Mose in Bondage

Mose

IN

BONDAGE

JAMES HAYDOCK

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© 2013 James Haydock. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 10/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2994-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2993-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919118

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

By James Haydock

Stormbirds

Victorian Sages

Beacon’s River

Portraits in Charcoal: George Gissing’s Women

On a Darkling Plain: Victorian Poetry and Thought

Searching in Shadow: Victorian Prose and Thought

Against the Grain

Mose in Bondage

I am now leaving this temporary place.

I’m within sight of my permanent city.

I have my eyes on it. I see the gleam.

               -- Mose

The journey that sharpens the wanderer’s love of home will lead him home.

               — Euripides

CHAPTER 1

I NSIDE THE BIG clapboard house, its imposing exterior a gleaming white, sat two men talking. Willie Stover, a short, thick, square, and muscular man who made his living buying and selling slaves was speaking with earnest, business-like conviction to a planter named Oliver Horton. Eager to pull himself out of poverty, Stover had gone into the trade as a young man to make money and for several years had found it easy to turn a dollar. With cash on hand he was able to loan money at high interest to just about anyone who needed it. A year before this meeting in a little tavern he had placed in Horton’s hands a sizable sum to be paid on a given date. Now he had come to collect the loan plus the interest. On the broad mahogany table in the well-appointed dining room were legal papers, a box of fat cigars, a magnum of brandy with two snifters, and a crystal bowl filled with fruit.

Here’s to you, my friend! Stover crowed, the amber liquid glinting in the light of the dying day, his voice coarse and nasal but sure. Here’s to our deal, Mr. Horton, and a sweet li’l deal it is. Yer gonna be free from debt for a long time now, but only if you deed me over that man of yours.

I do believe there’s another way to settle this, said Horton, gloomily refusing to raise his glass. In good conscience I can’t give up to you or to anyone else a man so valuable as Mose. He’s a steady, reliable man, a good man who reads his Bible. I’ve grown to trust him, even depend upon him.

It’s either that or pay me cash, Mr. Horton. I’m willin’ to take either the money or the man. If I take the man, you’ll have to sweeten the deal with a little somethin’ added, say a young gal or a boy?

I’m not able to offer a fine, upstanding slave trader like you any of the people who help me run this place, Horton retorted with growing aggravation and a hint of sarcasm that missed its mark. I just can’t do it.

Hoarse with emotion, he struggled to contain his sense of outrage. It was rising in his throat and seeping into his mouth and making his tongue bitter. The nerve of this lizard, he was thinking. Besides wanting the most valuable property on the plantation, the man called Mose, he has the gall to ask for a little boy or a young girl to sweeten the deal! The hand that held the legal document listing the debt in unmistakable figures trembled.

Then you’ll have to reckon with the cold, hard fact you gonna lose this place, Willie Stover replied. Look at what the agreement says. You gotta pay me the money I loaned you, plus interest, or give me property of equal value. If you don’t do one or the other, you forfeit the whole shebang. Now you know you don’t have the cash—we both know that—but you do have property of equal value. So be reasonable, Mr. Horton, and sign the papers so I can be on my way. I got a dozen other things to do and time is short.

It was late autumn in the year 1850 and night was coming. A breeze, uncomfortably cool, was rising from the east and sweeping across the meadows and grasslands. Except for the whistling of the wind around the eaves of the house, all was quiet outside. Harvest time was over and the fields surrounding the village of Blue Anchor lay brown and fallow. A new season of growth and renewal would turn them green again but not for many months. After a season of sunlit growth and hard labor, winter was coming with respite and rest. The slaves who worked the Horton plantation in eastern North Carolina would have part of their time for themselves. Inside their cabins, warmed by the wood they had cut in summer and by the laughter of children, they could enjoy for a brief time a life of their own. Oliver Horton, owner of the land and the people who worked it, was known to be a kind and generous master. He and his wife Emily had declared more than once that no slave of theirs would ever suffer abuse, and with good behavior would have a secure home for life. That was before the trouble began and the losses that threw Horton downward into debt. On this day as evening approached, he would have to make decisions that would bring tumult to peaceful lives.

