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Chapter 17
I WANTED to throw up.
I stood ankle deep in the muck of the swamp, batting at the cloud of mosquitoes that whined around my face and arms. I was hiding as best I could behind a tangle of brambly vines and swamp grass, all alone and completely petrified.
In no time at all, the men had fashioned a rope into a thick noose with a hangman’s knot. It took even less time to sling the rope over the middle fork of a sizable sycamore tree.
The only sound in those woods was the awful grunting of the men, the steady metallic chant of the cicadas, and the loud beating of my heart.
“You know why you being punished, boy?” shouted one of the men.
There was no response from George Pearson. He must have fainted from the beatings or maybe the pain of losing his ear.
“We don’t appreciate boasting. We don’t appreciate it from no nigger boy.”
“Now, come on, Willy, ain’t it a little rough to throw a boy a rope party just for shootin’ off his stupid-ass mouth?” said another.
“You got another suggestion, Earl?” Willy said. “What other tonic would you recommend?”
I looked around for Jacob. Surely he’d had time to get home and come back with his father.
The men carried George to the sandy ground underneath the sycamore. One of them held up his head while the others slid the rope around his neck.
I didn’t know what I could do. I was just one boy. I wasn’t strong enough to take on one of these men, much less all of them, but I had to do something. I couldn’t just hide like a jack-rabbit in the woods and watch them hang George Pearson.
So I finally moved out of the shadows. I guess the slosh of my feet in swamp water turned their heads. I stood revealed in the light of the moon and their torches.
“Would you looka here,” said Willy.
“Who the hell is this?” said one of his friends.
“Ain’t but a little old boy, come out to give us a hand.”
I realized I was shivering now as if this were the coldest night of all time. “Let him go,” I squeaked, instantly ashamed of the tremor in my voice.
“You follered us out here to hep this nigger?” said Willy. “You want us to string you up next to him, boy?”
“He did nothing wrong,” I said. “He was just talking. I heard him.”
“Willy, that’s Judge Corbett’s kid,” said a tall, skinny man.
“That’s right,” I said, “he’s my daddy. You’re all gonna be in bad trouble when I tell what you did!”
They laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke they’d ever heard.
“Well, now, correct me if I’m wrong, young Master Corbett,” said Willy, “but I believe the law in these parts says if a nigger goes to boasting, his friends and neighbors got every right to throw him a little rope party and teach him how to dance.”
My throat was so dry I was surprised any sound came out. “But he didn’t do anything wrong,” I said again. For some reason I thought if I repeated myself, they would see the logic.
Willy put on a smile that held not a hint of amusement. “Boys, I believe we have got ourselves a pure-D, grade-A, number one junior nigger-lover.”
The other men laughed out loud. Hot tears sprang up in my eyes, but I willed them not to fall. I would not cry in front of these awful bastards, these cowards.
I recognized a tall, skinny one as J. T. Mack, the overseer at the McFarland plantation. He slurred his words as if he were drunk. “If this boy is half smart as his daddy, he’ll just turn his ass around and march on back home. And forget he ever come out here tonight.”
In two steps Willy was on me, gripping my arm, then my throat. J. T. Mack moved in to grab my other arm.
“Hold on, son. You can’t go home to daddy yet. We need a souvenir of your visit. Come on out of there, Scooter,” said J.T.
