His Freedom Found

NOTE: The following short story was written in my youth, when I was fascinated with the Civil War era and how it boggled my mind that slavery was such a great cause of that war. In the era of #MeToo and #BlackLivesMatter, it is important for us as a society to point at where we have come from and learn from these horrible crimes of the past so that they will not only be repeated but remembered.

Summer 1851

The grass was crisp, the cotton hard, and the sun hot; burning the backs of those who worked in the fields of the Jones Plantation. Hunk, in clothes that had either been outgrown by the years or shrunk from the many washings they had undergone, wiped the sweat from his brow and slowly unbent his back. Standing up straight, he wanted rest from the hard work, which he received, but not for long. As he felt a leg hit his shin, making him fall to his knees. “Get to work!” Mr. Calvin cried, and Hunk immediately bent down, picking the cotton once more. “Now,” continued Mr. Calvin, “if I catch any of you standin’ up again, I’ll tan your hides so hard that you won’t be able to stand for a week!”
With that said, every male slave made sure they were bent over enough to be safe, and some went even lower than that. Observing this, Hunk scoffed in a small whisper to a fellow worker beside him, “De only reason I’s ben’din is ‘cause I’s been whipped! Look at de rest of yu, though, yu oughta be ashamed!”
“Keep quiet, Hunk,” whispered the worker, causing Hunk to straighten up once more. “What fur?”
Suddenly, Hunk was pushed over and down by the neck, his face smudged into the mud-packed ground. “I’ll tell you what, darkie. I’ll tell you!”
Hearing the crack of the whip, Hunk closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to squirm as the whip beaded down on him. But this was not possible. The whip tore at his flesh and he could feel the blood flow from his back as old wounds were opened. “Now, darkie,” yelled Mr. Calvin after ten lashes were given, “you’ll know better than to disobey me next time, right?”
Clenching his teeth, Hunk grumbled, not wanting to give Mr. Calvin a satisfactory answer. He didn’t deserve one. So, he kept his mouth shut as Mr. Calvin picked him up by the neck. “Answer me, boy.”
“No,” said Hunk, wincing in pain. “I won’t disobeys you.”
“Good answer, darkie,” smirked Mr. Calvin, pushing Hunk back to the ground. “Now get back to work!”
Slowly, Hunk picked himself back up, hoping that the dinner bell would ring soon. But it was still early in the day.

________________

John Whitland had finally dozed off in the early morning hours at his quaint home near Charleston. He had been up half the night helping Toby, a runaway slave, secure a passageway through the secret tunnel he and other operators had dug underneath his house. As his head hit head hit the pillow at three o’clock and his eyes closed, his dreams took him back to the memories of his departed wife, Betsy, who had passed on five years ago in the cool of the night. The Virginian moon shone bright and glistened on the grass below, as they rode for the last time in their small buggy. It was their one-year anniversary, and they were returning from a trip into town.
“John,” she whispered, laying her head on his shoulder, “I’ll always love you.”
He smiled, and took the reins into one hand as to caress her back with the other. “My darling,” he said, “you are my heart. Happy Anniversary.”
As they neared the house, a dark figure ran towards them, causing John to pull up on the reins, halting the horses from their quiet trot. The figure stopped by the horses, catching his breath. “Mista Whitland,” he breathed. “I’s sorry, suh. I’s sorry.”
John recognized him as Ben, the slave they had sent through the tunnel two weeks before. “Sorry,” he asked? “Sorry for what?”
“For bringing me to you,” said a voice from the dark shadows.
Grabbing his small lantern, John raised it up to see who was talking to them. Standing next to his horses was a man shrouded in black, puffing a large cigar. He had a red mustache and wild hair to match. He laughed. “For a smart man, Whitland, you are such a fool.”
Betsy, now sitting up, called to the man, “Who are you?”
“Just a man who hates darkie lovers.”
John could hear Betsy’s breath quicken, for she was as frightened as he felt. “What do you want?” he bellowed.
“A reward,” said the man, pointing a pistol at her. “And she’ll do just fine.”
“Over my dead body,” yelled John and he jumped off the buggy, landing on the man. As he did this, a shot rang out from the man’s pistol, and John could hear his lovely wife scream. The man cackled with laughter, pushed him off with a punch, and stood up, looking at Elizabeth’s motionless body. “She was lovely, John. And you couldn’t save her. Pitiful.”
When the man had taken Ben and left on one of his horses, John crawled over to his dear wife. She was hardly breathing, and he knew her time was approaching. “John,” she said with a gasp, “Oh my darling John.”
Tears began to roll down his cheek as he took her in his arms. “I love you, darling. I love you.”
Smiling and shedding a tear, she looked him in the eye, whispering in a slow breath, “It’s all right, my love. It’s all right.”
Her eyes closed, and John felt her life leave her body. “No,” he screamed with an aching heart, “NO!”
A loud bell startled John, and he crawled out of bed, staring at the grandfather clock on the wall. Forty minutes past eleven, almost noon. Slowly, he made his way to the wash basin on the small table in his room, splashing cold water on his face while looking at his reflection in the mirror. He had always been a clean-shaven man who took pride in his appearance, yet this had changed over the last few years and a bearded man looked back at him. “Oh John,” he mumbled, “what has become of you?”
Sighing, he washed his hands and headed out the door and into the small kitchen next to the bedroom. Lighting the stove, he began to cook small pieces of bacon he had put in the pan the night before along with the eggs he placed in a small basket on the counter. “Bacon and eggs,” he thought with a smile, “a noontime breakfast.”
The smell of his meal soon filled the room, and he began to whistle a merry tune, as he had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.

