The Picker

The Picker

Horane Smith

The Picker

Copyright © 2016 by Horane Smith

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, shared in a retrievable system or transmitted in any form or by an means without the prior written consent of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for a review to be printed in the media.

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Charleston, South Carolina

Tuesday, April 15, 1845

Lincoln Barker’s eyelids twitched nonstop, his legs vibrated under the coarse woolen fabric of his trousers, and the moisture in the palm of his hands testified to the fear of what could happen to him in a matter of minutes. Lincoln had been wary for most of his teenage years of the day when his master would sell him.

The small cadre of plantation owners gathered at the slave market on Chalmers Street, in Charleston, South Carolina, were bracing themselves for a morning of competitive bidding, after word went out the Cedar Hill Plantation in Maplewood, would sell its prized property, the 23-year-old Lincoln Barker.

This boy sure gonna fetch a high price, said one man, as the group kept swelling by the minute.

Lincoln earned his reputation through the lucrative cotton plantation at Cedar Hill. No other plantation in the vast expanse of cotton fields in the county, could match the indisputable output of almost 100,000 bales of cotton year after year. Cedar Hill was the ‘king of cotton,’ all these years, and it conferred on its young and indispensable slave Lincoln The Picker, the unofficial title of the fastest picker in the Deep South. A man of quiet disposition, Lincoln thought little of that label; he was just a slave fulfilling his obligations to his master until this exact moment when something clicked in his head.

Whut sho’ld I do now? Lincoln thought, as he watched the men drawing closer to the elevated auction platform that he’d climb within minutes to parade himself before those lustful eyes of future masters, who were looking for a sturdy man like him to get their cotton plucked from off the bristled limbs. Lincoln weighed about two-hundred pounds; most of his weight was in those broad shoulders that anchored his towering six-foot body firmly to the ground. He wasn’t a bad-looking man; Lincoln’s beefy face was pleasant, the dark, glistening, eyes appeared apprehensive of just about anything - friendship and this sudden realization that he was working for free for a long time – in fact, too long.

Cedar Hill did not provide him with any hope that his despicable life of unrewarded servitude would change. He had heard stories about the slave Nat Turner, and his fight against slavery in Virginia some years ago. He envisaged more uprisings like that for as long as slavery continued.

Cedar Hill purchased Lincoln at age eight from a plantation in nearby Georgia, not knowing the woman who gave birth to him or the man who impregnated her for his master. Cedar Hill was all Lincoln had, yet it had become to him in recent years, a haunting spectacle of cruelty and abuse. He gave so much and received nothing in return. Was that all he could ever be? A Slave? Lincoln thought about that many nights when sleep eluded him, despite his weariness. What should he do? Should he continue to work harder and harder for Master Philip or what? Should he continue so he could attract other buyers, which would enable him to leave Cedar Hill? What would be the point of leaving Cedar Hill, anyway?

Look at dem, like vultures, Lincoln thought, as he watched the well-dressed planters beckoning for space before the platform where they could get their desired view of every muscle in his body and all the teeth in his mouth. He recalled the days, under the simmering sun, when he picked cotton until his fingers bled. The dried bristles on the cotton plants pricked them non-stop. Overhead, the vultures would be circle as they did on any normal day, and Lincoln could not help wondering if they smelled his blood.

However, Cedar Hill’s dominance in cotton production came to an abrupt halt last spring, with the death of Philip Hudson, its owner. Everything changed and quickly, too. Cedar Hill’s reputation took a nosedive, the year before, when his wife Ruth died of tuberculosis. Since December, Philip’s only child, Thomas, had been trying to run the plantation, but unlike his father, Cedar Hill’s decline in production and prestige was slipping out of his hand. Production slid to below half of expectations, due to a severe drought, and ten slaves died from dysentery. Today, a choice between breaking his father’s words and the survival of Cedar Hill confronted Thomas.

Never sell Lincoln under any circumstances, Philip had told his son, three months before he died, two years ago. The two of them had been in the field watching Lincoln worming his way through the white dots of cotton for as far as eyes could see, maneuvering like no other slave could, with cotton being stuffed into the sack, and moving faster than any other slave.

That son is our most precious asset. You get rid of him and Cedar Hill is history. I got me many offers, but I wouldn’t take them, he added.

Lincoln did not know his worth. All he knew was he worked hard to bring the cotton to harvest; he worked harder than any other slave would and they were the ones who agreed he deserved to be called The Picker. A humble Lincoln relished the title for only a passing moment and was back to his usual pursuit of bringin’ home de cotton.

The closest Lincoln came to realize his value to his master was a hint the elder son of Thomas, 22-year-old Jason Hudson gave to him. Jason was a year younger than Thomas, but older than his other brother, Mark. The two knew each other since their teenage years and had grown to understand what stood between them as sort of friends; Jason’s father owned Lincoln, which meant Jason also owned Lincoln.

Pa says you’re a good worker and he needs you around here, Jason had told Lincoln years ago while hauling cotton from the field.

Um, I do muh bes’, Lincoln had replied.

