Текст книги "A Place Called Freedom"

Автор книги: Ken Follett

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

28

WHILE JAY WAS IN WILLIAMSBURG LIZZIE GOT A LETTER from her mother. The first thing that struck her about it was the return address:

The Manse

St John’s Church

Aberdeen

August 15th, 1768

What was Mother doing in a vicarage in Aberdeen? She read on:I have so much to tell you, my dear daughter! But I must take care to write it step by step, as it happened.Soon after I returned to High Glen your brother-in-law, Robert Jamisson, took over the management of the estate. Sir George is now paying the interest on my mortgages so I am in no position to argue. Robert asked me to leave the big house and live in the old hunting lodge, for the sake of economy. I confess I was not best pleased with the arrangement but he insisted, and I have to tell you he was not as pleasant or affectionate as a family member might be.

A surge of impotent anger possessed Lizzie. How dare Robert evict Lizzie’s mother from her home? She recalled his words after she had rejected him and accepted Jay: “Even if I can’t have you, I’ll still have High Glen.” It had seemed impossible at the time, but now it had come true.

Gritting her teeth, she continued to read.Then the Reverend Mr York announced that he was leaving us. He has been pastor at Heugh for fifteen years and he is my oldest friend. Iunderstood that after the tragic early death of his wife he felt the need to go and live in a new place. But you may imagine how distraught I was that he was leaving just when I needed friends.Then the most astonishing thing happened. My dear, Iblush to tell you that he asked me to marry him!! And I accepted!!!

“Good God!” Lizzie said aloud.So you see we are wed, and have moved to Aberdeen, from where I write.Many will say I married beneath myself being the widow of Lord Hallim; but I know how worthless a title is and John cares nothing for what society people think. We live quietly, and I am known as Mrs York, and I am happier now than I ever have been.

There was more—about her three stepchildren, the servants at the manse, Mr. York’s first sermon, and the ladies in the congregation—but Lizzie was too shocked to take it in.

She had never thought of her mother remarrying. There was no reason why not, of course: Mother was only forty. She might even have more children; it was not impossible.

What shocked Lizzie was a sense of being cast adrift. High Glen had always been her home. Although her life was here in Virginia with her husband and her baby, she had thought of High Glen House as a place she could always return to, if she really needed sanctuary. But now it was in the hands of Robert.

Lizzie had always been the center of her mother’s life. It had never occurred to her that this would change. But now her mother was a minister’s wife living in Aberdeen, with three stepchildren to love and care for, and she might even be expecting a new baby of her own.

It meant Lizzie had no home but this plantation, no family but Jay.

Well, she was determined to make a good life for herself here.

She had privileges many women would envy: a big house, an estate of a thousand acres, a handsome husband, and slaves to do her bidding. The house slaves had taken her to their hearts. Sarah was the cook, fat Belle did most of the cleaning, and Mildred was her personal maid and also served at table sometimes. Belle had a twelve-year-old son, Jimmy, who was the stable boy: his father had been sold away years ago. Lizzie had not yet got to know many of the field hands, apart from Mack, but she liked Kobe, the supervisor, and the blacksmith, Cass, whose workshop was at the back of the house.

The house was spacious and grand, but it had an empty, abandoned feel. It was too big. It would suit a family with six growing children and a few aunts and grandparents, and troops of slaves to light fires in every room and serve vast communal dinners. For Lizzie and Jay it was a mausoleum. But the plantation was beautiful: thick woodlands, broad sloping fields, and a hundred little streams.

She knew Jay was not quite the man she had taken him for. He was not the daring free spirit he had seemed to be when he took her down the coal mine. And his lying to her over mining in High Glen had shaken her: after that she could never feel the same about him. They no longer romped in bed in the mornings. They spent most of the day apart. They ate dinner and supper together, but they never sat in front of the fire, holding hands and talking of nothing in particular, the way they once had. But perhaps Jay was disappointed, too. He might have similar feelings about her: that she was not as perfect as she had once seemed. There was no point in regrets. They had to love one another as they were today.

All the same she often felt a powerful urge to run away. But whenever she did, she remembered the child growing inside her. She could no longer think only of herself. Her baby needed its father.

Jay did not talk about the baby much. He seemed uninterested. But he would change when it was born, especially if it was a boy.

She put her letter in a drawer.

When she had given the day’s orders to the house slaves she got her coat and went outside.