__________________


There was no relief for the plantation field workers, except a small piece of cornbread and water were given at noon every day. After his harsh beating, Hunk looked forward to the little meal. He could bite into the cornbread as hard as he wanted and no one could tell him otherwise. Picking the cotton with swollen hands, he looked up and saw Roscoe carrying a tray of cornbread, a bucket of water, and a ladle. “Dere it is,” he mumbled, “my meal.”
Mr. Calvin called for all the workers to stop their picking, which they did at once, and made their way to the cornbread in a straight line. There were twenty of them, and Hunk was number nineteen. As he approached Roscoe, Mr. Calvin said, “Stop right where you are, darkie!”
Hunk did, and gave Mr. Calvin yelled, “Listen up all you darkies, and listen good!”
Everyone stopped eating for a moment, and looked at Mr. Calvin. “Hunk disobeyed me earlier. And I hate disobedience!”
Taking the ladle from Roscoe, Mr. Calvin continued, “Watch and learn! Because Hunk will go hungry for the rest of the day!”
“But Mista Calvin,” refuted Hunk, “you already whipped me!”
“It wasn’t enough, darkie!”
And with that, Mr. Calvin took Hunk’s piece of cornbread from Roscoe’s tray, shoved it in his mouth, and swallowed it whole. Then, he took the ladle and drank Hunk’s portion of water. “Now,” he said with a hateful tone, “get your lazy rear back in that field!”
With his stomach growling with food and his anger hot as fire, Hunk walked back to the sunburned field. He started picking at the cotton again, but either the sun had become hot and he could no longer take it, or he could no longer function without food and water. Perhaps it was both. It seemed as though the earth was spinning around him, and it took every bit of strength Hunk had to keep his eyes open and his body upright. He picked a piece of cotton, but missed the bag and the cotton bounced out of his hands, falling into the dirt. “Come on, Hunk,” he mumbled, “git wid it.”
Picking up the piece of cotton, he brushed the dirt off and bagged it. Then, wiping the sweat from his brow, Hunk tried grabbing another piece but the plant looked like a giant blur, and he quickly looked around. All the other workers seemed to have two heads, and when he rubbed his eyes, all he saw was a blur of colors. Straightening up, he felt lightheaded and dizzy. “I,” he said with a groan, “I needs help.”
Someone said something to him, but he couldn’t make it out. The world around him suddenly became a bright light and then nothing. As his world became pitch black, he reached out for balance, but soon his entire body succumbed to weariness and exhaustion.

___________________

The bacon and eggs tasted much better than they smelled while on the stove, and John savored every bite. His cooking was fair, but not quite as good as Elizabeth’s had been. She knew how to cook up a storm, making hotcakes, biscuits, ham, and she would always sprinkle a bit of sugar on the sausage while they fried. John had tried this once, and never was able to duplicate the unique taste. Only Betsy could make the sausages perfectly and he envied her for it, especially now that he had to do all of the cooking. But more than anything, he missed her company.
He missed her perfume in the morning, her golden hair, and the awe she gave off when she entered the room. Her beauty followed her wherever she went, and people loved being around her. She was beautiful both inside and out.
“John,” she once said, “you are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“No,” he had said, “you are they best” and then he gave her a kiss.
Taking a bite out of the sausage, he wished she was there with him, talking to him sweetly as she always did. “You were the best,” he mumbled as he swallowed his food. “You were the very best.”
His eyes welled with tears and he put the fork down, looking to heaven. “I love you, Betsy,” he whispered. “I love you.”
And he had a feeling that she could hear his low murmurings and read his pleasant thoughts.

________________

When Hunk opened his eyes, he found himself no longer in the fields, but lying on his bed in the small cabin he had shared with Kent, who died of cholera only a week ago. Marmie, the downstairs maid, was standing over him with a wet rag, wiping his face and chest. “Wot happened, Marmie?” he rasped.
“You done blacked out, Hunk. Ben in here all aftanoon. Mista Calvin shore wosn’t happy ‘bout dat.”
“I doesn’t care ‘bout Mista Calvin, Marmie,” said Hunk as he slowly sat up in bed. “He done hates me and shows it oll de time.”
Marmie let out a sigh. “I knows dat, Hunk,” she said, “but you gots ta show him sum respect.”
“He don’t deserve it,” replied Hunk, holding on to his back. The sting of the whip could still be felt, and the pain was excruciating. “Sum day, Marmie,” he said, “I’s gittin’ outta here.” “And how yu gwine ta do dat?” asked Marmie with a laugh.
“How do you think, Marmie!”
“Turn over, Hunk,” breathed Marmie. “I gots ta put some warm water on dose cuts.”
Wincing with pain, Hunk rolled over on his stomach, as Marmie applied another rag to the fresh wounds. “You done loss a lot of blood, Hunk. Dat’s why yu blacked out.”
“Mista Calvin is a beast,” cried Hunk, “I hates him and dis place. I gwine leave sumday, Marmie. Jest you wait an’ see!”
“Lissen to me, Hunk,” said Marmie as she clothed his back in rags, “if yu tries ta run, you knows dat de masta would send out Mista Calvin and his friends ta git yu. And you knows what dat means. Remember what happened ta Ben?”
Of course he remembered what happened to Ben. How could he forget? A few years ago, Ben decided to run away, but he didn’t get far. Mr. Calvin caught up with him only two days later. When he brought Ben back, he put his legs in boiling water so he could never walk or run. Three days afterward, Ben was found dead in his cabin, hanging from a beam. “Dat wont happen to me, Marmie. I won’t let it.”
“Den don’t run, Hunk. Don’t run.”
But all he could think about was escaping. No more Mr. Calvin and his whip, no more Jones Plantation. Thinking and planning was over. It was time to take action.

