“This here female is one of the finest you’ll see tonight, gentleman. Nice, strong female to serve your Mrs. or your young ladies domestically. Great complexion, strong teeth, well fed, and well experienced,” the auctioneer belted out in a deep, burly voice above the crowd.
Grafton watched as his mother stood upon the auction block as the bearded white men gawked at her, raising their arms, hollering, and shouting out numbers here and there. Hundreds of them, there must have been. The smell of the train station that served as the auction hall was ghastly. His head split with pain from anger and felt as if it were going to burst.
Grafton was overwhelmed with emotion and cared none as tears rolled down his black cheeks. He recalled his mother’s voice from his childhood, soft but firm, always telling him this or that, making sure he stayed in line with the master and the Mrs. His mother never complained much. She stood on that block with a grace about her even now, which showed her adherence for the life God had dealt to her. Infuriated with the scene before his eyes, he watched until he could watch no more. He cast one last glance at his mother.
But she didn’t see her only son, whom she loved so dearly; she didn’t know he was there, nor should he have been. The slave market was likely the most dangerous place a runaway could be, but he had to stop there to get one last look at her. Grafton tried his hardest to capture every detail of his mother and lock it away in his mind. His mind was his mother’s new home now, for he would never see her again after this night, that is if he made it across the state line before they sent the dogs after him.
“Must get a move on,” he thought to himself, “the dogs will be af’er me ‘for too long.” And off he went through one of Georgia’s summer nights, the only home he’d ever known. He imagined it was probably half past nine or so. He planned to journey all night, no one would dare rest before they were well past the Georgia border.
Since the war had broken out, freedom was not so ideological. Grafton had always dreamed of running away and had the gnawing feeling that he had what it’d take to do so successfully. His mother always said he was a clever boy, and he truly was. He was a good slave, never showing signs of disobedience or laziness, one of Mr. Atkin’s favorites frankly. He was coming of age and was likely to be the next head slave.
But he often recalls a night from his boyhood when his older cousin banged on their door late at night and awoke him with a fright to say goodbye because he was going to do what he was doing now, acting on and enduring the journey to freedom. They searched for the boy for nearly a month, dogs hot on his trail, but clever like himself, his venerated older cousin was never heard from again. He knew that he needed to act soon. War meant that people were distracted, war meant that men weren’t around, and it meant his best chance. Benny, Mr. Atkin’s son, had volunteered for the 24th Georgia Infantry Regiment, and once he returned, if he did, there would be no chance. Benny worked as the slave overseer and was as cruel as they come. Mr. Atkin knew little of his doings, and he often threatened worse conditions if anyone divulged his actions to his father.
Many believe Benny’s bitterness started after Grafton’s cousin escaped on his watch and Mr. Atkin, whom he could never please, held him with liability. Grafton recalled the memory of the night his cousin left and the envy he felt. He remembered the way his mother had knelt at the foot of her bed on the dirty wood floor in the shanty slave quarters he called home and prayed to her Lord for his safety and exodus. Her gentle black hands folded together neatly in a demeanor of grace, her fingers bore with scars from cotton buds.
His face felt filthy, mixed with tear-stained cheeks and sweat that dripped from his brow. The Georgia night was calm and clear, with a westward wind that cooled him as he walked, although he felt soaked with a cold sweat of fear. In fear of what lay in front and behind him. He couldn’t go back now. He remembered his mother’s solemn face as she stood upon the slave block at the auction house, her face cold and mellow, her spirit broken.
She stood there, shoulders back but chin down. He recalled the man speaking, lifting her chin with his forefinger. Fury filled inside of him, and his blood ran cold. He knew they’d likely touched her elsewhere and much more than this, but watching this small gesture antagonized him.
Probably roughly two and a half hours, he figured he’d been walking, though he wasn’t sure. The night sky was clear, and he could see flickers of the moon through the thick trees overhead. Mosquitoes seemed to multiply by the minute as he went deeper into the woods. Grafton’s feet were already aching, and though he wouldn’t dare, he wished he’d nicked a pair of Mr. Atkin’s old boots before he’d left. It would have been so easy, and Mr. Atkin likely wouldn’t have noticed them gone for months. His mother would’ve skinned him, though.