The air was cool. It was now mid-October; they had been here two months. She headed across the lawn and down toward the river. She went on foot: she was past six months now, and she could feel the baby kick—sometimes painfully. She was afraid she might harm the baby if she rode.

Still she walked around the estate almost every day. It took her several hours. She was usually accompanied by Roy and Rex, two deerhounds Jay had bought. She kept a close eye on the work of the plantation, for Jay took no interest at all. She watched the processing of the tobacco and kept count of the bales; she saw the men cutting trees and making barrels; she looked at the cows and horses in the meadows and the chickens and geese in the yard. Today was Sunday, the hands’ day of rest, and it gave her a special opportunity to poke around while Sowerby and Lennox were somewhere else. Roy followed her, but Rex lazily remained on the porch.

The tobacco harvest was in. There was still a lot of work to do processing the crop: sweating, stemming, stripping and pressing the leaves before they could be packed into hogsheads for the voyage to London or Glasgow. They were sowing winter wheat in the field they called Stream Quarter, and barley, rye and clover in Lower Oak. But they had come to the end of the period of most intensive activity, the time when they worked in the fields from dawn to dusk and then labored on by candlelight in the tobacco sheds until midnight.

The hands should have some reward, she thought, for all their effort. Even slaves and convicts needed encouragement. It occurred to her that she might give them a party.

The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Jay might be against it, but he would not be home for a couple of weeks—Williamsburg was three days away—so it could be over and done with by the time he returned.

She walked along the bank of the Rappahannock River, turning the idea over in her mind. The river was shallow and rocky here, upstream from Fredericksburg, which marked the fall line, the limit of navigation. She skirted a clump of half-submerged bushes and stopped suddenly. A man was standing waist deep in the water, washing, his broad back to her. It was McAsh.

Roy bristled, then recognized Mack.

Lizzie had seen him naked in a river once before, almost a year ago. She remembered drying his skin with her petticoat. At the time it had seemed natural but, looking back, she felt the scene had a strange quality, like a dream: the moonlight, the rushing water, the strong man looking so vulnerable, and the way she had embraced him and warmed him with her body.

She held back now, watching him, as he came out of the river. He was completely naked, as he had been that night.

She remembered another moment from the past. One afternoon in High Glen she had surprised a young deer drinking in a burn. The sight came back to her like a picture. She had emerged from the trees and found herself a few feet away from a buck two or three years old. It had lifted its head and stared at her. The far bank of the stream had been steep, so the deer had been forced to move toward her. As it came out of the stream the water glistened on its muscular flanks. Her rifle was in her hand, loaded and primed, but she could not shoot: being so close seemed to make her too intimate with the beast.

As she watched the water roll off Mack’s skin she thought that, despite all he had been through, he still had the powerful grace of a young animal. As he pulled on his breeches Roy loped up to him. Mack looked up, saw Lizzie and froze, startled. Then he said: “You might turn your back.”

“You might turn yours!” she replied.

“I was here first.”

“I own the place!” she snapped. It was astonishing how quickly he could irritate her. He obviously felt he was every bit as good as she. He was a convict farmhand and she was a fine lady, but to him that was no reason to show respect: it was the act of an arbitrary providence, and it did her no credit and brought him no shame. His audacity was annoying, but at least it was honest. McAsh was never sly. Jay, by contrast, often mystified her. She did not know what was going on in his mind, and when she questioned him he became defensive, as if he were being accused of something.

McAsh seemed amused now as he tied the string that held up his breeches. “You own me, too,” he said.

She was looking at his chest. He was getting his muscles back. “And I’ve seen you naked before.”

Suddenly the tension was gone and they were laughing, just as they had outside the church when Esther had told Mack to shut his gob.

“I’m going to give a party for the field hands,” she said.

He pulled on his shirt. “What kind of party?”

Lizzie found herself wishing he had left the shirt off a little longer, she liked looking at his body. “What kind would you like?”

He looked thoughtful. “You could have a bonfire in the backyard. What the hands would like most of all would be a good meal, with plenty of meat. They never get enough to eat.”

“What food would they like?”

“Hmmm.” He licked his lips. “The smell of fried ham coming from the kitchen is so good it hurts. Everyone loves those sweet potatoes. And wheat bread—the field hands never get anything but that coarse cornbread they call pone.”

She was glad she had thought to talk to Mack about this: it was helpful. “What do they like to drink?”

