“Oh, them!” Lucy bit her thread. “They ain’t all hissen. He takes slaves over from the plantations hereabouts to—train.”
“Then he—”
A cry of stark terror coming from the yard brought Amelia up in alarm. Lucy calmly listened a moment.
“Sounds like Mr. Covey’s having to whop that Fred again,” she said. “He’s a bad one!”
What Amelia was hearing now bleached her face. Lucy’s composed indifference rebuked her. She tried to control the trembling of her lips.
“You mean—the boy—who sang this morning?”
“That’s him—stubborn as a mule. Reckon that singin’ will be a mite weaker tomorrow.”
And Mrs. Covey giggled.
The day unwound like a scroll. By mid-afternoon fatigue settled all along Amelia’s limbs. Outside the sun shone brightly—perfect February weather for early plowing. The kitchen door stood open to the sunshine, and Amelia paused a moment looking out toward the bay.
A small child two or three years old crawled out from under a bush and started trotting across the littered back yard. Amelia stood watching her. Beneath the tangled mass of brown curls the little face was streaked with dirt. It was still too cool for this tot to run about barefoot, Amelia thought, looking around for the mother. She held out her hand and the child stopped, staring at her with wide eyes.