VIRGINIA, 1857—About a week after Eliza passed, all the field hands were returning to the quarters at the end of a long miserable day. Everyone was finishing their chores, dog-tired and hog-hungry, gathering around the fire where they could get something to eat. Massa himself was standing by the fire. It must have been an important occasion because we never saw him anywhere near the slave quarters. He wasn’t alone. Isaac was by his side and he was holding a whip in his hands.
Everyone became stone still. It was a crazy sight, the two of them standing together. Until that moment I never realized what a small man Massa was. Isaac towered over him. Next to Isaac, he seemed the size of a mere boy.
Massa was standing alone among his slaves. We were all his property. He owned us, twenty five men, women and children. Just now, all of his human possessions were tired and hungry after a long hard day. We came back to the quarters, looking forward to our meal and a rest. But now we had to stop and wait for the man who owned us to tell us what more he wanted from us.
We stood, waiting in silence, but Massa never said a word. It was Isaac who spoke.
“Bee!”
We froze. We knew what was coming.
All eyes went to Bee. She was tending the fire as usual, cooking our vittles for dinner. She acted like she didn’t hear him. She kept moving, stirring the food in the pot. She was the only person who wasn’t dead still.
I wondered what would happen. Would Massa make her come to him? Would Isaac go and get her?
Bee put down the spoon, setting it carefully on the flat stone beside the fire. She straightened her body, then turned and walked slowly toward Isaac.
She stopped in front of him, head high, ready for what would surely come next. Her body was firm and unbending. Now, Isaac had to be a foot taller than Bee. But somehow, she seemed to grow taller. She could almost look into his eyes.
“Woman,” Isaac said without emotion, “Massa say I am to give you twenty lashes.”
Nobody was surprised. We knew why. Bee did what she said she would do. She let the Missus know who was responsible for Eliza’s death. And the Missus did not like it at all.
I will never forget the look on her face. There was no expression. Her face was blank. You would think her insides had all drained out and she was empty inside.
Bee turned around so her back was facing Isaac. She slipped her shirt down off her shoulders so it fell around her waist, exposing her bare back. Then she stood deathly, her head bowed.
Her back. It was the first time I had ever seen her back. I was shocked. Her skin was covered by jagged white scars crossing every which way. Auntie Bee was whipped before—and badly. She knew the excruciating pain of the lash.
One thing I can say about my time in slavery—I never experienced the lash and I don’t ever want to. But Auntie Bee had. I could not imagine why anyone would want to hurt this kind and loving woman. She was loved by everyone around here, young and old, white and black. She was Massa and Missus most trusted slave. They gave her more responsibility than anyone, except maybe Mose. They always said what a good worker she was, and how she was so much like family. I heard Massa telling his neighbor he wished he had ten slaves like her.
As long as I live, I will never understand. Why would they hurt this woman who has worked so hard for them? Why?
Isaac had Bee walk to the fence. He came over and tied her hands to the middle rail. Then he stepped away, snapping the whip for practice.
It wasn’t the usual leather strap that he carried with him to the field. This was Massa’s personal whip, a cat-o-nine-tails. It was a particularly vicious weapon. The cat-o-nine-tails had long strips of cowhide with many strands. At the tip of each strand was a hard knot. One swing brought a dozen stinging blows. It opened many wounds, each one cutting deeper and deeper to magnify the pain. A flood of tears, bile and blood were sure to follow. For utter cruelty, this device was unspeakably evil.
Isaac paced nervously, cracking the weapon over his head, loosening his swinging arm. Massa did not stay to watch. With Bee tied to the fence and Isaac ready to unleash the fury of the whip, he turned and started up the hill toward the Big House.
He was walking up the steps of the verandah when Isaac cracked the whip. It snapped and scraped the ground, kicking up dust, leaving gashes in the earth. He was in no hurry to do this. It seemed to me that he didn’t really want to. We knew he had nothing against Bee. Bee was his friend. But we all knew why he had to do it.
With a whirr of motion, the leather flashed, striking with the force of a gunshot. Bee stiffened and writhed in agony. Her mouth opened wide and the most hideous moaning came out of her.
Once more, the whip flew, landing with a sudden crack. She wailed louder. Again and again Isaac brought his muscular arm back and thrust it forward. The lash, whistling through the air, hit home each time with a sharp report of power and precision.
Bee yelped. She squealed. She cried. Her body began quaking in spasms. Her high-pitched shrieks were blood curdling and desperate.
If Massa heard her torment he never let on as he disappeared into his mansion. He never turned back to look. All the time Isaac was throwing those monstrous straps, each stroke hitting the target with an explosion that intensified her piercing mournful cries.
Massa was nowhere to be seen. He never knew that every time Isaac threw the whip, the hard tips of the cat-o-nine-tails smacked against the fence rail. Bee was screaming bloody murder all right. But it was all a show for Massa. Isaac made sure no leather ever touched her.
**************************************************************************************
If you are interested in reading the book, please visit
www.synergebooks.com or
www.wingsfirstflight.com
Posted By: Richard Kigel
Sunday, February 19th 2012 at 12:40PM
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