“Rum. But some of the men get in a fighting mood when they drink. If I were you I’d give them apple cider, or beer.”

“Good idea.”

“How about some music? The Negroes love to dance and sing.”

Lizzie was enjoying herself. It was fun planning a party with Mack. “All right—but who would play?”

“There’s a free black called Pepper Jones who performs in the ordinaries in Fredericksburg. You could hire him. He plays the banjo.”

Lizzie knew that “ordinary” was the local term for a tavern, but she had never heard of a banjo. “What’s that?” she said.

“I think it’s an African instrument. Not as sweet as a fiddle but more rhythmic.”

“How do you know about this man? When have you been to Fredericksburg?”

A shadow crossed his face. “I went once on a Sunday.”

“What for?”

“To look for Cora.”

“Did you find her?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has lost somebody.” He turned his face away, looking sad.

She wanted to put her arms around him and comfort him, but she restrained herself. Pregnant though she was, she could not embrace anyone other than her husband. She made her voice cheerful again. “Do you think Pepper Jones could be persuaded to come here and perform?”

“I’m sure of it I’ve seen him play in the slave quarters at the Thumson plantation.”

Lizzie was intrigued. “What were you doing there?”

“Visiting.”

“I never thought about slaves doing that kind of thing.”

“We have to have something in our lives other than work.”

“What do you do?”

“The young men love cockfights—they’ll walk ten miles to see one. The young women love the young men. The older ones just want to look at one another’s babies and talk about brothers and sisters they’ve lost. And they sing. The Africans have these sad songs that they sing in harmony. You can’t understand the words, but the tunes make your hair stand on end.”

“The coal miners used to sing.”

He was silent for a moment. “Aye, we did.”

She saw that she had made him sad. “Do you think you will ever go back to High Glen?”

“No. Do you?”

Tears came to her eyes. “No,” she said. “I don’t think you or I will ever go back.”

The baby kicked her, and she said: “Ouch!”

“What?” said Mack.

She put a hand on her bulge. “The baby is kicking. He doesn’t want me to yearn for High Glen. He’s going to be a Virginian. Ow! He just did it again.”

“Does it really hurt?”

“Yes—feel.” She took his hand and placed it on her belly. His fingers were hard and rough skinned, but his touch was gentle.

The baby was still. Mack said: “When is it due?”

“Ten weeks.”

“What will you call it?”

“My husband has decided on Jonathan for a boy, Alicia for a girl.”

The baby kicked again. “That’s hard!” Mack said, laughing. “I’m not surprised you wince.” He took his hand away.

She wished he had left it there a little longer. To hide her feelings she changed the subject. “I’d better talk to Bill Sowerby about this party.”

“You haven’t heard?”

“What?”

“Ah. Bill Sowerby has left.”

“Left? What do you mean?”

“He disappeared.”

“When?”

“Two nights ago.”

Lizzie realized she had not seen Sowerby for a couple of days. She had not been alarmed because she did not necessarily see him every day. “Did he say when he was coming back?”

“I don’t know that he talked to anyone, directly. But I’d say he isn’t coming back at all.”

“Why?”

“He owes money to Sidney Lennox, a lot of money, and he can’t pay.”

Lizzie felt indignant. “And I suppose Lennox has been acting as overseer ever since.”

“It’s only been one working day … but yes, he has.”

“I don’t want that brute taking over the plantation!” she said hotly.

“Amen to that,” Mack said with feeling. “None of the hands want it either.”

Lizzie frowned suspiciously. Sowerby was owed a lot in wages. Jay had told him he would be paid when the first tobacco crop was sold. Why had he not simply waited? He could have paid his debts eventually. He must have been frightened. Lennox had threatened him, she felt sure. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. “I believe Lennox has forced Sowerby out,” she said.

Mack nodded. “I don’t know much about it but that’s my guess too. I’ve done battle with Lennox, and look what happened to me.”

There was no self-pity in his tone, just a bitter practicality, but her heart went out to him. She touched his arm and said: “You should be proud. You’re brave and honorable.”

“And Lennox is corrupt and savage, and what happens? He’ll become overseer here, then he’ll steal enough from you, one way and another, to open a tavern in Fredericksburg; and soon he’ll be living much as he did in London.”

“Not if I can help it,” Lizzie said determinedly “I’m going to speak to him right away.” Lennox had a small two-room house down by the tobacco sheds, near Sowerby’s house. “I hope he’s at home.”