________________

John walked out the front door and stood on his small porch in the cool of the afternoon. As his eyes stared at the large yard before him, memories of the funeral came over him. The casket was laid across the edge of the porch, elevated above the few who were scattered across the lawn. Eleven had shown their faces, while ten others sent letters of condolence. Reverend Hill was standing behind the casket and John sat in a chair next to it. “We don’t always understand the ways of God,” said the reverend, “and we never will until we meet him in glory.”
“I wish I could understand it now,” thought John as the reverend continued. “Elizabeth Betsy Whitland was a good soul, a godly woman who always looked for the betterment of others. She will be surely missed.”
Throughout the rest of the sermon, John’s eyes wandered, gazing at the small gathering of friends. His father and mother-in-law were there along with Henry and Gloria McCoy. Rebecca Stewart, the schoolteacher and close friend of Betsy’s was there with her three children. She had been like a grown sister to them, and John knew they would miss her. Hannah, an old girlfriend, was sitting in a parked buggy with her husband Tom, who seemed eager to leave. John smiled when he saw them. “If they only knew,” he thought, “if they only knew.”
“Let us remember her life,” continued Reverend Hill, “and the soul who gave each of us so much joy.”
He turned to John, who rose to his feet, walked past the casket, and off the porch. “Betsy,” he began, “was my wife for only a year, but our love was strong. She was kind to all of us and a dear friend.”
Stopping for a moment, he took a deep breath and turned toward the casket. “I loved her,” he said with tears, “and I’ll never let go of those precious twelve months. Her memory will never fade because true love doesn’t die.”
Fixing his eyes to heaven, he prayed aloud for all to hear. “God,” he cried, “you took her and I’ll never understand it. Never.”

_______________

“George!”
Cried Hunk as he banged his fist against George’s cabin door. It was the middle of the night. “George, wake up!”
The door slowly opened, and there George stood, rubbing his eyes. “Hunk,” he said, “wot are you doin’ out here rite now?”
“Marmie tell yu wot hap’pened today?”
“Yes, and I think dat was right foolish of you, boy. I’m surprised you’s even able ta stand.”
“Did she tell you what I told her?”
“Yes, and it ain’t nothin new from you, Hunk. Now, you go back ta bed like a good boy.”
“I ain’t gwine ta do dat George.”
George sighed again and Hunk prayed he would come to his senses, and leave with him. He hated to be out there alone. “I’s runnin’, George. Makin’ my escape.”
“Hunk, dat’s a foolish thing ta do!”
“Wots so fulish ‘bout it, George?” cried Hunk, “I’s runnin’ ta b’ free! Ta do what I wonts!”
“And what if yor caughtt?,” answered George. “Dey do terrible things ta slaves dat run! De masta could have you killed or whipped or even have yor foot cut! Dey’ll do dat kinda thing, Hunk, and I ain’t makin dat up.”
“I knows dat, George, and dats why I ben planin!”
George sighed once more, saying, “Planin wot? How can you plan a escape, Hunk?”
“I got plans, George, I got good plans.”
“Hunk, lissen-”
“No, you lissen, George, I’s runnin’ tonight, but before I do, I want ta ask you sumthin’.”
“What’s dat?”
“Yu wont ta come wid me?”
“What fur?”
“Ta b’ free!”
A pause resounded through the air. This seemed to catch George off-guard, and Hunk wanted it to. He could be more honest that way. But George drew a deep breath and said, “No, Hunk. No.”
Hunk looked George in the eye. This man was like his older brother, he didn’t want to leave him. But, if he wanted to be free, he had to. He took hold of George’s hand. “Den bye, George.”
As Hunk turned to leave, he heard George faintly say, “good luck an’ Godspeed.” Hunk smiled, and a fear gripped him. What if this did not work out? What if he was caught? What if he was killed? But, he was determined, and he ventured out into the fields walking upright; as if he had conquered the world. Soon, he came to a fence, five feet high, and he slowly, carefully, and quietly climbed over it. In a matter of minutes, he was on the other side, and walking down a dirt road.