Willie Stover, a Southerner born and bred and proud of it, came wailing into the world as one of a litter somewhere in Georgia. Somehow he got through childhood on a hardscrabble peanut farm abused by a drunken father and neglected by a mother grown old before her time. For his daily bread, watery soup, and piece of fatback, he competed with a family of ten in a ramshackle farmhouse not better than a shack. In four rough rooms ten people lived like animals in a den and worked as sharecroppers to eke out a living from the red soil. In his early teens, wearing scars on his back from a severe whipping, Willie left the farm to find his fortune in the city. For a time he was a petty thief stealing anything he could get his hands on. Later, to stay out of jail, he took on odd jobs any time he could find them. In his twenties, lacking a moral sense but keenly ambitious, he became an enterprising, legitimate slave trader. As the years passed—he was now in his mid forties—he gained a reputation of sorts as a competent man of business always looking for a profit even when it meant bending the rules.

Oliver Horton, by contrast, came from a wealthy, landowning family in Virginia. With money from his father, and shortly after his marriage, he set up his own plantation in North Carolina and made it a profitable business that flourished with the passing years. During that time, with his wife Emily, he raised a son and a daughter, and the big house rang with merriment and laughter. As the years passed, however, his wife came down with an illness doctors were not able to diagnose. Her condition required expensive medical attention even as his only daughter grew pale and thin and died of diphtheria. Several slaves also became sick with the highly contagious disease, and those who didn’t die had to be nursed back to health. Strapped for money and looking for a way to save his farm from going under, Horton met with Stover in a nearby tavern where they shared a bottle of whiskey. Before their meeting was over the planter found himself beholden to Stover, who slyly loaned him money at very high interest. In one year, they agreed in writing, he would be obliged to pay off the loan.

2

Now in the company of the man who had taken advantage of his misfortune, Horton sipped his brandy nervously and shuffled through the papers in front of him. Willie Stover, smiling smugly, bit into an apple after rubbing it vigorously on an oily sleeve. It had more flavor and juice, he avowed, than the one he had eaten earlier. Horton was finding it hard to speak amicably to the talkative, self-centered man but knew he would have to reach an agreement with him. Stover was not unaware of the power he wielded and was making the most of it. His victim spoke softly but firmly.

I want you to understand, Mr. Stover, that Mose is an uncommon fellow and certainly worth the sum I owe you. He’s steady, honest, capable. Got religion four years ago and lives his religion every day. I trust him with everything I have. Why, only last fall I let him go to Raleigh on business for me. He came back with five hundred dollars he had taken the trouble to sew into the hem of his trousers. The man is wily, mind you. He knew if the authorities stopped him, they would take the money, accuse him of stealing it, beat him with a bullwhip, and sell him to a trader. He went to a lot of trouble to make the money safe, and I’m sure he had no thought of stealing it. A few old friends of mine, caustic and cynical everyone of them, were certain he’d take the cash and run, but I knew better. He wants his freedom, of course, but not that way. You ought to let him cover the entire debt, and you would if you had just a tiny shred of conscience.

The trader bristled at that remark but remained calm. It was not good business to get angry while negotiating; he had learned that a long time ago. Anger blurred reason and left one at a disadvantage. He spoke slowly, his tone instructional, as if speaking to a pupil in a classroom.

You know as well as I do, Mr. Horton, I got as much conscience as any man in business can afford to have. Lord knows I got plenty of conscience, but these days it’s dog-eat-dog and it’s gettin’ worse, and I gotta look out for yours truly. I’m ready to bend over backwards to oblige my friends (and I do consider you a long-time friend), but I gotta think of me too. He sighed deeply and grasping the bottle of brandy, filled his glass again.

I dislike parting with any of my hands, said Horton. Even just thinking about it is painful, but I must do what I have to do. If I legally place Mose in your custody, you’ll promise to find a good home for him? And you’ll sign here and now to clear me of all debt?