“He’s not there now. At this time on a Sunday he’ll be at the Ferry House—that’s an ordinary three or four miles upriver from here. He’ll stay there until late tonight”

Lizzie could not wait until tomorrow: she had no patience when there was something like this on her mind. “I’ll go to the Ferry House. I can’t ride—I’ll take the pony trap.”

Mack frowned. “Wouldn’t it be better to have it out with him here, where you’re the mistress of the house? He’s a rough man.”

Lizzie felt a pang of fear. Mack was right. Lennox was dangerous. But she could not bear to postpone the confrontation. Mack could protect her. “Will you come with me?” she said. “I’d feel safe if you were there.”

“Of course.”

“You can drive the trap.”

“You’ll have to teach me.”

“There’s nothing to it.”

They walked up from the river to the house. The stable boy, Jimmy, was watering the horses. Mack and he got the trap out and put a pony in the traces while Lizzie went into the house to put on a hat.

They drove out of the estate onto the riverside road and followed it upstream to the ferry crossing. The Ferry House was a wood-frame building not much bigger than the two-room houses lived in by Sowerby and Lennox. Lizzie let Mack help her down from the trap and hold open the door of the tavern for her.

It was gloomy and smoky inside. Ten or twelve people sat on benches and wooden chairs drinking from tankards and pottery cups. Some were playing cards and dice, others smoking pipes. The click of billiard balls came from the back room.

There were no women and no blacks.

Mack followed her in but stood back, by the door, his face in shadow.

A man came through a doorway from the back room, wiping his hands on a towel, and said: “What can I bring you, sir—Oh! A lady!”

“Nothing, thank you,” Lizzie said in a clear voice, and the room went quiet.

She looked around at the upturned faces. Lennox was in the corner, bent over a shaker and a pair of dice. The little table in front of him had several piles of small coins. His face showed resentment at being interrupted.

He carefully scooped up his coins, taking his time, before he stood up and took off his hat. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Jamisson?”

“I didn’t come to play dice, obviously,” she said crisply. “Where is Mr. Sowerby?”

She heard one or two approving murmurs, as if others in the place would like to know what had happened to Sowerby; and she saw a gray-haired man turn in his chair and look at her.

“He’s run off, it seems,” Lennox answered.

“Why haven’t you reported this to me?”

Lennox shrugged. “Because there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I want to know about such things, all the same. Don’t do it again. Is that clear?”

Lennox made no reply.

“Why did Sowerby leave?”

“How should I know?”

The gray-haired man piped up: “He owed money.”

Lizzie turned to him. “Who to?”

The man jerked a thumb. “Lennox, that’s who.”

She turned back to Lennox. “Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why did he borrow money from you?”

“He didn’t, exactìy. He lost it to me.”

“Gambling.”

“Yes.”

“And did you threaten him?”

The gray-haired man gave a sarcastic laugh. “Did he? I’ll swear.”

“I asked for my money,” Lennox said coolly.

“And that drove him away.”

“I tell you I don’t know why he left.”

“I believe he was frightened of you.”

A nasty smile crossed Lennox’s face. “Many people are,” he said, and the threat in his voice was hardly veiled.

Lizzie felt scared as well as angry. “Let’s get something clear,” she said. There was a tremor in her voice and she swallowed to get it under control. “I am the mistress of the plantation and you will do what I say. I shall now take charge of the place until my husband returns. Then he will decide how to replace Mr. Sowerby.”

Lennox shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m Sowerby’s deputy. Mr. Jamisson has told me quite particularly that I’m in charge if Sowerby should fall ill or anything. Besides, what do you know about tobacco growing?”

“As much as a London tavern keeper, at least.”

“Well, that’s not how Mr. Jamisson sees it, and I take my orders from him.”

Lizzie could have screamed with frustration. She would not let this man give orders on her plantation! “I’m warning you, Lennox, you’d better obey me!”

“And if I don’t?” He took a step toward her, grinning, and she smelled his characteristic ripe odor. She was forced to step backward. The other customers in the tavern sat frozen to their seats. “What will you do, Mrs. Jamisson?” he said, still coming toward her. “Knock me down?” As he said this he lifted his hand over his head, in a gesture that might have been an illustration of what he was saying but could just as easily have been a threat.

Lizzie gave a cry of fear and jumped back. Her legs came up against the seat of a chair and she sat down with a bump.

