Final Excerpt - Saoirse ~ The Irish Slave & The Divide

Saoirse

The Irish Slave & The Divide

Ready to download & Read...

https://a.co/d/dKmDLzo

Written by Mercedes Keyes

Prelude

            Late 17th Century - Ireland - 1600s 

“Maximilian Euan O’Shaughnessy - I hereby sentence you for repeated crimes of highway robbery. You are to serve seven years of indentured labor with the Jamestown, Virginia Company in the commonwealth of Virginia.” The magistrate court official repeated this passionless, droning dictate toward those that stood with Maximilian. Each one of the shackled criminals took their turn with fellow criminals until the magistrate court official sentenced them all. Max stood with his hands bound before him, attached to a convicted one before and after, everyone in sore need of a bath. He stood wondering how he might escape this fate forced upon him. He was indeed guilty of the said crime. However, despite the outcome he could find no means to regret what he had done. His loathing for the English left him with little choice. The motivation had not been about need. His family was among the affluent, wealthy.

Many others were unfortunate, and they had little for survival. A great genocide was taking place throughout Ireland, and it would seem not one of them could halt it. The rich nor poor. Thus, he stood with little regret. What he could not dismiss was the struggling conscious leading to thoughts of his Creator. One of his many faults is that once he decided toward anything, he followed through, right or wrong–no matter what the outcome may be. One moment he stood with no regrets, and now doubts were plaguing. He shook the thought from his mind. Behind him, amid those attending and watching - his mother wept, and his father stood helpless. Because of his guilt, they could not pay his bond to free him. Not in this court. Not with the current objection toward them all. At the time of his decisions - his logic and reasoning led to his passion for his right to act. It didn’t matter where it might lead, such as, before the magistrate in tight hemp knots. With the reading of his sentence, he did not turn to glance at his weeping family. He did not need to see the misery he had caused them. Because of the culling taking place he knew he may never see them again. His younger brother had once looked up to him no matter their differences. His tiny sister, so young–what would be her fate? There was also a nagging feeling that once he was gone, more consequences for his actions would heap upon his family. The English despised the Irish and would use any minor infraction to punish one individual or an entire family. Yes, because of his actions, this very well may be the last that he saw of his family. 

Standing with him were some familiar faces. They recognized one another but knew not to draw attention to the fact. Would it matter? There was no justice for them - any minor act might bring a harsh reaction. As it was, Max wondered if he had any strength left to acknowledge those he knew before him.

Now, too much of his present state distracted him. For one, he was dirtier than he’d ever been in his life, and he was hungry. His guts griped and gnawed at him so sharply it might see him bent over from the weakening pains. Before now, hunger was a rumor he’d heard of for which those lacking suffered. It might seem that the sharp pains of hunger gripping him would be enough to compel him to eat what had been offered back in his cell, but that was not the case. The so-called fare they hurled their way was slop, not fit for rats or any other vermin. Those coming in around the time he had had been too new to be tempted to take in such offerings. Not yet. The loaves of bread had almost lured them until they spied the crawling black and red beetles munching within. Spying deeper, they spotted the many dead insects baked into the loaves. The sight of it had turned the stomachs of the newer inmates. However, the older ones dove in, grabbing up the buns and tugging at the bowls of sludge to have at it. Max turned away, leaving them to it, waiting for something more. At that moment, unaware that anything more would be worse.

 Now, this day, he stood resisting the powerful urge to scratch. On his head, his scalp, he felt the crawling of parasites. Obviously, he was carrying about more than a few as another crawled beneath his shirt, down his back. Something had taken that moment to bite him. Incredulous, he wondered why? With his hands bound as they were, he had no way of swatting to provoke the pest. Flinching from the need to scratch, his mind wondered, ‘Am I not tortured enough?’ No pity this day, from the man, nor that which bugged him. Add to it his fragile state. The legs beneath him threatened to topple him. Those around him were unsteady as well - he dare not move. None could sit during this test of endurance.

The turnkeys loved it. They seemed to take perverse pleasure in watching the gradual decline into the animal state. Of the guards standing over them, whip and keys in hand, all had an opinion of them as a scurrilous lot, getting what they deserved. They had long stripped them of any treatment of humanity. The first person restricting them quickly took any valuables, such as jewels, rightfully theirs or costly garment pieces, that had any bit of value. They were afraid that someone else’s greed might lead them to claim the valuables first. None will share - it was every goaler for himself.

As for Max, they’d picked him dry of his jewels. He’d had a signet ring from his father, gold with emerald diadems. A stunning jacket of midnight blue satin and gold threads stitched along its edges, matching the under-vest over his poet shirt. The finest quality garb that would sell well for the one who took possession of them, recognizing their worth. Gone were his stockings and his shoes. Yes, they’d picked him dry.

This was the first time he’d been before the courts and wondered what now would become of him. As time drew near for the end of their hearing, finally, a bit of regret sprang to life. His mind went to his family, their time together, and how much his little sister loved him. He, as the older brother, was her favorite. It was a habit when home, to carry her about their mansion on his back as if he were her very own pony. Entertaining her with well-edited versions of his adventures. What would become of her now without him there? Yes, she more than anything, brought to life any regret. Would she–or would his family suffer for his deeds? While he stood willing to take whatever punishment dealt him, they did not deserve what might come to them. Yet, he also knew it to be true that Cromwell’s direction was being carried out, they were amid the molestation of the Irish. Only God knew how long it might carry on and to what extent it would go before ending. How long would it take before justice weighed in their behalf? He supposed he was better off than most. The alternative was the hangman’s noose. Some with lesser crimes had come to that end. It seemed they were being picked over. The heartier ones, no matter the crime, were being sent off to labor away. They dispatched those of weaker or more frail constitution without mercy. It was obvious this dragnet had nothing to do with justice, or prosecuting crimes, no, far from it.

Upon the conclusion of the proceedings, they escorted them out in a single file, shouting at or striking them across the head, back, or shoulder if anyone dared to impede their progress. When his mother called his name, he could hear her sobbing in anguish as she had to watch her son suffer such a degrading experience. He wanted one last look at them but restrained himself for fear of the whip. He heard a small sob, and then his name, “Max! Maaax!” The baby cried out for him. He thought of her, using their nickname for her, ‘Beetle’.

Immediately his heart felt a stab of pain. He could not look back. He could only wonder what now? Of course, as with most - he’d heard many tales of the new land, where they were going. Fertile, endless in expanse, land galore with indescribable possibilities if one could find their freedom there. Yes, even now, Max was determined to be once more - free. The state he presently found himself in would be a temporary one. Many had gone before him - with a promise of better things to come.

Just seven years.

People spread the word not to believe it. For now - another rolling, loud and deep growl from his vacant gut reminded him of his current state, and it was so pronounced that those close by heard it. Growling as if mocking him for thinking there was hope for him to come. He ignored it and concentrated on not giving into his quivering thighs, threatening to topple him. If he went down, he knew he would bring others down with him because of the way they were roped and tied. Therefore, he had to keep his mind on not letting his knees buckle, or his torso fold in on him. His hunger was trying to cut him in two. If he buckled, it would require too much energy to rise once more. They were on the move. The proceedings were over. With mincing steps, his mind chanted, “1, 2 - 1, 2 - 1, 2 - fo-o-orward, mo-o-oving, sta-a-ay up, do-not-stop, do-not-stumble, do-not-falter, do-not-crumble, 1, 2 - 1, 2 - 1, 2 - no hesitation, do-not-break - mo-o-ove out, to your fate.”  Over and over, he sang it within his mind - trying to keep on his feet despite his waning strength.

That day, it was back to the cold, damp, dirty cells which were in their temporary holding place. Passing through the doors, they’d almost made it when the man behind him pitched forward, sending him likewise domino effect into the next man. Max growled, grinding his teeth. It would be hell getting back up. He felt no anger at the man behind, but this would cost them all.

“Bleedin’ clumsy lot’o’bastids! Back t’yer feet! I’ah lash the hide from ye’ - what’ye’doin’!” The gaoler bellowed, using his foot to kick the first that went down. Moving to the next, he began swinging and cracking the whip to any exposed flesh. The next received a kick and a shove of his foot, sending them down again. Max, being one of them, received the lash of the whip and a booted toe to the ribs. Others felt a strap across their backs along with him. One man was snatched to his knees by the thick dirty hair on his head, his scalp burning where the roots were tugged holding tight, the gaoler leaned down spraying his face with spittle, “I say t’yer bloody feet - get-it’done!”

With their ankles bound, the absurd demand was near to impossible for the weak convicted. Finally, one man used the back of another to get to his feet. The next followed suit. All did the same until all six of them were standing once again.

“G’down agin’ yeah, ye’be dragged off t’yer cell as I beat filth off ye’.” was threatened. The ordeal of the return wore them out. Back in their cells, women in one - men in the other - proved to be more torture all its own. Besides, there not being a dry or clean place to sit - a poor bleeder looking close to death took the one bench. He was so weak, so frail of skin and bone, you had to watch him for a moment to see if his bony chest rose and fell with breathing. Beneath the bench, rats boldly wandered back and forth - standing on their hindquarters to sniff at him as if they could smell his impending demise and wanted to be the first to nibble. If not Max, someone else would shout them off, throwing something to chase them away. Within the cell, the stifling body odor and stench caused the newly added individuals to gag as they struggled to breathe and endure it.

Max knew he added to the stink stew. They hadn’t bathed or cleaned themselves since they were incarcerated. Some had been there over a month, others fourteen days, and those with him, close to that length of time. He looked and smelled as bad as the others sharing the one cell. It became too much, no decent meal, dodging loose excrement and urine and soon running out of places to do so.

Their treatment was worse than that of animals.

Then there were the ugly sounds to contend with.

The sounds of the women crying in the night. Cries from being ill - cries from being taken and used by the turnkeys. 

Amidst such an existence, someone had stripped them of all humanity, leaving them devoid of their manhood. Max thought he would soon turn to madness. All the reasons he hated the English were a constant reminder to him. They were the ones who were not human. How could they do such things to their fellow man? And so, he found it hard to believe that he would ever feel pains of remorse for them. It was a few hours in that he heard a gasp from one within the cell.

 He looked toward the one making the noise and then in the direction he gestured with his head. The rats had climbed up and were nibbling at the poor sod on the bench. He was gone. It was obvious. Max didn’t have the strength to chase them off once more. All he could do was look away.

The one who gestured stated, “Aye, th’lad be better’n th’rest uv’us fer sure, aye.” Spoken with a thick Irish brogue.

Max sighed. In his mind, he agreed he was indeed one of the fortunate ones. No more hunger, beatings, and suffering for him. Glancing back at his dead body, Max never thought he would envy someone passing on. At that moment, he did. One of his fellow inmates shouted through the bars, “Theer’ra a deaden need carryin’ fom’ere.”

Max sat watching, his ears ringing - seeing lights.

The gaoler came growling, rebuking him and then, upon seeing that it was so, complained, “Yer’ah worthless lot, nawt worth pence f’the bunch o’yeh!”

Max turned away - just a second ago he had been entertaining jealousy of the bloke stretched out growing cold. Now, following the gaoler words, his mind returned to escape. Getting free of these common English, ‘th’sassenach!’ he spat. He couldn’t stand to look at them, hear them, their wretched accent. He could think of no group of people more deplorable than they. Maybe, when his stomach recalled the sensation of being full and his people no longer dropped by his side in this mass genocide, his contempt might decrease. Maybe, when they were no longer starved to death - having their hard grown crops kept from them. Maybe, when their harvested potatoes were no longer found sitting and rotting at the very docks, they were being shipped from. Yes, maybe at the end of all of that, he might come to see some of them differently.

However, for now, resentment simmered. Buried deep in the back of his mind, he knew it was not all the English, but that wasn’t where he wanted to be. For the moment, they caused all that was going wrong with him and his people. All of them in power taking part in killing them - those were the ones he wanted to see die slow and painful. The English claim was that all deeds put to them were for the right before their God. If so, their God was the devil, Satan himself.

In his guts, he knew the Bible. His father read to them, the Creator they believed in, would never set to such a despicable act against them. Even his own actions against the English that landed him in his present state, in his mind, were their fault.

They led the first charge.

They planted these seeds of anguish and inferiority so that they somehow had the right to demean and enslave them. His guilt did not belong to their children! But they were being shipped off to a life of slavery as if they’d committed crimes. At the beginning it was told, and they had believed them, that they were being sent off to a better existence. They thought they were off to train as apprentices and then work for a piece of precious land. Yes, in hopes they might gain an education, an advantage and a place and experience to serve their future. A place where their families could join them in the new colony.

