“Come on, now,” he said, casting his sight from one to the other. “Any of you will do.”
Landry did not step forward. He merely reached for an itch upon his arm. Prentiss was never sure after the fact if Landry knew what he’d done. He could only recall his brother’s eyes locked on the cloud of flies before their cabin, his mind wandering, as it was prone to.
“Here stands my man!” Mr. Morton said, to the surprise of even Mr. Cooley, a taskmaster of equal stupidity but only half the cruelty.
Prentiss did not dare turn to his pleading mother, or even to Landry, and he would forever bear the guilt of not stepping forward himself to save the only person he was ever made to protect.
Each month Mr. Morton would watch over the lashings as if they were a special occasion—doled out for Mrs. Etty waking too late, or for Lawson working his row too slowly. After the beating when he broke Landry’s jaw, it took only a season for the boy to stop using what few words he had. Their mother would say that Landry had once been full, and then halved, until he was inevitably left in so many bits she could not piece together the boy she’d once called her own.
The only quarter Mr. Morton offered Landry was to avoid taking offense when he failed to utter anything in response to being called forth. “I don’t take it as a show of disrespect,” Mr. Morton would say, loud enough for the others to hear. “I sometimes wish the others might develop your fondness for silence, Landry. I do. I really do.”
The sole pleasure left to the rest of them lay in the abandoned cabin that mocked Mr. Morton whenever he paid them a visit, the indignities of his loss on display for all to see. With each whipping he seemed to believe Little James and Esther might reappear, and it brought Prentiss quiet satisfaction imagining they were so far away, so gone, that they would never hear Landry’s cries; never return to give Mr. Morton the peace of mind he so doggedly sought.
*
Once they were beyond Old Ox, the camps were easy to find, as one needed only to follow the bodies. They accumulated as the road went on, a few covered by the broad leaves of the crab apple trees scattered about, others by discarded rubbish found in town—a collection of men and women sleeping off a lifetime of toil. At some point a makeshift road forked off, a marshy patch of mud etched by the footsteps of those who had come to pass. For a few feet there were dense horsetail reeds all around them. But then, along the creek that ran through town, the road cleared into an expanse of tents with people appearing from nowhere. A town with no buildings, no markings, and no name.
“Looks right,” Prentiss said.
They were paid little mind at first. Rows of tents, most made with nothing more than blankets clasped together, sat beside one another. Shoeless children played in the trees while their parents slept or visited with the others.
When the brothers started forward, careworn eyes sought them out but looked them off quickly. There was no hostility to be found, rather a collective meekness that Prentiss recognized, having experienced it himself. This was their new life. Work replaced with aimless sitting or scrounging for food like an animal. The faces were unknown to him. Prentiss thought of calling out some names, but he didn’t wish to draw attention.
“What you got?” said a voice from a tent at their side.
Prentiss turned to a group of men and women huddled around a skillet. Charred remains lay crisped and burnt in the pan. Each of them cradled a sheet of newspaper holding bits of potato skins, and Prentiss quickly realized how hungry he was. His eyes were fastened on the ink running off the newspaper wet with lard. He found Landry inching toward the tent himself, just as eager for a taste. The leader inside called out to them once more to gain their attention.
“Either you tryin’ to trade something or you pickin’ around for some trouble. Which is it?”
Prentiss told the man he was looking for his own from Majesty’s Palace.
The man licked his fingers. “Boy,” he said. “We from Campton.”
“I ain’t heard of that house,” Prentiss said.
“I tell you, he thinks it’s a house.”
When Prentiss failed to respond, the man slapped his knee, and asked the others, a second time, if they’d heard what the boy had said.
“Campton, Georgia, son. It’s a town. Ain’t no more than ten miles up the road.”
The man took pity on them. Explained that the camp was at the crossing of a number of towns. Many freed slaves had already started north with little more than a day’s rations. Some had gone right up the road, where there was a sawmill seeking extra help. Others had gone farther. He mentioned Baltimore, Wilmington, and enough other places that Prentiss couldn’t keep up.