Suddenly Mack was there, standing between Lennox and her. “You’ve raised your hand to a woman, Lennox,” he said. “Now let’s see you raise it to a man.”

“You!” Lennox said. “I didn’t know it was you, standing in the corner like a nigger.”

“And now that you know, what are you going to do?”

“You’re a damn fool, McAsh. You always take the losing side.”

“You’ve just insulted the wife of the man who owns you—I don’t call that clever.”

“I didn’t come here to argue. I came to play dice.” Lennox turned and went back to his table.

Lizzie felt as angry and frustrated as she had when she arrived. She stood up. “Let’s go,” she said to Mack.

He opened the door and she went out.

She had to know more about tobacco growing, she decided when she had calmed down. Lennox was going to try to take over, and the only way she could defeat him was by persuading Jay that she would do a better job. She already knew a good deal about the running of the plantation but she did not really understand the plant itself.

Next day she got out the pony and trap again and went over to Colonel Thumson’s place, with Jimmy driving her.

In the weeks since the party, the neighbors had been cool to Lizzie and Jay, particularly to Jay. They had been invited to big social occasions, a ball and a grand wedding reception, but no one had asked them to a small celebration or an intimate dinner. However, when Jay left for Williamsburg they seemed to know, for since then Mrs. Thumson had called and Suzy Delahaye had invited Lizzie to tea. It distressed her that they preferred her on her own, but Jay had offended everyone with his opinions.

As she drove through the Thumson plantation she was struck by how prosperous it looked. There were rows of hogsheads on the jetty; the slaves looked active and fit; the sheds were painted and the fields were neat. She saw the colonel across a meadow, talking to a small group of hands, pointing to show them something. Jay never stood in the fields giving instructions.

Mrs. Thumson was a fat and kindly woman past fifty. The Thumson children, two boys, were both grown-up and living elsewhere. She poured tea and asked about the pregnancy. Lizzie confessed that she had occasional backache and constant heartburn, and was relieved to hear that Mrs. Thumson had suffered exactly the same. She had also noticed slight bleeding once or twice, and Mrs. Thumson frowned and said that had not happened to her, but it was not uncommon, and she should rest more.

But she had not come to talk about pregnancy, and she was glad when the colonel came in for tea. He was in his fifties, tall and white haired, and vigorous for his age. He shook her hand stiffly but she softened him with a smile and a compliment. “Why does your plantation look so much more impressive than anyone else’s?”

“Well, it’s kind of you to say so,” he replied. “I’d say the main factor is that I’m here. You see, Bill Delahaye is always going away to horse races and cockfights. John Armstead would rather drink than work, and his brother spends every afternoon playing billiards and throwing dice at the Ferry House.” He said nothing about Mockjack Hall.

“Why do your slaves look so energetic?”

“Now, that depends what you feed them.” He was obviously enjoying sharing his expertise with this attractive young woman. “They can live on hominy and corn pone, but they’ll work better if you give them salt fish every day and meat once a week. It’s expensive, but not as bad as buying new slaves every few years.”

“Why have so many plantations gone bankrupt recently?”

“You have to understand the tobacco plant. It exhausts the soil. After four or five years the quality deteriorates. You have to switch the field to wheat or Indian corn and find new land for your tobacco.”

“Why, you must be constantly clearing ground.”

“Indeed. Every winter I clear woodland and open up new fields for cultivation.”

“But you’re fortunate—you have so much land.”

“There’s woodland aplenty on your place. And when that runs out you should buy or rent more. The only way to grow tobacco is to keep moving.”

“Does everyone do that?”

“No. Some get credit from merchants, and hope the price of tobacco will go up to save them. Dick Richards, the previous owner of your place, followed that road, which is how come your father-in-law ended up owning the place.”

Lizzie did not tell him that Jay had gone to Williamsburg to borrow money. “We could clear Stafford Park in time for next spring.” Stafford Park was a piece of rough land separate from the main estate, ten miles upriver. Because of the distance it was neglected, and Jay had tried to lease or sell it, but there had been no takers.

“Why not start with Pond Copse?” said the colonel. “It’s close to your curing sheds and the soil is right. Which reminds me.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I have to visit my sheds before it gets dark.”

Lizzie stood up. “I must get back and speak to my overseer.”

Mrs. Thumson said: “Don’t do too much, Mrs. Jamisson—remember your baby.”

Lizzie smiled. “I’m going to take plenty of rest too, I promise.”