_______________

With tears in his eyes, John made his way back into the house. The clock rang once more. 9 o’clock. He sighed and made his way back into the bedroom. What was there left to do? No slaves dared traverse the dangerous waters since the Fugitive Slave Act, and if they did, no one came by his house at all.
“Thanks to Henry,” he breathed. Sure, Henry comforted him during the funeral. But he also made sure that John wasn’t allowed to help runaways. After all, he had been compromised once, and it cost him Betsy. Why shouldn’t it happen again? “I wish,” he murmured softly, so that only God would hear him, “I wish I could help out one more slave. For Betsy.”
But that could never be.

______________

Hours went by, and as the sun rose over the horizon, Hunk knew that he needed to find a hiding place very soon; for now that it was light, there would most likely be many travelers. Fortunately, he did not have to walk far before a small clump of trees caught his eye, in an area so secluded that Hunk knew he would be safe. Quickly, he made his way off the dirt road, hiding himself among the trees. After making sure that the trees concealed him from the dirt road, Hunk sat down, and rubbed his tired eyes. He was in great need of rest, for he had had none when traveling throughout the night. Sprawling himself on the ground, Hunk closed his eyes, letting the quest for freedom permeate his dreams and sooth his mind.

********

A few hours into the morning, a cool breeze rustled through the trees and lightly touched his shoulders. Rubbing his eyes, Hunk sat up; not knowing where he was and not feeling anything but the pang of hunger that now gripped him. The sun’s light was slowly diminishing; it was late into the day, but not too late, for Hunk could still be easily spotted, if he left this secure hiding place. So, he remained immovable for a few moments, eating the small piece of bread he had smuggled into his pocket for a moment of hunger and starvation. Yet, this piece of bread did little to fulfill his needs, and soon his stomach cried out in aggravation. He needed food, wanted food, and desired food.
Slowly, Hunk stood, and as he did so, a sweet fragrance of hot-bread burst into his nostrils; someone had food nearby. Forgetting the daylight, and his own safety, Hunk followed the odor until he stood next to a large oak tree; at the edge of this small clump of trees. Then, he saw where the fragrance had come from, which at only a moment’s glance made him turn away in fear.
A small house stood two yards from the edge of the trees, and the way to it was overgrown with tall grasses and weeds. Hunk immediately retreated back to the secluded area, trying to think of a way to get around it. He could wait until the night came, and travel down the dirt road once more, but how safe could he be? True, he had not been seen the night before, but how long would that good fortune last? It couldn’t be risked again, and Hunk knew it; he had to be safe, and yet the house condemned that safety all the more. The line of trees thinned out at least four yards before the mansion, and the dirt road sat on either side of the small forest. He could not move forward, and he could not continue on they way he had been.
All options seemed to have removed themselves from Hunk, as he tried to make a plan for himself, yet there were no more ways in which to do so. He felt lonely, terrified, and wished that he had listened to George. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he welcomed it. His eyes filled with water, and he did not hinder it; he wept.