However, not even the vast width of the ocean could stop the truth from reaching them. Not only was all assured a lie told to make parents concerning their children believe it was for the best, but the truth was far worse than anything imagined.

Aye, Cromwell saw his own justification for this act. As he was in power and considered a holy man by some. A holy man with no morals, empathy or conscience for anyone not of his peer.

Max fought off his feelings. He had to mind his weakened state and keep the contempt for them from his eyes. They, the bleeding Sassenach, would see to it to kill them all - time proved that to be true. That was the goal for them. But first, they must ensure that they fill the need for laborers. Those not set up for death would be slaves, i.e., bond servants. Demeaned to accept their lower station in life. Positioned to serve those who decided they were greater. Max’s body shifted about in the stewing of his mind, his fist clenching tight, then relaxed. It did little good to let the madness take him. But later, God willing, he would find a way back to them for the deeds done to his people.

Finally, because of the death, the cell was to be cleaned.

The stench should have been enough, no - was not. Now once more, they must dig deep into their motivation to survive and find the strength to come to their feet. Some could not and thus crawled on their hands and knees. Starved, listless, slow moving caused the gaolers to kick and shout, “Get t’yer feet ye’louses.”

With the aid of others, they barely did so to the sound of more degrading words spat their way. Being held by others kept the weak from tumbling as the tyrannical attendants shoved them to get them moving faster. In the courtyard, they sucked in the fresh air blowing in from the sea. Once they made it to center court, shocking them were buckets after buckets of cold water tossed upon their sodden bodies. No soap or sponge to clean the oily soot and grime clinging, despite the splashing. They were simply cold, shivering, and soaked. A few, including Max, used the water to wipe their skin clear. However, now wet, the breezes from the restless sea forced them to bunch in close to one another for any source of heat there might be.

The women prisoners with enough strength to get it done, cleaned and scoured the cells, while they left the others outside. Few barely stayed on their feet and thus were among those huddled for heat. This cleaning did not take place often. Perhaps once or twice per batch. Mainly when the human cargo began dying off, and the ammonia smells mixed with feces reached the noses of those in charge. At that point, the magistrate would complain about the horrendous conditions and shout for it to be cleaned away. 

As for Max, he couldn’t care less why they were out in the courtyard drowning. What mattered most was that he could breathe freely. Yes, he shivered, still feeling musty, but the water had washed away whatever was biting him. That alone was worth it. He had a longing that they would take every one of their garments from them, but no, they were to remain. After a few hours of sitting in the cold, hypothermia overcame some individuals, and they began lying down. Even the toss of more stale bread, boiled gruel, did not tempt them. To his shame, for once - Max dove for it. He fought for the bread, tearing into a loaf, devouring it like a beast. Also, scooping into his hands lumps of the gruel that was basically broken and overcooked potatoes, shoving that in as well. Many of them were so thirsty and desperate they lay on their bellies, lapping at the filthy puddles around them like dogs.

The gaolers stood watching, laughing, and pointing as they made sport of them by urinating down on a few as they lay. Soon as those belly down realized what was happening, they rolled away in disgust, gagging and gipping in revulsion. “Aye, there be a bit more f’yer t’drink!” This comment brought about more ribald laughter.

Max sat thinking there was no greater hell - wondering could it possibly get worse as he heard a secret companion mutter low, “Aye, th’blighters - I pray t’stay livin’ long enuf t’get’em fer this. Aye, th’day’ll come - thee’ll be nae escapin’ it t’be-sure.” Anlon muttered in hushed tones. If he found himself among the gentry, he could speak the local slang or adjust his speech to that of a gentleman. He could dupe the officials or the elite, taking on their manner so easily it was like breathing air. He was an excellent mimic. No one could play the role of lord, earl or baron like him, missing only the purse and garments in the act.

“Aye, I’ve long given up such thoughts fer now. Me thoughts are fer yonder open gate.” Max spoke finally, choosing the easier slang as well. Yes, he too could speak better, was educated, but it didn’t prove very helpful for him then. He sat wiping his mouth of the ripe gruel and bread - resisting the need to vomit it back out. The two men sat back-to-back against a tether pole between them for support.

“Aye, know that I’d quickly follow, fer sure.” Anlon agreed.

“Aw look it, th’lass.” Max muttered.

“Who now?” Anlon asked.

“Th’might wee lass they brung afta’ been at’her th’night long. She succumbs. Peace b’with’er now.” Both men watched as the turnkey nudged her with his booted foot, yelling obscenities for her to get up. No chance of that happening, considering she’d been lying in that position with her dead eyes staring into the promised land. To be sure, the turnkey gave her a sound kick to the ribs, thinking she might be faking. He turned, yelling for her to be carried off.

Both men sat motionless, quiet now, occasionally giving in to the need to shiver from the cold, their teeth chattering. The fog was moving in, and both men wondered when they could return to their cells. Of a sudden and from nowhere, Max saw a stark darkness, so dark he felt himself surrounded by night. Next, laughter. Joyful, girlish giggles - sweet, a sound so out-of-place considering where he sat. And then, out of the darkness, bright eyes and a white toothy smile so infectious it made him smile. She reached out, cooing and calming him. Her soothing tiny voice was like that of a child, yet - a woman, “Shhhh - shhh, is betta yeah? Is betta…”

“I said ge’t’yer bleedin’ feet - move it!” He kicked him while shouting with spit flying from his offensive mouth. Shaking his head, Max attempted to snap out of it. He realized he’d fallen asleep - dozed off with the cold lulling them to the land of eternal peace.

Not this day.

More yelling sounded out around them, cursing the day God made such a blight on England as the Irish. There was no doubt the English hated them. Whether or not they could walk or stand - it was get to their feet or feel the whip. They, those that still could, struggled to their feet once more. Moving now in a new direction - it seemed they weren’t going back to the cell. Some with sodden wood clogs on their feet, shackles removed for hemp that were now chafing their ankles. They minced carefully all ninety men and women through town toward the docks. In their departure, they noticed four others passed into blissful peace and wondered how many would survive by the time they reached journey’s end. The air was crisp and cool before the crack of dawn. Seagulls were flying about, searching for scraps. Carefully, they ascended the gangplank at the docks, making sure not to slip. If just one went over the side of the narrow walk, it would pull the others in. They made it aboard. The fear of landing in the frigid waters gave them extra powers of stability.

Once aboard, the crew conducted an inventory of the human livestock and tied them into groups of four. In the bowels of the ship, each would have to endure the long crossing to the new land where they would serve out their sentences. The ship did not immediately set sail, but they shuffled two more human lots aboard. The new group of forty more men and women, the other fifty-six of the same, a few children with them. Hours along, they got underway. Before reaching the shores of their new home, they lost more people. They started out with sixty-two women altogether of the three lots. When they reached land, there were only twenty-eight. Their number was more than cut in half. Not all the women “died”, some by means aid no human should suffer. True to the saying, only the strong survive, only the strong did. There were those who endured the lash of the whip - brought on by whatever whim the captain had because of drink or boredom. Indeed, the women suffered the more, tortured and raped to entertain him and his crew.

Upon landing, more horror, they must face an auction. The warmth of the new climate was better than the cold they left behind. That comfort would soon depart once the intense heat arrived with the shifts of seasons. For the moment, they received a wash and clean clothing. Nothing of worthy mention, but the filthy rags were gone because of the auction. They would have stripped them bare if not for showing the outline of their skeletal condition. Those purchasing them didn’t even ask to see them to the skin. They all knew the state of the Irish. Because they came so cheap and had survived thus far, it was enough. In conclusion, buyers bought them and divided them up to go with their new owners. Anlon and Max turned to get one last look at each other, promising that somehow, they would come together again. In the journey, they had grown even closer, it would seem. Both promised if they would survive this, they would escape it or die trying.

Chapter One

New Life Begins - Virginia

Robinson Tobacco Plantation 

Lil’Pheybey, most of all, called her. She was dark as night - quick as they came, a native girl orphaned early in life. She was on a mission. Miss Suzie had her collect a fresh basket of healing herbs and berries to be used in poultices to treat the wounds of the newcomers.

The new slaves had arrived.

There were places where she squatted to pick, and from there she could easily hear them. The sounds of their screams cut right through her, drowning out the low humming sounds of the melody often going on in her mind. Sometimes, she would share it with daydreams of a mother she often fantasized about. Dead or alive, Miss Suzie wasn’t sure. From time to time, it was thoughts of her mother, or the tunes that eased from her full lips. It wasn’t often others heard her voice, a pitch in soprano, emitting notes that did not seem humanly possible. Her modulation came naturally to her. She could go low and smooth or reach the highest treetops in a single breath. All of it with effortless control. Sometimes, when unsettled within herself, thoughts of her mother would inspire her to release such mesmerizing songs. Those nearby found themselves paused as if frozen to be sure of what they were hearing. Her voice touched every nerve in the body, sending goosebumps upon the skin of the listener. However, this day, the only sounds being heard were the screams from those being marked with the branding iron of letters stamping them property of RTP. Together, the three letters covered a bit more than an inch of skin once done.

They couldn’t escape from it. They imprisoned all the new ones temporarily to wait for the branding, shearing, and washing. Those watching, black, Indian and the mix of the same with Irish blended within, slaves one, and all felt goosebumps watching, hearing their screams of agony.

For once, dark skin was a blessing.

With dark hues in color, there was no need to brand them. Their non-white skin said loud and clear they were un-free slaves. Even if they were not slaves, anyone who caught them running free would force them into slavery. But the Irish with their white skin had to be sheared and branded to keep them from being lost in a crowd, should they attempt to take off. As bad as it was to be branded, those at Master Robinson’s plantation were far more fortunate than others. He didn’t like branding his slaves on the face, as others did. He directed that his be scorch scarred on the back of the neck and have their hair cropped to the scalp, even the women. Only special privilege made it so that a woman could grow her hair long to be pinned up. For example, working in the house as a servant and attending to Master Robinson’s needs. That was rare. She had to be proven trustworthy, so few knew this privilege if one considered it that.

In either case, hearing their cries of agony spurred Pheybey on. She’d always been fastidious, quick to act in all that she did. No one could ever accuse her of dragging her feet. For one so young, sixteen summers along, she almost anticipated what was needed, and when. Before Miss Suzie gave a command, she would often take care of what was needed. Such as what she was doing then, gathering herbs. The new slaves would be in a world of hurt. No time to spare, with them arriving in a weakened state. Miss Suzie kept telling Master Robinson he should wait before branding them - give them time to get strong.

Such advice fell on deaf ears.

He wanted them marked right away so there was no chance of them slipping off if they got on their feet and took a notion to escape before the branding.

He felt because they were Irish, if they died from it, they died. Besides, there were more coming in, and it wasn’t like they were worth anything.

Master Robinson viewed them more as breeding stock and believed that their limited ability to work made them otherwise useless. It made sense to him they be used as breeding stock for more slaves with the blacks and Indians that he used. The native black made for better slaves because they could endure the sun and the long hours in the fields. What he learned, as the other masters learned, by mixing the Irish with them, it was not a total waste to have them. They got decent looking stock from the mix. Strong, vibrant and even pretty slaves in terms of what they considered good looks from some men and women. Finally, they’d found good use for the Irish bond servants. That’s what some had been told, that they were held by a bond for a period.

Many learned quickly the hidden deception. Few left England as genuine bond servants to serve out a seven-year sentence. If that is the case, even they were used for breeding purposes, or else they would suddenly find themselves re-categorized as “slaves” with no way out. Their status quo suddenly altered for good. Afraid of that ending, they conformed. They knew that most of their fellow Irish arrived as full-blown slaves. It didn’t matter where they were going, Virginia, the Carolinas or Barbados. The plantations needed free manpower to make a profit and grow the business quickly. Best labor was slave laborers. Breeding them saved them money down the road. Allowed them to raise their offspring as slaves, reconditioning them for their lot in life right from infancy. Instilling in them their place, their primary purpose for being alive. In the Irish coffle that arrived, not all were weak. There was the occasional thriving strand among the men. When they spotted them, they were quick to breed them with their strongest black and sturdy wenches.

Some by force.

The men who refused, and they were few, witnessed the torture and killing of a few rebels, which motivated them. It was a known fact they would kill an Irish without blinking. When many of them accepted that, it only took one or two examples of how those that would not conform fared.

Most of the offspring or gets from the Black/Irish breeding were strong, attractive and valuable. They also took Mexican peasants from the south, enslaved them, and brought them up. Upon arrival, they would toss the Mexican peasants in and use them in the blends if desired.

Regular, selective human breeding had begun.