Colonel Thumson kissed his wife then walked out with Lizzie. He helped her onto the seat of the trap, then rode with her as far as his sheds. “If you’ll forgive my making a personal comment, you’re a remarkable young lady, Mrs. Jamisson.”

“Why, thank you,” she said.

“I hope we’ll see more of you.” He smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled. He took her hand, and as he lifted it to kiss it his arm brushed her breast, as if by accident. “Please send for me any time I can help you in any way.”

She drove off. I do believe I have just received my first adulterous proposition, she thought. And me six months pregnant. The wicked old man! She supposed she ought to be outraged, but in fact she was pleased. Of course she would never take him up on his offer. Indeed, she would be careful to avoid the colonel from now on. But it was flattering to be thought desirable.

“Let’s go faster, Jimmy,” she said. “I want my supper.”

Next morning she sent Jimmy to summon Lennox to her drawing room. She had not spoken to him since the incident in the Ferry House. She was more than a little afraid of him, and she considered sending for Mack as protection. But she refused to believe she needed a bodyguard in her own house.

She sat in a big carved chair that must have been brought from Britain a century ago. Lennox arrived two hours later, with mud on his boots. She knew the delay was his way of showing he was not obliged to jump when she whistled. If she challenged him he was sure to have some excuse, so she decided to act as if he had come immediately.

“We’re going to clear Pond Copse ready for tobacco planting next spring,” she said. “I want you to begin today.”

For once he was taken by surprise. “Why?” he said.

“Tobacco farmers must clear new land every winter. It’s the only way to maintain high yields. I’ve looked around, and Pond Copse seems the most promising. Colonel Thumson agrees with me.”

“Bill Sowerby never did that.”

“Bill Sowerby never made any money.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the old fields.”

“Tobacco cultivation exhausts the land.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “But we manure heavily.”

She frowned. Thumson had not mentioned manuring. “I don’t know.…”

Her hesitation was fatal. “These things are best left to men,” he said.

“Never mind the homilies,” she snapped. “Tell me about the manuring.”

“We pen the cattle in the tobacco fields at night, for the manure. It refreshes the land for the next season.”

“It can’t be as good as new land,” she said, but she was not sure.

“It’s just the same,” he insisted. “But if you want to change you’ll have to speak to Mr. Jamisson.”

She hated to let Lennox win, even temporarily, but she would have to wait until Jay returned. Feeling irritated, she said: “You can go now.”

He gave a little smile of victory and went out without another word.

She forced herself to rest for the remainder of the day, but on the following morning she made her usual tour of the plantation.

In the sheds, the bundles of drying tobacco plants were being taken down from their hooks so that the leaves could be separated from the stems and the heavy fibers stripped out. Next they would be bundled up again and covered with cloth to “sweat.”

Some of the hands were in the woods, cutting wood to make barrels. Others were sowing winter wheat in Stream Quarter. Lizzie spotted Mack there, working alongside a young black woman. They crossed the plowed field in a line, distributing the seed from heavy baskets. Lennox followed, hurrying the slower workers with a kick or a touch of the whip. It was a short whip with a hard handle and a lash two or three feet long made of some flexible wood. After he noticed Lizzie watching, he began to use it more freely, as if challenging her to try to stop him.

She turned away and started back toward the house. But before she was out of earshot she heard a cry and turned back.

The hand working next to Mack had collapsed. It was Bess, an adolescent girl about fifteen years old, tall and thin: Lizzie’s mother would have said she had outgrown her strength.

Lizzie hurried toward the prone figure, but Mack was nearer. He put down his basket and knelt beside Bess. He touched her forehead and her hands. “I think she’s just fainted,” he said.

Lennox came up and kicked the girl in the ribs with a heavily booted foot.

Her body jerked with the impact but her eyes did not open.

Lizzie cried out: “Stop it, don’t kick her!”

“Lazy black bitch, I’ll teach her a lesson,” Lennox said, and he drew back the arm that held the whip.

“Don’t you dare!” Lizzie said furiously.

He brought the whip down on the back of the unconscious girl.

Mack sprang to his feet.

“Stop!” Lizzie cried.

Lennox lifted the whip again.

Mack stood between Lennox and Bess.

“Your mistress told you to stop,” Mack said.

Lennox changed his grip and slashed Mack across the face.

Mack staggered sideways and his hand flew to his face. A purplish weal appeared immediately on his cheek and blood trickled between his lips.