Yes, Sir

Chapter One - We meet our protagonist and antagonists.

The summer heat radiated down on the city of Lexington, Kentucky as men and women here and there, scattered throughout the dust, were going about their regular days. The doors of the saloon were constantly flapping back and forth and you could hear the distinct sound of upbeat piano playing, people chatting and drinks being poured. Opposite the saloon was the sheriff's office, the door open just far enough for everyone to see the sheriff sat at his desk, hat covering his face and his black leather boots propped up on his desk and crossed over while he slept. Meanwhile, the ever working deputy sat at his own tiny desk, writing out as much as he could on a document, using the little space he had, what with the two towers of paperwork on each side of his desk. Behind him, in the jail cell, was a drunken inebriate banging on the bars.

“I’m tellin’ ya! It was Old Smoky Johnson! He put the beer in my drink an’ he made me piss on them carts!” the man yelled as he kept banging on the bars.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll send out a couple of horses to find that Old Smoky fella for ya. Crazy old b*****d…” the Deputy replied as he continued writing. On the outside of the office was the bounty board where a variety of faces were plastered on top of one another with the word ‘WANTED’ painted underneath. Today’s celebrity was John Murrell, a bandit who’d been suspected of stealing slaves. 

Along the road, the newspaper office for the newly established Lexington Observer had just sent out its morning paper, with the exploits of Nat Turner making the front page and showing off the full slave revolution he’d led in Virginia. Slavery was as common as having a dog in this country and the most common sight in the city of Lexington was slave owners. Most commonly landowners and agricultural operatives, everyone would recognise them from the way they looked. Great attempts at fancy clothes but still showing they were strangers to city life, having a distinct scent of farm and manual labour and, of course, a black slave being dragged alongside them, usually carrying goods for them or some kind of luggage. You could tell what a man was like by looking at how he treated his subordinates. A man came in with a whip in hand, he was likely the harshest kind of slave boss. These men were loud. Loud, boisterous, screaming at their slaves and a real friend to that whip. The nice ones just didn’t talk to their slaves. They would just go about their duties, talking to residents, shop owners, deputies, basically anyone, not even acknowledging their slave's existence.

The day was almost settling now and the shops were soon to be closing. Rolling up on a cart being pulled by two strong stallions was an enormous portly man with big rosy cheeks and sporting a very bushy, curved moustache, wearing the standard Kentucky slave owner gear. A white shirt which greyed from the dust of the road, covered by a grey waistcoat and the signature clothing of Kentucky, a bolo tie with a bull clasp keeping it together. Clearly the man was the farm owner as he was sitting in a leaned back position with his feet leisurely up and his brown boots hanging over the front of the wagon. Next to him was the driver directing the horses, wearing slightly similar attire to the owner but with a blue waistcoat instead of grey. This man was significantly younger than the large fellow next to him and much better built. His shirt was tight and showing off some significant muscle mass, whilst his waistcoat was barely holding on for its life. Unlike his counterpart, this man’s boots were tucked neatly underneath his trouser legs and he had a gun holstered around his waist. This man had slicked back, black hair which went down just to the bottom of his neck, accompanied by a rather well-groomed beard. Anyone else would assume this man to be a lumberjack but he was a landowner just like the man next to him, ready to inherit a large tobacco farm when his time came.

“Set her down right here, son. I gotta talk to the silversmith over here. You get the stock unloaded for the tobacco house while I’m gone. Make sure he don’t drop anything,” the fat man said as he groaned and strained whilst trying to get off the wagon safely.

“Sure thing, pa. You heard him, boy. Get to unloadin, an don’t even think about droppin nothin!” he barked as he looked toward the back of the wagon. Near the end of the wagon, where the back was being opened, stood a man with a roughly similar build to the younger man, but a bit more skeletal and malnourished. He was dressed like a slave and he was being treated like a slave, but anyone who looked at him would notice a much lighter skin tone than the usual black slave. His hair wasn’t as tightly curled as the others but sort of hang down in a messy set of waves. He sported his own scruffy beard and had brown spots on parts of his arms, hands and feet and what could be seen of his legs, and even some on his face. His dull, brown eyes showed a distinct lack of life and he carried himself with a slight hunch when he walked. Not due to any sort of medical condition, but a mental condition known as fear.