In either case, they fetched a good price. Same applied for the strong Irish Women that arrived. Seldom were they allowed to breed with their own, no one paid good money for a full blood Irish no matter how cheap they came - unless that is they were extraordinarily beautiful and going in the house as a serving girl, man server or the like.

In the new lot just arrived, it was too early to tell what the master of RTP had bid on. Despite the half attempt to clean them up, they were still dirty, skin and bone, weak as babes. If that were not bad enough, a few were diseased. Master Robinson depended on Miss Suzie to bring them through it, cure them if they survived the branding. Yes, they had that to live through because often the branding sent them over the edge. Subsequently, Master Robinson knew if they survived from that point, they would be of good stock. That test might assure them a life of hard work while being bred. It didn’t matter that the primary function of RTP was to grow tobacco.

Lord Leonard Harold Bakersfield received the crops they grew, which were sent back to England. The plantation in truth belonged to him. With his inheritance, he jumped on board with many others who invested in holdings in the new colonies where they grew hemp, cotton, and tobacco. Once they picked, packed, and shipped it, they stood to gain in the markets. This was how many of England’s aristocracy gained their wealth.

Profiting from slave labor.

Enlisting those whom they deemed beneath them to grow, cultivate and pick. Sending their various overseers who had once collected taxes, rent and other fees from their land dwellers on the estates. They now went to the colonies as planters to run the plantations in their place. As most knew, it couldn’t be expected that they would suffer under such crude conditions in an uncivilized land.

Thus, Master Robinson was one such overseer who’d come to the colonies long ago. Like so many others, they used breeding the slaves and selling them to line their own pockets. Knowing, as did Master Robinson, if they sent off the shipments of weighing in hemp, cotton and tobacco - there was no one to police them for their deeds. Doing this would eventually gain them their own independence and freedom. The money they made by showing off what selective breeding could do was a past-time that worked to fatten their purses. It also kept them in laborers. Few gave a conscience thought against using their fellow man like cattle or horses.

They considered themselves masters at generating types.

To the English, it was smart practice putting good use on those they deemed as wasted humanity. Once the mixed children were weaned from their mothers, the English examined them and selected them for future sales. In fact, it wasn’t a long wait for one such child selected for that purchase–he would fetch such a coin.

His name was Keir.

Keir was about to be weaned.

He was one of the unique to be born of the Irish-Black mix so far there at RTP. His mother was Irish, his sire a black native. Keir had silky straight golden blonde hair like his mother and her blue eyes, but he was strong as a young bull and, of all things, dark brown skin like his sire. When buyers came and saw him, they anxiously clamored over him - never having seen such a combination before. The bidding went high for him. Not quite 18 months, he had an exuberance and energy that many knew he would grow into something to behold as a young boy, a young man, and finally a stud for breeding.

The child was already handsome beyond words. His father was a thick and strong-muscled beast, assuring that Keir would be the same. Like his father, dark skin with his mother’s hair and eyes. Yes, he was the talk of all. He was the firstborn of his mother, Ailbe, and his father, Betak. Master Robinson had plans to breed them often hoping to get more like Keir to sell. He was hoping for a few girls with those looks - dark skin, straight blond hair and blue eyes. Yes, they would sell.

Keir would be expensive to buy because Master Robinson was selling him as a future stud. Meaning, out of that one child, he was planning to get back what he spent for the last three Irish and Black coffle bought.

Pheybey’s thoughts of the day when Keir would be sold made her shiver in dread. Ailbe his mother, loved her Keir with something fierce. She had a feeling somebody was going to die that day before they took that baby from her. She was strong, Ailbe was. Big-boned and solid - of good stock. That’s what Master Robinson had said. Pheybey believed it to be so. Miss Suzie agreed too. One thing Master Robinson didn’t know about Ailbe - and that was, she was crazy from all she’d gone through, coming there from Ireland. She was desperately clingy about her Keir - protective, to hold on to him. Pheybey did not wish to be around to see the day of separation. She knew what was to come for him and there were already murmurings that Ailbe was planning to flee. Betak knew it - but would not chance it to run with her. If ever he were to run, it would be back to his children from his original wife. She was now coupled with another from that tribe. That was over, but his children were still his children. He prayed to the great God that Ailbe would make it out with his first boy child as a slave. His others, he prayed, were still free, free among a distant tribe. He’d sacrificed himself to give his family time to run off. He’d rather they go through the entry trial of what a tribe would require to be among them than this fate as a slave.

Now - here was another child of his, and his mother was a fierce woman. Yes, God help them if they took Keir from her.

Betak wanted her to get away with his unique son. He planned to help. Again, he would stay behind, hoping that by staying there, it might gain their freedom.

Just as most of the others knew, Pheybey would help Ailbe if Miss Suzie asked her. In truth, she would do so anyway. Betak was family. Keir was a part of that family. Also, the reason that Pheybey could was because of hiding in plain sight.

Pheybey was free, not yet among the captured.

Returning from her thoughts was another scream of the branding. She did her utmost to stay out of sight of Master Robinson and his overseers. She paused at the base of a tree near the corral, watching. Her eyes were round with pity in her small heart-shaped face. She watched in horror as one of the new ones fought against his fate. She usually stayed clear of the area, but she was trying to get Miss Suzie’s attention. No way would she walk to her or call out. She’d done a good job of moving about the plantation like a ghost, unseen by the ones who could end her freedom. It was her quiet speed and secret presence that kept her from being captured. Kept her from being bred so far. Ever aware of those around her, she veiled her eyes from the naked group. They stripped down all the men and women, leaving none with their dignity. To enslave meant doing all possible to shame and degrade them. Once they branded them, they would drench them in water to wash them clean.

Those watching dreaded the outcome of the one fighting. Taking turns, they yelled out to him, “Don’ fight na’!” It was mostly the black slaves calling out one after another. Most of them that could watch sat around the corral rail, or up high in the tree, including the one she hid behind. In low voices, various ones pointed out which might live, which might die, shaking their heads in pity. Their faces winced and frowned, while some closed their eyes in anticipation and dreaded when they would press the red-hot glowing iron against the skin of their necks, along with the heart-wrenching scream! Even behind that, they could hear the sizzle and hiss on the sweaty skin, forcing the permanent brand of the RTP sideways down the length.

“Don’fight, don’fight - ain’t gon’hep’yah naw.” They tried to warn the one with fight still left in him. He wasn’t listening, too busy thrashing about, trying to push away. In vain, he tried to keep them from dragging him to the glowing coals and iron. He was still many feet away, and yet the heat was emanating from its source to meet him. He gnashed his teeth and fought fiercely, tears of anger and aggression gathering to spike his lashes, streaming from the outer corners of his eyes. His pale skin was red and bruised from the harsh handling.

“Jus’get ova’wit!” Those concerned for him kept shouting.

Pheybey could hear him grunting and growling. How could she not? All of them noticed this man. Cautious, she glanced up from hooded eyes to get a good look at the fighter. His spirit, his power, held her captivated. Under the conditions they arrived in, he must feel weak. The overseers jeered him, laughing, poking him with sticks, pulling on the rough hemp rope that held his wrist bound.

He was tall, and skinny from lack of food. They called him ugly, cruel names. Pheybey could not fathom the viciousness one group of white men could use against another. Few of the black slaves understood this extreme hatred between two clans of pale skins. To see it made them dread those who dodged the sun. All reasoned, there would be no mercy for them if they got out of line when these men treat their own with such cruelty. Pheybey’s culture was ignorant of the social classing and divisions established between the English, Irish, Yorkshiremen and Scots. Worse for sure against the Irish. They knew nothing of the royals, of Oliver Cromwell, and his religious fervor against the fair slaves arriving regularly.

She only knew the history of the tribes she’d come from and the reason for their battles. Such battles existed with the tribesmen from this land–especially those looking more like the Asian adventurers who had come long ago and bred with the dark natives, then departed–leaving behind sons and daughters.

There was a contest between them.

Many of their offspring were themselves a new tribe. They had been with their own likeness, breeding within and spreading across the continent like wildfire. Dark still, but straight, coarse hair–slanted, narrow eyes, high cheekbones. They now did battle for dominance, trying to claim most of the land for themselves. For certain, there were many battles among them, more so now than ever. It was the curse of new men to a new land, staking a claim. Indeed, many died because of that. Yet, mostly, it was competition over the lands and hunting grounds. It was not about class, but might, speed, ability, and wisdom in their competitions against one another. Their battles centered on domain claims and respect. Should there be one among them or other tribes that crossed the line - death was the price that was paid, it happened. They stole women from various tribes as well to add new blood, to add strength and give a show of might. She wondered if that’s where her mother was and could not get free. Yet, in all the madness, there was a certain code they lived by. For the most part, once upon a time, their land had been a place of relative peace.

This, however, was different - more extreme in her eyes, evil perhaps. Thinking deeply, she wondered, did they, this new pale man, see them the same? Exhaling a sigh, she let it go with the last thought of Miss Suzie’s words seeming to be true for this land… “No peace, no day, no night, no more.”

“Down ya’Irish dog! To yer’knees!” was yelled at him as they fought to bend him over the stump used to support them. His captors threw water down from the brandings before him, causing him to be covered in mud that he then shared with them. They brought him to the stump, pressed his chest into the un-giving surface, and partially hung his head over. The handlers guided their heads, forcing the neck into a carved out and smoothed notch where hundreds of throats made it so. One man knelt opposite to headlock and hold each victim, choking them. To assist, others immobilized their bodies while pressing the iron hard and quickly against the back of their necks.

This man was taking a beating while exhausting the efforts of the overseers. He was stronger than he looked. It had taken time and great effort to subdue the starving slave. For that, they made him pay. While they worked to wrestle him into place, the overseers viciously kicked or punched him for every slide and slip backward. Every one of them gasped and wheezed to finish the ordeal.

“E’ah right stubborn bastid!” Master Robinson spat, “Aye, ‘e got fight,” he begrudgingly admired, “Miss Suzie!” He shouted.

Her reply was prompt, “Yessa’ Masta’ Rob’son?”

“Aye, ye’be sure ‘e live - will be breedin’im soon as ‘e’a’foot - if we don’ave t’kill’im first.” He contemplated last, his accent that of the lower-class Yorkshiremen. Watching this man, he knew the type. If it came to having to kill him, he wanted to get at least two if not three pups from him. He’d be happy with one male-get that he’d bring up to breed further and then he could kill this sire off. All he wanted was his coin back that he paid for him and, yes, some profit.

Miss Suzie stood by Master Robinson’s side, filling him in on what she had for them. “Got sweet’potata fo’days t’feed’em, yeah.” She always fed the new slaves’ sweet potatoes. Nothing else revived their strength and appetite like boiled sweet potatoes. After eating that for a few days, she’d add wild greens. Once they could tolerate those foods, she would add wild mushrooms, eggs, catfish, raccoon, and pheasant to their diet. Last to be thrown in was her cornpone. In no time, they’d put weight back on and see a return of their strength. Master Robinson would oversee it, replying, “Get’em fit fer breedin’”

With little choice, Miss Suzie nodded to do his will.

Finally, they got him.

His sweat, hit by the hot iron, caused a loud hiss and sizzle to be heard by most close by. He wailed in a mighty cry that sent shivers through Pheybey. Turning away, she’d seen enough. There were things to be done. She would speak with Miss Suzie soon. Dashing off, she discreetly collected all needed placing supplies at each cabin they’d go to. She was not alone. There were others who would help. For those being branded, there were two more to go after the tall fighter. After they completed the task, they would use lye soap to wash down everyone and scrub them, despite their pain.

Men bathing the men.

Women cleaning the women.

Part of the process was having the hair on their heads shorn, ridding them of lice. Once they were squeaky clean, sick, weak and in agonizing burning pain, they’d be delivered to their resting place to recoup.

Men and women, naked, were all piled into one wagon.

Once at a cabin, it would stop, and they’d be taken off and led to their cots where they would recover or die. Miss Suzie had a pretty good record, but wished she could save more. Few would die if she could get more water down them. The primary cause of the problem was how they branded them.

Inside the cabins, black and white slaves did their part in the routine of caring for them. They would wear easy garments to look somewhat decent. They called the simple, threadbare garments so because they eased them onto the slaves and if they died, eased them off. For men, the easies were loose, tie string britches mainly to hide their privates. For women, a short chemise above the knee. In truth, a loose sack pullover. When Master Robinson chose one to breed, that’s all she could wear while he ordered her to be covered by his chosen stud. Miss Suzie always warned Pheybey when it was breeding time. She stayed out of sight.