The mid-morning sun was hovering over the market, a welcome gesture as spring made its way into the southern countryside. It could get hot today, as the warm rays dissipated themselves across the ugly, weather-beaten boards that made up the eastern side of the market. They must have been there for years, given the obvious signs of rotting wood all over the posts that held up the wall and roof.

If da roof could jes’ tumble down an’ put a stop to dis ‘ere sellin, Lincoln wished to himself. Is dat wrong sweet Jezas? he asked and then dismissed the thought.

Lincoln felt he’d be sold unless something drastic happened. Master Hudson desired money to keep Cedar Hill going, and he was worth much or else why would he be selling him? There were many slaves around. Those greedy-looking owners could get slaves from all over the South; he must be worth something more than the others, he thought. Well then, you have to start thinking seriously, Lincoln said to himself, remembering what Jason had told him in the field about his purported value to the master.

Thomas Hudson walked up to the platform, as Jack Cunningham, the auctioneer, a wiry-faced looking old man with his glasses on the tip of his nose, signaled it was time to begin. Thomas was an elegantly dressed man, given the hard times that had fallen on Cedar Hill. His long, gray, tailcoat was the right fit and the wool trousers were just as good. Underneath his coat, the milky white linen vest made Thomas noticeable to the eyes pierced on the stage. Thomas was clean-shaved, not as tall as the lanky Lincoln, but much slimmer with a small, bony face to match the body.

The chorus of chatter faded to a whisper the moment Thomas made his appearance. His heavy boots hit the platform with a thud; fortunately, there was no mud to sling, and each man gathered around, held onto his spot. One lone, pretty, dark-haired, girl stood at the far corner of the gathering, waiting for the bids to begin. The eyes of the waiting remained fixed on Thomas, who was well aware everyone was expecting the auction to begin. There was no other slave up for bidding, only The Picker.

Remove your shirt, boy, Thomas told Lincoln. His body glistened in the morning sun as soon as it met the golden rays. Another slave oiled Lincoln’s body before he left the plantation; his meal of buttered cornbread, cornmeal porridge and bacon was the biggest he had in recent years. He showered, cleaned his teeth, and put on fresh clothes. Thomas prepared Lincoln for this ordeal because he had to raise money. Thomas wanted to collect the cash so much he overlooked any possible economic fall-out for selling the slave. His wife Sarah, and both Jason and Mark, pleaded with him not to sell Lincoln, but an adamant and obstinate Thomas insisted he had little choice in the predicament he found himself.

Gentlemen, Thomas began, relieved that Sarah and the boys refused to accompany him to the auction. This slave is worth more than gold to Cedar Hill. You know how times are tough in these parts and many of us are having difficulties to pay our bills. We must sell even when we don’t want to… to survive. This morning, I give you Lincoln. My other slaves call him The Picker. You’ve heard about him and I tell you, there ain’t no other slave around here who can pick cotton like him. No sir! He’s the best, the fastest and the most productive. This man picks up to 400-pounds of cotton a day without a sore hand. I’m sorry… I have to let him go… I need money.

Start the bidding, one planter shouted.

Name your price, another said.

Lincoln listened to the exchanges. He felt ashamed of himself degraded, humiliated and disgusted his life was about to be sold to the highest bidder. Several thoughts ran through his disturbed mind, which left him confused, and concluded he could do nothing about his grim future.

Thomas motioned Lincoln to move to the middle of the platform. Look at those shoulders… the muscles… skin without blemish, all 32 teeth. What more could you want?

How much are you asking? the man nearest to Lincoln asked.

Mr. Hudson wants to start the bidding at $300, Mr. Cunningham said. Three-hundred-dollars going…

Three-hundred-and-fifty-dollars, came one bid.

Four hundred dollars, came another.

Four-hundred-dollars going gentlemen, the auctioneer said.

Lincoln’s eyes kept darting from one planter to the other, wondering who would be his next master.

Four-hundred-and-fifty-dollars. The bid came from the lone woman standing at the far corner of the crowd. There was silence while all heads turned to look in her direction. Gillian Frost owned the plantation that shared a border with Cedar Hill. She knew a lot about Lincoln and had always hinted of her interest in getting him to work her five hundred acre property of tobacco and cotton. Her plantation was also buckling under hard economic times, struggling for survival. She was searching for a way out.

Four-hundred-and-fifty-dollars going, Mr. Cunningham continued.

Six-hundred-dollars, the man nearest to Lincoln offered.

Seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollars, another man said.

The price for slaves in that area of the Carolinas ranged from anywhere between $200 and $600, depending on factors such as age, health, strength and appearance. Slaves became valuable to owners not only when they were good laborers but also when they could produce offspring for their masters. So far, Lincoln had none despite repeated coupling with two young slave girls at Cedar Hill - one reason Thomas decided to sell him.

Eight-hundred-and-fifty-dollars, said the man nearest to Lincoln again.

