Clark’s voice rang out, “All you niggers gather round, we got a little learnin’ for you. Get them childrens too.”
Ida’s heart sank. Clark waited patiently as his audience gathered around him, the man seemed to enjoy his control over the captive spectators. Mr. Anderson called the overseer to him and muttered something low to the man. Clark walked back telling the parents to send their children away, his face reflecting the disappointment. If the situation hadn’t been so tragic, Ida would have snorted with scorn at Clark’s disappointment. She was glad, however, that the children didn’t have to witness this.
Clark made a show of jerking Thomas to his knees. When everyone was in place, he spoke once again.
“This here nigger done flew the coop. As ya’ll can see, we done got him back again. Now ya’ll know that Master Anderson is the spirit of goodness, he don’t work ya’ll niggers too hard, you get fine homes and good victuals.”
There wasn’t a word from the large group, all silent, waiting and watching. Fear was now a living thing that moved through the group. Two white men walked up to watch to proceedings; they were the patrolmen, with torches to illuminate the growing darkness. Clark was in his element, a cruel showman. He was showing off to the other white men that were holding the torches. Should the mood strike him, Clark could pick out another soul and torment them as well. In their world, life was lived on a razor’s edge.
“Now this here thief was punished and was sent ta work out in the field, ta make an honest man of him. But he thinks he’s too good for that. This here nigger dog tried to run away. As ya’ll can see, we caught him quick. As an example of what will happen, should any of ya’ll get any ideas about doin’ the same, I’ll show ya’ll what happens to niggers that run.”
Motioning to two field hands, the men took Thomas from the ground and tied his hands to the bloody pole. Clark pulled out his bullwhip, a wicked and vicious looking weapon and cracked it in the air. Everyone jerked, Ida could see that the sound was satisfying to Clark and the patrollers. The strong smell of urine indicated that Thomas had jerked hardest of all. It mingled with the stench of fear.
“I am gonna to whip this here boy until he can’t never think about runnin’ away again.” Clark said. With that, he reared back and flung his arm forward, the whip cracking once again, this time biting into Thomas’ scarred back. A high-pitched scream rented the moist night air.
Mary and Patina had been in the cabin and had come out when Clark started talking. Mary’s body prickled with chill bumps, primal fear skittering up her spine. She stood by her cabin, unable to tear her eyes away. Patina was behind her, her head buried between Mary’s shoulders. Mary could feel her trembling and soft weeping. The screams wound down to a whimper and was followed by another crack of the whip and another pain filled scream. Mary wanted to run and hold onto her mother, her body vibrated with every stroke of the whip, her small fingers gripping into the splintered logs of the cabin. Patina’s arms slipped around Mary’s waist and clung on.
Silent tears flowed uncheck down her small face. Her luminous honey eyes reflected the torchlight. To look away was unthinkable, her eyes were riveted. She felt like vomiting. Mary felt her mother’s hand gripping her shoulders tightly. Jerking, Mary realized her mother was by her side. She too jerked with every lash of the whip. Her mother turned her and Mary buried her face in her mother’s breasts. Her mother smelled of sweat, dust and fear. Patina was beside her, holding onto Ida as well.
The faces of each man and woman, who stood captive sentinel to the brutality, reflected the pain of loved ones who had also fallen under the tender mercies of Lester Clark and his lash. Each man and woman bore a series of scars for some small transgression, whether real or imagined. Clark was a vicious and sadistic man, who took pleasure in his job. None would or could step forward to put a stop to this horrible thing.
Time passed; still the whip fell in fatal rhythm. The surrounding faces were devoid of emotion, though behind those masks, the slaves died a little with each stroke. Thomas’ agonizing pain was were their own. Thomas had done nothing wrong to their way of thinking, but their way of thinking didn’t count in this world. Each slave became numb inside; perhaps it would be best if Thomas did die. He would never be the same after this.
Silence permeated the yard, not even the crickets and frogs would lend their voices to this tragedy. The harsh panting from Clark could be heard and nothing more, the slaves stood as though carved from seasoned mahogany. Still as death, waiting and watching. Goose bumps rippled across Mary’s arms once more, the silence was ominous.
Clark threw down the bloody whip and pulled a wicked looking blade from his belt. He walked over to the hanging form that had once been Thomas. Squatting down he quickly sliced the knife through the motionless Thomas’ Achilles tendons. Collectively, breaths were sucked in among the slaves, but no one spoke. Thomas didn’t move, nor did he show any signs of life.
Lester Clark wiped the bloody blade on the slave standing closest to him, it was Tall Tom. Tall Tom’s face was like hard mahogany, no expression but his burning eyes. Clark returned the blade to its sheath. Observing the solemn faces