He could hear her shouting now, “Givin’ ‘em cause to hang ya if they catch ya as if runnin away was’t damage ‘nough! Use your head, boy!” He wondered then if she’d hear the news of his escape.
“What will she think?” he thought to himself.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Thrown back into reality, Grafton’s heart began to pound after he heard the bark of a dog.
He stood frozen in terror, unsure of what to do. “How?” he thought to himself. “How are they already on my trail?” Had someone tipped him off? Was he seen at the slave market? Mr. Atkin wasn’t supposed to have noticed him gone until tomorrow morning.
He heard the bark again, which pulled him from his shock. He did the only thing he could think of, and that was to run. He was sure they would hear him, but what choice did he have? The dog’s bark seemed quite a way off, though, and he clung to that hope as he ran. He ran through briars and brush as the woods seemed to close in around him like a pack of wolves on their prey. Leaves and branches crunched and snapped beneath his feet.
The wind began to pick up as if it knew what was about to come. Thunder then crashed, and clouds rolled in overhead, blotting out the shimmer of the moon so that it barely shone through the thick canopy. He kept running; he didn’t mind the breeze, but the thunder seemed to intensify his pounding heart, and with each crash, he ran faster. Sprinkles of rain now spit down on him, cooling his hot black skin that dripped with his own perspiration.
He could no longer hear the bark of the dog over the wind rustling through the trees and the rain, which was now coming down at a steady pace. Still, he kept running straight ahead, weaving through branches, briars, and saplings. He could not see the moon, but he knew he had not drifted left or right, for he feared getting off course.
“Aehhh,” something bawled as Grafton felt a firmness under his boot and tripped falling onto the damp leaves covering the earthy ground of the woods. A briar had scratched his face and arm, though he had yet to realize or even felt any pain as his emotions were still rampant and his heart racing. He quickly got to his feet, swearing under his breath. He had not realized what he had tripped over, nor did he care or have time to care. But just as he started onward “Aehh, aehh, aehh,” he heard again. He spun around and, following the sound, bent down to locate it in hopes of quieting the racket.
He could see very little and even less now that the moon’s light barely glowed and rain pattered down onto the leafy ground. He bravely felt around for the object in which he had tripped over, and the bearer of the noisy cry and his calloused black hand passed over the outline of a small, warm figure of damp fur. Upon his touch, the animal shivered underneath his hand. “Aehh, aehh,” it kept crying out. The moon glowed slightly brighter through the thunder clouds at this moment, allowing him to recognize the contrasting light spots of white on the animal’s back; it was a fawn. His curiosity now resolved; he was tempted to go on; he needed to go on; he should go on. But as the animal kept bellowing out, he was afraid it would draw attention.
He crunched the leaves as he moved closer to the crying animal, still bawling. Evidently abandoned by its mother, the baby fawn lie bedded down in the dry leaves for the night. He did all he could think of, and that was to stroke its back the way his mother used to when he was ill. This, however, did not quiet the animal.
“Shhh, quiet down now, will yuh,” he spoke to the animal, and felt ridiculous doing so. He stood with fright as the sky awoke with a crash of thunder again and a deep bark followed. His heart skipped a beat, and his brain panicked and exclaimed, “Onward!” He got up from the scene; his wool trouser knees were wet with mud now, and bits of crushed leaves had stuck to them.
Stepping over the tiny, curled fawn, he abandoned it and proceeded back into a sprint. He ran and kept running, and still he heard behind him, “Aehh, aehh, aehh.” Before he could think, he stopped.
