SmartGirl Authors

Beyond the Barn

by SG Author Camille

Meet Lea Rose Cady, whose parents leave her to stay with her grandparents for a whole year while they go on a business trip to Europe. Lea thinks there is nothing worse than living with her grandparents, who probably live like cave dwellers! Then Lea discovers a 200-year-old barn with some historical artifacts from the Civil War inside. When locals plan to demolish what they see as a useless old barn, Lea has to convince them otherwise!

Chapter 1: (Summer of 1863) -- Meetin' Mr. Tuffman

"It's gonna be all right, Sam," Mama assures me. "Ain't nobody gonna take my family away from me."

Small tears form in the corners of my eyes. But they took Papa away.

Cries and whimpers swirl around Mama, Sissy, and me. Other mothers mourn, and children sob. Slave owners' clamors enter my ears, and I can hear chains clinkin' and clankin' against each other and bein' pulled. Dust irritates my eyes and nose. I clutch onto Mama's rag-of-a-dress, blanketed in grime, dust, and dirt. The metal, rusty chains feel heavy around my ankles - heavy and cold.

"Well, look at 'em here," says a rough voice.

I brush the dirt and dust out of my eyes and stare at the figure towerin' high above me. His head is tipped up as if he is superior, and he is built lean and tough. There are small buds of hair poppin' from his chin. He probably just shaved.

The man swipes off his hat and messes with his mop of brown hair. "I'll take this one," he informs another man who has a greedy glint in his eyes. He glares hard into Mama's eyes. "You better be a hard worker, or I'll whip ya." He laughs bitterly as if he enjoys whippin' slaves.

Mama glares back, but she remains silent. I admire my mama for that. Although I know she'd like to spit some sense into Tough Man, she just keeps it bottled up.

"C'mon," growls Greedy Man, tugging on Mama's arm. She places her hand protectively on my shoulder as if she is hesitant and wary around this man, and I look down at my scabby, dirty feet. My own hand finds its way to Sissy, my baby sister, layin' in Mama's arms. I stroke her dark-chocolate cheek.

Tough Man thrusts a finger into Greedy Man's chest, slightly pushin' him back. Greedy Man stumbles as Tough Man commands, "Stop right there!"

Greedy Man, confused, asks, "What'd I do wrong, Mr. Tuffman?"

Mr. Tuffman barks, leanin' in close to him, "You tryin' to cheat me out of my money? I only want the woman, fool!" He seizes the chains around Mama and tugs on them with one hand, as if to specify which woman he wants. Mama grimaces. In Mr. Tuffman's belt is a whip, and his hand is poised above it, as if he is about to draw it out and strike Greedy Man.

Wide-eyed, Greedy Man apologizes, "Oh, no intentions of doin' that, Mr. Barry Tuffman, sir, none at all. Alrighty, if you want the woman, that'll be eight-hundred, Mr. Tuffman, sir."

Mr. Tuffman pushes some paper money into Greedy Man's hand, and Greedy Man tucks it away in a pocket. Greedy Man snatches Sissy out of Mama's arms, drops her in my arms, and begins to lug Mama away. I screech, "Mama!" tryin' to run up to her, but the chains are so heavy. Tears are already streamin' down my cheeks. Sissy seems to also know what is happenin', for she is kickin' and screamin'.

Mama jerks her arm away from Greedy Man. "Don't take me away from my Sam and Sissy!" she shrieks. Flailin' her arms, she tries to reach for Sissy and me, but Mr. Tuffman pulls her back and interrupts.

Mr. Tuffman roars, his veins lookin' as if they are about to burst, "Shut up, woman!" He yanks out a whip and gashes the air, a cracklin' sound echoin' in my ears. "Or would you prefer a visit from my whip?" Fear wipes all over Mama's face, and she quiets.

Mama? Afraid? A voice in the back of my head keeps shoutin': "Nobody scares your mama! Nobody!" Though the heaviness of the chains keeps my feet glued to the earth, I place Sissy down on the ground and scuttle up to Mr. Tuffman, my face fumin' with fury, and my fists fling themselves at his arms and chest. Sissy seems to know what I'm doin', for she crawls up to Mr. Tuffman and chucks her own little clenched fists at his shoes. Mama keeps a stony, blank expression on her face. "Don't take my mama away, please, Mr. Tuffman, sir!" I hurl my hands at him, too, although I'm not sure if Mr. Tuffman will do what I ask if I keep hurtin' him, so I freeze. Sissy stops, too.

