Horrible Harvest

It felt like hours’d passed, but it wasn’t nothing but a dozen minutes or so. Me, Charles, and the slaves uncoiled ourselves from one another, and stepped out from under the loft. The roof was completely torn asunder and the barndoor was ripped from the frame and sent heaven knows where. The horses and pigs were roused, but otherwise unharmed.

We eased out the fractured barn and immediately felt the blister of the sun. The drench of rain give way to a smothering dose of humidity.

Our one-room house fount it’s caved in state, and we watched as Momma and three slaves crawled out from under it. She’d saved as many as she could.

Mr. Stockton come out the woods pulling his spotted horse behind him. His foremen peaked out the tree line along the property along with eight hands. Two slaves was dead, face down in the paddies and after the advance man took a survey of all that was remaining, he determined three was unaccounted for.

“Three missing. Two dead. That’ll add to your debt.” he said to Momma.

“You did not heed my warning – What of the two dead? We should make arrangements.”

“What arrangements?”

“For their transport home, sir. For a proper burial. So, there family and friends can pay their respects.”

“Family and friends?” He give a chuckle. “I don’t know how to manage your misgivings, ma’am. I surely don’t, so I won’t bother except to say they will be transported back to Rex where their value and loss there of can be adequately calculated. As I said, those valuations shall be added to your debt. We’ll put out a search for the three missing, the manpower of which shall also be added to what you owe Mr. Miller, as well. If those slaves are not found, well, I’m guessing you know what that means for the total amount you owe.”

Momma looked to him defiant and full of vinegar. “You’re forgetting it is not my debt. It is my husband’s.”

“His is yours, and since the storm has annihilated your harvest, your compulsory financial obligations have grown a great deal more complicated, Mrs. Tennyson.”

He give the property entire a look over.  “If I’m to be honest, ma’am, there’s not much to salvage here.”

“Then you’ll be leaving?”

“We will. You and the boys gather what’s worth gathering. We’ll fit the rigs and herd the animals.”

Momma give him a wonk-eyed stare. “What are you talking about? The boys and I aren’t going anywhere. Take the rigs and the animals if you must, but we are not leaving our land. And Mr. Stockton, sir, this is our land until we are dragged from here feet first.”

He smiled. “You may want to turn around and take a good look at the house you crawled out from under.”

She done as he suggested. Before her, the tiny home – A one room shack where she’d birthed her children. Cooked. Cleaned. Worked with all her heart to turn into a home, despite the monster she’d married was left deeply marred by the storm. The roof was all but gone. The south wall was no more.

“Can’t leave you here, Mrs. Tennyson. Mr. Miller wouldn’t like it, and Mrs. Miller would have my hide. Like it or not, y’all will be accompanying us back to Rex.” He turnt his horse toward the barn. “We leave in an hour.”

She was done in. Throughout her marriage entire, she’d collected one tragedy after another. Her boys had given her scant moments of happiness, but she’d never earned a moment of real joy as an adult. Motherhood brought her worry. Every second of every day brought her more. Her nuptials brought her pain of all iterations. Every second of every day brought her more. The farm brought isolation and unnerving loneliness. Every second of every day brought her more. And yet, she endured it all because she was obliged by rules writ by ancient men who know shit about nothing. As her boy’s keeper, she was bonded to wake up and repeat the emotional torture of being Grace Tennyson day after endless fucking day. Her only hope of victory over hardship of body and spirit was to one day see her sons leave the farm and find their own lives beyond the reach of Horace Tennyson.

Staring at the battered house, she didn’t see no freedom from the life she hated with every fiber of her being. It was a trap. She didn’t have no money, no material possessions worth a goddamn thing, no skill to peddle in exchange for food and housing for her family. She was owned by a husband she beat with a frying pan. A man who’d want recompence for his lost eye. She come to the realization that there was more reason for her and the boys to leave with Mr. Stockton than stay.

The rain begun to fall again in a steady soak. The sodden fields gathered more water. The Lowcountry ground was turnt to swampland. The dark skies that brought the hurricane turnt up the coast. New clouds appeared. Gray. Rolling. Delicate. It was a second flooding. Corrective and deadly in nature.