“Yessir. Right away, sir,” the slave replied as he began carrying the huge crates into the shop. He had a deep southern accent that sounded to come straight out of Alabama, which was odd to some people but not surprising to the slave owners. The store owner opened up and jumped out of the way, hugging the wall as the mulatto slave walked in with the crate. He edged himself toward the door frame and ran out, joining the man who stared at the slave with almost murderous intent.

“Aye, it’s a damn shame that you gotta share blood with that thing Martin,” the shopkeeper said as he took out his pipe and lit it up, puffing away on the strongest tobacco ever made, that it even made Marty cough and turn away a little. Marty spat into the ground just in front of the mulatto as he replied in a venomous tone, “I don’t share nothin with this little pissant n****r. Only thing we share is breathin space. That’s it.” The slave continued toward the back of the wagon, muttering under his breath, “Yeah but one of us is wastin it…”

“What the hell did you say, boy?!” Marty yelled as he strode toward the slave, fists clenched and eyebrows twisted into a deep frown.

“Uh, I didn’t mean nothin, sir!” the slave squeaked as he cowered behind the wagon, thinking it would somehow give him some small cover from the coming punishment.

“Didn’t mean nothin, huh? Get over here!” he yelled as he grabbed the slave by his hair and pulled him over to the side of the wagon.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you boy?” he sneered as he raised his fist and delivered a hard blow to the slave’s forehead. It was so sudden and he was dazed for a while, feebly holding his arms up to cover himself. Marty landed another hit and cut open the slave’s left eyebrow,

 blood pouring down the side of his face and over his eye.

“What’s the matter? Can’t fight for yourself, little n****r? Huh?” Marty taunted him as he landed another blow to the face. He raised his fist again but his arm was caught. Marty looked behind him to see his father looking back with a frown.

“What use is a mulatto if he don’t got the sense to work?” he said as he somewhat aggressively pushed Martin’s arm back down to his sides. Martin said nothing and went back up into the driver’s seat of the wagon, facing forwards and wiping the blood from his knuckles. The slave owner looked back down to the slave on the floor and said, “Get up and get back to work.”

The slave breathed heavily as he grabbed the edge of the cart and pulled himself up, gingerly arriving at his feet and clutching to the wagon for his life with both hands. 

He held his hand over his eye, trying to hold back the pulsating pain from the eyeball and wiped away the blood flowing down his face. Still dazed and seeing the world spinning, the slave limped to the back of the wagon, trying desperately to hold his balance despite the world spinning around before him. He slowly picked up another crate and began carefully carrying it toward the shop.

"Faster, boy!" the slaver yelled as he sat up on the wagon. As the slave put down another one, he felt his body beginning to give in to the heat, the pain and the shame. His mind was numb from the beating and what little heart he'd preserved to see him through the day was gone now. But he had to muster whatever strength remained in his bones in order to obey the masters commands and get the job done. Besides that, he still had the walk home back to the farm to get through. Summoning the thought of resting to bed at night, being left alone to his dreams of a better life, gave the slave the willpower he needed to bring the rest of the crates in.

"Hmph, just continues to baffle me, it does. How these slaves don't just up and see themselves off but instead just keep on serving, even after a senseless beating", the shopkeeper said as he watched the slave haul the last crate in. The slave master took his pipe out and looked down at the slave who breathed heavily and leaned against the side of the wagon.

"Well since he's all fightin fit for ya, want him to unload them boxes for ya too?" he asked the shopkeeper as he told his son to prep for leaving.

"Too kind Marvin, but I got my own slave for that deed. EMMETT! CRATES!" he yelled as a pitch black slave approached from the back room, covered head to toe in dust but wearing some more moderately presentable clothes, as opposed to the lighter slave's rags.