Mr. Tuffman tilts his body closer to mine and stares at me through narrow slits. His head is bent down to my level, and he speaks in a firm voice with a hint of amusement. "You messin' with ol' Barry Tuffman, boy?" The stench of alcohol lingers in his warm breath, and the odor of tobacco drifts from his clothes. I try not to breathe as he continues. "Who do ya think ya are? What's your name?" Mr. Tuffman shoots the questions at me like bullets.

"Sam Thompson, sir." I straighten my back and look past Mr. Tuffman's eyes. There's fear in my eyes, but I don't want him to see that.

"Your age?" Bang.

"I'm eleven, sir."

"Your previous master?" Bang.

"Randy Thompson, sir."

Mr. Tuffman smirks, a snicker sneakin' out his mouth. "Ha! I knew ol' Thompson back in the day. He's weak." He raises an eyebrow, and I can tell he's tryin' to pin down the horror in my eyes. "Does that mean you're weak, too? I do wonder."

It's a challenge. He's challengin' me. Mama senses it's a challenge, as well, for her eyes are as round as saucers, and her lips are pressed together in a slim line. Sissy stares up at me from the ground, her lower lip tremblin'.

I look Mr. Tuffman straight in the eye. "I ain't weak. I'm strong." The words tumble out of my lips before my brain has anythin' to say about it. I tip my head in the direction of Mama. "But my mama. Now she's the weak one, sir. Frail and feeble she is, sir."

Mr. Tuffman looks interested - well, "interested" meanin' "amused."

I go on, my knees feelin' like puddin', "So when you take my mama, you take me, too."

Greedy Man hasn't said much these last few minutes. In fact, he's just watchin' me and Mr. Tuffman. He leans forward in anticipation, waitin' for payment. I think he doesn't really care what happens as long as he gets money.

"And my Sissy," I add. Sissy looks happy at the mention of her name. "You take me, my sister, and my mama."

Mr. Tuffman takes a few steps back as if he is disgusted.

Tears are floodin' in Mama's eyes. She's so proud.

Mr. Tuffman snarls, "Oh, and you'll do what I say. Get me some coffee and bread while you're at it, boy." He looks at me expectantly. I'm surprised, but I don't exactly know what coffee is, so I stand still. Mr. Tuffman laughs. "See? I don't want to waste good-earned money on good-for-nothin' scumbags like yourself. Your mouth's spittin' out nonsense that your butt can't cash. Or rather, your mouth's spittin' nonsense that MY butt can't cash. Slaves are expensive these days 'cause of that stupid war. I ain't made of money, fool." Mr. Tuffman slashes the air with his whip again, so that the tip of his whip is close to my chest. I flinch a little. I've only been lashed twice in my whole life, so I'm not used to a whip yet. "So shut up."

"I'll work hard, sir," I promise, even though if I had to choose between death and workin' for Mr. Tuffman, I'd choose death.

Greedy Man butts in nervously, eyein' the whip, "I'll lower the price especially for you, Mr. Tuffman." He looks as if he's tryin' to get on Mr. Tuffman's good side, probably because he's afraid of that whip. Spineless man he is. "Only twelve-hundred is good enough for me."

Mr. Tuffman throws back his head and laughs harshly, obviously entertained. "Okay, boy," he manages to growl between guffaws. "I'll buy you and your stupid sister along with your frail, feeble mama, but you better keep your end of the bargain." This time, he leans in so close the tips of our noses are almost touchin'. "Sam, is it? Let me warn you, Sammy boy, that I expect a lot from my slaves. And I ain't talkin' trash, even though I'm talkin' to trash." He chuckles at his own joke while Greedy Man nervously glances at me, then Mr. Tuffman.

