On the Wings of the Wind
by Richard Kigel

EXCERPT

INTRODUCTION

On the Wings of the Wind is historical fiction. It is fiction because the Wright Brothers studied the laws of flight, drew calculations, devised experiments and worked diligently to design and build a machine that would lift a man through the air. Their determination brought them to a windy beach at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina on December 17, 1903, when brother Wilbur took their strange contraption and flew for 59 seconds covering 852 feet.

On the Wings of the Wind is historical because the characters in the story relate many experiences that actually happened. These fictional characters describe their perceptions and feelings in words taken directly from the actual words of real men and women who lived and worked as slaves in America.

For most of the last century, authentic voices of those who experienced slavery have been almost completely absent. Despite a rich slave narrative tradition—more than a hundred fugitive slaves published their stories before the Civil War—nearly all disappeared by the start of the twentieth century. In 1937, historian Lawrence Reddick lamented, “There is not yet a picture of the institution as seen through the eyes of the bondsman himself.” (1)

CHAPTER 3

Something woke me in the middle of the night. The dark was so thick you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. My eyes were useless but I could hear. Somebody was up and around. There was a quiet rustling in the silence, a gentle tap tap tap—bare feet on the dirt floor.

He was moving ever so slow, careful not to wake us. I was half asleep but I could make out a dim figure heading for the door. By his shape I could tell it was Ol' Mose. He was leavin us, tryin to sneak outside in the middle of the night.

The dark outlines of the others were just where they were supposed to be. That told me they were asleep. All of us was eight, tucked in our little wood cabin with just enough room to roll over.

Everyone had a place on the floor. Our beds were nothing but boards covered with straw so we didn’t have to feel the cold earth on our bones. We didn’t mind the hard beds so much. Time to sleep was far more important.

I figured I better get right back where I left off and join the others. Every one of them was off somewhere. Sleep transported us to another world where we could find rest far from the troubles of this life. It was the only place where we could be undisturbed in our happiness. So I closed my eyes and soon I didn’t know nothin about this cold angry world anymore.

And I stayed not knowing and happy about it until that blasted horn. The horn means our precious peace is done and we have to stand up and get ready to work. It was just turning light when I looked at the corner where Ol’ Mose stays. I thought I would see his empty bed. I figured he run off. But there he was, laid flat on his back, yawning and groaning his way back into the world like the rest of us.

Auntie Bee was up already, bending over the fireplace, cooking up some hoe cakes. This is our breakfast and I’ll say it—you could do a lot worse. Hoe cakes was nothing but corn meal and water—buttermilk if we had any. She’d pat out small cakes of flour dough with her hands and lay them on the flat end of a hoe like one we might use in the field. Then she’d fry them in the fire about five minutes. When they done she pulls them out, rubs the ashes off and runs them under warm water.

Those hoe cakes was just fine. You want to eat them straight off the fire. Don’t taste like nothing if you let them get cold.

Auntie Bee took care of us in the cabin. By the time we got to staggering to our feet she’d been up a while, spinning through here like a whirlwind. Every morning you see her at her chores for us and that was even before she left for work at the Big House. She’s the one who keeps our little place decent. Early in the morning she’d be sweeping the dirt floor clean so we don’t have to step on any twigs, rocks and spiders. She always gets on us to gather our straw and pile it neat on our beds. When Auntie Bee tells you something you better listen. Her broom makes a powerful switch. If you don’t watch what you do, you’re liable to feel that hickory handle hard upside your head.

Before anyone was up, Auntie Bee would start the fire and get the water boiling to cook our lunch and dinner. She made baskets for all of us, filled our gourds with food and water so we could have something to eat as we worked that day.

Massa gave us bacon from the smokehouse every week. Much of it was filled with worms and Auntie Bee had to throw out a good portion of it. Still, she would always find enough to make salt pork. She cooked up rabbit and possum the men caught in the woods. We always had plenty of oysters, crabs and herring from the river. Fish was plentiful. We lived off fish.

We ate plenty of vegetables, mostly from our own gardens. On the grounds around the slave quarters we grew corn, cabbage, turnips, carrots, pumpkins, watermelons, buckwheat, rye and oats. There wasn’t no starvin at our place.

Twenty-five of us slaves lived in three log and daub cabins. The walls had big spaces between the slats that did nothing to keep out cold or rain. We didn’t have no windows and we didn’t need any. I could lie in bed and count the stars through the cracks.

The cabins in slave row were built at the bottom of a grassy hill behind the stable and hog pen not far from the smokehouse. On top of the hill overlooking the whole farm was a big white house with tall columns and big windows and an open veranda in front. That was Massa house.

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