All this was new to the boy, Frederick. He had never witnessed such loose depravity. He was a stranger. Eagerly he inquired for those he had known as a child. No one could tell him anything. “Old Marse’s” slaves had been divided, exchanged, sold; and a slave leaves no forwarding address. The youth had no feeling of kinship with the plantation folks. He missed Tommy and wondered how he was getting along without him. On the other hand, the field workers and oyster shuckers looked upon the newcomer as a “house nigger.” For a while he watched the dancing and “jubilee beating,” tasted the burning liquid and then, as the afternoon wore on, slipped away. The day was balmy, with no suggestion of winter as known in the north. Frederick had not expected this leisure. He had kept his book hidden, knowing such things were forbidden. Now, tucking it inside his shirt, he walked out across the freshly plowed fields. So it happened that Captain Auld came upon him stretched out under a tree, his eyes fastened on the book which lay before him on the ground, his lips moving. The boy was so absorbed that he did not hear his name called. Only when the Captain’s riding whip came down on his shoulders did he jump up. It was too late then. And so they had called in Covey, the slave-breaker. All that was seven months ago. * * * * * The moon over Chesapeake Bay can be very lovely. This night it was full, and the pine trees pointing to a cloudless sky were bathed in silver. Far out on the water a boat moved with languid grace, her sails almost limp, sending a shimmering ripple to the sandy shore. The dark form painfully crawling between the trees paused at the edge of the cove. The wide beach out there under the bright moonlight was fully exposed. Should he risk it? “Water.” It was a moan. Then he lifted his eyes and saw the ship sailing away on the water. _A free ship going out to sea. Oh, Jesus!_ He had heard no sound of footsteps, not the slightest breaking of a twig, but a low voice close beside him said, “Rest easy, you! I get water.” The boy shrank back, staring. A thick tree trunk close by split in two, and a very black man bent over him. “I Sandy,” the deep voice went on. “Lay down now.” The chilled blood in Frederick’s broken body began to race. Once more he lost consciousness. This time he did not fight against it. A friend was standing by. The black man moved swiftly. Kneeling beside the still figure he slipped his hand inside the rags. His face, inscrutable polished ebony, did not change; but far down inside his eyes a dull light glowed as he tore away the filthy cloth, sticky and stiff with drying blood. Was he too late? Satisfied, he eased the twisted limbs on the pine needles and then hurried down to the river’s edge where he filled the tin can that hung from a cord over his shoulders.