Abruptly, I nod, but in my head I think, I ain't trash. I'm more than that. Slaves are people, too. We ain't trash. We got all sorts of talents. Back at Master Thompson's, we slaves would sing throatily and beautifully. And at least we're built strong, hardworking, and energetic, unlike our lazy masters and overseers, who just command us and crack their whips all day. I smirk a little, wonderin' if Mr. Tuffman is lazy and stuffs himself with food all day - after all, he looks chubby. I wonder how he can even manage to lift that whip if he's so lazy.

Mr. Tuffman pushes more money into Greedy Man's claws. "Pleasure doin' business with you, Mr. Tuffman," says Greedy Man with a nod of his head, droolin' over the money in his hands. He slips the money into his pocket and ties a thick, musty rope around Mama's and my wrists for good measure.

"Pleasure's all mine." Mr. Tuffman smiles like he's the cat who ate the canary. He tugs on the ropes and chains and leads us to a cart-thing. Tipping his head in the direction of the cart-thing, he says, "Get in the wagon. I'm feelin' generous today."

I sweep Sissy off the ground and place her in Mama's grasp. Mama pecks the top of Sissy's head and rocks her gently. I climb into the large wagon. Mama trails after me. She murmurs, "Lord, be with us all." We sit among loads of food, cloth, writing slates, and some jars of molasses, which are bound together with ropes.

"I swear, if you eat the food," calls Mr. Tuffman from somewhere in the front of the wagon, "you ain't gonna eat another thing for the rest of your lives." Suddenly, the wagon lurches forward, and the sound of horses' hooves batterin' against the dirt road ricochets across the distance.

As the wagon lunges and leaps, my hand draws itself to a secret pocket in my ripped, ragged trousers. Inside rests a small, handmade pocket dictionary a slave from my previous master had given to me. That slave was Papa.

"Son, the master threw this out," Papa told me, "so I ain't committin' no crime. This is for you. Learn to read 'n' write, 'n' you can get you 'n' your Mama outta here." Sissy wasn't born yet. Ever since that day - which was the day Papa was sold - I've been studyin' that handwritten dictionary day and night, and I have been learnin' all sorts of new words. I'm careful to keep my knowledge hidden, though.

"Protect your Mama, son," my father whispered in my ear the day Master Thompson was about to bring him to town to sell. "Make sure nothin' happens to my Sugar Puddin'. And make sure nothin' happens to my Brave Little Soldier."

"I promise." I felt proud to make that promise. I hadn't made such a solemn promise before that life-changin' moment. "But Papa, where're ya goin'?" I asked him curiously. I was eight at the time.

Papa chuckled. "Don't worry 'bout your ol' man, Sammy. I'll be fine. And I promise that I'll see you soon."

It's been three years now. And he promised he'd see me soon, but he hasn't seen me soon. I don't know if he's fine. And one question is makin' my heart beat faster and my chest tie into a knot: Where is he?

Tears roll down my cheeks. Mama is snorin' softly in a corner of the wagon, cuddlin' Sissy. It's already late afternoon, maybe early evenin', for the sun is shinin' its last few rays of daylight. I pull out my dictionary and turn the pages until I get to the last few, which are blank. I snatch a few stray berries and smash them for ink - Mr. Tuffman said nothin' about smashin' the food - and I take the feather pen that came with the dictionary, dip it in the berry juice, and write carefully, trying to imitate the style of the handwritten words in the dictionary: "Sold today to mean Toughman. Now in wagon. Almost night. Missin' Papa." I pause. I turn to the "D" section of the book. In the dim glow, I squint, tryin' to make out the words. "Desolate," I read to myself, "a feelin' of being abandoned by hope; forlorn, hopeless, depressed."

Ain't that the truth. The sun lets out its last beam before it shuts off completely, takin' hope along with it. I slip my dictionary back into my secret pocket and close my eyes, rememberin' Papa's words and my solemn oath. Suddenly, it seems as if somethin' is bein' born, somethin' bein' created. My heart feels uplifted at the mention of Papa, my promise, and his promise. It feels like.somethin' is bein' born because of Papa and our promises. Or maybe it already was born, and now it's growin' into somethin' else. Is it hope?

Maybe, just maybe, there's a little hope. But a little of somethin' can go a long way 'round.