Now, she rushed to each cabin, placing clean easies for the men on the cots where the new ones would go. And then to the women’s placing those as well. The slaves who shared the cabins with them brought in a platter of potatoes. They were warm, split open and laden with butter and cinnamon bark ground to powder. It was such a good taste, most all devoured it after such a long spell of hunger. Miss Suzie would feed them on it until they had enough; it worked to fill their bellies fast.

Pheybey finished her task in time to hear the buckboard coming down the cabin lane to start the dropping off. Naked and clean, they lay trembling from shock and moaning in agony - their skin on fire from the branding, rough scrubbing and handling. By the time the wagon reached the first cabin, Pheybey was gone. She went back to Miss Suzie’s cabin to gather what was needed for the poultices. Quick about it, all was present, rags and parcels to soothe the burning pain. She also did the herbal mix they would light to fill the air in the room to calm them, ease the pain, and help them sleep once inhaled.

The natives of her tribe and others had been using the greenish brown seedy bud for as long as Pheybey could remember. It eased pain, put one to sleep and used as well for child birthing. Growing plentifully, they used it for everything one could imagine.

With her skirts held high, Miss Suzie rushed to her cabin, knowing Pheybey as she did, she called out to her upon nearing it, “Com’ chile. Time fo’treaten’em. Jus’us naw, yeah.” With all the new slaves laid and left, everyone scattered back to their work. The rest would be in Miss Suzie’s hands. Trusting and obedient to her, Pheybey came carrying their implements and remedies. From one cabin to the next, they saw to the women first. This care and mending would last through the night. They expected to sit longer with the weakest of them. Miss Suzie tried asking Master Robinson for an infirmary. He wouldn’t hear of it, as he considered it a waste of space. The two had no choice but to move from one cabin to the next if that’s what the night or day called for. This was mostly the case when they brought in the Irish. They frequently suffered from physical abuse, illness, and starvation. As for the natives, they were always in better shape. If they needed treatment, the primary cause was the beatings they endured while being forced to conform.

However, never for being starved, diseased and barely standing like the Irish. Miss Suzie explained to Pheybey and some others that it was because the Irish, or Redlegs, were brought from a distant place over the great waters. She said there was talk of bringing some from Africa. It was a long way off, so they would arrive like the Irish.

Pheybey, neither of the generations before had memory of their ancestors travels there from Africa. The many who had ventured to the new land were long gone, aside from the stories passed down. Hundreds of years had passed since their lives began on the continent. The aboriginal tribes or natives of America were vast and varied. While they were all dark, what was most telling in their difference was the hair types and features.

Some had bone straight hair because of the Asian influence.

Others of the aboriginal tribe, such as Miss Suzie and Pheybey, whose hair stood full, curly around their heads resembling great dark clouds.

They captured many of them along with other “In-dios” as they referred to them and shipped them off to islands like Barbados and the West Indies. Miss Suzie warned Pheybey that she too could be caught in the net, eventually. Miss Suzie tried to convince Pheybey to run off and join one of the clans still wandering free, but Pheybey refused to be separated from her fellow tribesmen who were slaves at RTP. She moved about the outskirts of Robinson plantation because Betak and Miss Suzie were taken there.

She hid in the woods at night in her own little custom-fashioned shelter. The camouflage of it hid her well. Her practice for the morning continued from the days when she was with her clan, many of them gone from the slaughter.

She carried on.

Twice already, she’d lost her dwelling place thanks to various native men that discovered it. They would find her small dwelling, ransacking it, looking for what may be of use to them. When it happened, she would crawl beneath the cabins, making a bed for herself there until she found another suitable spot in the woods. She had a new spot now, deep amid a blackberry vine grove. The location was perfect, dryer than most, because of sitting so high in an area that undulated unevenly with highs and lows. Even better, thorny blackberry vines covered it. She’d had to chase the rabbits from it and killed a badger for it. However, few natives would bother with it because the thorns made it well hidden. Even she used caution having to slide in on her back, using two long staffs along the length of her small body to push the opening wide. In setting it up, she’d suffered more than a few pricks and scratches. Putting time into it, the way in and out was much better now. Within, she’d dug out a bowl like crevice to settle in, slowly building a frame beneath the tangle of berries. She expertly wove twigs, vines, and saplings tightly on the overhead frame. At the very lowest point of the bowl, she’d made four holes lined with native bamboo shoots opposite each. She drove them all the way out to the outer surface, slanting downward, with smooth stones from the river to secure them. She positioned those shoots to drain any rain away from her den.

Perched above the holes were double shelves of saplings weaved. Between them, pebbles and straw. On top, layers of skins and hides to soften her bed. It was a perfect hideaway. She’d put much thought, time and consideration into finding it and preparing it. From outside, it looked like an overgrowth of blackberry vines. They grew so high and vast, few wanted to bother. Thick brushes, ferns, and weeds also engulfed it, making it impassable and abandoned to nature. She’d taken a lot of time as well, burning and killing the spiders and webs throughout. Every day that she exited her hide-away posed a danger of discovery. Despite it, she looked forward to giving Miss Suzie aid. She took pride in her little-go-for-this and go-for-those journeys mixing what was needed. The tribes called Pheybey Pe’hor and for good reason. She was a busy worker who crept about the plantation watching all - learning much and dreading the life that the remaining few of her tribesmen must endure. They included Miss Suzie, Betak and others. Almost all the men had been killed off, and some women for fighting back. Amid those left were a few children who were slaves with them. As Pheybey lived freely, there were some of them doing the same. Sneaking about to survive in the area they knew.

When the time was right, they did what they could to free members of their clan. One who was most known for helping free others, a native man, Dababa. He was always busy, free, and for now–patiently awaiting the best time to get them all away.

The treatment that was happening in Ireland to men, women, and children was also happening on the vast continent of the new colonies. According to Miss Suzie, the place she heard them often speaking of was Africa. The journey for more slaves from there had begun.

The British invasion was moving across the land like a deadly cancer. A plague of locusts for which there was no stopping. Leaving death, devastation and desolation in its wake. Destroying one culture and tribe after another. A great white evil disease for which there was no way of blocking, burning or battling it. The numbers of them were steadily coming their way. They moved into massacre, steal, and conquer and then stake their claim.

Because of that, Pheybey knew she was on borrowed time. She hoped Dababa would figure out a way for them. Until that day she would continue her venturing in to be with Miss Suzie until it got her caught up with the rest. For now, she had nowhere to go, and like a mouse, ran in and out doing what she could to dwell among the others, hoping to avoid the snare. She wouldn’t worry about that. There was work to do. She blended in well because Miss Suzie had clothes for her to wear when she was running errands for her. If she wasn’t on the plantation with Miss Suzie, she was about in her tribal wear, partially covered, blending in with the surrounding nature. Her thick head of hair, when left wild, stood around her head large, dropping past her shoulders, coal black and heavy with silky curls that would tangle if she did not twist it.

Majority of the time twisted Bantu knots about her head was how she kept it. Let loose, she risked it getting caught in low-hanging branches when she was on the hunt or fishing. Pheybey was a lone girl valuable not only to the possibilities of Master Robinson, but also to tribes that always brought in strays for new blood. Her skin was darkest amongst them, rich, smooth, and stunning. Her almost extinct tribesmen often referred to her as mud-girl because she was so very dark. Miss Suzie said she was so dark because her father had been that dark, pitch black.

Pheybey was. He took off soon after she was born.

Miss Suzie said he was a traveler, a teacher, a Moor. Not of much of height - but splendid looking.

A powerful voice.

Pheybey was little as well.

Quick in her thinking, and brave.

Her high level of energy and productiveness also aligned her to being dubbed the name referring to the black ant - Peque-hormiga-Negra or, for short, Pe’hor - Little Black Ant. It was a compliment to align her with the ever-busy, industrious ant. Miss Suzie, however, gave her the name Lil’Pheybey. Dubbed so after another slave Miss Suzie came to know and love. She had been smart, busy, dependable - named Pheybey by Master Robinson. That Pheybey hadn’t been little. She stood tall, strong and mighty of spirit, from a tribe of natives that were all statuesque. Disease wiped out that entire clan, leaving only a few surviving women who were used for breeding. They ended up killing the original Pheybey because she fought and wouldn’t be cowed.

Would not bend.

Would not breed and would not conform.

She’d died dignified and proud. Her head held high until it fell back in death. Miss Suzie had loved her and gave Pe’hor the new name Lil’Pheybey instead of Little Black Ant. Miss Suzie always thought Pheybey had the most beautiful face she had ever seen, that her bright eyes and bright smile could mesmerize anyone who gave her long enough attention to see it was so. Her mother had been beautiful as well. Pheybey looked very similar to her mother, with her father’s color. Last, that voice that came from within her. Her mother’s voice had been similar. She’d used it to signal or call out to the tribe. It had been a very long time since they heard the voice of Badru.

Pheybey’s mother.

Pheybey possessed that voice as a blessing, but more - so much more. It was rare for someone to be blessed with the opportunity to hear Pheybey’s voice because when you did, it interfered with the work at hand. Stopping you from all you did just to give it a listen in amazement. Wondering where it had come from, stunned to discover Lil’Pheybey.

Sitting with Miss Suzie, Pheybey needed to focus on the weak and injured, and so kept working tirelessly through the evening and night. Not one complaint would she murmur because as far as she could see, it had to be done. Might as well see to it quickly and then move on to the next. Because of the head count, this was going to be a busy night. At the auction, Master Robinson bought five Irish men and three Irish women. All of them put in separate cabins where they would work on them until they were on their feet. Once they noted who survived, Master Robinson would decide what to do with them and which ones to use for breeding. He strictly controlled that and could be fierce about it. He knew that men who were randy with need couldn’t be trusted with his virgins. His aim was to be rich in his own right while practicing selective breeding.

The only time he allowed mating was for his own financial gain. The pairings were, according to his calculations in what might come from the carefully chosen male and female.

Were he to find that a male had taken the virginity of his females without his say-so, it meant trouble. If she ended up knocked - he would fly into such a rage because that would mean a waste if the child born didn’t look the part for sales. As low as he treated them, he didn’t take kindly to killing off the get. He had a bit of a conscience, though not much of one. Also, there was the matter of him using the virgins to barter for favors from his political acquaintances. The guilty male ruining that for him could prepare for a beating, and the severity of it depended on the one he’d ruined.

Master Robinson loved treating his men guest to a fresh young virgin if they stayed the night. He always kept three or more for just that. Most of the time, if they were well pleased, it meant them buying her for the right price, of course. Master Robinson didn’t care what happened to her once the price was paid, but in the meantime, hands off. If not bought and left behind, he always hoped she was left with a child. At one time, he had a few unscrupulous guests complaining that one or two hadn’t been a virgin. If it were true, she would be better off revealing who took it, or else she would face a beating. They discovered the guest had lied after following up and inquiring. To avoid that happening again, Master Robinson would personally make sure before sending her up. Mostly when he was breeding, it was to put the Irish women with his strong black men slaves. He’d determined that breed was the best mix for the fields when the father was native, black. He used a white Irish male, when desiring a particular breed for girls who were used for house workers or fancies. In both cases, it was possible to get an excellent field or house slaves - it all depended on the blend. The thing was, he had his system the way he liked it. No one could jeopardize it, especially the slaves whose lives he had in his hands. The young of mixes were what many preferred from what he produced. They fetched the highest price, like that little Keir - which would be the best sale yet. Eager to begin the auction, he couldn’t wait to wean him. He fantasized about how high the bidding would go. He could clearly see a hefty purse for the sale of him, so odd was his coloring. His new owner would be free to take him directly following the sale.

As for Pheybey, as a witness to all the goings on of what it meant to be a slave, she wanted no part of it. Miss Suzie warned her, trying to shoo her off to find a mate in the tribes. Pheybey didn’t want to be mated with anyone. That’s what she could look forward to if she went. She didn’t want to end up as a third wife who the first wives could mistreat, beat, or scar if they didn’t like her.

Besides that, she never wanted to mate.

As far as she knew, the little that she saw, it was a dirty, painful ordeal for the female. It didn’t look right to her. She was told it hurt when the man had you and again when the baby came out. No, she would just as soon keep on doing what she did. She had lived sixteen summers just fine with no pestering.

That’s what Miss Suzie had said, sixteen summers. She would know. She helped her mother bring her into the world. Her attachment to Miss Suzie was as close to a mother as she was going to get. One reason she clung to her now. She was also resigned to the way the world seemed to be going, where nothing was a sure thing anymore. Therefore, she decided to take her chances and follow Miss Suzie until she felt compelled to choose a different path.