“What am I doing?” he thought. He turned around. “What the hell am I doing?” Men’s voices were becoming faint in the distance now, and he shivered. Though amongst the noisy wind that whistles through the tree branches and that steady, rhythmic fall of the rain’s thick raindrops, he wondered how distant those voices really were. He wanted and needed to put as much distance between him and those voices as possible. “But this deer”, he thought to himself. Trying to keep his head overwhelmed with the decision of keeping on or turning back, but something pulled him to this animal and he continued to retrace his steps.
Following the sound of the fawn, he trekked back through his already-made path and came upon the deer once again. Its black, glossy eyes glowed as it looked up at him, still crying out for its mother. Grafton knew all too well the feeling of crying out for one’s mother and not being able to reach her. He recalled what seemed like ages ago but was only a few hours, when his eyes filled up with tears as he watched his mother, her figure becoming blurry as the salty tear welled up in his eye before it fell. The sound of a sniffing dog’s snout as it hovered over the wet ground, tracing his scent, refocused him. Voices, too, became coherent now and their linguistic draw was all too familiar.
“No need to worry, Charles it a good thang we got this early lead on em or wed ne’er catch up w em” a voice rang out through the stormy woods.
“Ya, he a clever one, but not clever ‘nough to stay put”
He glanced up and could see a yellow flickering glow of light from the oil lanterns at the end of an outstretched arm. Charismatic laughter followed what Grafton recognized to be Mr. Atkin’s joke. He was incredibly put down by what he had just heard his master say. He and Mr. Atkin had a relatively good relationship in comparison to others.
Taking back his attention, the fawn had stood up, its long legs knobby and awkward. He looked down at the animal, which was staring up at him still with its big, blank-looking eyes like glass marbles.
“Forget it,” Grafton thought, fighting all the emotion that he felt for this deer, and turned back around and leapt back into a sprint. The fawn continued to bellow. Grafton dismissed the animal and continued on as fast as he could, for the voices were now closer, and he was sure they would be following the sound of the deer out of curiosity just as he had. However, the bellowing kept on and seemed to be getting louder instead of fainter. Grafton curiously glanced over his shoulder, only to find the fawn clumsily galloping behind him.
“Jesus Christ” Grafton took the Lord’s name. Frustrated with this deer, overwhelmed by the situation, and trying to think of a solution as quickly as possible, the deer just stared at him as if speaking to him through his eyes. He held gaze with the queer acting deer for quite some time, and its sense of neglect and naivety softened his heart. The deer was evidently insistent on taking this journey with him.
Filled with compassion, he reluctantly scooped the fawn up into his arms and took off faster than he had yet. He cupped his hand around its snout, and the deer was unable to cry out. Cold and wet, longing for a drink of water, fear-stricken like he had never been before, he pulled the fawn tight to his body, its warmth combining with the heat of his own body, and ran as fast as he possibly could; he dared not look behind him.
“There, there, I see someone running!” The noise pierced Grafton’s ears as his brain took in the words and their meaning, and his stomach fell out of his body.
Out of instinct, he abruptly stopped, still clutching the fawn. Panic, panic, panic—nothing but panic. He could not think he could not move. He stood like a corpse as the men’s feet stamped through the leaves towards him and the hound’s great bark rang out.
He was out of options. Lightning lit up the sky for a moment, revealing the silhouettes of the group of three men and the hound in the distance. In front of him stood a great live oak tree, thick with draping Spanish moss that blew in the wind—his mother’s favorite tree.
“Tree,” he thought. “Yes. Yes! Climb the tree! Now hurry!”
Grafton sank far back into the tree wishing he could just disappear inside of it. Though his dark skin had a camouflaging effect against the oak’s bark, the right movement at the right glance would have him caught. He peered down at the men who were within yards of the tree now and shut his eyes as tight as he possibly could, letting his head fall back against the tree.
Clinging one hand to the tree and the other cradling the fawn in his arms like a small child, his heart was beating out of his chest, he almost wondered if Mr. Atkin would hear it. In his exhilarating tree climb, the fawn laid over his shoulder, its furry white belly laying softly around his neck.