"Yessir, right away, sir", the slave said as he began picking up the crates and opening them up.

Martin whipped the reigns and the wagon was on the move once again, the slave next to it almost falling due to leaning against it for support. The trip back to the farm was a long one for everyone, but especially the slave who had to keep up on foot with the horses. Though by now, he'd developed a trick. In the back of the wagon he would always hide a piece of reflective glass. On the occasions Martin would tease him by speeding up the horses, the slave would hop on to the back and ride the wagon, keeping the glass handy to check if Martin was looking back to see him run, which he rarely did, thankfully. It was always the same on the rides home, Marvin would be asleep the whole time, Martin kept his eyes on the road and the slave would be riding leisurely on the back of the wagon, sometimes for as long as half the journey in total, if he was lucky enough to not have Martin looking back at him. Today was one of those fruitful days of riding the back of the wagon, especially since neither of them looked back for the entire trip. Dusk arrived as the wagon parked up against the house and Martin slapped his fat father's leg, waking him up suddenly. Grunting and moving slowly like a cow lying in the grass, he got off the wagon and looked over at the slave who just stood timidly, awaiting orders.

"Well you know what to do, boy. Get them horses into the stables. Clean the s**t up while you're there." he grumbled as he slowly lurched toward the main house, his son in tow, giving the slave a venomous stare before leaving. The slave looked up at the cloudy, dark sky and took a deep breath. The scent in the air was predominantly unprocessed tobacco and then the smell of sweaty slaves still at work in the night, finally complemented with a loud fart which could only be traced to the rear end of one of the horses.

The slave took the horses into the stables and prepared them for rest. As he took off the saddling gear and removed the blinders, a shadowy figure came lurking out of the corner of the stables.

"Yeah, I bet you get real kicks outta being at the masters side everyday, don't ya mulatto?" the old slave muttered angrily.

"Heh, you thinks they oughta have an old ornery b*****d like you, Uncle Omie?" the slave replied as he started giving one of the horses a quick brush.

"For the last time, I ain't your damn uncle, boy!" Omie shouted back. This was true. Everyone called him Uncle because he was the oldest slave on the farm and he hated being called grandpa or even any variant of it.

"How long you been here Uncle Omie?" the slave boy asked as he finished brushing and started on the next horse.

"You just loves hearin me tell this, don't ya, boy? This must be the seven hundredth time, you asked me that damn question!", Omie yelled back at him. The slave boy looked at him silently for a while before looking back and continuing to brush the horse.

"Aw s**t, alright. Like you, I was born here. I'll be seventy five next month, so that'll make a whole seventy five years I been workin these plants and lookin after every slave that passes through this farm." he explained as he sat down and began rubbing his legs tiredly.

"So why am I different then?" the slave boy asked, not even paying attention to the horses at this point and fully sitting down to listen. Omie sighed and shook his head as he looked at the young slave boy, who didn't break eye contact even once.

“Well you already know why, boy. You is the son of a slave and the son of a slaver. Life’s gonna be different for you all the times”, Omie said quietly, trying his best to avoid the slave boy’s gaze.

"But, why? Why do I gotta be different to everyone else? Why can't I just be a slave?" the slave boy asked again, leaning forward now as if trying to force the truth he wanted to hear from Uncle Omie. He simply sighed as he raggedly got up to his feet and said, "Because all the world sees is colour now. You ain't no n****r, but you ain't no white man neither. You always gonna be less than nobody. That's the cold truth, boy. Get used to it."

The young slave boy simply looked down at his feet and thought heavily on what he was told, deciding what to do with this information. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard this before already, but each time he heard it, he felt the cold belt of reality striking his heart and soul. Looking up at the horses, he almost whispered, "What about you two? Do y'all see nothin but colour?" They didn't respond, save for a short snorting sound made by one of them and the slave boy sighed as he stood up and walked out of the stables and across the farm to the slave house, where he could finally get to the bed he'd been longing for and the hopeful dreams he often had each night. Dreams of a better life and better times.