Shifting her thoughts once more, she sat on the floor along with Miss Suzie checking a new slave. Pheybey had all the herbs she’d picked spread before her, ready to use. The tallow they used was melting. Ten cabins away, people could detect the smell of it. It competed with the skunk smell of the burning buds and leaves to soothe, calm and relax the newcomers. The odors mixing left a lot to be desired, but it reminded all that Miss Suzie was working her healing on the new. The herbs worked with dark rum that helped numb them. It served two ways. Mixed with the various herbs for the poultices, and to drink. Only a couple of women fought against the taste of it, whereas the men welcomed it. Poultices had to be made and applied, which kept Pheybey with the heavy mortar stone and pestle between her thighs. It was her job to get it all ground for each new batch. Twisting the fresh leaves, pinching off flower buds, dropping in berries, seeds and spores of dried mushrooms. With the pestle, she forced and extracted the important essence and juices, combining what was needed for medicine. Miss Suzie glanced her way, “Hurr’up, gone be a long nigh’ yeah.”

Pheybey nodded, “I do Miss Suzie.” Miss Suzie added dark rum and tallow once she achieved the desired consistency. In each of the cabins where the new and injured patients lie, awaiting their turn, they would perform this task. With women first, it was rare that one, or all, didn’t faint from the pain they were in. Already the smoke from the herb with the added shot of rum had them dozing off to sleep. Once Miss Suzie was done with them, exhaustion blended with the treatment, aroma and rum put them out. The problem was, it wasn’t unusual for one or more to fall asleep and never wake again. It was a sad state that she nor Miss Suzie got used to, some of them making it this far in their journey and then death.

The new Irish women were done.

They moved on to the men. They set up the cabins for three to four men each. Further in their favor, not all the treatment and care were solely on them. Those dwelling within the cabin with the injured had a responsibility to the new ones in trying to keep them alive. Bathing their bodies and brow with cool clothes to fight the fever, praying they wouldn’t end up with infections beyond her fixing. While it was rare, there had been instances of some losing their minds from the fever - going so crazy that if they couldn’t be restrained, the master would take action to put them down like rabid dogs. Aware of that, Miss Suzie gave the men more than a shot of rum, just in case. At the fourth cabin of the men’s quarters, they came to the man who had fought so hard. Miss Suzie shook her head, “T’fight, get nothin’ back fo’right. Look’at’im, dey bus’up his side, yeah. Head open, bruisin’ all over dat body.” She shook her head, not happy, hoping this one wouldn’t be among those she sometimes lost.

Pheybey glanced over his long length as well. His white body was clean of dirt, as much as she could see with him lying on his stomach. With his dire condition, he didn’t have easies on. His roommates figured he might not make it. Like the others, they had shorn his black hair, and Pheybey noticed that his head was the most perfectly round head she had ever seen. She wanted to touch it and wondered why she felt that way looking at him lying there. Some of them came with red hair, occasionally with blond, but most had dark hair. This one, the hair was thick and black. She found herself attracted to the fight in him. True, a nature that could get him killed if he would not die already. Fully realizing that, she was indeed keen on his dominant fighting spirit.

“May-be he live Miss Suzie?” She whispered to her mentor.

“We’see chile, gon’ keep check on dis one yeah, he’da worse o’da bunch. ‘Dey don’ open his head beaten on’im, gon’ have to fix dat. Bes’ do whi’he out, yeah.” She turned to his cabin-mates, “Yah’dere, come sit on’im whi’ I sew his head, less he wake an’ start ta’fight, yeah.”

“Gone die ain’he?” One braved, it was common.

“Not’if I hep it, come on like I say.” She fussed. As it was getting late, she became easily agitated at that time of night.

“We’do Miss Suzie,” one mumbled as the three came over, doing as they were told. Pheybey watched Miss Suzie clean his head good, and next sew it closed. Not one sound or move did he make the whole time.

“Not gone live Miss Suzie,” Pheybey whispered her thinking, saddened by the idea, seeing how still he lie with the sewing.

“We’see, we’try, treat’im like he gone live.”

Nodding her head, “We do.” Pheybey agreed softly, watching. She hoped he would live. He fought so hard. Weak, starved, beat on, and he fought, so the men who held him grew tired. She figured that if he could be so strong when he came in, he would be even stronger if he survived, and Miss Suzie fed him up. After completing all that could be done for him, Miss Suzie decided they would stay there to see how he would make it through the night. She would sit over him in a chair by his bunk, nodding, needing rest.

As for Pheybey, she sat soothing all those within positioned near the head of his bunk, humming and serenading ever so softly her gentle nonsense song. Low and hypnotizing, the tune went out until she gave it up for silence. Exhausted from their day, she relaxed on her side, curled up on the floor, dropping off to sleep. Miss Suzie sat more awake than sleep longing for her bed.

Most were quiet now. It was deep in the night. Miss Suzie’s eyes would open now and then, glancing from the Irishmen to Pheybey. She stared at the young girl for a long time, lost in thought. Something was different about Pheybey with this one. Never had Miss Suzie heard her sing to anyone, especially not the Irish. She wondered, had the time come? Had he caught her attention? Mumbling her thoughts low, “Chile o’mine - time fo’you t’fin’yo place wit’a man yeah who make’ya like bein’ a woman. Em hm,” she murmured, “Time come. Dere’be one who know. One who see wha’good in ya, wha’beauty I see, yeah.” Again, she nodded softly, “Time come.” She smiled, sure of this little beauty sleeping peacefully beside her. The thought didn’t come often anymore, but she wondered about Pheybey’s mama. She had shared a dwelling with them, helping Badru and Betak with their siblings because Miss Suzie had no mate within their clan. Then the Moor came. He had entranced Badru, lay with her and left her with child.

The child, Pheybey.

Not long after having Pheybey, a baby just a few days old, she’d gone off somewhere to never return. They’d looked for her. Days and days, weeks, months gone by.

She shook off the thought and took a deep breath and exhaling her eyes, went back to the Irishmen. The lantern glow burned softly beside them.

She sat straight, surprised to see his eyes open. He was staring at Pheybey on the floor. Staring like he couldn’t make out what he was seeing. Miss Suzie leaned over, touching his forehead. He was feverish, but not crazy with it. His hazel gray eyes rolled over to gaze at Miss Suzie. He was still on his stomach, looking around and wincing in pain like he was trying to remember where he was.

Miss Suzie smiled, “Ah, ya gone live, yeah. T’much fight in’ya.” She said for his eyes and ears. She brought him water to drink, knelt beside him, “Lean’up naw - das’it,” she coaxed helping him drink down his fill despite the burning pain at the back of his neck. Still weak, he fell face down and slowly turned his head sideways with his eyes once more staring at curled up Pheybey.

Miss Suzie sat and watched him, watching Pheybey.

He looked as if he wasn’t sure if she was real or not. Hesitantly, his large white hand lifted and gently touched her dark shoulder, convincing himself that she was real. Next, it went up to touch one of the Bantu knots of her head. His arm gave way, no strength left, and dropped from her. Minutes rolled by and his eyes went to Miss Suzie again. “Food.”

Miss Suzie chuckled. Reaching behind her, she uncovered a sweet potato now grown cold but still good for eating. Peeling the tender skin from it, she cut off a square. Putting it to his mouth, he opened wide. The moment the taste of it hit him, he was scrambling for more - eating too fast. “Got plenny’o’dat, yeah - eat s’you can’t eat no more - don’ choke naw.” She sat smiling and fed him two large potatoes. Then gave him more of the rum to drink. His eyes went right away back to Pheybey. She was just about under his cot. She was within easy reach for him. Slowly his hand once again went out away from him, hovering over the still figure. His fingers once more carefully touched her hair, her hairline. He seemed captivated by her, by touching her to be sure of what he thought lay almost beneath his cot. She was darker than the one who sat feeding him. If it weren’t for the light from the lantern catching the sheen of her skin, she’d blend into the black of night.

Miss Suzie watched, intrigued.

His hand, quivering still, carefully lowered to touch her slender arm. His long and heavy arm couldn’t keep itself outstretched, giving out again and landing heavily against Pheybey’s side. She awakened instantly, but she barely moved, fully aware. She looked back at Miss Suzie and then at the Irish. His eyes were trying to close. They were very drowsy. Fighting sleep. His large hand was heavy and warm on her side, palmed over her ribs. Then the hand squeezed there as if with the last strength left in him. Slowly, his eyes closed as he dropped back off to sleep. Pheybey’s eyes went from his eyes to his hand, to Miss Suzie.

Sighing Miss Suzie nodded, “He b’fine, go t’ya place - go’on, can’t be here when masta’ come checkin’.”

Pheybey reached up and took his large hand in hers as she sat up. Not only was it heavy, but battered, swollen skinned knuckles, rough skin. As if she held something more precious and delicate than a newborn babe, she put his hand on the cot next to his face. With a sigh, she stretched, her long skinny arms reaching for the sky with a yawn. She gave him one more eye full in the low-lit cabin. Exhaling, she turned to Miss Suzie - nodded, smiled, and stretched again with a second longer yawn. A few seconds later, without a word, she disappeared into the night.

Miss Suzie’s eyes went back to the strong Irish. His eyes were open again. He’d watched Pheybey rise and leave.

“Wha’ya name boy?” she asked. With an unmistakable Irish brogue, he answered, “Maximilian.”

“Em…” She nodded, “Ya’ be fine. Back’ah sleep naw, ya’ gots healin’ t’do, yeah.”

She rose and turned to the other men, shaking the most responsible awake, Askook. “Keep’a’eye to’im close, keep’im cool. He go’bad, ya’to come get’me, come righ’on, yeah.”

“Yes mum, I come right on.” He promised. All the young men of the tribes addressed the older women as mum or auntee.

 

Maximilian felt heat and hunger overwhelm him. From shivering, hurt, and nightmares, he transitioned to an intense craving for food, followed by more pain. He cried out when two men lifted him from beneath his arms and took him out to relieve himself. He would drift off and on with different people, and voices of other men standing over him, seeing to him. A few times a day, they forced him up to hang onto their shoulder, supporting him when his bladder was bursting. He hated the movement, wishing he didn’t have to go. Back down he would go to feel the relief of cooling clothes on his neck as they spoke to him in low tones.

Like a newborn babe, hunger in the twilight hour would wake him. In the deep midst of the night, when the men he shared the cabin with were sleeping, he felt further tender administrations from a quiet, gentle girl. Soft and low, she sang a song he could not recognize, but it always made him long to hear more. Or maybe he was dreaming. Never had he heard such a sound, such a melody, so ethereal - it could not be real. Yet she, when there, is when he clearly heard it. When she was gone, it was gone. In any instance, someone encouraged him to eat, to get strong. Telling him he would be all right. Saying to him in a soft, almost childlike voice that he was one of the strong ones.

They, or she, could say anything they wanted to him long as they kept the cooling clothes on the back of his neck and the food, more food. Both felt wonderful while his body suffered, locked in aching and burning agony. The hunger thanks to Miss Suzie he could do something about and did. He seized every chance he was given to eat and consumed as much food as there was. The funny thing was now that there was food, and wonderful tasting food at that, the pains of need were even more intense. Never had he known such a wonderful taste as that of the potato root, or sweet potato Miss Suzie called it. He ate it like it was manna from heaven, God’s own life source food for him.

He wanted to horde it, keep it, hide it away, never to be hungry again. Miss Suzie promised he could have as much as he wanted. She said to eat until he could eat no more, and he did. Besides food, he longed to heal, to be stronger. Now and then, he would reach up and touch the tender spot on his head where the stitches had hardened and scabbed. The lump beneath the injury was almost flat. He could feel hair stubble growing and causing itching, but this time - he was clean. It wasn’t from lice and other parasites. It hadn’t been long since he’d last eaten, and his stomach was growling once more.

In search of the sweet potatoes, or the greens - anything, he turned, wincing. It was necessary for him to find his footing and become steady again. With an unwavering determination to regain his freedom, he would either escape this place or perish in the attempt. He knew the first chance that he had he would run, so build up he must. He looked for Miss Suzie like a newborn searching at its mother’s breasts. Because of his ravenous appetite, she’d added more food for him. Even in the night, someone would gently nudge him awake to find various greens, eggs, fish, and an assortment of fowl - warm and ready for him. He wanted more of that now, all of it, in fact.

Firing the need for departure, he had the misfortune of meeting his master. He hated the man on sight, as with many of the English. The arrogant bastard had stood over him as they do, looking down his nose and inspecting his progress as one would a lame farm animal. Maximilian did all in his weakened state to keep the disdain from his eyes. He could not challenge this man, not now - but one day he would. No man would own him. Especially not after he heard the expectations he must fulfill. The thought alone made him burn hotter than any branding iron.

