American Girl

Georgia

Georgia

Papa had Rufus whipped yesterday afternoon. He was caught red-handed with a dead chicken under his arm. Late last night, the coop exploded with cackling and rustling feathers. Cocking his shotgun, Papa raced outside with Philemon at his heels. Silhouetted beneath the full moon, Rufus hunkered, the dead chicken hanging limply in his grasp.

Rufus raised his arms in surrender, and the chicken dropped to his feet. He stepped toward Papa and Philemon, defeated. They tied him up between two posts and left him to sweat beneath the sultry night sky and hot morning sun. In the afternoon, Papa ordered the slaves to witness Rufus's punishment.

The whip flared, tearing Rufus's skin. Blossom Hughes buried her face in her hands and leaned her forehead against the white porch pillar. Mammy stood beside her, wringing her hands in her floral apron. Tears glistened in her eyes and streamed down her dark chocolate cheeks. Rufus was Mammy's husband.

"Lord have mercy," Mammy muttered without averting her eyes. She stared as though transfixed. "Blossom, honey, 'tis no place for a sweet little thing like you. Go on inside with you."

"Oh, Mammy, why must Papa behave so cruelly?" Blossom wailed. She felt sorry for Rufus and the rest of the slaves.

Blossom loved Mammy as much as she would have loved her own dearly departed mother. She never knew her mother. Mama had died giving birth to her—the only girl in a family of four boys.

Philemon was the eldest. At twenty-six, he shadowed Papa everywhere and copied him in everything. Blossom was ten years younger and did not share a close relationship with her oldest sibling. In fact, she did not like him at all. He, like Papa, treated the slaves like chattel property.

Aster, the next in line, had a tender heart. A year younger than Philemon, he kept his nose in a book most of the day. The short, thin young man longed to become a missionary, but Papa kept him home. Papa was as stern with his sons as he was with his slaves. Blake and Beau, the twins, were two years older than Blossom. She had just reached her sixteenth year.

Blossom turned back to Mammy. The plump woman shook her head dolefully. She placed her arm around her charge's shoulder and drew the girl back into the plantation house. The whip continued to crack, but Rufus never made a sound. Rufus maintained his pride.

Blossom slipped through the front door, casting one last look at the punishment. She hung her head in shame—shame for Papa, shame for Philemon. She hated their attitude toward the slaves. If she could do something about it, indeed, she would.

Someday, freedom would come for the slaves. Blossom believed in the Abolitionists and longed to join them. If she could only do something... Tightening her fists, she pledged herself to a right and just cause.

"What a show!" Blake cried, charging down the wide swooping staircase. Beau clattered down beside him. The eighteen-year-old twins halted in front of Blossom. "Did you see it?"

"Have you no shame?" their younger sister wailed, spinning on them. "That's a human being out there getting flogged. It's not entertainment. It's cruel."

The twins exchanged perplexed glances. They shrugged in unison.

"Stealing is still a crime in Georgia," Blake stated, his shaggy blonde hair falling over his eyes. He swiped it away. Beau stood silently in the background. "Papa punished Rufus for stealing. Slaves aren't exempt from everyday law."

"Justify it any way you want, brother," Blossom huffed, lifting her hoop skirt above her shoes. Tossing her golden ringlets, she ran upstairs. Turning at the top baluster, she looked down upon the two boys. "Whipping another human being is cruel. That's all I have to say about it."