Well, I didn’t say that, now did I? You got a short memory, Mr. Horton. I said I gotta have another person to make up for the loan plus interest.

At that moment a little boy of four or five years skipped into the room. Clothed in overalls of blue worsted wool carefully stitched by his mother, he was round and chubby and playful, as engaging as a puppy. An air of shyness tempered his self-assurance, but one could see he was on easy terms with his master. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, his large dark eyes observing every detail of the stranger in somber silence.

Hello, my boy! smiled Horton. You needn’t be afraid. This gentleman won’t hurt you. I have something for you.

Selecting an orange from the bowl of fruit, he squeezed it between his palms to soften the pulp, punched a hole in it with his letter opener, and gave it to the boy. Grinning from ear to ear, little Simon took the large orange in both hands and did a little dance when the juice flooded his mouth.

Ah, he’s a lively one, crowed Stover, strong and healthy and many years ahead of him too. Let’s agree on him. I’ll take him and Mose off your hands, and I will sign the papers right now.

Suddenly a well-dressed young woman with black hair, black eyes, and olive skin rushed into the room. Quickly she scooped up the child and left with copious apologies. She was in the room for only a moment but long enough for Stover to see that she was healthy, handsome, and appealing. His bulging eyes gleamed with admiration.

Now that gal is really good lookin’, he mumbled more to himself than to his host. The boy’s mama I guess, but don’t look no older than seventeen. You could easily get a thousand for her in Savannah… any day.

I’m not looking to sell her, Horton replied dryly, even for a fortune.

Oh, pay me no mind, just thinkin’ out loud. Trade me the gal and her boy and you can keep your trusty, reliable, uncommon, and religious man. Is it a deal? I’ll take her and the boy and try to keep them together."

She’s not for sale. My wife would never part with her.

Then you gotta let me have the boy. It’s Mose and the boy or no deal at all, and you know what that means.

What on earth would you do with a little child? He’s too young to be sold, too young to be separated from his mama. Who would care for him?

Oh, I know a group that’s lookin’ for boys. They raise them up for the market. Grooms, waiters, handsome articles for the big houses, y’ know, that sort of thing. Wealthy men pay real good for young uns like him.

I’m in no position to sell him, said Horton scarcely loud enough to be heard. I won’t take the child from his mother. It’d be a terrible thing to do. I do believe in the afterlife, and I could roast in the fires of hell eternally!

I understand you, Mr. Horton. This slave tradin’ is a mighty unpleasant business at times, and it does seem to go against religion most of the time. But let me tell you this—it’s the boy and the man called Mose or no deal at all. So make up yer mind, friend, I can’t dally here forever.

Well, I guess I have to do it. I can’t think of any other way to settle this thing. I’ll send Eileen away on an errand, said Horton after a long pause. Then you can have Mose and the boy but only if you promise to let a good woman look after him. I hate to do this but will most certainly buy them back when I can. I’m for closing the deal tomorrow. Is that all right?

I’d rather do it tonight, chortled Stover, but tomorrow is fine with me. Better they stay here for the night anyway. I’ll be glad to sell them back—at a profit of course—if I happen to own them when you get the money. I’m sure you understand, friend. It’s only good business.

3

The trader gulped down the last of the brandy and made ready to leave, donning his coat and hat and walking toward the door. He was pleased to see that a stable hand had brought his horse from the barn and was patiently waiting for him. That put him in a good mood and loosened his tongue.

Mind you, Mr. Horton, I’m not one of them traders that don’t care a hoot about what happens to the people they buy and sell. I look after my people, I really do, coz I know every single one is my bread and butter. ‘Course some of them ain’t worth a tinker’s dam, but a feller don’t find that out till later, and we know in every barrel we can find a bad apple or two.

Oh, I can tell you’re a man of uncommon humanity, Mr. Stover, Horton interjected, doubting the talkative, self-satisfied trader would note the irony cloaking his comment.

