored her to understand over and again that his love was not based on the satisfaction of his sexual impulses or gratification of fleshly desire.

Gradually, she came around, and though it was still difficult to squelch the remembrance of being raped, she was able to relegate it to the back of her mind and concentrate on the moment.  It was the first sexual encounter she’d ever had that was not forced upon her, and under the bonds of matrimony, she assured herself there was nothing wrong with the act.  In the end, she’d been able to let go – mostly – and enjoy the embrace of her husband as they joined in a way that was both fresh and scary and exhilarating.

Thinking of him now and of what they’d shared made her feel weak inside, and she hardly noticed the suffocating South Georgia heat that began to build with the morning sunrise. 

There had also been the issue of her body, the savage scars left by the brutality she’d suffered.  Thankfully, her face was unmarred, but though she knew Mason had seen her in a semi-dressed state during the first night of her stay at the manor, she had a difficult time imagining Mason finding something to desire in her marred body.

It was his response to her scars that had helped break down the walls of her fear of intimacy with him.

For the longest time, before they even attempted to make love, he’d sat behind her on the bed, pulled her close, and kissed her back from shoulder blades, down her spine, and nearly to her hips.  Every ugly scar, he covered with the gentle brush of lips and warm breath in what could only be construed as an attempt to heal, if not the physical remnants, the psychological wounds left by her mistreatment.

She rounded the corner into the barn, a shortcut back to the manor rather than walking around the pig sty.  Her mind danced and she nearly began to patter her feet to the rhythm of the music in hear head.

“Well ain’t you just the happiest nigger I ever did see?”

The slurred voice cut through her reverie and brought her up short, her body tensing in a habituated pattern at the familiar drawl.  She turned slowly, back the way she had come, to see Benford Tucker standing in the doorway, the sun lighting his form but keeping his face in shadow. 

Hadiya would not have been more terrified to see Lucifer himself standing there.  Fear anchored her to the ground, a reaction without thought – prey in the sightline of a predator.

He took a step forward.  “You know, girl, I haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ about you.  Ever since I let you go, I been thinkin’ maybe I let you off a little too easy.  Maybe Mason really pulled one over on me.”

At this, he licked his lips like a wolf, or a lion relishing its next meal. 

Hadiya shuddered.  She found strength enough to begin backing away.  She didn’t belong to him anymore, she reasoned, and there were laws against mistreating another man’s slave.  Surely, despite his wickedness and stupidity, Benford wouldn’t go so far as to lay a hand on her on the property of her new owner – her lover, her husband.

He moved closer, and she could smell the stench of tobacco and alcohol emanating from him.  It seemed to waft through the entire barn, suffocating her with its sourness.  She felt the urge to gag, but managed to keep it at bay.

She tried to reason with him.  “I’m sorry to hear you felt the deal wasn’t to your benefit, Mister Benford.  I’ve tried to make you proud by Mister Mason.  I’ve tried to work hard for him.”

It was a lie on many levels, and it pained her to attempt civility with him.  But the man was inhumanly cruel on his best days, and any fool could see this wasn’t one of those days.

The sneer on his face signaled that her ploy had not worked.

“You know what, Amanda?” – her slave name sounded strange to her ears having gone so long without it – “I tried to make a deal with Mason.  After he bought you, I mean.  But he wasn’t havin’ it.  I let it slide.  Now I realize he was just wantin’ to keep the goods to himself.  That don’t sit well with me.”

He stumbled a little, his steps uneven.  She continued to back away, judging the distance between them, ready to bolt at the right moment, to flee to the safety of the manor and Mason.

“I saw you come out of that house this morning.  You been livin’ in there, haven’t you?  I guess you suppose you got it made now compared to when you were mine?”

“Mister Tucker, you’re in a bad way,” she said.  “I hope you mean me no harm.  I belong to Mister Mason, now.”

“Shut up.  I don’t give a spit in a bucket what the law says.  I’m gon’ get what I want from you.  And if you tell Mason, one day soon he’s gonna find you had an accident and wound up in the field, a baking corpse of a nigger woman.  Now get over here, raise up that dress, and bend over like you used to.”

