Horrible Harvest

I saddled her horse and give her direction to King’s Highway. I had worries sending her back Charleston-way on her own, but she insisted I not interrupt my travels.

“You got something left to do. You best get to it.”

I nodded. “I reckon I’ll have to answer to your Scotsman if you don’t make it back to Baltimore.”

She give a giggle. “Something happens to me, he’s liable to chase you down and shake your hand. Ima rough woman to love.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. I wasn’t thinking otherwise.”

She grabbed hold of the saddle horn and planted her foot in the stirrup before she stopped and turnt back to me. “What come of him? Tate?”

“You mean at the church?”

She nodded. “Obviously, he was caught, and I know he lived on. Just don’t know how he survived that night.”

“Barely did. He stayed gone – On the run for a week or more. Made it to Kentucky. Trusted the wrong fella. Got handed over to a local sheriff. Mr. Miller’d sent telegrams all over the place, offering up a reward for his capture. He was to be hanged, along with Caleb and the others –Percy, too. Papers all over run stories about the five of ‘em – Called’em a gang of savages. Low station outlaws. Called Mr. Miller a hero fer rounding ‘em up and applying justice to the lot of ‘em. He got what they called ‘extra-judicial’ permission from the state to fit’em all for nooses on his property. He made a party out of it. Invited Southern dignitaries from all over. Woolsey was even there. He cheered the whole spectacle on. Can’t say why. Don’t know if he lost his right mind, or they give him a mountain of gold, or if he was scared into it, but he was there calling for recompense from fellas he know’d was made to do what they done by the very sumbitch who was to hang’em. They was all innocent by circumstance. ‘Cept Percy. Couldn’t hang the fucker high enough, you ask me.”

“How’d he escape the noose.”

“Momma. She had something Mr. Miller wanted for his very own – Our tiny speck of a rice farm. Daddy’d been gone so long, Mr. Miller used his connections to have him declared dead. Deed fell to Momma. She held it for no other reason than Mr. Miller wanted it. Might could be that she know’d she’d need it one day. To bargain with. And that’s what she done. She struck a bargain with Mr. Miller. The farm for Tate’s life.

“Tate’s value as a slave had dipped to near nothing on account he was a known runner, and he was crippled up from the beating laid on him by Mr. Stockton and his band of goons – Douglas included.”

She nodded. “A lovely woman, your Momma. Everyone says.”

“She had her moments. I think of her as tough. Seen that woman use hard times to turn bad luck to dust and sweep it away. She was never done in by it. Love the hell out of her for that.”

Without a hint of notice, she grabbed me up in a hug.

“Don’t reckon Ima see you again.”

“S’pose not.”

“Thank you.”

“What fer?”

“Sharing your stories.”

I hugged her back.

She leave me go and climbed up on her mount. Settled into the saddle, she said, “Good travels, Augustus Tennyson.”

“Same to you, Allison Weaver Duffy.”

I watched after her as she cut through the underbrush and fount the old animal trail. She clicked her tongue to the rough of her mouth to urge her horse on, and the sound of it triggered a memory. I packed up my bedroll and other sundries and let my mind take one last jaunt backwards.