I sure am a man of humanity, he quickly replied. You got that right! I knew this trader that was always a-crackin’ heads, and I said to him once, ‘You know, Melvin, a little humanity goes a long way, and it’s a heap better than crackin’ heads, depend on it!’ Well, Melvin was always a pigheaded old fool. He never got the hang of it, I’m sorry to say. Not long after our talk he got to crackin’ heads again and got his own head cracked and his throat cut. Poor fella, they said he spurted blood like a stuck pig.

Well, that’s awful to hear, but maybe he got what he deserved. Do you manage the ugly business any better?

Well, I think I do. Yes, I do manage better. I’m in business to make money, but I do believe a little humanity goes a long way. I don’t like it when unpleasant stuff comes along, like traders sellin’ young uns and pretty girls to satisfy the cravings of lustful buyers and separatin’ people from their families. Oh, some in the business say enslaved blacks don’t have no real feelings, and if they do they get over any real hurt real fast. But I don’t cotton to that. I know for sure some of them mothers go crazy when they lose a li’l kid. They even bang their heads against a wall and worse, but if they’re fetched up properly I really do believe things go easier.

If that’s true, I’m afraid my workers were never ‘fetched up properly’ as you put it. I think you would call them an ornery lot.

I s’pose I would, Stover laughed, but I could take them down a notch if I had to. A trader learns how to do that purty fast. You folks here in North Ca’lina and into Virginny and up that way have different ideers than us folks farther south. You spoil yer blacks up here. You mean well, I guess, but it ain’t no kindness in the long run.

It was time for dinner and Stover had to make his way to the tavern in town where he would eat a spare meal and spend the night. Bidding Horton good evening and tossing a coin to the stable hand, he left with a clatter of hoofs on the hard ground. The planter sat disconsolate before the legal papers yet unsigned, his anguished thoughts colliding with one another. The thought of separating mother and child and selling Mose down river to an unknown fate made him feel guilty and miserable. He knew the chances were great he would lose sight of both in time, and yet he hoped to find them in a more stable future and bring them home again.

Oliver Horton was known as a fair-minded man and a good master, but his neighbors complained he was often too willing to indulge those who worked his fields. Also they felt he should not be leaving his estate in the hands of a slave when away on business. He argued with them on that score, saying Mose was surely in bondage but also a trusted companion and a competent manager. While some who knew Mose believed the planter, others sternly suggested caution. For more years than he wished to count Horton had run his plantation profitably, but unknown to his wife he had speculated on risky ventures with men even keener than Stover. Though at times he had been a gambler, he viewed himself this evening as a victim of circumstances. He would have to pay the piper as the saying went, pay off his debts and not accumulate more, or suffer the loss of all he had gained. To achieve that goal, there was little else he could do but deal with human beings as pieces of property. The law allowed him to do that. The law, and a long-established economic system that once promised to make him wealthy, encouraged him to do that. It was done every day.

4

When Eileen left the room, softly closing the door behind her and holding her child tightly in her arms, she paused for a moment to hear the conversation. To her surprise and no little consternation, she heard the nasal twang of a vulgar trader making offers to her master. She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard the man persuasively arranging to buy her son. Her heart was pounding, and she held Simon tighter and tighter until he whimpered. In a panic she ran outside to the kitchen, a hundred feet away from the big house, where she found Mrs. Horton supervising the cooks as they prepared the evening meal. For a moment she stood in the doorway, hesitating and breathing hard, her face a distorted mask of alarm.

Eileen, for goodness sake, girl. Is something the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Emily Horton exclaimed, wiping her hands on a towel. And you’re holding that boy of yours? If he can dance to garner cachinnation and treats, as he often does, he’s big enough to walk on his own.

I’m sorry to interrupt supper preparations, Missus, but I just don’t know what to do. I think Master is talking to a trader about selling my Simon! I can’t be certain, but I think it’s so. I heard something they were saying, and it didn’t sound good. Oh, please talk to him!