_________________

Gradually, Hunk began to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Kan’t cry,” he said to himself, “gots ta figure a way ‘round dat house.”
Hunk stared at the trees’ ending, which was only a few feet from him. Slowly, he began to walk back out into that direction, ducking and hiding behind anything that could conceal him, being more careful than before. When he had reached his destination, Hunk stooped down behind the oak tree, and peered out into the yard before him, glaring at the mansion; then he saw it: a way out. A larger grouping of trees could be seen from the back of the house, and went as far as the eyes could see! “All I have ta do,” he said with a grin, “is ta git back of de house, den,” his heart raced, and he practically shouted with joy, “den I’s won step closer ta bein’ free!”
Kneeling down and sprawling himself onto the ground, Hunk began to slowly crawl from the oak tree and into the overgrown yard, which Hunk was glad for, because the tall grasses and trees kept his body out of sight. As he neared the house, every move he made rattled his nerves, and soon he was only six feet from the porch. Then, his worst fears came true when the door opened and a man walked back out onto the porch. Hunk stopped dead in his tracks, and his heart began pounding louder with every breath. Then, in a loud voice, the man called out, “Who’s down there! Stand up and show yourself!”
Hunk swallowed hard, and his body was thrown into fits of shaking. His left hand tried to still his right, yet it was no use, he couldn’t stop. The grasses around him began to shake as well, surely he would be spotted, surely he would be caught and flogged; surely he would die.
The man bounded down the porch steps, and Hunk thrust his head into the ground. “I know you're here,” cried the man, “I've seen you through my window, so there's no use in hiding!”
Hunk prayed with all his might that the man would turn away, and walk back into the house; but he didn't. His footsteps started softly, and then grew louder and louder; he was coming closer to Hunk with every step, and there was nothing Hunk could do about it. Afraid for his life, afraid for his freedom, Hunk dare not move at all. The man’s steps were drawing nearer to him, coming upon him rapidly. His body shook uncontrollably, and he began to weep so much so that he could not stop it. Fear had overcome his body, fear that life would soon be snuffed out, and day would no longer shine its light upon him. He couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let the man take him unprotected without a chance to survive. So, with adrenalin pumping and dread protruding from his pores, Hunk courageously jumped up, and ran as fast as he could to get to the back of the house.
Suddenly, the ground came loose, and he fell into a pit. Lying on his back, he saw the man peering down at him, smiling. “No,” breathed Hunk with tears in his eyes, “no!”
Quickly, Hunk closed his eyes. This was the end, he could feel it in his bones. He expected a rifle to be fired, or a whip being cracked and made ready for him; but none of the kind was heard. He opened his left eye, and looked up; the man was gone as if he had never been there! Hunk stood up, and with both eyes open he surveyed the entire perimeter of the pit; no one could be seen. Backing up, he leaned against a wall of the four-sided pit, and felt it give away. Turning from this wall, Hunk stood amazed and bewildered, as the dirt fell; revealing a small door, which slowly opened, as the man entered the pit. “Come,” he said, “follow me,” but Hunk remained absolutely still, until the man took him by the shoulder; practically forcing him through the door and into a mud-packed tunnel.
A kerosene lamp sat next to the small doorway inside the tunnel, the man took it, lit the wick, and then closed the door behind the. “There,” he said, and motioned for Hunk to follow him through the narrow tunnel, and down to another door, which the man hurriedly opened; then turned to Hunk. “This way” he said, and went through the doorway as Hunk followed him into a cold, dark cellar.
On entering the cellar, the man quickly shut this door as well, which immediately became an identical part of the wall when closed; Hunk looked at this phenomenon for a moment, but was then grabbed by the shoulder very harshly; whipped around to face the man. The man, then, let go of Hunk, and took a pistol out of its holster; pointing the barrel at Hunk. “Now,” said the man sharp and quick, “I’m going to ask you a few questions.”
Hunk’s mouth quivered and his head became hot, as the cocked pistol stared him in the face; crying out his deadly fate. His feet felt as if they were nailed to the ground, for he could not move, nor could he breathe. All he could do was concentrate on the barrel of the pistol that the man now gripped tightly; finger on the trigger. “Are you a spy?” he asked, and Hunk’s hand shook, his face became sweaty. He did not answer, only stared at the terror before him. The man repeated his question, and Hunk slowly mouthed, “No.”
“What was that?!” asked the man in a fierce and gruff tone, and Hunk softly whispered, “No.”
The man cocked the pistol, pointing the barrel straight at Hunk’s face. “Is that the truth?” he asked, and Hunk knew he had been heard.
“Yes,” replied Hunk in a fearful tone, and the man let down his arm.
“You’re not lying now, are you?” he asked, “’Cause if you are, then you’ll be in a lot of trouble with this here pistol.”
The man tapped the pistol with his free hand, and stared into Hunk’s eyes. “I have one more question for you,” he began, “why are you here?”
Hunk’s hand stopped shaking and became utterly still. His whole body was frozen in place and something from within told him to answer the man.
“I’s ‘ere,” began Hunk slowly and cautiously, “cus I’s runin’ frum de masta.”
The man placed his pistol in its holster, and then looking to Hunk, he said, “By law, I should shoot you.”
Hunk felt his chest drop, and his heart began a rapid pace, echoing the man’s very words throughout his veins. Sweat began to pour from his brown, as the man continued, “But that’s the law and I don’t follow it.”
“What you mean?” asked Hunk, fearing that the worst was yet to come.
“I follow my own law, which is to help every runaway slave I see escape to freedom.”
Hunk’s heart slowed, and the sweat stopped pouring as the word, “freedom” echoed through his head. For never before had a word describe all he could ever want or imagine and he knew that this goal would soon be reached.
“What’s your name?”
“Hunk.”
“I’m John,” replied the man, “come with me.”
And Hunk did, following him away from the cellar walls and up a small, cramped stairway, which stood off to the right.

_______________

As he finished walking up the stairway, John turned around, facing the runaway he was about to help: Hunk. How he wished that he could tell this young man who he was, yet he dared not risk it. He knew the consequences of doing so, as he had lived with them before. His name was all this runaway should know. “Now,” he said as Hunk stood close behind him, “the room I am about to show you will be yours for the night, and tomorrow I will give you directions to the home of a friend of mine, Emily Watkins. She will help you escape out of the state, and you will be directed further North until you reach Canada.”
Hunk smiled at him, “Thank you, suh, for helpin’ me.”
“My friend,” said John, “the life that you have lived is a terrible and vicious one and I am more than happy to help you escape from it. Come, I will show you to your room, and then we will eat.”
John pulled open the door in front of him, and entered it with Hunk behind him.

_______________

When Hunk had entered the room, Mr. John closed the door behind them, and began showing him around this small room. There was no window in the room, and Hunk had to adjust his eyes to the dark so that he could see properly. A bed sat to the right of him, a wash basin to the left, and another door ahead of him. “This will be your room for the night,” said the man as he headed towards another the door which stood before them, “and tomorrow you shall be back on your way.”
Mr. John slowly opened the door, pulling it outward, and motioned for Hunk to follow. He did so and found himself in a kitchen almost identical to that of Master Jones’. “Your room,” he, “was once a pantry, and when I close this door it still looks as though there is a pantry behind it. This is your protection, for no one looking for a runaway would look inside a pantry.”
“Thanks, Mista Jon.”
“You’re welcome.”
“No one knows ‘bout dis room?” asked Hunk as he stared at the pantry door.
“Only myself,” replied Mr. John, “and those I help to escape. You will be quite safe in there.”
“What if,” began Hunk, “someone wanted ta look in de pantry door?”
Mr. John placed the kerosene lantern on a round table behind him, answering Hunk’s question. “First of all,” he said, “I would not allow anyone into the kitchen, telling that whoever is looking for a runaway I’m the only person here. Secondly, the pantry door is always locked, and only I have the key to it.”