It was rare for anyone to catch Master Robinson near the slave’s quarters. It was only when new ones were bought and he went to check and see who would live, who might die. To those whom Miss Suzie nodded affirmative that they would live, he read them their rules, rights and slave obligations. And so came his turn. Right to the point, Master Robinson had asked Miss Suzie, “When thee ‘ere set on his feet?”

She answered softly, setting out more creams for his neck, “Day’o’two. Lil’longa’ fo’he be fit for’da field, yeah.”

“Em…” Hugone grumbled, and then, “Yer name boy?” Yes, he may have been born in England, but there was nothing refined about him. He had come from the lowly laborers just up from the peasants, sent out to collect rent and bring it back to Lord Bakersfield. In the colonies, he was doing something similar, with the right to dominate others. That being, those shipped there as free manpower in building wealth for the elite back in England. However, this time, he was given greater power. He stood taller in his new position, because everyone on that plantation was below him and reported to him. He was the master. A few times a year was the most that he must report to Lord Bakersfield. The report was about the harvest and the forecast of yields. Until then, he was the lord of the manor.

Enjoying what he saw, Master Robinson watched the man beneath him squirm as he swallowed down his disgust while keeping his features clear as he answered, “Maximilian.”

Hugone noted the pride in this Irish accent. Indeed, it was strong.

“Thee bes’ make it - Maximilian sa’, o’ Masta’ Robinson, ye’ear? Bleedin’ pot-licker.” He insulted with the demand.

Max could not block the red heat that washed over his face.

“Aye, thee know what for - don’ forge’it.” He once again repeated the command, “Masta’ Robinson, say it - yes sa’ Masta’ Robinson.” He propped his foot up on the frame of the bed near his head, in his face, and leaned down close over the other man, instinctively sensing the intense hatred between them. His eyes and manner dared the other not to repeat the title he insisted upon. As he was taking a bit too long, Master Robinson laid his walking cane along the brand on his neck and pressed down, hard.

Max saw stars and grinding his teeth, he practically choked on the words, but out they came. “Yes sa’, Master - Robinson.” The title rolled hard with his brogue of hatred. Max’s position on his stomach left him at an uncomfortable disadvantage, requiring him to keep his head turned sideways and up a bit. The sole of his master’s shoe was just at his nose and mouth. Seeping through the shoe, a stink of foot odor and sweat, a smell of rotten cabbage. He fought back his gag reflexes.

Master Robinson chuckled, and removed the cane, “Aye, ge’ used t’it - yer a bleedin’ slave with a debt to pay. Soon as yer on yer feet, I’ah be expectin’ it in full.”

Max had been eating. Suddenly the food felt lodged in his throat. For the first time, he lost his appetite. Unable to veil the simmering heat, he rolled his eyes down to the bed, beneath the shoe resting there. At that moment, he felt the flesh on the back of his neck burn, stretch and break, causing the fluid to seep from the puckered, cooked skin. It was red, tender and throbbing now, back to burning despite the cream Miss Suzie gave them to keep on it.

“Aye, yer a smart one ye’ are - t’look away les’ ye’ get another clip t’thee ’ead an’ more.” Master Robinson gleefully exercised his dominance over him. Leaning close once more to invade his space, showing that he could, “Now ye’ listen ‘ere, and ‘ear what I say. I’ah be givin’ ye’ a few days or more - then I’be expectin’ ye’ t’carry yer load. Packin’ what they pic an’ tyin’ in the field. Miss Suzie ‘ere’ll get ya’ suited up. Next - ye’ look t’ave the makin’s of a ‘ardy stud. Soon as I match ye’ up - you’ah be matin’.”

That made Max twist his body and neck to look up in disbelief. He was startled and confused about what he might mean.

“Aye, yer ‘eard right - got summit’ t’say?”

Max could only stare. Surely, he didn’t mean what he was thinking.

“Aye, I pay for ye’ - I seen t’yer care, seen t’food, all t’get ye’ back t’health. Will cost ye’ with yer back an’ yer seed. I be pickin’ out’o’my best fer ye’ plantin’. Ye’ do as yer told, when yer told, how yer told, all’ah be fine. As for me wenches, ye’ don’ lay’ with none ‘less I give t’ya’ for me purpose. Don’ give me cause t’kill ye’. I rather not, ye’ do I won’t ‘esitate. Ask any ye’ please. Won’t bat a eye as I toss yer worthless corpse in yond’ stink ‘ole. Ye’ try’n’run, we catch ye’, th’brand on yer neck’ll feel like ye’ been tickled by time I ge’done with ye’. Thee life after today’ll be yer own choice. Ye’ live or die, I care not which ‘cept that I get me coin back I spend t’get ye.” He finished with a sardonic smile.

Max felt the urge to toss up his food.

“Ye’ ‘ear mick? I ‘spect a yes sa’ Masta’ Robinson.” Mick was a known insult to the Irish - like calling all black men Leroy or Sambo. Max gulped, swallowed his pride, and with his face burning once more along with his mounting venom choking him, he nodded, answering, “Yes sa’, Master Robinson.”

“See ‘ow fas’ ye’ learn?” He stood back from leaning on the bed, removing his foot to stand upright, turning to Miss Suzie, “Feed’im up, feed’im strong. By a fort’night o’two, I wan’ ‘im breedin’…” He paused, rubbing his palms together in greedy anticipation, “I figure t’get two good studs an’ a few wenches out’em.” He finished with a wicked smirk, envisioning the girls he might get from him. He was a sound Mick with looks that would lend to proper looking wenches. Strong as well. An Irish to get good breeding stock.

As for Max, now that he knew his master, and understood what his enslavement entailed, he had little choice but to get ready to flee at the first opportunity. Once he got over the meeting, he was back to devouring all given by Miss Suzie. She checked on him as she did the others, upping the amount of food he would consume, and added others to it. He was already getting familiar with the faces of those he needed to watch and know. He could not be the only one wanting to be free. There had to be others. Irish like him, black like the others. He had to learn who they were, and what the others like him planned. It was not in his nature to take this lying down. He was a rebel. A small part of the reason he was there now. The other part, simply because he was an Irishmen.

He would be free.

It dominated most of his thoughts. In his growth back to health, however, there was one face he sought to see. Yet, she never seemed to be around when the others were. He was finally back on his feet, still shaky, but testing himself daily. He had been at Robinson Tobacco Plantation for over two weeks. Feeling restless, he ventured outside onto the porch of the cabin. The air was humid, stifling hot, making it hard to breathe. His neck was stiff and still painful, scabbing and cracking, peeling from his constant touching and picking. He needed to move, he needed to get familiar with his surroundings. Hyper and agitated as he was, anxiety would not let him lie about for long. Hungry again, he was looking for Miss Suzie like a child for its mother. Even though his strength was coming back to him, he was not strong enough to be away from his cot. His ears started ringing. One moment he was looking around when white lights began blazing before him, and next the ground shifted beneath him to find his cheek pressed into the moist dew of the grass. The blades of grass pricked and tickled his ear, and at one side of his nose and mouth.

“Boy ya’go undo my work on ya, yeah.” Miss Suzie found him lying on the ground outside the cabin. She turned, directing a couple of men wondering by, “Get’im back in’dat bed, yeah.” She had come to check on him and bring him more food. He was like a baby bird, his mouth constantly open for worms, only to find that he’d fallen from the nest. His appetite was so fierce. With him back in bed, Miss Suzie checked his head, which was healing fine. His bruises were fading, in fact about gone, nor were his ribs tender and showing so much. The sunken stomach was disappearing, she was glad to see, and his face was also filling out to normal.

Because he was such a tall man, large-boned by the looks of him, it would take more to get him filled out. “Don’ ya’ be rushin’ out, ya’heah’me?” She scolded him, “Ya’be forced’t’it soon e‘nuf. I see ya’bout stronges’o’da bunch. Lose a man, an’ gal. Da rest still weak, a few eatin’ like ya’do. Gon’ take dem mo’time, hope not t’much. Masta’ Rob’son get mean he tink dey waste’ his coin, yeah.” She informed him. Sitting up as he was, Miss Suzie could see immediate heat at the mention of their owner. She could see something else in him as well, “He’ah kill you’ dead, ya’ heah. He’on care no way. I ain’ fix’ya jus’ fo’ya to’go an’ die by ya’ foolishness, no.”

“Mate?” He groused.

That idea was the stinger of all he could remember from the visit. To be used like a bull. To have those of his seed born simply to be enslaved, used, and sold at the whim of the master. Any right-minded man would lose himself and the core of his spirit knowing such a thing. That he was deliberately providing life from his own loins to be abused, raped, and sold for the pleasures and financial gain of another man. What kind of man in his right mind would not lose it to such an arrangement? Staring at Miss Suzie he swore, “No child o’mine will I give t’such a fate, I-…”

Cutting him off, she scolded, “Ya’do what he say o’die! Yeah.” She glared at him. She felt bad for all those who were put through it by their invaders. But to survive until a way out of it came, this was their lot in life. The only other alternative was death. This was no time to be indignant about it. “Ya’heah? Ain’ no otha’way fo’it, no.” She hardened up saying more, “Time come ya’get it up an’ do what come natul’t’ya, yeah. What com’ta all man, ya’lisnin’?”

Grinding his jaw tight, he knew that what she said was true. He had to survive. However, he never figured on being used as a human stud. One that entailed him giving up his future sons and daughters to the brutality of slavery. Seeing the fiery rebellion in his eyes, Miss Suzie let out a sigh, “He’ah kill ya’. He’don’ care. Ya’see one day how da’stink hole fill wit’da Irish. Man, lil’boys’n’gals they drop dead, yeah.”

“What?” He gasped, stunned by her warning.

“Ya’soon see, soon’e’nuf. Do as I say, yeah?”

Exhaling long and deep, Max nodded his head, giving in, “I will do as I’m told.” But deep in his gut, how could he do such a thing.

Feeling as if he were spinning, Max could not help but mutter a prayer, ‘Father, I beg you, take me far from this place, please.’

Right then, he could not help but wonder about his friend, Anlon. He would be the same. Max needed nothing more to drive him toward escape. He wondered how he might find his friend in such a vast land. Soon, his thinking drifted once more. His mind, with a will of its own, went back to the missing dark girl.

He could not help but wonder at her whereabouts. It was mostly at night that he saw her. The first time, she had been with Miss Suzie. After that, on odd occasions when he least expected it.

Always at night, a time or two before dawn. Once had been in the middle of the night and he woke to her hand on his head, testing for fever. He had smiled at her, she smiled back. She had simpered a bit, crinkled her nose, and darted off into the night. She reminded him of the dark presence that first appeared in his dream while still in his homeland. Was she that one? He could not help but see the two as one. Every time she appeared, it was to check on him or bring him something to eat.

The venture on the ship and then in the auction was the first time Maximilian found himself in the company of such melanin rich people. She was the darkest of all so far. It fascinated him. Her hair was jet black, twisted in gleaming knots about her head. He found himself curious about her age. She was quite young. She had eyes that dominated, obsidian eyes as dark as she was, the whites of her eyes were pure bright white, almost bluish. Her skin as smooth as rich dark molasses. One night, he was moaning in pain, and she had come up from nowhere to gently tap his cheek, bringing him awake. The moment he stirred, she pressed something to his lips, coaxing them to part, and once they did, she thrust something within. Delirious, he chewed down on it and, finding it hot and bitter, turned to spit it out. A voice soft, and cooing stopped his actions. Her small hand covered his mouth, “No, no, eat, no… eat. Shhh, you feel betta’.” She stroked his skin, feeling the prickly growth of a beard. He shivered, not wanting it, but thought it was medicine. He gagged as if he would spit it out. Her coaxing persisted and got him to finally swallow it down. Then, at his lips, he tasted the juice of something sweet. A wonderful fruit. Patiently she fed him that as well, to make up for the bitter mix she forced on him. As for the fruit, there was no need for force.

After finishing it, he grew still.

His eyes drifted open to gaze into the darkness at her. He could barely make out her features, but knew she was near. She leaned in close to him, whispering, “Feel betta, yeah - feel betta.” Her small hand stroked his brow, along his ear, soothing him back to sleep with her low soft humming.

It was her, the girl from his dream.

After a while, his pain eased some, and he was fast asleep again. When he woke once more, she was nowhere to be found. He wanted to know her name. She never stayed long enough for him to ask her questions.

