A Slave's Freedom

by Soaring

Behind Closed Doors

He knocked twice. The door swung open.

“Jus’ in time, Mr. Burr!”

Mr. Burr walked in, taking in the view of the back of the Crossroads. It always smelled off here, but the inventory trickled owners to the place.

The door promptly slammed behind him, leaving the sounds of chanting and merriment in the next room.

Inside, the room was lit by candles. Each one burned intensely, casting an orange hue over the people inside. Many patrons were seated, watching an older looking gentleman take the stand. He took a pause to clear his throat, before he spoke with promise.

“Gentleman, I hope y’all havin’ a great night!”

An owner down the line from Mr. Burr wanted to make his presence known. “I sure have! Whiskey in me good!”

He laughed. Some joined in with hearty good cheer, but the rest of us stayed quiet, albeit for the older man who promptly shifted his cap and leaned on the podium.

One of the fellows next to the boisterous man nudged him, before whispering a few words into his ears. The laughter died soon after, giving the speaker the floor once again. The speaker smiled, and cast his arm out to the door next to him. “Well if you haven’t had a good one, then we can make your night much better. We got quite a good helpin’ of able negroes for you folks tonight!”

Everyone waited in anticipation, including Mr. Burr, whose face fell at the sight of the door. It was like a gate to a cage. He could see a few shadows in the back, but nothingmore.

Then, everything changed when they came in.

Mr. Burr took in the sight of the ‘inventory’. It was as Mr. Owens had said: fifty-five negroes of young and old hobbled their way in, chained together like they were just caught running. It wasn’t jarring for Mr. Burr; he had seen this before, but not so many since the time he got into the business. Back then, many of them came: some close to sixty, but that was a rarity. Getting something as close to sixty at one of these was more than a sign of the market growing.

But the fact that these negroes were chained unsettled Mr. Burr. The only time they were chained up was when one of them was an unruly slave. That made him a little less valued—and a bit more of a challenge for an owner to keep on the plantation.

Yet… now it was harder to tell. They were all chained. How was he to tell who was the best to pick?

Yet again, he also knew why they were chained. These folks don’t want another Turner.

Another Nat Turner…

Mr. Burr felt his spine twinge thinking about that. If these lot weren’t chained up, they would run over the buyers within seconds. The thought made him wish he brought his pistol.

“We’ll start with some of the younger ones, and work our way up…”

Mr. Burr kindly tuned the gentleman out once again. At first, Mr. Burr worked his gaze down the line and back, seeing the young and old lined up in chains. But, then, as he scanned over the lot a second time, his eyes locked on to a boy, who, if Mr. Burr could estimate, was nearly the same age as Dyson. Although shorter than Dyson, the boy had longer and strong-looking arms. It looked like this boy could haul all the corn and bags of cotton by himself, something that made Mr. Burr imagine stacks of banknotes behind the boy.

And then, those banknotes dissolved, leaving Mr. Burr nothing but that boy to see. Mr. Burr saw the boy’s eyes, how big and blue they were, and how they were looking down the line, at an older woman whose lush bob locks told him the whole story.

Mother and son.

Another possible family to add to the collection.

Mr. Burr patiently waited for the speaker to announce the boy’s turn. Child after child were sold, some to the dismay of others, but he knew that this boy was the one he wanted, and the mother was part of the package. Hopefully someone didn’t try to get his number. He didn’t want to have to match.

“Alright! Looks like we got a prime loader here for somebody lucky enough!” The speaker said. “Wha’chur name?”

The boy sounded nervous. “L-Leo, sir.”

His voice didn’t carry that well. Those nerves are an issue, but with a bit of work, he’d be good for the farm.

“Alright, now for those wonderin’, this boy here is a prime negro who was taken from one of the plantations up north. He’d been working the fields for a long while, so he doesn’t need any training, and he’s been loading grain for a couple years!” The man turned to the boy fully and glared. “Turn around.”

The boy did, although his chains were clacking together a bit. Mr. Burr could sense that he was extremely nervous. The woman he deemed the boy’s mother did too. Her eyes were darting right to him, and she definitely gulped.

Then, the speaker lifted the boy’s shirt up.

“As you can see, no signs of whippin', and the boy is certainly not fatigued! He’s a perfect set of hands for any work needed—”

Mr. Burr didn’t even give the man to finish his speech. He saw enough to make an offer. “I’ll take him and that woman up a ways for twelve hundred.”

The crowd immediately snapped to Mr. Burr, as if he was outright delirious for making such an offer when the speaker wasn’t finished. On the other hand, the supposed mother was looking at him, her eyes watering and her lips curling to a smile.

“T-Twelve hundred?” the speaker asked, his eyes opened wide.

Twelve hundred. Mr. Burr didn’t lie with numbers. He counted high enough, did he?

“A-Anyone else have an offer?”

The room was silent. Not even the slaves muttered a peep.

“Then I guess you got them two Mr.B—”

“Twelve hundred fifty.”

That voice. Mr. Burr knew that voice.

“Mr. Stockton?”

The black hat was tipped in his direction. “I told you all you had was hope, didn’t I?”

Mr. Burr groaned.

And the bidding war drew on into the night...

---

Hopping down from this huge hill was much easier than climbing up this.

“Come on, Dyson, you can do it!”

And the horse on my back was certainly not helping the cause.

“It’d be much easier if I didn’t have ya wringin’ my neck!”

As if the strained words had weight, Dash had loosened her hold on my neck. “Yeesh, sorry! I didn’t know!” She nuzzled up against my back. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Now keep it down, climbin’s rough enough like this.”

A whinny was what I got. A really irritated whinny. She definitely behaved like a horse when she wanted to: mad when she didn’t get her way, and I bet if she got the chance, she’d growl and possibly bite my hand off.

