Behind me someone clears his throat. “Listen up, y’all. The sheriff has a few words to say.”
Boots echo on the boardwalk in front of me, stopping just a little off to the side. I look up, and the sheriff squints down at me. His expression is blank, but there’s a glint of something in his eye. Satisfaction? I turn my gaze back to the wood post in front of me.
“Summerland is a place of laws and order, and I am the long arm of that law. Our goal here is not the glorification of the individual but to create a harmonious community that can serve as a model to the chaos of those cities in the east. Just as the Israelites left Egypt for the promise of a better life, so have all of you. But for that harmony to be achieved, each of us must know his place. You don’t let a dog pretend to be a horse, and the same it must be with our dark cousins. There is a natural order to things, as the pastor tells us, and when that order is not obeyed, disaster rides hard on its heels.”
There’s no comment from the crowd, no murmur of dissent, no valiant objections on my behalf. The only sound is of someone coughing far off. I know that if I’m going to say anything, this might be my last chance. People deserve to know about the danger festering underground. “You have to listen to me! Back in town, these men have built a—”
A crack comes across my jaw, hard enough to shake my brain something terrible, and Bill steps back, shaking his hand and cursing. Blood fills my mouth, and I fall silent. It’s no use. The sheriff continues.
“This darkie broke curfew. That transgression calls for a minimum of twenty lashes. It gives me no pleasure to hand down this punishment, but hand it down I will.”
I half expect him to start praying, but thankfully I am spared that blasphemy. Someone, likely Bill again, steps close to me, and I jerk in surprise as the back of my shirt is grabbed. There’s a tearing sound, and then a gasp as my garment is torn in half. I roll my shoulders forward, suddenly modest. The air is warm on my bare back, and my breath comes in short pants, my embarrassment almost overriding my fear.
“What’s this?” Bill asks, leaning close. He reaches down the front of my shirt, and I jerk away from him, fearful that he’s reaching for my bosoms. Instead his hand comes up with my penny. He yanks the cord hard enough to break the leather thong. “Don’t think you’ll be needing this,” he says, his breath hot and rank on my cheek.
The sheriff steps down from the boardwalk into the hard-packed dirt of the street, standing behind me. I can almost see him slowly uncoiling the whip at his side, relishing the drama and anxiety of the crowd.
“Bill, would you be so kind as to keep the count?”
“Of course, Sheriff.” The satisfaction in his voice makes me long to put a bullet in him.
The whip whistles through the air before it carves agony across my back. I inhale sharply and arch away from the pain, my chest slamming into the post.
“One.”
The second lash comes too quickly, stealing my air and making my muscles tighten.
“Two.”
The whip comes round again, and I’m trying to think of something else, trying to be anywhere else, but I am bound to my cursed flesh, and tears make their way down my cheeks as the whip tears into my back again, and again, and again.
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
“Five.”
My heart nearly stutters to a stop when Bill counts five twice in a row. My back is a fiery mess of agony, and when the whip comes across again a sob tears out of me.
“Six.”
I’m shaking from the pain, delirious with it. With each crack of the whip I make a new promise to the Lord Almighty. “I will never lie again if this stops.” Crack. “I will dedicate my life to your good works.” Crack. Either the good Lord is unimpressed with my offerings, or he thinks I deserve this, just as the preacher told me.
Bill has just counted off the eleventh lash when the crowd behind me begins murmuring. I can’t think, the pain robbing me of whatever wit I possess. I’m crying and muttering, half-mad with the pain. Nine more lashes, and that’s if Bill keeps the count correctly. Somehow, I know he won’t. He’s enjoying this as much as the sheriff.
“Stop, please, stop!”
Katherine’s voice is unmistakable, and at first I think my ears are deceiving me. But the sheriff pauses and says, “Miss Deveraux, this is no place for you. You should go back to your home. What brings you here?”
“I did,” comes another voice. “You’re killing her Attendant, and she has a right to know that since the girl has been in her employ.”
“Gideon, you are not the law in this town.” There’s tightness to the sheriff’s voice, but I’m too relieved that the whip has ceased its torment for the moment to analyze why he would even listen to Mr. Gideon in the first place.
“Sheriff, it is said that the man who exercises compassion is the wisest of all. I’m urging you to be a wise man. It’s obvious that the girl won’t survive much more. And neither will this town. You’ve done enough.”
“Gideon—”
“Please, Sheriff,” Katherine pleads, a tremor in her voice. “Jane is a bit headstrong, but she is also an excellent companion. I’ve become fond of her, and I would be heartbroken if she were to come to any more harm. Please let her go. Show her mercy.”
Behind me the sheriff sighs. “Miss Deveraux, you are a kind girl, but law and order must
