My Young Master: A Novel

by Opie Percival Read

"That's what I mean. They drove me to brandy and brandy has pointed you out."

I was perfectly calm; the chill had left me. "Will you please let me pass?" I asked; and he stepped back, still with his hands behind him. "No," he said.

"Have you forgotten our contract?"

"You are a fool if you put faith in it. You are not negro enough to be put by with a kick. You are white man enough to be killed. And when they find you in the morning they will think that your little learning drove you mad."

This startled me. I believed that they would think so, if they should find me dead, but no obedience to a social law and surely no regard for the statutes could force me to submit quietly to the bloody purpose of this raving man.

"Doctor, I have run from you for the last time. Get out of my way!" I stepped aside, but he moved toward me. Now his hands were in front of him and I saw a knife. I had nothing. I could have turned and run away; I could have leaped over the fence, but hot blood was coursing where the chill had crept.

"I am going home," said I, "and I am going down this lane."

He made no reply, but with a leap and a strike he was upon me. I caught the wrist of his right arm; I threw my left arm about him. I thought that I heard his bones cracking and it gave me a thrill of mad delight. I did not strive to get his knife. I bent his head down till his cry was but a mutter; his right hand was crushed against his bosom—and I threw him upon the ground. He struggled, with one faint cry, for his face was in the grass, and I put my foot on his back to hold him down, to complete my victory over him. And I am free to confess that my soul was full of a joy that almost burnt me, it was so hot. Many a time had he stood with his foot upon my trembling heart, and the memory of those long years of humiliation swept over me and I lifted my hands and cried aloud to the God of vengeance. I looked down at my foe under my foot. And now he was so mean and shrunken that my heart flinched with a pity that pricked it. I lifted my foot with a quick jerk lest another memory might press it down the harder, and stood waiting for him to get up. He did not move. "Get up," I said, taking him by the shoulder. But he made no effort. Then I turned him upon his back and the moonlight fell upon his blood, and horrified, I looked at him, his eyes wide open, his teeth hard set with grass between them. His right hand was still upon his left breast, clutching the knife, and its blade was buried in his heart.

I dropped upon my knees, and gazed at him, now so old and wrinkled. I leaped to my feet and the air whistled in my ears as I bounded down the lane. I was struggling to run away from the knowledge that I had killed him, but it kept up with me—showed me a jail and a gallows. I halted when near the house, put my arm about a tree and stood there. The negro cabins were dark, but a light burned in Young Master's room. The hour was late. The creek was louder than I had ever heard it, a mockery, not a music. A wind had sprung up and in the tree-tops there was a cold and rasping whisper. I was striving to reach a decision as to what course I should pursue. Undoubtedly I had killed the man or had thrown him so that he might kill himself, but of this I had entertained no thought at the time, my aim being to protect myself and to humiliate him, to show him that I could turn and be his master. But I could not explain this to the authorities, therefore I held no notion of giving myself up. To run away were an acknowledgement of guilt, a brief inquiry and the rope. I could make a flat denial, if accused, but was afraid that I could not summon the nerve to maintain it. Still something must be done. I might go to Mr. Clem, tell him the truth, get letters from him to persons in the real land of the free and with his financial aid make my escape out of the country. But this was blocked by the love I bore my Young Master. I went to the well and washed my hands, although I could find no blood on them, and the windlass was so loud with its groaning that I fancied the whole world must hear it. A dog came up, sniffed at me and trotted off. Life had been stirred until I had found the sugar at the bottom. I must save myself, but I could not run away without telling my Master, without asking his advice. I would go to him. Up the stairway I stole without a noise. I was afraid that I might find Old Master pacing the hall, and I listened to hear his slippered feet, but all was still. I turned the knob so gently that Young Master did not hear me when I entered the room. He sat gazing at his book. I spoke and he started.