I grabbed onto the next ledge in front of me. I actually haven’t even climbed up the cliff face. No, we’re just getting up to an area where we could walk up it. How did I climb up the side of this before? I must’ve been lucky, because there’s no way I could’ve done this without some divine help.

Panting, I kept my system going: one hand in front of the other, the harsh grains piercing my hands. It made this charcoal skin of mine turn lifeless, but with a few pats on my pant legs, the dust was gone… somewhat. Only a little powder marked those pants of mine.

I’m glad that these haven’t gotten worn through. Had them since last winter. Most of our clothes got cycled out—unless you weren’t working hard. If you were, it was great. If you were slacking, you were not getting another share until you were working. It… made tending the fields both motivating and stressful, something that, well, Master noticed when I was working in the fields.

I grimaced as the memory came into full. The sun was high when it happened, because boy, phew, it was hot that day. I remember none of us were moving that well. The sweat just stuck to my skin. Wearing a shirt wasn’t good those days.

On this day though, we hadn’t gotten a break the whole morning. I was used to working without a break though back then. I just moved through the pain. Or maybe… back then, I was used to the struggle. We were used to the struggle. We just moved around without yapping to the guards, and we didn’t show them our pain. Nobody ain’t giving us nothing, just another day to survive. We’d get a new pair of clothes, some food, and some water, and then we’d get ready for the next day.

Master back then saw me just working hard, to the point of nearly falling over. And when I did fall, he was there in a split second, and told the rest of them to get under the trees to rest.

That day… he learned to give us a break.

But not to Leo.

I felt a tear drip down my face as I grabbed onto the next ledge. Why couldn’t Master let him take that break? Was there something that I didn’t know about? He could’ve... done more for us, but now Leo...

I tried not to frown. I tried. It’s there though, now. I could feel my lips curling and such. Why? I didn’t know. Leo didn’t want this. He didn’t want me being all upset over him. I paused and wiped my cheek with my arm.

I felt Dash’s look on my back, but she didn’t speak up. She didn’t even move none, save for adjusting her forehooves that were around my neck. It made breathing harder than it should. Every time I took one, I grunted. I groaned. I sometimes even growled. Yet she didn’t loosen up again. She’s probably petrified.

I took one last breath and swung to the ledge and pulled myself up. My body gasped for breath as I laid there, looking up at the many more ledges I needed to climb. And then, I felt her hooves fall from my neck. I turn to see her rolled off me and onto the ledge.

Wait. On the ledge?!

“You did it, Dyson!” She said cheerfully, looking over at me with glee.

“I made it?” My eyes flickered towards the ground around us. It was a large ledge, but nothing worth writing a letter about. There were still so much above us. “But we ain’t up there yet.”

“Smaller victories, Dyson,” Dash replied with an ear-to-ear smile. “Let’s take a break. We need to save all the energy we can get since we have much more climbing to do.”

“Ya mean I have more climbing to do.”

“Eeexactly!”

I groaned.

At least I wasn’t upset about Leo no more.

---

Time felt like it tickled my hairs. It must be a way of telling me that I was alive, that this place was not a simple dream. These monsters and this horse were all real. We were real. Nothing else mattered.

So what was the matter, then? The fact that, well, I was stuck here with this horse? I didn’t have a say in the matter. I mean, it’s better than being stuck with that hydra down the stream but…

I shook my head and got up. Little rocks like these were hard to relax on. They pinched and stamped your back like whips cracking against scarred skin—my stomach crawled. I don’t need to remember him. Not yet…

My body stretched this way and that. Arms bent. Neck cracked. Fingers (although grayed) flexed better than ever. Indents everywhere, but who cared? Not I. Not her. She was looking at the cliff. Why? I don’t know. Curious? Spotting the cracks that could give me a tumble? She wasn't a worrier, was she?

No, that’s not her. She turned and trotted on over.

“Dyson, you’re up. Guess you were more tired than you let on.”

Tired of being choked to death. I rolled my eyes. “Can’t say I was doing well in the first place.”

For some reason, she tilted her head. “What do you—” But then, she gasped. “I said I was sorry!” The tilt was no longer there. She was just looking at me like she was angry at me, but she still had some sort of smile wedged on her face, so I guess she wasn't mad at all.

“Still doesn’t take the pain away,” I mumbled, my hand slowly grazing against my neck. It still hurt from her hooves leaning on it. Maybe Dash wasn’t as light as I thought. Or maybe she wasn’t a fan of falling.

Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes. “You’ll live. Now, come on!” She started walking towards the cliff again, but not without beckoning me with her good wing. “We need to get out of here and fast! The faster we get to Ponyville, the better we’re off!”

The sun was a bit lower in the sky than it was a bit ago. “Alright, hold your horses.”

I didn’t see her stop, but I did hear her. She growled loudly, and boy was it a bit more aggressive than any other neigh I heard. “What did you say?”

“On second thought, I’m comin’!” I ran towards her without a second to think. If I wanted to live, then I needed to not say that around her again. Didn’t want to make her mad, since she’s the only one who knew this place.

Now, as I looked at her, she didn’t seem mad at all. In fact, she was brazen with that little smirk that wormed onto her face. “That’s what I thought you said.”

Author's Note:

Written to Rise Against's "Behind Closed Doors". ;)

Comments

[The Bricklayer]

So, wonder who this Nat Turner is...?

[Ice Star]

Okay, so I'm pretty sure Tyson is a kind of chicken nugget and Dyson is a vacuum cleaner.

[Soaring]

10760444
Yes to both.

I found the name actually in a log of old names from the 1800s. However, thinking of Dyson as a vacuum cleaner gives this story an unintentional amount of comedy.

[DiscordantDisciple]

if you took out the mlp parts this would be a pretty accurate historical fiction i feel like