Days later, he was back on his feet, suited up and taken on a tour of the plantation, to areas relevant to his job. They showed him all the tools, carts, and wagons he would need throughout his workday, and finally, they showed him where he would be working. His eyes searched for her everywhere they he went. He saw men slaves, black, Irish, Indian, the same for women slaves, but the dark one of his dreams not among them. Unsure of her features, he wanted to look at her in the bright light of day, having only seen them in the dark of night. He wondered as he viewed and filed away info, laid-a-way ideas for later, was she like the others, used to mate? Maybe she already had. Max was confounded by the many faces he saw. Only to feel disappointed he had yet to see her again. Could it be that he had gazed right past her, not realizing it? Again, he went days without spotting her, without a visit in the night. It was a mystery why thoughts of her and seeing her in the light of day distracted him. Nagged at him. He felt naturally connected to her, as he did to Miss Suzie. Perhaps it was because they were essential to regaining his strength and balance. In truth, he could not put his finger on what she did for him. Perhaps seeing her in his dream could be the reason. It appeared there was some kind of connection between them. He lay awake, hoping that she would appear. During the early, hard nights, she somehow knew that he needed what she gave, and was there to provide it.

His body did not hurt so badly anymore. His head’s throbbing cut was no longer a concern. The back of his neck was the only thing that still bothered him, and that only slightly. The extreme hunger was gone, and he was gaining weight much faster than the others. Did she know that? Were her visits only to help him to this point? He knew that on some of those early nights, it hadn’t been Miss Suzie that brought him more and different foods, it had been his little dark angel. Funny how he at first felt she was there for him.

Now, he was not so sure.

The time had come for him to be taken to the fields to work. The land had been cleared for the slaves to build on, creating stark surroundings. His surveying the temporary home, he noted some cabins were mere lean-tos, not built to last, quick builds with little care. Dressed for the climate as a slave with his easies on, moccasin-like shoes, a tatty sleeveless shirt and large brim floppy straw hat to help him endure the sun and heat - he followed the other field hands. Their leader and instructor was a native man, Betak. He would show them what to do, and how best it was to be done. After the initial training, they expected each of them to produce a certain amount. As they made their way to the field, Max could hear the rickety rattle of wagon wheels. Turning, he saw it was a flatbed rolling by and, to his horror, there was naked dead on it. A woman, two men, and four dead children, a boy and three girls, all white - Irish. Tossed on, stiff, with no care or respect for their dead bodies, as there had not been a care for them when alive. Seeing it immobilized him, stopped him in his tracks. His eyes were round with shock and horror and a choking devastation. His eyes stung as they welled with a view that, in truth, there was no hope for them. He rapidly blinked, as if they were playing tricks on him.

Noticing the look on his face, Betak came to him, “Come - keep go, yeah?” He gently urged to get him moving.

Betak understood the look on his face oh so well. The horror of what one man could do to another. Even children were not spared.

“What’s happen to them?” His voice cracked. He knew to see such a thing should not shock him. He had seen far worse take place back in Ireland. But to see it again, here in this new land - where they were continuing to die off or killed was a kick to his soul. Which had they, those dead before him, come as, “bond servants? Apprentices? What lie did they hear to get them here? What crime? In either case, they were Irish. That was their primary wrong. Now he could see it, as Master Robinson had told him, the same as Miss Suzie told him. He barely heard Betak’s answer.

“Dey drop dead. Weak - sick, may be try’in run. Ya’come, keep go, yeah? No runnin’, wait.” Betak nudged him onward. They were of the same height. Both men were tall, well over six feet and built strong. Betak was muscle bound and mighty, a survivor. He was Master Robinson’s most valuable stud and worker - his favorite.

Like Maximilian, Betak despised Master Robinson and often entertained the day that he would kill him. However, for that, he knew he would be in a lengthy line and perhaps toward the end. He had sacrificed himself so that his children would be free. Here he was to make more that would never be free. He felt that what he was forced to do went against every fiber of his once moral being. He feared for the children that would come from him.

Keir for one.

He had a longing for his son - a stunning product of his loins with the Irishwoman. He longed to know him, touch him, play with him, show him he was loved, that he, Betak, was his father. Be the one to tell him, ‘I am your father, follow me, listen to me - I will protect you, teach you.’ Only to know that all he might offer him was his freedom, if that is - he could help his mother escape.

Every chance he was given, he would gaze at his son with such longing that it caused his stomach to ache. Inside, he smiled to see his energy, his antics, his innocence, and ignorance of the world he had come to. He was blind to what was to come for him, that his purpose here was to be sold, bought, and then used in any way his master deemed him useful. Betak stayed at a distance, not because he wanted the distance, no. His son belonged to Master Robinson. There was nothing he could think of that was as wicked as this, to bring a child into the world for this injustice. Who would teach them the important lessons in life? Teach them of the Great Spirit Power that made them. How to live and love. Those born of this would not know those things. They would simply exist. Like animals, only to survive. He frequently battled the madness that the animal conditions he was forced to endure brought on. What humans would this cause their forced offspring to be? What benefits would be inherited from this? He knew that the actions now would be the undoing of his children later, and their children and so on - because this would be their legacy. Betak was a deep thinker. He pondered everything and had been a chief elder of his scattered tribe for some time. A man who had once gloried in the wonder of his children. A man of tender nature who had loved life. Who knew there was a powerful spirit-being that put them and all beautiful things on earth to enjoy. He once knew and loved the freedom that that God made them. That freedom involved teaching their young ones. It was that God-given gift that was now turning on him because of the invasion of the demon driven English.

Men… mentally ill, wickedly twisted, who felt at ease with plowing through the lives of other men. Destroying their world to build one of their own in its place. No good would ever come of this. Betak didn’t know how it would happen, or when it would happen - but this would all turn on them one day. Everything started going downhill with his older sister, Badru, and the Moor.

When she, he - both disappeared, nothing was ever the same. Now have come to the Englishmen. Their arrogance would be their undoing, to believe this would not come back with a harvest to reap from the ugly seeds they were now sowing.

With no control over the matter, for now Betak and those like him must bend to survive, and haul, and work, and mate like beasts of burden beneath the yoke. They lacked the weaponry to fight this force, taken by surprise as they were.

Their way had been welcoming of peace. However, their entire mentality had to change to defeat this foe. For now, Betak was Master Robinson’s beast of burden. One he planned on breeding often.

Max experienced pure hell on his first day in the field, trying to do what was instructed in the heat. Not so much from the actual labor of the job - yes, it was arduous work, but what made it stressful to endure was the sweltering hotness. The humidity, along with the blazing sun, had him struggling to breathe as he labored. Because he was new, the overseers made sport of him. He had been kicked down twice, water tossed on him instead of given in the cup.

His hat snatched from his head, tossed about and tread upon. They resented him because of his looks, his height, his will, and stamina to survive and endure them. Not to mention, at his weakest, it took a few of them to subdue him and lay the brand.

Still smarting from that, they wanted to break him. Instead, they were feeding the beast of rebellion in him - adding more fuel to his fire.

Workday one down, resentment up. Unfortunately for him, he saw why they, the Irish, came so cheap for labor. His body at once felt on fire. His arms and other exposed skin burned. The climate was nothing like that of Ireland. The open fields with no shade were torture. If hell were indeed an actual place, this location must be the entry.

Yet, alongside him, the dark people seemed to thrive much better than those of his ilk. Those, like him, were literally dying in the sun. Their accustomed climates were cool, more rain showers, and dim gray days. Yes, they too had moments with the sun, but nothing on the scale of this. True, the dark ones felt the heat, they perspired profusely, but they didn’t seem to experience sunburn. It was as if they absorbed the sun’s rays and grew darker for it.

However, they didn’t drop in the field like the Irish. Watching them, he longed to have that type of skin. Neither were they attacked by insects. The buzzing pests did not seem to bother them as much. While the Irish were being eaten alive. They simply could not match the endurance of those working alongside them. It also occurred to him if it were not for the gunpowder, armory, steel and iron the English had, or the madness to dominate other men - these people, the dark ones would tear them apart in battle. Gunpowder, cannons and then swords gave the British the advantage along with a devil like drive to take what did not belong to them.

In Maximilian’s eyes, there was none more savage than the bloody British royals. Then Parliament turned on King George I and once more manifested their twisted evil by choosing Oliver Cromwell.

Finally, that day was done. When he returned to his cabin, Max barely made it to his cot. There, he half fainted, half dropped back to it, burning, sore, sapped of energy and bitten up.

He felt ill again.

Even his appetite was in question. Miss Suzie came to him, made him drink as much water as he could to get down him, and rubbed him down with one of her salves. It was agony to endure. It took all his strength to bite down on shouting, “Please stop - bleedin’ leave me!”

For once, she sat food beside him, he turned away from he was so weary. He felt hot all over, everywhere. Yet, somehow, he dropped off to sleep. Hours later, in the middle of twilight, the little dark one came to him and gently nudged him awake. Cooing tenderly, as if she could feel his pain and would take it from him. His eyes opened feverish and red. He was back to feeling weak once more. “You… ah… lass, here ye’be.” He slurred. She took his large feverish hand in her small one and tugged it gently, “Come…”

He hurt - even her gentle touch and tug caused him to groan in misery.

She leaned in close, whispering in his ear, “Ya’mus’come - come with’me, yeah?”

He groaned. His body was not his own. He could see it in her eyes, as if to see him this way hurt even her, “Ya’mus’come, ya’mus, come… come.”

Tears of anguish filled his eyes. If he could, he would. She knew his pain. Gently touching his cheek, she whispered pleading ever so gently, she touched her chest, “I make ya’betta, so betta… come,” Because he had so longed to see her again, and for reasons he could not explain, he trusted her. He sucked in a long deep breath, even that hurt - but he moved his body and wanted to cry out in agony.

She sensed it, “No-no, shhh, come.” She beckoned him.

“I - bloodeee - hurt.” He growled in agony - surely flames burst upon his skin.

She nodded, understanding that he did. “Yeah – come, I make ya’betta’. Come’.” She would not give up, she would not leave him to grow sick, weaker - she simply could not. He was a fighter, she knew that, and she would help him fight this, too.

Max lay trying to think of a way to move and not wail out, waking those he shared the cabin with.

“Why lass must I? I faint, how will’a’wee mite as yew have the strength to lift me back?” He moaned low, concerned.

She only smiled at him. “Ya’strong - ya’won’ faint, come.”

Max did not want to test how badly his body hurt and burned. He rolled his head to look toward the other bunks where his roommates lie sleeping. She would pick this night to reappear and, of all things, asking him to move, to go off and follow her.

“Trus’me? Come - ah make ya’ betta.” The magic words she kept coaxing him with, ‘To feel betta.’ For that, he would have to move, because it now felt as if the branding had moved from his neck to most of his body. He got himself ready, bracing so that the shock wouldn’t send him to his knees. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to sit upright and turn, putting his feet to the floor. Grinding his teeth, feverish, throbbing pain burst to life, making him see stars. He was determined not to cry out. Before him, the little dark one stood patiently, giving him all the time he needed. “If I faint, leave me be, to the floor wee-one, leave me.” He petitioned her.

She smiled, enraptured by the sound of his voice and accent, “No, come - ya’won, ya’strong, yeah.” She repeated softly, keeping to a low whisper.

Not wishing to drag it out, he pushed to his feet, resisting the urge to do it too quickly knowing it could make him pass out, so slow was the way despite the pain.

She smiled up at him, “Come.” She led the way for him to follow, turning back now and then to see that he was still on his feet and following. Wearing nothing more than his britches, he put one foot in front of the other until they were outside and walked around behind the cabins toward the woods. The cool, dewy ground made every step worth it. While every step shot over his skin with painful re-burning, but for her he kept moving. It was dark, he was getting bitten, and any sudden move to swat caused more pain than the actual bite, so he resisted swatting.

What he noticed, however, no bites for her. He wanted to go back into the cabin where the funny smelling candle burned, which kept the insects at bay. Once more, he noticed she didn’t seem to be bothered. However, there was a slickness to her skin, as if she had oil of some substance all over it. In fact, many of those of dark skin did not get bitten as they - the Irish were. Max wondered why? What was the difference? He was trying to keep his eyes on her and watch his step on top of it. Since she didn’t carry a lantern, she must be accustomed to wandering about the woods at night. He finally whispered, “Where’ye takin’ me lassy?”

“I make ya’betta,” was her repeat.

He wasn’t sure how many moments had passed when she stopped and took his hand, “Ya’go low, see.” She showed him, holding his large hand, guiding him so he would not trip. He was tall, so she kept a hold of him, guiding him in how far down he must duck. He groaned having to bend, “Bloody hell, I cannot lass, I don’t know where yer bleedin’ leadin’ me.”