That was all she could take.  The hellish memories, the smell, the desperation overwhelmed her, and she ran.  She didn’t care if he tried to kill her.  In that moment she made up her mind she wouldn’t be a cowering nigger anymore.  She was a woman, a wife, strong and powerful and loved.  She wouldn’t give in to him, no matter the cost.

She’d taken less than three steps before she was yanked viciously back and slung to the side.  Despite his drunkenness, he’d closed the distance between them faster than she would have thought possible.  Her head slammed into the door of an empty stall, and she went woozy.  Before she could fully regain consciousness, Benford clapped a meaty hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.  She tried to kick, tried to scream, but his hand slipped down around her neck and lifted her bodily from the ground.  Her air was choked off, and she clawed desperately at his fingers, but they only grew tighter.

He tossed her to the ground and she tried to scream having regained a little of her breath, but before the sound came out, he rammed a heavy fist into her stomach, driving the little wind from her and paralyzing her with agony.

He fell on top of her, grabbed a handful of straw from the ground and shoved it over her face.  She’d still not caught a good breath, and the pain in her stomach was screaming.  Now, face full of straw, and Benford leaning upon her head with his left arm, she felt she would black out from lack of air.

She felt his right hand yank up her dress, exposing her naked groin.  She tried to push, tried to kick, but he was so strong and heavy.  She realized tears were gushing from her eyes, matting the dirt in the straw covering her head.  And still, she couldn’t breathe.  In a calculated moment of clarity, she realized something.  She stopped struggling to breathe.  If she couldn’t get away, she didn’t want to be awake for this.  She couldn’t take one more memory of him violating her with his body.  She prayed the blackness would come.  Prayed for loss of consciousness.  Maybe even death.

Then, there was light, and there was air, and Benford’s massive body was sliding off of hers.  Her hands were free, and she slapped at the straw and dirt, clearing her nose and eyes. 

Mason was there.  Her Mason.  Her love.  He was dragging Benford backwards by the hair, a steady scream of anger echoing through the barn.

“How dare you!”  He kicked a booted foot at Benford’s ribs, but the bigger man was able to ward it off and regain his footing.  Mason lunged, but Benford caught him in the mouth a blow that rocked him back. 

Benford dove, knocking Mason to the ground outside the stall, and they rolled back and forth, pummeling, grasping, each trying to gain a hold on the other. 

Hadiya knew Mason was a strong man, but he was no match for Benford who both towered over and outweighed him.  Despite the blows Mason was able to land, Benford was unfazed, his body numbed by the alcohol in his system.

Hadiya managed to gain her feet, shakily, just in time to see Benford pin Mason’s back to the ground and send a crushing fist into his cheek.  He raised it and struck again.  Mason was out, and still Benford struck him, screaming profanities at the younger man.

She couldn’t let this happen.  She couldn’t let this monster kill her beloved.  And then she saw it – the shovel leaning against the wall of the stall not three feet from her.  In a daze of anger and desperation, she grabbed it, ran forward, swung it high into the air, and brought it down on Benford’s head with as much force as she could muster.  There was a satisfying clang, and Benford Tucker, the devil incarnate, fell to one side, his scalp beginning to gush blood from a long gash.

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BETSY HAD TAKEN HADIYA to the attic to hide her.  She was shaken, but alive, and as brutal as the attack had been, Mason took comfort in knowing he’d caught Tuck before he could finish the deed.  But that comfort was tainted, because now he was faced with the unthinkable.

He stood outside the manor, chewing nervously at a blade of grass.  Beside him, Sam reposed quietly against the fence. 

“Where you leave ‘im?” Sam said.

“At the edge of his property.”

“D’you think he’ll die?”

Mason shook his head.  “No.  He’ll live.  God forgive me I wish he wouldn’t, but he will.”

“What are you gon’ do Mista Mason?”

Mason thought for a long time, his jaw working restlessly.  That was the problem.  That was what he’d been asking himself ever since the encounter.  The whole time he’d been delivering Benford Tucker back to his own plantation slung over the back of Mason’s horse, in and out of consciousness. 

“He’ll come for da girl.”

