Many of us take what him say to heart and carry on. Fighting day after day, week after week until we all weary to the bone. Others believe the king lie, give themselves up, only to discover that backra once again is not to be trusted. They get thrown in gaol, marched off to court, sentenced to death and hanged, or paraded round the streets and lashed fifty times in each town square. So many hangings that the bodies pile up, just left on the ground, turn rotten, causing a stink.

After a while I come to know is only bout a hundred of us still fighting, but till Sam Sharpe say stop, nothing going stop. We going strike like a wind that blow, stop and blow again, till everything standing in its path get cleared away. What we going do? Give up? Return to the plantation, to the yoke of slavery? Even when me bone tired, want to rest, I owe it to the brothers and sisters, men, women and pickney me leading. They all brave souls who would rather feel them chests pierced with a bullet than them backs bleeding from the cut of the lash.

Yesterday, we backtracked through the hills and gullies until we came to this pass in the woods. Hid in the rocks, behind bushes, some alongside the ravine, the only way forward, to play a waiting game. Wound the soldiers and militia men, one by one, as they try to pass. We all know this will be the last stand. Nowhere else to go, except hide in the hills, keep on running. But run to where? Even if we make it to Maroon town, way up in the hills, the Maroons going tie us up, drag us back, turn us in, collect them reward.

Tonight, a thin slice of a moon hang in the air. Lucky for us she rise late, give off only a little bit of light. I sit at the first lookout near the mouth of the ravine keeping watch, knowing each and every one of the slaves hiding behind me. Some work with me on the plantation. Been to prayer meetings with most of them. We listened and learnt the plans Sam Sharpe made and we all come together to make them happen.