He thought of every possible thing that could go wrong and tried to steady his breathing and kept his hand tightly around the fawn’s snout so it could not cry out. He pulled it close to him as to say, it’s okay, and hoped that it wouldn’t feed off his fear like horses tend to do. The Spanish moss that blanketed the tree danced in the breeze and aided his hideout, and the rain was still trickling down, though lighter now, and water was puddling in bare spots on the earthy ground.
Seconds passed, then minutes, and the men were still roaming around fifteen feet below him. The hound led the way out in front of them as his nose searched and scanned the ground for the scent that would bring him reward. Firstly, the dog led them slightly east before they managed to get to the tree, then back west, but too far west. Grafton watched them as they swiveled their outstretched arms around bearing lanterns at the end, following ironically at the foot of the hound dog.
“I know I saw him running somewhere right over here.” One of the men said, Grafton could not identify it through the added noise of the now ceasing thunder storm.
Suddenly with no warning the great deep and rough bark echoed and nearly made Grafton leap out of the tree, and the hound was making a beeline with his nose crawling the ground, straight toward the tree.
‘Oh my God, this is it.’ Grafton shuttered.
Clinging onto the tree tighter as if begging it to make him disappear or better yet just kill him now, because he could not bear the anticipation. Closing his eyes made him dizzy and nearly lost his balance, so he raised his chin and glanced upward at the cloudy sky, freshly painted with the familiarity of Georgia thunderstorms which in another circumstance he would have immensely enjoyed watching.
He looked up and found himself reciting the Lord’s prayer in a whisper. He knew it by heart because his mother used to pray it over him each night when he went to sleep. The thought of her face, younger and sweeter then, as she hovered over him stroking his head as he drifted off very quickly into the world of rest, drowned out the continuous barking, and mutual shouting that grew closer and closer.
As the summer leaves of the oak tree blew in the storm overhead something caught his attention. A dark outline of a round-like structure, clinging to a branch just a few yards further upward. As his eyes narrowed in on it, he realized what it was. And suddenly, hope. He glanced back down at the hound coming straight toward the tree now, he was certain he had picked up his scent. There was no other choice. If Mr. Atkin spared his life, it would matter none because his life would certainly become a living hell, and his gut wrenched as he imagined the beating he would receive for running away.
A split-second decision must be made and before he knew it, he was digging the heels of his boots into the bark of the tree and climbing upward grabbing branch after branch of the huge tree, with the silent fawn still wrapped around its chosen master. Alas he was within feet of it and as he looked down his stomach lurched, as Mr. Tyler’s hound’s nose bumped into the base of the tree.
The dog was now clawing at the bottom of the tree as if to let his rewarders know, I have done it, he’s in the tree! Mr. Atkin and Tyler both raised their heads simultaneously, out of breath from chasing the hound all through the woods. They panted and swore under their breaths, mumbling to each other almost incoherently about
“this cant be so, he’s in the damn tree… what in God’s name…”
Still elated that he was probably in the tree once they caught their breaths, their eyes began to roll over the tree scanning and searching for a Grafton-like figure. They circled around the tree’s enormous basin trunk never ceasing their gaze. Heavily, Grafton felt their eyes, though they passed over him each time. Now, Grafton was sitting on the branch, his legs straddling it and his boots dangling over each side.
The decayed ball shaped beehive within reach. Without realization, and with zero contemplation, hoping to God there was something still left in the sorry dilapidated old thing, the toe of his right boot hit it with all the force he could muster. ‘Please God let one or two old lonely bees be left behind.’ The hive hit the ground, rather anticlimactically, with a lousy thud and split into. Both men hurried to the scene of the fallen hive, paying no attention to the hive itself but looking directly into the face of the culprit; Grafton sat straddled over the branch thirty feet up, directly above the fallen hive.
Tears welled in his eyes and ran down his face as he stared back in shock into Mr. Atkins face, realizing his mistake. The recognition as his eyes found Grafton’s and stared up at him in surprise and then morphed into a look of such fury and umbrage.
