“You’re not a field hand! What do you know about tobacco?”
Frederick’s heart missed a beat. He didn’t want him; didn’t like his looks! He saw the big gates of Freelands—this lovely place—swinging shut behind him. He swallowed.
“I—I can do a good day’s work. I mighty strong.”
Freeland flipped a leaf from a bush with his riding crop before he spoke.
“You weren’t raised up at St. Michaels, and you’re no field hand. Don’t lie to me, boy!” He turned and looked Frederick full in the face. The boy stopped but did not flinch. Nor did he drop his eyes in confusion. After all, the explanation was simple.
“When I was little, Old Marse sent me to Baltimore to look after his grandson, Tommy. I was raised up there.”
“I see. Who’s your folks?”
The answer came promptly. “Colonel Lloyd’s my folks, sir.”
“Oh!”
So that was it! Colonel Edward Lloyd—one of the really great places in Talbot County—secluded, far from all thoroughfares of travel and commerce, sufficient unto itself. Colonel Lloyd had transported his products to Baltimore in his own vessels. Every man and boy on board, except the captain, had been owned by him as his property. The plantation had its own blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers and coopers—all slaves—all “Colonel Lloyd’s folks.” Freeland’s mother had known dashing Sally Lloyd, the Colonel’s eldest daughter. They had sailed together in the sloop called the Sally Lloyd. Yes, the old master was dead now. Naturally many of the slaves had been sold. He was in luck.