slavery. Looking down on him I realized that he died because of his love for Flore. It came to me then that no one should have to die for love.
'She must have a vascular cleansing to hasten her recuperative powers,' John said as he threw a blanket over Mud Albert's small frame.
He often spoke in big words like that but this was the first time I understood what he was saying. It struck me as odd but I didn't have much time to think about it because I was mourning Mud Albert. 'What can I do?' I asked.
'If we put her in a wagon and took her to where my sack is I might be able to relieve her symptoms some. She has had a serious trauma to the head so she might be a little slower.'
'Steal a wagon from Master Tobias?' I was worried about my adopted mother but stealing from a white man was certain death in Georgia at that time.
'We can leave her,' John suggested.
I was enraged by his offhanded manner. It was as if he didn't care if Flore lived or died.
'Don't be angry with me, Forty-seven,' John said. 'What you're worried about is true. It will be hard to keep out of sight if we have to carry Flore. And if we're all captured she will die anyway Sometimes we have to make hard choices.'
It was a tough call. Here the woman who had raised me was near death and I had to brave death in order to ease her pain.
'Let's do it,' I said, full of fears and trepidation.
'You go on and find Tobias's carriage,' John said. 'I'll stay here and get her ready.'
I went through the barn door into the yard. The carriage was kept next to the vegetable garden so I went off looking for the mule Lacto that had crippled Pritchard.
The mule was nowhere to be seen but when I came to the rear of the mansion I saw Tobias's buggy still hitched to his great gray mare. The mare was just standing there with her back leg crooked so I knew she was asleep. Gently I roused her by rubbing between her eyes and then I led the sleepy horse and buggy back toward the barn.
As I was crossing the yard someone shouted, in a raspy dry voice, 'Hey you, boy.'
Coming toward me was a white man with a pronounced limp. As he shambled closer I was able to make out various details about his features. His head was bald, that was the first thing I noticed. After that I made out the eye patch. A shiver went through me and I was so frightened I didn't even think about running.
Closer still I could see that the skin all about the top of the man's head had been sewn like leather.
'Stay right there,' the man said, and I knew it was Mr. Stewart.
'You dead,' I said.
'Hallelujah and I am risen,' he replied, a big smile crossing his ugly maw.
In his right hand I could see the bullwhip. And even though I was healed I could feel the pain of my twelve lashes all over again. He raised his arm and released the lash but before it could reach me before I could even think I was a quarter of the way across the yard looking at Mr. Stewart from the side. After the bullwhip cracked in the air he turned and smiled.
'You lookin' a little taller, Numbah Forty-seven,' he said. 'Look like you gotta new master too.'
Again he swung at me and again I moved faster than I could think.
'Neither master nor nigger be,' I said, standing at a spot eight feet from where Stewart's bullwhip bit. 'Fool,' he said, and then snapped his whip again. Six times he swung at me and six times I avoided the whip. On each swing the lash got closer. The last time I felt the breeze caused by its passage.
But I was ready to run again. What I hoped was that John would hear us and come out. I didn't want to call to him because then Mr. Stewart would have known that I had an ally. If I kept my friend's presence a secret I hoped that we could overcome him by stealth if not by strength of arm.
There I was in the year 1832. There was no electricity yet or flying machines or laser beams; the glorious miracles of the twentieth century had not been invented and so when I looked upon the walking corpse of Mr. Stewart I could only think of magic, evil magic. Somehow a spell had been evoked and Stewart had become a zombie. He was the walking dead and everybody knew that a walking dead man could only be put back in the grave by the use of salt or silver and I didn't possess either one.
The onetime overboss was maybe twelve feet away from me but I was prepared to defend myself. Somehow I had gained the speed of a wildcat. I knew that there was no man in Georgia who could catch me. I waited for him to draw back his whip but he surprised me and jumped!
He hurtled through the air even faster than I could run. I made it four steps and he came down, catching me in the crook of his right arm.
Everything that happened next came to pass in a few
seconds but those few seconds felt like many long minutes.
As Stewart's arm curled around my waist I stepped up
on it and over his grasp. I skipped a step away but before I
could run he caught hold of my ankle. I turned around then and pushed on his hand, moving my foot before he could get a solid hold. We were face to face for a moment. I could see that his skin color was paler than it had been and he smelled wild, like a dog after he's rolled around in something foul. I had no time to consider those things because the one-eyed man pushed me and as I fell he rose up, intent upon falling on me.
I made it into a crouch but I have never in my very long life been in a tighter spot. If I turned to run the human Cyclops would jump and take me down. If I stayed there all he had to do was reach out and seize me.