_____________

“Now,” asked John as he smiled at Hunk, “would you like something to eat?”
“I shore wood!” exclaimed Hunk, “I ain’t had any food ‘sept sum bread dis mornin’.”
“Well, sit down at the table, Hunk,” came John’s reply, “and I’ll fix you something that will stuff you.”
As Hunk sat down at the round table, John turned away from him and towards the stove, and lit it. Emotions began to overcome him, and he remembered doing this before, when his wife had been there with him. She had lit the stove for a runaway named Ben, and he had begun to peel potatoes for a stew she was about to make. He remembered the aroma of the boiling pot, and how she slowly dropped each piece of meat into it.
“How do you like your stew?” she had asked Ben, and he had shrugged his shoulders stating that “It don’t matter ta me, long as its good.”
“It will be, Ben,” he had replied, “Betsy makes the best stew in the state.”
“Oh, John,” said Betsy as she blushed, “that’s not true.”
“Well, darling,” he had said, “it is to me.”
That had been the last time he had called her “darling,” and the last time she would blush. For hours later they would be betrayed and her life taken. As John began to come back to the reality he was now facing, he noticed that he had forgot to set the pan down on the stove, and had placed a slab of meat down without it. Fixing this mistake, he quickly picked up the meat with a fork, took out a pan from the bottom cupboard, placed the meat in it, and put the pan on the stove. Then, turning back towards Hunk, he said, “It won’t be too long, Hunk, I’d say about twenty minutes and you’ll have a nice-“
A knock at the front door startled them, and he stood still, as Hunk sat quiet and still as well. “Hunk get into the pantry,” whispered John as he looked out the window. “Great!”
Quickly, John walked into to the pantry, where Hunk was now sitting on the bed, shivering. He felt sorry for the man, but they had to keep his stay a secret. Especially with the company at the front door. He locked the door, and began to close it. "Wait here," he said as he turned towards the front door.
Sighing, John opened up the front door. There stood Henry McCoy, his friend and sheriff, with four men behind him. All five of them were on the grass, so John walked onto the porch, and looked down at them. One looked very familiar, but he could not place him. “Good morning, sheriff, what can I do for you?”
Henry sighed. “John, last night a slave from the Jones Plantation escaped.”
“And what does this have to do with me?” asked John innocently.
“Maybe nothing, but I want my slave back,” retorted one of the men. He had red hair, green eyes, and wore a white shirt with a brown vest and pants.
“Quiet, Calvin,” said Henry.
Calvin. The name wasn’t recognizable to John, but the face and voice were. “Who are these men?” asked John.
“Calvin here is the overseer,” replied Henry, “and these men are his hired hands. I believe you know what that means.”
“I do,” breathed John.
“Stop with this foolish chat, and let us in!” screamed Calvin. His face was puffing with anger.
“Let you in?” asked John.
“John,” began Henry, looking him in the eye, “I know you’re not involved with this. Especially after what happened to Betsy. But, I have here a warrant to search every house within twenty-five miles of the Jones Plantation.”
“I see,” said John slowly. “Well, since you have the warrant, you can come in. But, please leave these other men out here.”
“Why?” cried Calvin. “What you hiding?”
“Nothing,” answered John, “I just don’t want strangers traipsing through my home.”
“Sorry, John,” said Henry, “Calvin has to come in.”
Both Henry and Calvin walked up the porch stairs. Henry patted John’s shoulder. “It’s better if you wait out here. I know you don’t have anything to hide anyway.”
Calvin glared at him. “I doubt it” he said, and John immediately placed him. Those eyes, that scowl. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

_____________

Endless days seemed to have passed, and Mr. John did not return. Hunk stood up, moving towards the pantry door, and pressed his ear against it. Not a sound was heard, no doors opening, no footsteps, nothing. Hunk felt abandoned, and feared that the man would never return to open the pantry door. Then, as his spirits were low, he heard an outside door open. Someone had entered the kitchen. Hunk, expecting the man to open the pantry door, stepped backward; yet the footsteps stopped short, not even coming close to the pantry door. Curious as to why the man hadn’t come towards the door, Hunk pressed his ear against it once more; and his heart sank when he heard Mr. Calvin’s voice say, “I’ll search in here, and you search the bedroom.”
“Okay,” replied a second person, and Hunk soon heard cupboards being opened and shut, and soon the footsteps reached the pantry door. His heart began to race, and his breath quickened as the doorknob began to twist and turn.
“If you’re in there, darkie,” yelled Mr. Calvin, “we got you!”
The doorknob stopped turning, and Hunk remembered that it was locked. Mr. Calvin became angry and began to pound against the pantry door relentlessly. “I know you’re in there!” he cried out, “and I’m comin’ to get you!”
Hunk backed away from the door, for he knew that it would eventually break in; revealing the small, dark room. As he did so, his hand hit a doorknob, and he turned around, facing the door he had originally entered from, which led to the cellar of this mansion. Hunk pressed his palm against the doorknob, and on turning it he created a loud squeaky noise, which obviously caught the ear of the voice behind the pantry door, for the pounding became merciless and he heard the voice cry out, “I know you’re in there! I can here you! You can run, but you can’t hide!”
Hunk quickly pulled the door open, and hurried down the stairs, making his way into the dark cellar. He had forgotten to close the door behind him, but he dared not go back, instead he rushed forward, and soon hit the dirt wall before him. He rejoiced in this, for the secret door that the man had led him through was embedded into the wall. Yet, where was this door? Hunk slowly glided across the wall, feeling for anything that might seem out of place, but so far: nothing. “Keep lookin’,” he told himself, “it must be here.”