“I know, Sam.” 

Mason knew it was inevitable.  Benford had no right to assault one of Mason’s slaves.  According to law, he would owe reparations for any damages he caused.  Slaves were property and one man could no more damage someone else’s slave without consequences than they could another man’s crops or home, but he’d already done it once.  Granted, probably because he was drunk out of his mind.  But now, the precedent was set, and when it came to revenge, Tuck wasn’t a man to care about the law. 

“I can take the blame, Mista Mason.  Say I heard the ruckus and came to hep.  Say it was me as hit ‘im, not Hadiya.”

Mason angled his head at the older man.  Sam was in his early sixties, what little hair left on his scalp as white as wool.  A tender smile creased Mason’s face.  How could anyone be so selfless?

“I would never let you do that, Sam.  I won’t let Benford hurt you.  He’s done enough of that.”

“But...”

“No buts, Sam.  I refuse to let you take the blame.”

“He’ll kill ‘er, and mebe you to get to ‘er.  He’s not righ’ that man.”

Mason made up his mind.  As much as he wished otherwise, he knew what must be done.

“He won’t kill her, Sam.  Not if I kill her first.  Now fetch me that shovel and a couple of the men.”

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IT TOOK A DAY LONGER than Mason had expected for Benford to return.  He’d almost started letting himself hope the man had died after all.  When Benford did turn up, it was in force.  He came in with a revolver on his hip, a shotgun slung across his horse, and his two younger brothers flanking him similarly armed.  Mason saw him coming and met him in the yard.

Mosquitos buzzed around Mason’s face and head, but he took no notice as he marched out and blocked the lane.  Benford’s posse pulled up twenty feet from him.

Mason spoke before the other man could.

“How dare you show up here like this?  Who in God’s name do you think you are?”

Benford’s face twisted in anger, then settled.

“I want the whore.”  Benford had regained his composure.  He could see Mason wasn’t armed. 

“Excuse me?  You come to my land, my home, assault one of my slaves, and then you want revenge because she cracked your stupid skull?”

Benford drew in a quick breath through clenched teeth.  “Can’t no slave attack a white man and not be punished.  She deserves to die.  I’ll pay you for her if you want, but I’m gonna kill her either way.”

“I don’t think so.”

One of Mason’s brothers, Rufus, spoke up from behind him.  “Jus’ shoot him, Ben.”

Mason glared at him.

“Shut up, Ruf,” Benford spat, but there was no mistaking the look in Benford’s eyes.  He was prepared to do exactly what Rufus had suggested.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea, boys,” Mason said, and gave a short whistle.

On cue, five of his workers emerged from concealment:  two from under a tarp-covered wagon fifteen yards away, one from around the corner of the manor, and two from the ditch behind and to the right of the three horsemen.  Each one pointed a shotgun or rifle at Benford and his brothers.  The stunned look of horror on Benford’s face would stick with Mason for the rest of his life.

‘I’ve been expecting you for a few days now, so we planned a welcoming party.  I’ve had men on the lookout.  We spotted you coming a long way off and took our places.  I figured you might try something stupid.  That seems to be your way of doing things.”

Benford’s face had gone blood red.  Mason thought the man might have a heart attack.

“If you want to bring arms to bear, go ahead, but I have to tell you my boys are great shots,” Mason said.

Benford sneered, but some of his bravado was gone. 

“You give guns to niggers?”

“I trust them more than I trust you.”

Benford wrung his hands in frustration.  “I want that nigger whore dead,” he said, his voice a demonic rattle.

“Well, you got your wish,” Mason said, “because I killed her.”

The level of surprise and shock Benford had at being ambushed was nothing compared to the look that came to his face now.

“You what?”

“I killed her.  I can’t have a slave that attacks a white man.  Even one as despicable as you.  So I had to put her down, and frankly, I hold you responsible for that.  If you hadn’t attacked my slave on my property, she wouldn’t have fought back and I wouldn’t have lost a good cook.”

Benford gaped like he’d been slapped in the face.

“In fact, I’ll be contacting the law if you don’t voluntarily pay back the sixty dollars I gave you for her.  I’m sure they’ll see that I’m in the right.”