Calm yourself, girl, Emily scolded. Mr. Horton has no desire to sell anyone. Why in the world would you suppose he might even think about selling Simon? I know you believe the sun was made just for your boy, and the earth and moon revolve around him, but his master likes the boy too and would never do such a thing. I give you my word, Eileen, for I know my husband. He would never do that.

I heard ’em talking, Missus, real serious like. I heard ’em talking when I went to get Simon and when I left. The li’l rascal scampered into the room by mistake, and I went to get him, and when I was closing the door behind me, I heard ’em talking about the boy, Missus, I heard!

Surely you’re mistaken, Eileen. You shouldn’t have been listening to their talk, you know, and now you’re upset over nothing. I’ll speak to my husband, but I know he would never sell your child to anyone. Exactly why he was meeting with that Stover person I don’t know, but I’ll find out. He told me once he would never do business with down-south traders. He called them an ornery, untrustworthy lot.

She didn’t know her husband had fallen on hard times, had become the pawn of unscrupulous men, and had made a decision not at all in keeping with his character. She placed some food on a platter, more than enough for mother and child, and bade Eileen go to her room.

Feed the child his supper and have some for yourself. Then put him to bed and return to your station in the kitchen. There’s work to be done.

Eileen and her child shared a pleasant room in the Horton mansion, for she had come there when very young to be raised almost as the daughter of Emily Horton. Light of skin, lively, and lovely, she was pampered at times, indulged, and given a good education. She learned reading, writing, and arithmetic and had access to the family library. Emily Horton herself taught the girl how to speak properly. Her mind was keen and flexible and she learned quickly, but as she grew older she was expected to perform household duties as a servant among other servants. In her spare time she taught many of them how to read and write. Everyone knew she had special privileges, even in the clothes she wore, and consistently over time she tried to erase the stigma of being a slave. All the years she was growing into womanhood, unlike her mother who was forced to yield to her owner and become his sexual toy, she was carefully sheltered from the ugliness of slavery. When she met and married the father of her child, she was a virgin.

His name was Leroy Rutherford, and his skin was almost as light as hers. He was a slave on a neighboring estate but worked in the local sawmill run by a Quaker named Joseph Hinkle. The money he made, except for some set aside by his employer, went to Otis Rutherford, the man who owned him. Hard work and acuity had made him well liked by his employer and popular with his fellow workers. While they viewed him as a talented, exceptional young man, in the eyes of the law he was a piece of property subject to the vagaries of its owner. Otis heard that his hand was doing uncommonly well at the mill and rode over one day to see how things were going. Friend Hinkle greeted him with enthusiasm and jovially exclaimed he was a lucky man to own a slave so personable and valuable as Leroy.

Well, I guess I am, said Otis Rutherford, but I’m not all that lucky to have him working here in your mill every day of the week when he should be helping me in the fields at home.

Oh, but I pay him well, you know, and his wages go to you.

That’s true. He wouldn’t have nothin’ to spend the money on anyway, even if I gave him some of it. He’s got a wife and son, they tell me, but he don’t live with them, and he spends most of his time here. I’m just gonna have to take him back to my place and let him pull his load there.

But Mr. Rutherford, remonstrated the mill owner, expressing concern, isn’t this a bit sudden? Maybe we can work something out between the two us. I’m willing to give Leroy even a boost in salary to keep him on. A hefty raise in pay would certainly benefit you.

It might, said Rutherford with an air of finality, but I don’t need it. I don’t need to hire out my hands, and I got work for this one at home.

Leroy was standing between the two men as they talked over him and around him as though he were made of stone. He folded his muscular arms across his chest, listened to every word, and understood exactly what was going on. Joseph Hinkle had been trying to help his valued employee save money to buy his freedom. Each month he had put a portion of Leroy’s wages, called a tax, in a safe before sending the remainder to Rutherford. Now the man was losing a job he had grown to love, and with the job would go his hope of becoming a free man and living with his wife and child.