_____________

After a good fifteen minutes, Henry exited the house and walked over to John who was leaning against the railing on the porch. “You done?”
“Not quite,” said Henry softly. “Who’s in the pantry?”
John smiled. “No one, Henry, you know that.”
“Do I?”
“Yes”
“Then why did Calvin break it down?”
Straightening up, John knew the secret was over. There was no way Hunk could escape from Calvin now. John sighed. “I guess it’s over, Henry.”
“Why did you try?” he asked.
“Because, I owed Betsy that much.”

_____________

With a body half broken in fear, and nerves rushing to his head; Hunk began to glide his hands across the wall once more, pounding and rapping at it. Then, after a few minutes of this, he felt a crunch beneath his fists, and a small panel creaked open. “I’s found it,” he whispered in jubilation, “I’s found it!”
These cries of joy, however, were short-lived, when Hunk heard the smashing of wood, and Mr. Calvin screamed, “I’m in here darkie! You can’t escape now!”
Hunk, not having a moment to lose, leapt through the small panel, turned to shut the door behind him; yet it would not close all the way. Footsteps began to bound down the stairs, as Hunk tried with all his might to close the panel door, but it would not budge an inch. Terror filled Hunk’s very being as he heard Mr. Calvin’s loud panting breath, and he knew that this person was close to him; too close. “I’m here, darkie!” he kept repeating, “I’m here, and I’ll find you!”
Hunk attempted to shut the door once more, and when it would not, he turned away from it; scurrying down the tunnel as fast as his legs could carry him. Faster and faster he ran, until he hit the final door, the one which lead into the pit that he fell into only a few hours before. Quickly, his hand reached for the knob, and he tried to turn it, yet it did not move. The door was locked, and Hunk had no means of opening it.
Hunk’s breathing quickened, and his heart beat faster with every passing second as the voice’s footsteps sounded through the tunnel. Soon, there would be no more freedom, only rough slavery, dark and cold. As his mind planted itself on this thought, ready to accept his doom, Hunk’s heart pulled away from it; yearning for freedom beautiful and sweet. Yet, it seemed as though the freedom that he hungered for, was no longer available, slavery was his destination, and there was no way to escape from it. The locked door had shut his means of desire, and Mr. Calvin would now clench the desire; throwing it far away from Hunk.
As Mr. Calvin came closer with every step, Hunk’s body began to shake with uncontrollable fear. Not the fear that comes with slavery, but fear of not being able to find what he wanted; and finish what he started. ”I kan’t accept dis,” mumbled Hunk, as the voice began once more to shout at him, “I’d rather die.”
Then, as his mouth spoke the feelings of his heart, Hunk realized what freedom truly was. It was not fear of being caught, nor was it escape routes in the dark with nights of little sleep. For all these things were not free, but a different form of slavery, the slavery of fear and restlessness. Freedom, pure and simple, was heaven not on this earth, for there one is truly free. Free from fear, sleep, and slavery. Hunk smiled at this, for he knew that there is but one way to this heavenly freedom.

_____________

“You going to arrest me?” asked John, gazing into the clear blue sky. It was such a beautiful day, and he wished he was a child again to fully enjoy it.
“He hasn’t found anything yet,” said Henry. “Or he’d be out here.”
Henry was looking at the ground, holding on to the porch rail. They weren’t looking at each other, and for John it was better this way. Less personal.
“Maybe you should arrest him. He killed Betsy, you know.”
“I know.”
“How long?”
Henry sighed. “Six months. Couldn’t do anything, though.”
“I wish I could.”
John felt Henry grab his shoulder, and he turned to look at him. “It wouldn’t do any good, John.”
Slowly, John pulled a derringer out from his right pocket. “Then, tell me, Henry, why do I carry this?”
“Don’t do it, John. Don’t do it.”

_____________

When he had fallen into Mr. John’s pit, fear of death and instant slavery had overcome him. And the same feeling came when Mr. John had pointed his pistol at Hunk’s face. Yet, now as Mr. Calvin neared him with every step, Hunk no longer had the fear of death and slavery. For he knew the truth, what freedom really was, and peace filled his inner-most core as the overseer came closer and Hunk saw first his silhouette, and then more of him as the dark tunnel would allow. Mr. Calvin must have seen Hunk as well, for it seemed as though he smirked, and let silence flood the tunnel for a few short moments. Then, the very silence that was wrought on by Mr. Calvin was also broken by the same, as he calmly whispered loud enough for Hunk to hear, “Darkie, do you see what I have?”
The dark tunnel, however, did not allow Hunk too even catch a glimpse of whatever the overseer possessed in his clutches, forcing Hunk to reply with, “No, I’s don’t see nothin’.”
“Might as well be,” said Mr. Calvin, “cause what I got ain’t something you want at all.”

