Horrible Harvest

Trigger Warning: This passage is based on the horrifying fact that black women were used as guinea pigs for centuries in this country by physicians and midwives in medical experiments in order to provide treatment for white women of means. I wasn’t going to include it, but given what sorts of terrible things that happened on Epstein Island, I decided not including it would be whitewashing history and protecting the psychopaths that gave rise to the Epstein class that currently runs this country. This is ugly and not meant to be consumed by every reader. If you want to know more, I recommend the book Medical Apartheid by Harriet A. Washington.

He followed me out the saloon, on my heels, aggravating the hell out of me. “You ain’t invited.”

“You don’t own the Dakotas, son. I don’t need your invitation.”

“Who said anything about the Dakotas?”

“If you’re not headed for the Dakotas, then you’re wasting your time.”

I stopped and give out a heavy sigh. “This is Tennyson business, Tate. Can’t have you along.”

He stepped in front of me. “This is more my cause than yours.”

“You don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Don’t I? He raped my baby girl and sold her. Never knew who bought her until about two years ago. I tracked her down. My wife, too. Found her – Close as I’ll get, anyway. She’s buried in some field in Georgia on the Tennessee border. No grave marker. No map to her grave. She died a week after Mr. Miller sold her away. Man who bought her wanted a refund. That’s what her death meant to him, a refund. Cash back.” He choked on the shit heartache of it all.

“Your daughter,” I said. “She alive?”

He nodded. “She shouldn’t be. God deals in suffering and cruelty as much as he does in love and mercy. He just doesn’t give a damn who gets the gentle hand or who gets the whip. I know that because my little girl never hurt anyone. Not a soul, and yet, she suffers still because of who Mr. Miller sold her to.”

“Who?”

“A doctor – Dr. Noem. Christopher Noem. Plantation class called him the Saint of Midwifery. He saved many a mistress pain and discomfort throughout his practice. He was thought to be a genius in easing the discomfort of women – white women – during the strife of pregnancy and disabling ailments in general that plague women – white women – Rich white women.

“My daughter was his living cadaver. He used her body to test treatments for the women of the plantation class. She was tortured for a decade or more, and her genitals were mauled and mangled by Dr. Noem to serve the women of means. Pregnancies were induced and terminated wherein he studied the development of fetuses. And this came at not just the mental and physical expense of my daughter, but dozens of women – black women – sold to him – Mostly by Mr. Miller.”

I stood silent as he struggled to not fade into rage and bitter woe entire.

“So, you see, Augustus, I have greater cause than you. It is time my hands find the throat of Cameron Miller.”

I nodded. “You got cause, alright. The problem is getting you on a train in Jackson, Mississippi. I got a feeling tavern rules apply to train cars, too.”

“That’s already been addressed.”

“How so?”

“I paid double for an entire car traveling to Sioux City.”

I raised an eyebrow. “They took your money?”

“Money’s money, Augustus. It doesn’t come in white or black.”

“And the horses?”

“Taken care of or it will be by the time we get to the station. I ran into Douglas before. He directed me to the tavern, and I directed him to make arrangements for the horses with the porter.”

“And I reckon that cost you double, too.”

“Not at all. My horse is white,” he said with a smile.

“And what of this doctor? He a cause of yours, too.?”

He walked on ahead. “Not anymore.”

I laughed as I followed after. “Looks like my solution to fixing troubles ain’t so much mine as it is ours.”

“Like I said before, sometimes it’s the only solution. When the Lord mixes up cruelty for mercy, I’m not opposed to making corrections.”

I found his pace, and we walked shoulder to shoulder to the station.