It was fully light now. Covey and the overseer were standing a few feet from the back door. Hughes held a looped cord in his hand and was showing something to Covey, who listened closely. Amelia could see them plain enough, but they were talking too low for her to hear. Then Fred swung the barn doors back and fastened them. Both men turned and watched him. He certainly was going about his job with a will. He wasn’t wasting any time standing around. Evidently he was getting ready to lead out the oxen.
She saw Hughes start away, stop and say something. Then she heard Covey’s, “Go ahead. I’ll manage.”
Her attention was attracted by the way Fred was handling the oxen. They were ornery beasts, but he didn’t seem afraid of them at all. Covey too was watching. Amelia couldn’t see what he had done with his lash. He held in his hand the cord Hughes had handed him. Fred seemed to be having some trouble with one of the oxen. He couldn’t fasten something. He backed away, turned and in a moment started climbing up the ladder to the hayloft.
The moment the boy’s back was turned, Covey streaked across the yard. The movement was so unexpected and so stealthy that Amelia cried out under her breath. She saw what he was going to do even before he grabbed Fred by the leg and brought him down upon the hard ground with a terrible jar. He was pulling the loop over the boy’s legs when, with a sudden spring, the lithe body had leaped at the man, a hand at his throat! Amelia gripped the ledge with her hands and leaned out. They were both on the ground now, the dark figure on top. The boy loosened his fingers. Amelia could see Covey’s upturned face. He was puffing, but it was bewilderment, not pain, that made his face so white and queer. The boy sprang up and stood on his guard while Covey scrambled to his feet.
“You ain’t resistin’, you scoundrel?” Covey shouted in a hoarse voice.
And Frederick—body crouched, fist raised—said politely, “Yessir.” He was breathing hard.
Covey made a move to grab him, and Fred sidestepped. Covey let out a bellow that brought Lucy running to the door.
“Hughes! Help! Hughes!”
Amelia saw Hughes, halfway across the field, start running back. Meanwhile the boy held his ground, not striking out but ready to defend himself against anything Covey could do.
The slave boy has gone mad! She’d heard of slaves “going bad.” She ought to go down and help. They’d all be murdered in their beds. But she couldn’t leave her window. She couldn’t take her eyes off the amazing sight—a dumb slave standing firmly on his feet, his head up. Standing so, he was almost as tall as Covey.