He thought of jumping. The fall might just do it if he landed just right. What point did he have in living anyway, Mr. Atkin offered him no life, because what was life without freedom? The men in their realization gathered themselves and started into Grafton with verbal demands.
“Darkie, your times up we’ve caught ya’ now so come on down.” Mr. Tyler called up to Grafton. Tyler continued these calls to Grafton, some filled with seduction and reassurance, all lies, and others filled with insults and frustrated threats, all filled with Tylers naturally colorful language.
“Oh, this will show him. If he doesn’t want to come down, then I’ll get him down.” Tyler proceeded to pull his wood handle revolver from his boot.
“Noo!” Mr. Atkin jumped to cease the pistol.
Tyler was startled at his off putting as Mr. Atkin snatched the weapon from his hand.
“You’re crazy if you aint gonna kill that buck. A runaway for Christ’s sake and you’re gon’ let him live!” continuing under his breath, “Ask me for help, drag me out here in the dead of night, and then act like a damn fool.”
“I don’t care what you think Tyler, Mr. Atkin attacked Tyler over his mumbling, I’ll decide what’s to be done with him when we return to Solemn Hill, he’s my buck!”
Tyler dismissed this nonchalantly, snatching his revolver back from Mr. Atkin and replacing it in his boot.
During all of this, a sharp whine from the hound, turned more into a whence and then into a desperate cry, a plea of suffering. Tyler paid no mind to his hound, nor did Mr. Atkin. Grafton looked down in curiosity at this animal who blindly led him to this overwrought situation. The hound was now twisting around snapping its jaws at the air and crying out. The men paid little mind for they were still arguing and debating over what should be done next. The dog continued to move frantically and cry out loudly.
“Shut up dog” Mr. Tyler commanded him.
Then, Grafton through squinted eyes made out a thin black haze that surrounded the hound dog and the way this fog of darkness grew darker as it streamed out of its dwelling place.
‘But it can’t be’ he thought to himself.
Yes, it was. Bees. Swarming the dog, buzzing all around upward flooding out of their desolated home to meet their destructors. Encompassing the wooded ground, the haze growing thicker as the flooded from their homeland. They were making their way to the men who were now devising a plan to go get supplies and more help while one stood guard, imprisoning Grafton in the tree until help returned.
Then, a slap on the pant leg and then at the arm and then the left hand, told Grafton all he needed to know. Mr. Atkin and Tyler began to dance around swatting and swiping, hitting and slapping at their pale skin, still wet from the rain, their damp clothing, and the bee filled air around them. Cursing and hollering and swinging their lanterns about with them until one hit the ground with a clatter and extinguished itself.
Grafton knew the fate that would find him if he sat and watched this scene. He wound his way down the tree, branch by branch. When he was about eight feet from earth’s surface, tucking the fawn into his arms and securing it, he leaped, and took off deeper into the woods, as hastily as he could manage.
Through grassland, thickly wooded forest, and traveled on dirt roads that made his heart stop momentarily, Grafton continued his journey on with child’s eyes, for all he had ever seen of the world was Mr. Atkins plantation. To Grafton the world was green and bright in every sense of the meaning and it did well to distract him from the reality that this journey truly was. The little deer tottered on behind him, his big black marbly eyes looking up at him in the same way his own looked all around this bright new world of his with the smell of freedom in each gust of wind.
Every now and then he would look back and see that his new ambiance was lagging behind slightly, making every effort to keep up with Grafton’s grand strides. Grafton would look over his shoulder ever so often and turn back to find him and pick the frail creature up and carry him onward. At nightfall Grafton would find a spot where two trees grow just feet apart and he would brace his back up against one and stretch his feet out to the other tree, in hopes of becoming one with the tree.
The little fawn lie curled up in between his two feet, his black nose shiny with wetness, tucked neatly under his back legs in a little ball of fur just as he lay when Grafton first stumbled upon him. Their warmth both radiated and aided in keeping them each comfortable during the chilly nights when the westward wind howled with a whisper of freedom and made the leaves and dangling moss of the great oaks dance overhead.