Confused and angry but carefully suppressing his anger, he went back to the Rutherford farm and was put to work. He labored in the workshop and in the smokehouse when the tobacco crop came in for curing. In the cotton fields he worked until his back seemed broken and the fingers of both hands, blunt and bloody, ready to fall off. He didn’t complain, and yet inside a fiery discontent burned like red-hot coals. It came forward into his face and troubled his brow. It made his eyes flash and his mouth twitch. His chin jutted forward as he walked against a stinging rain or soothing wind. It was the natural language of a man refusing to be enslaved.

CHAPTER 2

S HORTLY AFTER GOING to work in the sawmill Leroy was married in holy matrimony to Eileen. In a free society the marriage of Leroy Rutherford to Eileen Horton would have been announced, a license procured at the county courthouse, and a pastor paid a small fee to marry them. In North Carolina in the middle of the nineteenth century, persons of color living out their lives as the chattel of white men—and in some instances white women—were allowed to marry when their owners approved, but had no legal rights pertaining to marriage or divorce. Slave marriages were not recognized by the legal system because the property of others could not enter into a legal contract. Under these circumstances marriage was not legally binding and divorce was a mere formality. A judge in Raleigh, the capital city of North Carolina, explained the law thi s way :

As pertaining to slaves on the plantations of this region, marriage may be dissolved at the pleasure of either party, or by their owners for whatever reason, or by the sale of one slave or both, depending on the caprice or necessity of the owners. Furthermore, a slave owner at his own discretion may forbid any marriage between slaves.

In other words, slave owners could refuse to recognize a marriage if it interfered in any way with life and work on the plantation and with the business of running the operation. Also the master’s approval was necessary.

Her husband having little to say in the matter, Emily Horton eagerly approved the marriage between Leroy and Eileen. She was pleased to see her favorite become the wife of a handsome and talented young man whom she knew would treat her well. He was bright, mannerly, soft-spoken, masculine, and hard working. His bride was a complement to him in all respects. She stood a head shorter than he and was cut from finer cloth, but in spirit and strength of character was every bit as strong. Emily hoped they would have many children to inherit their strength and benefit the plantation. She was certain their marriage would last, growing richer through the years, until both went to their graves. Emily’s husband, also happy for the couple, gave them a wedding present of five silver dollars.

When his owner thought he was working at the mill, Leroy married his betrothed in the front yard of the Horton mansion shaded by sprawling trees on a fine summer day. Emily herself adorned the bride’s hair with tiny rose blossoms and found a flowing white dress for her. A black minister of the Methodist church conducted the ceremony, and all in attendance pronounced it beautiful. Everyone on the plantation attended the reception in the cooling breezes of late afternoon. The wedding cake with many tiers, all white and shining in the afternoon sun, graced a picnic table. An abundance of delicacies prepared by Winnie and her helpers appeared on other tables. The admiring guests ate food as only Southern cooks can do it, and for the first time in their lives drank bottle after bottle of good wine from crystal glasses. A man in the crowd lifted his baritone voice in lilting song. The guests joined in, singing in harmony, and danced in a circle. Slowly they closed the circle around the happy couple. Every person who could get in close enough hugged and kissed them in the midst of clapping and singing.

For more than two years, though not living together, Eileen saw her husband frequently. At the end of the first year of their marriage a child was born, a healthy little girl with large, doe-like eyes. She died soon after of cholera, an awful disease causing vomiting and diarrhea. Eileen was inconsolable. For months she mourned the loss of her child, but in the next year little Simon came along to warm her heart, soothe her jangled nerves, and make her whole again. Quickly he became the apple of her eye and her reason for living. All the passion she had given to grief was centered on Simon, and she was as happy as any wife and mother could be. Then Leroy lost his job and his sense of identity. His legal owner without apparent cause ripped him away from a kind employer. His anger and unhappiness made his wife miserable. More than once Joseph Hinkle rode over to the Rutherford farm to try to reason with Otis. Each time he presented good reasons for sending Leroy back to the mill. Financially it would certainly be to the man’s advantage. Rutherford refused to listen.