_____________

The three hired hands seemed restless, they hadn’t budged since Calvin entered his house. John, pointing his pocket pistol at Henry, leaned up against the outside wall of the house; waiting for Calvin to come out. “This day has been long in coming, Henry,” he said, staring at the open door.
“Be sensible, John. You’re outnumbered.”
“Not if I act fast.”
“You’ll go to jail. Would Betsy want that?”
John rolled his eyes. “I’m on my way there already.”
Sighing, Henry walked away from John. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just turn your back for three minutes.”
“No.”
“Then arrest me. But I warn you, I will put up a fight.”
“You’ve only got one bullet!” cried Henry, but John didn’t care. It was enough to do what he wanted and that’s all that mattered.

______________

Hunk knew that whatever Mr. Calvin had could only be one of three items, a gun, a whip, or a knife. All three had been used countless times on many runaways, but even the thought of these things did not bring panic upon Hunk; only tranquility and a sense of joy that freedom might soon be reached. “Nothing,” responded Hunk, as his soul became fresh and vibrant for his freedom, “nothing you have is gwine ta scare me.”
“Trying to be tough, I see,” retorted Mr. Calvin in a cool tone, “unfortunately being tough ain’t going to save you. ‘Cause what I got here, is going to kill you. Now, what do you got to say to that?”
“Nothing,” answered Hunk, “nothing.”
“You know, boy,” said Mr. Calvin in a sarcastic tone that Hunk despised, “you’re smart. Very smart. Only a shame I have to do my duty, and make an example out of you. See, there’s a rule set up at the plantation, stating that if the master catches you escaping, you get whipped. But, we all know that Mr. Jones does not personally chase after his own slaves, right?”
Not wanting to answer this ridiculous question, Hunk kept quiet, which made the voice chuckle and say, “You’re the most outspoken darkie on the plantation. But you’re silent now. Ironic. Your death will be a silent one, unlike your stupid life.”
Hunk wanted to punch him, but he didn’t. Although the thought of being free overflowed him, he did fear death. But he wasn’t going to show it.
“Ain’t you gonna plead, darkie?”
“I ain’t gwine ta plead,” said Hunk as his mind became utterly calm before the voice, “Cause I know dat I’ll b’ free. Freer den you or anyone else.”
“What do you mean, darkie? You ain’t going to be free, you’re going to die.”
“No,” answered Hunk, “I ain’t gwine ta die. I’s gwine ta live where dere’s no slavery at all.”
As these words were spoken, Mr. Calvin thrust a pain into his belly, and Hunk immediately fell to the ground. For what he had stuck within him, was a knife sharp and fatal. “Now,” said Mr. Calvin, “try disobeying with that in you.”
Pain overcame Hunk’s body, and he felt the blood flow freely from his wound. It would not be long before death entered his body, taking him to freedom, and Hunk rejoiced in this.
Mr. Calvin smiled, “you’re my example. And I like it.”
Hunk looked up at Mr. Calvin’s dark complexion from the tunnel shadows, Hunk spoke his last words. “I kan lives. I kan lives.”
Mr. Calvin spoke once more, but Hunk could not hear him. For the waves of death splashed against him, and he took his last breaths; knowing that slavery to the world was gone and freedom had been achieved. He smiled and then sighed.

______________

In a cool and brisk manner, Calvin walked out of the house, down the porch steps, and over to his men. “He’s in a tunnel, boys,” he said, “go get him.”
All three of them moved like they were one person, walking into John’s house; and he smiled. “Well, Calvin, he said, looks like you got your man.”
“Sheriff,” cried Calvin, “arrest this man.”
“I don’t think he can,” said John, now pointing his derringer at Calvin. “Guess why.”
“Fool,” screamed Calvin, “you’ve only got one bullet.”
“And a good aim,” said John with a smirk.
Calvin’s face suddenly became white, and he looked at Henry. “Sheriff, do something!”
“John,” sighed Henry, “give me the gun.”
“Wait,” yelled John, “Wait!!”
Quickly, he ran down the stairs and over to Calvin, who started to back away. Thoughts were racing in and out of his mind so fast. He was becoming a madman. “Say, it, Calvin! Say it!”
“Say what?”
“Tell me you killed my wife. I know you did!”
Calvin stuttered. “Is this what this is about? Revenge?”
“You admit it, then?”
“Yes, damn you. Yes.”
John cocked back the pistol, aiming it at Calvin’s head. “Please,” whispered Calvin, “don’t.”
That plea sunk deep into John’s soul. He thought of Betsy, and what she would say if she were still alive. “John,” she would whisper, “he isn’t worth it. Don’t give up the rest of your life.”
Pushing Calvin back, and with tears in his eyes, John muttered, “Get your slave, and go.”
Slowly, Calvin walked around John, and ran back into his house. John looked at Henry, who still stood on the porch. After a long moment he asked, “You going to arrest me?”
Henry laughed, and walked down the steps. “No, my friend. No.”

END