She would not take no for an answer, just waited for him to bend low and follow her through the brush. He whimpered and then bent to go in. Limbs scraped against his skin. He bit down on his tongue not to cry out.

She watched him endure but kept onward, waiting for him. Growing impatient, he grumbled low, “How much further?” With a firm hold of his hand, she pulled him along. Max mumbled, “I’m hopin’ I’ll not come t’regrettin’ this lass, I dun’know’ya do I?” No reply came. Her focus was on their destination.

“Can I at least know yer name?”

She stopped, as it appeared they’d arrived and turned, reaching for his britches, “Take easy off.”

“Aye, wait - whoa whoa, lass - I dun’ even know yer name, an’ what’s more I’m hatin’ to disappoint, but I’m not in the best of me’self for what ye’ve ah’mind.” He chuckled a bit despite his discomforts.

“No-no, take off…” she insisted, pulling them down.

“Oh ow ow, careful now - no name?” He persisted, noticing that she paid him little attention other than to get his britches off. There was little fight in him, as her focus was to strip him bare. Despite being sore, he was grinning, “Now lass, I’m sore - this what he mean for matin’? I thought I had more time, I-…” He paused as he was being led more slowly into a thick, very cold swamp like pond, it was startling, so cold it was stinging him as he went in, “Aye - Aye lass this is bloody cold,”

Suddenly, the sensation on his skin felt so good all he could think about was sinking deeper into it. She kept hold of his hand, as if steadying him from slipping from the slimy bottom. He thought that was funny, considering how much larger he was. If he slipped, he would take her with him. “Feel’betta?” She asked leading him to go deeper. He almost yelped the cold was so intense, it was stinging his skin, but only for a moment. Once he was in up to his neck, the pain and heat seemed to lesson, and soon - miraculously it was gone. He couldn’t help it. He groaned in pleasure. Now, he was glad that he’d followed her.

“Good, yeah?”

He had to admit it, it felt amazing on his feverish skin. He nodded, agreeing, “Yes m’lass – heaven is this.” Besides the pleasure sinking into the cool pool brought him, he also noticed that she was completely naked. His eyes were adjusting to the light of the moon. Although she was all darkness and shadow, her silhouette showed him glimpses of small breasts and a narrow waist. She turned, grabbing hold of what looked to be a tree root. Taking his hand, she guided it to it, making him take hold.

“Don’le’go.”

He was putty in her hands, willing to do whatever she bid him. As he relaxed in a semi-squat in the wonderful swamp stew, he watched her go to the bank, and before she disappeared, “Stay, I be’back,”

Max couldn’t think - all he knew was that he never wanted to get out. His skin felt cool, soothed, as if kissed by fairies of comfort and pleasure. He was dozing when she returned and gently entered the pond again with him. She was still naked and unabashed concerning her state of undress and his. Approaching him, she had her hands full, and lightly tapped his cheek to order him in her gentle way, “Open, eat, all,” She spoke slowly, carefully–trying to enunciate each word in English, this while making a face cautioning him, “No… don’ spit it, no.” She shook her head.

Crazy as it might seem, the man in him felt an urge to kiss her, taste her. The sensation came with the night and the feeling good she brought him. As he was about to open his mouth to ask what it was, she shoved it into his mouth - a green leafy stuffed pod. He bit into it and immediately recognized the taste. He wanted to spit it out. “Eat, don’spit, no! Eat! No!” she ordered him, bossy and firm. It was hot and bitter, as well as salty. He felt an urge to gip, she tapped his cheek, “No!” she commanded watching him fight down his gag reflex. Her gentle sweet voice could hardly be taken seriously, but she was trying to be stern with him, “No…” She repeated, her small hand went to his throat, his Adam’s apple, demonstrating a swallow, “Eat, no - no no.” She chastised him with a firm look.

Max didn’t know what to do. Saliva was building in his mouth. She gently slapped his face again, “Eat - now!” He knew he could spit it out, but something told him to do what she was commanding him. He began to chew it. It was horrible. His gag reflex kicked in, and once more, she slapped his expanding cheeks, “Eat, chew – no-no, chew-chew-chew,” She pat both his rounded cheeks per chew, chew, chew, encouraging him to fully masticate and then swallow. He forced it down and gasped, “Bloody hell,” She went to shove in another wad of it. He turned his head away.

It was his turn this time, “No.”

“Yes, now…” She grabbed his face, her small hands trying to force him back to take it again, “Do as’I say, ya’ hear? Eat, now.” Small and forceful as she was, he groaned, “It’s bloody disgusting,” he whimpered.

She grabbed his cheeks, squeezed, and pressed it to his lips, “Eat …” Once more he opened his mouth, let her shove it in and this time he chewed it as fast as he could, letting it burn his tongue so it made his eyes water, but he swallowed it, and to his horror, she pushed another to his lips, “Come - feel betta’ - more, dis yeah, eat…” Wishing to get it over with, he did it, let her put it in his mouth. He chewed and almost brought it all back up and she covered his mouth with her little dark hand and gave him a look every mother had given her child, forcing medicine down them. After a moment of that, he got it down and prayed that was it.

She smiled, nodding her head, “I - am - Pheybey - have this, is nice fo’ya.” She offered him the name Miss Suzie had given her and handed him a large, ripe, juicy, sweet peach. “Bite.”

“Pheybey?” He repeated her name, wishing to focus on that instead of this next food thing she held before him, he’d never seen peaches before, and was afraid of it, “Em,” she nodded, “Pheybey - come, bite.”

Growling, fearing what it might be, he went forward and bit out of it, and felt an immediate burst of sweet juice. “Aaaah, bloo-o-dy he-e-ell… tha’s right nice lass,” His eyes rolled in his head in pure ecstasy. After what his mouth had just experienced, this new sensation was close to orgasmic. His head rolled back in pleasure as he chewed and swallowed. Pheybey smiled and offered him more to bite and he did, no longer fighting her. With it almost gone, he had to ask, “What’s it? Can I have more?”

She giggled, “Ya’will, ‘ya’mus’ eat ja’ga first.”

“Ja’ga?” Max made a grimacing face, “The horrid tripe?”

“Em,” she nodded with a smile so beautiful it infectiously caused him to do the same. “Aaah lassy, what a bonny smile I see. I must have a look at you in the light of day.” He seduced her with his deep brogue.

She blushed and brought the focus back. “Ya’ eat ja’ga if Pheybey give t’ya’, yeah?”

He groaned, “Must I? Why?” He asked around getting the last of the nice fruit.

“Ya’feel betta’,” she announced, making a face, “Sil-ly boy,” looking at him and wondering did he have good sense, “Pheybey give it, ya’ betta.”

He grinned at her, chuckled even, supposing he deserved that. He was feeling better. She was taking the last of the peach pit away from his mouth after having fed him all of it since his hands were in the marshy water. It donned on him that this must be what they did. His skin didn’t feel as if on fire and even though his stomach felt a bit irritated from the nasty fare previously devoured, he could tell there was something in it that soothed him. Not only that, but he also began feeling drowsy as well. “I feel - strange, yes, an’ better lass for it, I do.”

“Come, I’s enuff, I take ya’back.”

It occurred to him that the treatment he was now getting, others might not get. Compelling him to ask, “Why m’lass, why do ye’ take such care with me?”

She only smiled, climbed naked from the pond, showing him her gleaming body against the light of the moon. She had a round bottom full cheeked, more than one would expect from such a small body. He watched her use her hand to swipe the thickish marshy water from her skin.

“Come, ya’do it - I mus’ take ya’back.”

He followed suit, leaving the healing waters. The cool night breeze felt amazing blowing against his damaged skin. The burning discomfort had all but disappeared. Just a trace of it lingering, easier to bear. In its place, he felt otherworldly, a heady sensation that heightened his senses. Those senses were so alert that her nearness brought on an uncontrollable erection. He stood tall, his full height with a sensation coursing through him that was powerful to mate with her. His mind was not completely his own. He felt virile, invigorated, and powerful.

Pheybey, although aware of the effects her herbs and remedies had on men, never gave mating with him a thought. She did not wish to mate with anyone. She was attracted to him in her innocent way. Totally unaware of how powerful her fascination and infatuation were.

However, not so taken was she to let him mate with her. She put her meager garments on and ignored the state of his body. It wasn’t hard because it was dark, and she was not curious about him in that way. She wanted to be near him, yes. Hear his voice, true. Speak to him and even - protect him. Indeed, she could not deny it. With all of that, she did not wish to have him as a woman would a man. She walked away from him toward the way they’d come, leaving him standing tall, aroused and in need. He was getting his vitality back. He was recovering from the ordeal of being shipped there and branded and enslaved. His recovery was on the verge of being complete. Left up to Pheybey, he would be stronger than he’d ever been. She would see to that. But she would not let him have her. That would take more time - and would require a lot more of him to get her to let any man do to her the things she knew they did.

She was at a distance and realized he was standing still. The night breezes drying him instead of using his hand to finish. When she looked back, the moon was behind him. Although he was still on the slight side, slender - he stood tall and stunning. She also saw that part of him which stood away from his body to let her know it would be an ordeal to mate, as she often feared.

Ignoring that, she called out to him, “Come Max’m’lan,” She knew his name, had been practicing saying it, because it had not come off her tongue easily. The moment he heard his name from her lips, it stirred the longing in him for her even more. His name rolled from her lips with such a strong exotic accent filled with her native tongue, spoken in her attempt at English - it somehow made him feel as if he had come home.

“Aaah lass, wait lassie please… we need not hurry back.” His voice was soft, aroused, and loaded with a passion that could not be mistaken. She could hear the quality of it that was a clear sign he wished to be one with her.

Clear, without hesitation she stated, “Come Max’m’lan, I will no’mate wit’ya, I mate wit’ no’man. Come…” She turned and began making her way back the way they’d come.

He stood in disbelief.

He knew he was not a bad-looking man. In fact - back home in Ireland, he was a most desired catch. However, he supposed to her - what she was used to, he no doubt looked fish bellied on one side, and a red-coat on the other. Despite his inferior skin, he knew she cared about him. Why else give him the attention she did? He knew when a woman wanted him.

“Pheybey!” He called her name. “Come back, lass. Pheybey, why you say such things, lassie, aaah come now… no man? I’m not just any man m’lass - Pheybey?”

The distance between them grew.

He finally saw his britches hanging in clear sight, thanks to her. Grabbing them, the last thing that he wanted was to put them back on. Now he understood why the few natives he’d seen in their customary garb wore the loincloth. He felt the need at that moment. Funny thing was, as he walked, he could barely feel the ground beneath his feet, nor the brand on the back of his neck. Neither was he aware of being bitten by insects. For the first time since his capture, trial, and shipment to this new land, Maximilian felt … free. He followed leisurely, catching mere glimpses of Pheybey ahead of him. She deliberately kept a pace that helped to lead him back. She knew at this time of night he might get lost. Once the cabins came into sight and the one that he was assigned to, she turned, waiting for him to reach her.

He walked up to her, so much taller than her slight stature, and said right off, “Are ya’ free lass?” Something told him it was so. His Irish brogue and deep voice tugged at her.

She stood a moment gazing up noticing briefly that he was still naked, that did not bother her - she’d seen many naked boys, and a few men as well. There was nothing shocking about it. However, because of the way he was just moments earlier, she stepped back from him, saying to him before she took off in the night, “I come fo’ya more, ‘til ya’betta…” and she was gone, off like a cooling breeze one longs for on a too warm night.

She was free.

He wanted to follow her. But knew he could not. He did not yet belong in her world. Not yet, he did not. He would stand out. He would slow her down. He would jeopardize her freedom. Were he to come up missing, they would go looking for him, and if they found him, they would find her because Max knew he wanted to be where she was. When the time came to be free, he was certain that she would be instrumental.

She said she would mate with no man.

Remembering made him smile to himself. She was a maiden, untouched. Feeling a sense of right and delight, he would wager not for long would she be. For now, he must get well, he must get strong, and he must adapt to this new world - otherwise, he would not survive it. Maximilian made his way into the cabin, and caught a whiff of the sent on him. It was very similar to her, to some of the other dark ones. Sitting on the bed, he slipped his easies on. He laid back and within a few moments, he was off into a deep sleep. Coming to him there, as she would not while awake, a mere slight sight in a fleeting dream of a dark presence and bright eyes.

She stirred him. As she was wild, he too wished to become wild. To be the free that she was, he would do anything she asked him to, even eat the ja’ga.

Chapter Two is ready for you - download and read the entire historical novel today! Ebook Link 

Written by Mercedes Keyes