That killed the hope Leroy had harbored. He dared not argue with his owner, knowing Rutherford would interpret that as arrogance and treat him more roughly than ever. Before him lay a life of moil and toil, a dead existence rendered bitter by the hardest kind of work and daily vexation. Even worse was not living with his wife and child and not having the freedom, without permission, even to see them. His master resented the marriage and called his visits to the Horton place a waste of time. Leroy made up his mind to endure his lot until he could think of a way to run northward. The family would not stop in a Northern free state, for a law had been passed requiring officials to capture runaway slaves and send them home again. Somehow he would have to make his way with family in tow all the way to Canada.

2

It was a blustery November day when the slave trader returned to finish his business with Oliver Horton. They sat in the parlor this time, and without refreshment. Emily Horton, small of figure and typically demure, stood in the doorway to ask a question. She spoke politely but without hesitation.

Tell me, Oliver, why did you send Eileen to the Kingston place? Yesterday I told her to spend today on my interminable sewing project, and now she’s nowhere to be found.

It was necessary, Oliver replied. She’ll be returning shortly.

Why are you meeting again with this man? He was here only yesterday and now he’s back again? Eileen fears you may be up to no good.

We have business to talk over, my dear. Now please shut the door on your way out. Mr. Stover is a busy man and will not be here for long.

Without the answers she hoped to hear from a loving husband but obedient as a good wife, Emily reluctantly withdrew. In her absence the papers were signed, and Stover became the legal owner of Mose and little Simon. He wanted to take delivery of his property before the child’s mother returned from her errand, but as chance would have it Eileen entered the house just as the two men ended their meeting.

Oh, this is not good, Horton murmured. This does not go according to plan. Will you give me a little more time? Will you come again tomorrow, say near noon? I will have Eileen out of the house and the boy and man ready for you. To take them now would cause a terrible scene.

Yer beginnin’ to try my patience, Mr. Horton. As I said earlier, I try my best to oblige my friends but you gotta know I do have my limits.

We can’t wrest the child forcefully from his mother. She must be out of the way when you take him. I will make certain she’ll be gone tomorrow.

I can take the boy now. She’ll blubber a bit and get over it. And you’ve already said, Mose will come with me peacefully.

You must not even try to take either one now. It cannot be done.

If you give me this song and dance tomorrow, my friend, you’ll find I have the law on my side and can take my property any time I choose. I do believe I’m a man of humanity, and so for now I’ll do as you say. Have them ready with their belongings and enough food for at least two days. I expect to see ’em both waitin’ in the yard when I return. Till then, good day, sir.

Putting on his coat and tipping his hat to show no inkling of hard feelings, the trader quickly departed. That evening Emily Horton was curious as to why Stover had paid a visit to their residence on two successive days. At first Oliver demurred, thinking it best to tell her nothing. In their bedroom he sat down in an easy chair and pretended to read some letters that had arrived in the afternoon. When she began to question him, he buried his face in a newspaper trumpeting a slave revolt by a ragtag band of insurgents somewhere in Haiti. The uprising was put down in a matter of hours with twenty-two blacks and seven whites dying in the melee. Oliver was sadly shaking his head when his wife spoke.

Oliver, who is that fellow you were talking so earnestly with today?

His name is Stover, said Horton, carefully folding his paper and putting it down beside him, Willie Stover as I remember.

You’ve already mentioned his name, dear. He was here on business, you said. I want to know exactly what kind of business.

Horton unfolded his newspaper and began to read, or pretend to read, about the revolt in Haiti. He thought he might evade his wife’s questions altogether, but as she sat waiting he thought otherwise. He would take the bull by the horns and tell her the plain unvarnished truth.

He’s a trader, a slave trader. I had to sell some of my workers.

To that low-bred creature? Oh, come now, you can’t be serious!

"I am deadly serious, my dear. I had to do it or lose everything. I agreed