He nods, pulling some papers to him, half-listening.

“You been teaching us about God and the Bible and all that, and I been thinking, Master Jeremiah don’t do some things like you preach them.”

He folds his hands on the papers with a look like sucking on a lemon. “I’m aware.”

“My Rose is a good girl, Master. And it sure would be nice if she could learn the good teaching like you tell us.”

Master’s eyes soften. “The good news of the Lord.”

“That’s it, Master. I pray she could hear you preach about it every week like you do. If only she could be here at Jubilee, she’d learn so much from a good master like you.”

I chew at my lip and hold my breath.

He sighs. “I can’t go around buying up every slave whose master doesn’t stick to scripture.”

“I know, Master,” I say. “But I sure wish you could. Especially my Rose, my only child. It just breaks my heart that she won’t get no salvation.”

He purses his lips and frowns, but he don’t say nothing, so I start in to singing, “Mary had a baby, oh my Lord.” Singing soft and rocking with it like I got the spirit of God moving me. When I get to, “The people keep a-coming but the train done gone,” I say, “The people keep a-coming, but not my Rose.”

Master waves at me to quiet down, and says, “I suppose I could write to my father-in-law, see if he’ll send the girl.”

“Oh, bless you, Master,” I say. “God bless you. You’re gonna get a good one in Rose. Obedient like she is. And hardworking.”

He shoos me away, and I back out of the room blessing everything I see. “Bless you, Master, and bless your house, and your books, and bless your furniture, and bless your paper.” Whatever it takes to get my daughter away from Belle Grove.

June 1849

Chapter 26

Henry

Seems like there’s no end to the things Mister Johnson wants mended or made, which suits me just fine. Every time I turn around it seems he needs another hoe or horseshoe. Today, I have half a dozen neck rings to mend and a new set of chains and wrist shackles to make. He’s particular about how thick they need to be so that they can’t be pounded through.

It’s the start of June, and while blacksmithing can be counted on to keep a man warm in the winter, it’ll bake you in the summer. I’m dying to get done with the day’s work and jump in the river.

I match my breathing to the steady rhythm of the hammer. Three pounds for a breath in, and three for out. It keeps me from rushing. Steadies the blows. I try to focus on the iron getting nudged into shape with my hammer, but Sarah’s face keeps floating through my mind. And the way kissing her melts my insides. I feel my swing going uneven. Stuttering when it should flow.