“Caroline! Hold him!” The iron in his voice was leaking out.
Caroline’s words were low in her throat—rusty because so seldom used. Two words came.
“Who? Me?”
She picked up the pail of milk and walked toward the house, dragging her leg a little.
Frederick felt Covey go limp. And in that moment he sprang up, himself grabbed the knotty chunk of wood and backed away. Covey rolled over on to his side. He was not hurt, but he was dazed. When he did get to his feet, swaying a bit, the yard seemed crowded with dark, silent forms. Actually only four or five slaves, hearing the outcries, had come running and now showed the whites of their eyes from a safe distance. But Covey’s world was tottering. He must do something.
The boy stood there, holding the stick. Now Covey went toward him. Frederick saw the defeat on his face, and he made no move to strike him. So Covey was able to take him by the shoulders and shake him mightily.
“Now then, you wretch,” he said in a loud voice, “get on with your work! I wouldn’t ’a’ whipped you half so hard if you hadn’t resisted. That’ll teach you!”
When he dropped his hands and turned around, the dark figures had slipped away. He stood a moment blinking up at the sun. It was going to be another hot day. He wiped his sleeve across his sweating face, leaving a smear of barnyard filth on his cheek. The kitchen door was closed. Just like that skunk, Hughes, to go off and leave me! He’d send him packing off the place before night. But he didn’t want to go into the house now. He was tired. Covey walked over to the well and stood looking out toward the bay.
Frederick once more started up the ladder. He would get some sweet, fresh hay for the oxen. Then he could lead them out.