Story: Colonel Williams, Ch. 1, Pt. I

Chapter 1 – Market Day

A bright, spring sun shone down on the green cotton fields of southeastern Georgia. Out among the fields, slaves could be seen, bent over nearly double as they tended the still-tender plants. Dressed in mostly raggedy clothes of dark colors and light-colored, broad-brimmed hats, the slaves sang as they toiled. A person walking on the nearby country road could easily have heard the tune as it wafted over the otherwise quiet farmlands.
The songs they sang were old melodies refitted with new words to describe their plight or to encourage each other under the cruel eye of their overseer. He was a tall man who sat on a high horse. His muscular frame slumped forward on the saddlehorn as he watched his charges labor. From his posture, it was obvious that he did not care much for the slaves, his job, or their singing.
The slaves did not care what the overseer thought. They sang. From the time they got up until the last rays of sunlight snuck over the horizon, they sang. If you asked them why they sang when conditions were so dire, they would tell you that they were not sure. Maybe it was to distract them from having to think so much about their work. Maybe it was because it was the one act of defiance they would never receive punishment for. Or maybe it was because many of them realized that, for them, this world was not their home. Regardless, they sang unceasingly.
Many a passerby, whether on foot or in a cart, stopped for a few minutes to listen to the beautiful, bittersweet melodies of the slaves. However, today, a rare event happened. An open cart, dusty brown and pulled by a solitary horse, rolled right past the melodious fields, its driver too preoccupied to notice where he was. His horse knew the way home, and that is where the driver wanted to be as quickly as possible.
On another day, this man would have instantly commanded respect of all around him. Today, though, his somber face held an absent look as if his thoughts had stayed behind at the place of departure. Still, it was clear from his immaculate suit and strong features that he used to be a military man and an important one at that. Without a doubt, here rode a retired officer, for his hair was peppered with premature gray hair that too often comes with the stresses of battle.
The driver remained lost in thought as the cart reached its destination, his farm, if that word could describe so expansive a place. Encompassing nearly a hundred acres and including a large, colonial mansion, the grounds had ample space for roaming in the woods as well as for growing. The primary crops of beans and cotton took up some of the space, although plenty of land remained uncultivated, lying fallow as part of crop rotation. Only two entrances – one to the north and one to the south – broke the line of a twelve-foot-tall hedge that demarcated the property. A double gate guarded each entrance. These barred, iron gates were rectangular in shape, taller than wide, with an ornate pattern adorning the top. On the right-hand gate of each entrance, a large bronze sign hung, identifying the farm and its owner – Providence Estate, Colonel Bill Williams, esquire. It was to one of these entrances that horse, cart, and rider now arrived.
Stopping the horse, Colonel Williams stepped down from the cart and opened the gate that led into the estate. The gate swung open with little effort; it was well maintained. Leading the horse and cart through the gate, the man swung the gate back closed behind the cart, latching it shut from the inside. He wanted no visitors today.
Remounting the cart, he drove up to the carriage house, which was little more than a small, red barn remodeled. It stood a little removed from the mansion. After arriving at the house, he unhooked the horse and set it free to roam in the corral, leaving the cart sitting in front of the carriage house.
He approached the mansion. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees and gave a pleasant softness to the great white pillars that marked the front of the two-story structure. The pillars supported the roof over the fenced-in front porch, a location where Williams and his few staff would gather during the warm season to enjoy the cool of evening. Two stories of windows sat evenly spaced within the walls on all four sides, and numerous chimneys indicated the presence of many fireplaces for heat during the winter. From only one did smoke rise, that of the kitchen at the back of the great house.

Williams quickly strode up the steps to the porch, entered by the front door, and went straight into his study. Volume upon volume of old books, some written in arcane dialects of English that few could read, lined the shelves of three walls. Sunlight streamed in through large windows on the fourth side. A large desk sat near the middle of the room, slightly closer to the windows than the door and facing outward to allow for a commanding view of the western woods and the small creek that trickled its way through on the way to the river several miles away. Most of the farming occurred in the eastern half of the estate, while the western half remained untouched forest.
Walking over to the large leather armchair in one corner of the room, Williams plopped down into it, sighing as he did so. He sat there for some time in a dark reverie, and it was a knock on the door and the question of a clear voice that rescued him from it.
“Colonel Williams, sir,” said the man at the door, “dinner is almost ready, sir. Will you come?”
Williams looked up. At the door stood one of his few staff, the ever-loyal butler. “So soon, Roderick? It’s too early, isn’t it?”
“No, sir,” replied Roderick in his New England accent, “It is actually late. It is after six o’clock now, and I know that you generally dine promptly at half past five.”
“How can it be after six? I just returned from town but a few minutes ago.”
“You have been lost in thought, Colonel, for nearly an hour and a half. It appears that time has gotten away from you.” Roderick hesitated for a second before continuing, “If I may, sir, something appears to be bothering you since you returned from town. You locked the front gate early, and I had to unlock it for the butcher’s weekly delivery. And you have been sitting there in your armchair, oblivious to the world ever since you came home. What is wrong, if I might ask?”
Williams frowned, his face darkening in a mix of sadness and rage. “It was market day in town, Roderick.”
“Yes, sir,” Roderick answered. He knew what market day meant, and why it saddened Williams. Market day meant the buying and selling of many items, including people.