The road passed through tobacco fields. Our stomachs complained mightily of hunger, for it had been two days since we had eaten. At every approach of horseman, cart, or carriage, I turned fearfully, certain I should see some minister of injustice come to enchain us.
I schooled myself to face forward with greater looks of despond, that we might not be detected in our imposture. We practiced the slump of the shoulders born of defeat, the shuffling gait of those who knew that there was no pleasant or agreeable end to their pilgrimage. Riders passed us without challenge.
The sun burned through the morning haze, and we all were sensible of thirst and weariness. I ventured to ask how long we might have before the farmer we’d tied beneath his bed was found and released, and might convey an idea of our number and appearance to the slave patrollers.
Serjeant Clippinger, in preening tones of pride and satisfaction, said, “Now I warrant y’art sorry you didn’t hearken to your Serjeant and kill the man outright. Tell me, lads: Don’t you regret you didn’t listen to my word, but you left the dog to be found and to tell the story of who we is?”
Bono said, “He ain’t going to be found too soon.”
“Don’t fear anyway,” boasted the Serjeant. “He won’t escape. I killt him.”
This news was received with horror. I could not feel my hands. We could not continue our march; but stopped in the midst of the road, and all swayed, as were we confronted with some great gulf or precipice before us.
Bono said, “You killed him?”
“After I dressed. I put my bayonet through his skull like you said.”
I found myself shaking my head slowly, as if to clear it: I painted for myself the man lying beneath the bed, trussed amidst the curls of dust, certain we should soon be gone, and he calculating how many days until friend or neighbor sought him out; envisioning already his freedom, the tale he would tell, pointing at the road and the wood; and then Clippinger’s shoes by the bedside; his knees as he knelt to locate the quick of the watching eye.
“Sweet God,” swore Bono. “Sweet God.”
“He would have roused the whole country.”
“A shirt and breeches. We stole a shirt and breeches. You killed him?”
“Him or us, lads.” Clippinger pointed before us. “March on.”
I could scarcely move for disgust. Olakunde’s tripping steps dragged me forward — and Bono spake for all three of us when he continued to whisper, “A shirt and breeches. Sweet mercy. Sweet mercy.”
We passed on a causeway over fields. Slaves watched our dolorous procession. A child threw stones at finches.
I heard hooves and was certain it was a patroller seeking out the murderers; but it was a youth who rode past without so much as marking us.
We marched on through that hostile country.