The Accident

 

It all seemed to have happened in one of those slow-motion moments. Actually, the horse heard it first-the rattle sound. The sound that leaves goose bumps on a big man’s neck. By the time the girl caught eye of it, Blackie had instinctively shied to the right.

“Snake!” Rachel pointed at the coiled serpent, its mouth gaping, fangs laid bare.

Blackie bolted. The sudden jerk slammed Rachel against the seat, wrenching the reins from her hands. Immediately she reached for twelve-year-old Sarah. Careening wildly along the narrow lane they furiously clutched at the buggy seat.

“Blackie!” Rachel screamed. “Whoa! Whoa, Blackie!”

The frightened horse raced on at full gallop while the reins dragged the ground. Mother and daughter tightened their grip and waited for Blackie to run himself out.

“Blackie!” Sarah screamed. “Stop, Blackie! Oh, please! Stop! Mama, I’m scared!”

Rachel shrieked louder, “Whoa!”

The lane curved sharply right, but the frantic horse dashed straight on. Ten feet into a meadow the buggy struck the outcroppings of a stump and shot Rachel down the seat smashing into Sarah. Flipping onto its side the buggy slammed the ground, digging in. Dirt and grass flew in all directions. Breaking loose from the splintered buggy, Blackie made a blue streak through the wild flowers and disappeared into the woods.

The dust settled-silence.

 

Cracking her eyelids, Sarah peeked through the narrow slits, dimly aware of the pain. It burned. Yes, it felt like fire shooting through every inch of her body. A dream-sure that was it. She dreamed a restless dream. Darkness surrounded her, and she hated the dark. Her breathing tightened, her chest ached, and the darkness squeezed her whole body without mercy. She hated tight spaces, and she despised snakes. Both were unbearable, and both were crammed into the grayness from which she could not awake. The girl lay crumpled in the short grass for several minutes. Finally, the burning streaked up her arm, jolting her awake. Not a dream, she quickly realized the arm was broken, and the pain would not go away anytime soon.

“Mama!” she screamed. “Mama!” Her face flushed prickly hot. Pushing to a sitting position she bawled loudly, “Mama! Mama! Where are you?”

Her darting eyes searched the wreckage for any sign of movement. Finally, she struggled to her feet, clutched her arm, and wobbled toward the smashed buggy.

Almost stumbling over her mother, she hesitated, not wanting to believe it. “Oh, Mama,” the girl groaned. Seeing broken wood and metal pinning Rachel against the ground, she fought hard to gather her wits.

Her face tightened with pain as she stared at the rubble. Then, pushing with all her might, Sarah tried to move it with her good arm. It wouldn’t budge, and her heart sank. Dropping to her knees, the girl gently brushed dirt from her mother’s face.

“Wake up, Mama.”

Calm settled on the meadow. Birds chirped to each other, but the sound for which Sarah’s heart begged did not come. Her mother remained quiet.

“Please, wake up.”

She held the limp hand. Unable to speak the words, Sarah thought them. Oh, Mama, you’re dying. She touched her mother’s face, no response.

“Mama, I must go for help.” Her lips trembled. “I don’t want to leave you, but you need the doctor.”

 A hush spread over the meadow, even the birds stopped talking.

“Oh, what should I do? I wish you could tell me. Wake up and tell me!”

A small, white-winged butterfly landed softly on a wildflower next to Rachel.

Sarah leaned over and kissed her mother’s soft hand. “What will happen to Joseph and Polly? They need you, Mama. Tonight-what about tonight? I promised never to tell. What should I do now?” she begged, her tone frantic. “Tell me!  Please wake up, Mama. Oh, Please! I need you. Oh, Mama, don’t leave me.”

Blinded by tears the girl buried her face against her mother’s shoulder. Silently fluttering its wings, the pretty butterfly skipped over to Rachel’s bruised cheek. The quiet settled in, like silence at twilight in a well-kept cemetery.

Sarah began to pray.

Suddenly, Rachel’s eyes opened and a pretty smile skipped across her lips. She saw them and was not afraid. The angels had come. Slowly her eyelids fluttered shut, and the butterfly quietly winged its way into the blue.

Kidnappers

Before the sun peeked over the horizon, while the morning star still shimmered in the western sky, they attacked. The earth shook under the pounding hooves as two riders whipped their horses furiously, pushing them to the limit. Out of the dim eastern horizon they raced across the field, swiftly closing in on Sam and Eliza. Slowly, the Negroes turned to the sound and squinted into the first gray light of dawn. Graybeard jammed his boot into Eliza’s side, the blunt force slamming her to ground. She groaned pitifully. Then, holding her side, she curled into a ball. Finally, after catching her breath, she screamed for her husband. Sam started for his fallen wife, but never made it. Tall Man pistol-whipped him, opening a bloody gash on the black man’s forehead. Crumpling into a heap, Sam lay dazed, eyes halfclosed. The brutal, hardhearted bounty hunters had the devil in their eyes. While gazing down at their terrible work those ice-cold eyes turned mean—real mean. Unhurried, they swung down from their snorting horses. “Joel, hold that boy!” Graybeard yelled. “I’ll grab his woman.” Sam groaned under Tall Man’s knee. The slave hunter had pinned him against the ground, shoving his gun against the Negro’s head just below the spot where blood trickled from the open wound. The dripping red disappeared into the earth. Eliza screamed in a choked terrible voice as Graybeard yanked her to her feet. Then, dragging her without mercy to where Sam lay gasping for air, the big, ugly-faced man with the pointy gray beard shoved her down. Instinctively she rolled next to her husband. Reaching over she pressed her hand to his wound; the bleeding stopped. Giving out a nasty laugh, Tall Man glared from greed-filled eyes and bragged with a hate-filled voice. “We’ve made our wages today. Can’t wait to git my hands on all that bounty money.” “Sir,” Sam gasped, struggling to raise his head. “You have the wrong folks.” “Shut up, boy!” Graybeard sneered. “We have you and that means money for us.” “But, we’re free Negroes, not slaves. My name is Sam Smith and this is Eliza Smith.” The slave hunter’s big frame blocked out the first rays of the morning sun and he stared back with dark eyes, cold as steel. “Don’t give me that, boy! Slaves don’t have last names,” the man lied. “Now, you shut your face or I’ll whip you good.” Holding up her work-hardened hands, the humble black woman clasped them together, pleading, “My name is Eliza! That’s Sam!”  “Look here, you ol’ slave mammy,” the tall man growled through his ugly, brown, tobacco stained teeth. “I as soon whip you as look at you. Sure ain’t gonna listen to yer lies.” Shaken by a terrible fear, Sam felt his throat tighten. Swallowing hard he gasped out, “I’m a free man! I’ve papers in my pocket to prove it. Sir, let me show you. Please! You have the wrong folks. We aren’t runaways. We’re free!” In a wave of hot anger Graybeard yelled hatefully, “Not now you’re not!”