Nine-hundred-and-fifty-dollars, said a voice from the middle section of the crowd. Once more, the eyes turned to look at the identity of the latest bidder. He was Harold Carter, an aspiring planter who lived with his parents on the outskirts of town. He was buying slaves to start his own plantation. The Picker seemed like the perfect acquisition.

Nine-hundred-and-fifty-dollars going… nine-hundred-and-fifty going… nine-hundred-and-fifty-dollars going once, twice, thrice… sold. The Picker has been sold to the highest bidder for nine-hundred-and-fifty-dollars. A great price, the auctioneer said.

Tears settled in Lincoln’s eyes while he searched to pick out of the crowd, his new owner. He waited until the large crowd started to disappear. It was then Lincoln felt someone pulling at his trousers. He turned to look down at Jason Hudson stooping by his feet as if he was trying to dodge the crowd. By this time, bodies of planters, rubbed closely against one another in that tight space surrounding the auction platform. The crowd had grown quite thick, the accompanying chatter made no allowance for any soften-spoken voice. Lincoln felt Jason’s hand dragging him from his immobile position, and within seconds, he found himself out of the throng of men and moving away from them with each step he made by the hand that pulled him.

Yuh have to escape, Jason whispered into his ear, as they clung to each other.

Whut is dis happ’ning to me? Lincoln thought. I wuz t’inkin’ an’ t’inkin’ how to get outta dis ‘ere auction and Jason…

Jason yanked his arm; the two made their way out of the market and followed a trail leading away from it into a mass of vegetation comprising trees and tall grass.

Jason’s ambitious move bewildered Lincoln. At first, he was uncertain about Jason’s motive, but given his hopelessness in the situation, he had no option than to follow suit. If there were consequences, and there were bound to be, he would be prepared to deal with them at another time. For now, all he could think about was how to get away from this place, get away from his new master, even if he died trying.

Jason, his hand clasped around Lincoln’s wrist, had everything planned carefully. Less than a mile from the slave market, they met Mark with a horse waiting in the shadows of a large oak enclosed by tall leafy trees.

Time is precious, Mark said. You’ve got to get goin’ Lincoln. We’re doing this for yuh because we want yuh to be free someday. Ride, ride, ride… as far as yuh can, try to reach Ohio, to buy your freedom.

Keep going north, just keep going… Enough food and money is here to last for a while, Jason told him.

If anyone ask, tell them you’re a free man. Yuh must act as if you’re free, until you can buy your freedom. Ride northwest from here until you know you’re in Ohio. Use the sun and the North Star as your guide. Mark reminded him, as he took the horse’s bridle and handed it to a surprised Lincoln.

T’anks… T’anks, how can I…? Lincoln searched for words.

You’ll survive. Just ride. Take the back roads and avoid people as much as you can until you’re far, far away. Pray to God and he’ll be your guide, Jason said.

I’se gonna do dat.

Lincoln turned and embraced both brothers, jumped in the saddle and rode away.

*

Harold Carter was proud of his latest achievement, although expensive, The Picker would advance his plans to own one of, if not, the largest tobacco and cotton plantation around. Furthermore, he planned to buy the Frost spread and asking the ravishing, yet struggling, Gillian to marry him. Two more years was all it would take for him to get the coveted title of the biggest cotton and tobacco producer in the Carolinas.

Gillian Frost was the woman of every young man’s dreams; young and beautiful, she was a head turner. Gillian inherited her father’s plantation three years ago, and was working tirelessly to keep it going, but it, too, had run into difficult times. The purchase of The Picker would have been a boost to her population of slaves, but she watched him slipped out of her hand by the likes of Harold Carter, someone she was forcing herself to despise because of his manipulative tactics, and his clandestine, sinister, and unscrupulous ways of acquiring what he desired.

Harold was keeping his hawk eyes on the 24-year-old Gillian from the second she stepped foot into the slave market. Harold, a 28-year-old ruggedly handsome man, looked for Gillian’s reaction when he won the bid for Lincoln, rather than going to claim his prize. He lingered in his standing position for a few minutes until Gillian, not bothering to look into his direction, decided to leave for home. About ten minutes elapsed before he attempted to place his hand of ownership on The Picker.

As Harold was about to head over to where he had last seen Lincoln standing, he met Thomas who stood in his path.

Well, congratulations, Thomas said, extending his hand. You’ve won a good bid.

The Picker is worth every dollar, judging from the accolades I’ve heard about him, Harold replied, handing Thomas the envelope with the cash.

Yes, sir. Sure is worth your money. He’s a mighty strong slave who’s gonna bring you wealth one way or the other.

How? Harold asked.

If he can’t produce the way you want him to, you can always sell him and recover your loss, Thomas said, certain Harold had no idea why he said that.

Oh, I understand.

I tell you, it was one of the hardest decisions for me to make. I didn’t plan to get rid of him like that.

I understand, Harold said again.

You’ll see his worth in no time, Thomas said, wondering how he’d face Sarah, Mark and Jason. How was he going to say to them over dinner he sold The Picker?

"I have no doubts about him. I’ll get The Picker working right away as the planting