Mason could almost hear the rusty gears grinding in Benford’s head as he worked it out for himself.

“How do I know you’re tellin’ the truth?” Benford.

The look Mason affected was his best at pure contempt; he pointed to an area to his left beyond the nearest tobacco field, but still within sight.  Under an oak, a mound of freshly turned dirt was visible.  A cross made of sticks tied together stuck out of one end.

Benford and his brothers looked in the direction Mason had indicated and studied the area for a moment.

“You could still be lyin’,” Benford said.

Mason’s voice was cold and hard.  “Feel free to dig her up if you like.”

Benford thought it over and came to a decision.

“I suppose if she’s dead that’s good enough.”

“Good enough?” Mason said with a hearty dose of scorn.  “Like I said.  You owe me sixty dollars.”

Benford spat on the ground in disgust, but finally nodded.  “Fine.  I’ll bring you your whore’s fee.”

“No, you won’t.  Send it by a courier.  And don’t ever come on my land again.  If you do, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Benford stared hard at Mason for a long time, then turned his horse and waved his brothers off.  They rode slowly down the lane and passed beyond the tree line.  Mason and his men stood in place and watched them until they were out of sight. 

The time might come when Benford would return.  Mason was sure the ignorant fool hated that he’d gotten the better of him.  If that time came, Mason would be ready.  He meant what he’d said.  He’d given fair warning.  If he ever came back, Benford Tucker was as good as dead.

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A WEEK LATER, MASON stood quietly in a swamp grove on the outskirts of Savannah.  Beside him, Hadiya stood like a statue, her hand gripping his, her face wet from fresh tears.

“I didn’t have to be like this, Mason.”

“It did, my love.  You know that.  He would have kept coming after you unless he thought you were dead.”

She didn’t say anything.  Despite her repeated protestations, she knew the truth as well as he did.  She also knew the reason he couldn’t come with her. 

The solution had been something Sam called an underground railroad.  A way for Negros to escape the confines of the South to Northern states where a black man or woman could live free.  True, there were still prejudices there.  Sometimes just as strong as in the South, but at least there was the freedom to try to work for their wages instead of working at the end of a whip.  But Mason couldn’t go.  As the sole heir of his plantation, there was no one to take over if he went with her, and he couldn’t get all of his workers north.  If he abandoned them, it was only a matter of time before Benford or some other slave owner or trader captured them for resale or to put them to work in their own fields.  Their lives would be practically forfeit.

“Will we ever see each other again?” she said.

The question hung in the air, and Mason’s only response was to lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

They both knew the likelihood was slim.  The journey along the railroad was fraught with danger, but it was the best Mason could do for her.  If she made it to safety, she would be on her own to eke out a life in an unfamiliar place.

“Write to me,” he said.  “One day, if things change, I’ll come for you.”

It was little comfort.  “Things change” meant if Benford and his brothers died.  Otherwise, one or all would seek revenge if they found out Mason had lied about Hadiya’s death.

He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck, savoring the sweat-mingled lavender scent of her skin, the brush of her cheek against his forehead.

“I love you, Hadiyah.  My Gift.  I will always love you.  All I can do is send you to a place where I hope you’ll be free and happy.”

She spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper.  “Thank you, Mason Chamberlain.  Thank you for showing me love.  Thank you for rescuing me.  Thank you for helping me realize I’m not weak.”

After that, words failed them, and they stood for a long time in each other’s embrace.

In time, something stirred the swamp water near them, and they looked up to see the face of a wizened old Negro woman, her skin leathered from years of hard labor in the sun.  Her eyes were so dark they were nearly impossible to see in the night, but Mason knew she was sizing them up, these lovers who defied the way things were “supposed to be”.

“Are you Mason?” she said.

“I am.”

Without another word, she strode forward and took Hadiya by the hand.  She began to pull her away, but Hadiya broke free and put her lips to Mason’s, kissing him long and hard.  It was the kiss of arrested love, and longing, and desperation.  Mason wished it would never end, but it did.

With that, his Gift disappeared into the darkness, and was gone.

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