January Dawn Read online

  January Dawn

  A NOVEL

  By Cody Lennon

  January Dawn by Cody Lennon

  Copyright © 2016 Cody Lennon

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Cody Lennon

  Cover photo by iStock.com/Klubovy

  To all my readers,

  imagine the possibilities.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  January 6

  I counted the strikes in my head.

  Thhhwack!

  Seventeen.

  The cold winter winds licked at my body as I lay hunched over with my knees in the soft dirt. Warm contrails of blood zigzagged their way down my bare back.

  Thhhwack!

  Eighteen.

  My hands were white-knuckled with the unbounded pain of yet another crack of the bullwhip. I swallowed my screams, tasting nothing but the saltiness of the tears dripping down my face.

  Thhhwack!

  Nineteen.

  I couldn’t remember a time in my whole life when I wasn’t beaten for some wrong doing I did, or didn’t do for that matter. A lifetime of mistreatment had bolstered me with a high degree of tolerance for pain, but lashings I could never get used to.

  Thhhwack!

  Twenty.

  I waited for the next one, thinking he might possibly go to twenty-five, but the whip never came.

  “You had enough, boy?” said the raspy voiced man weilding the whip. He never called me by my real name, only boy.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Stephens,” I said with an acquiescent sniffle.

  Just a couple more weeks, I thought.

  Mr. Stephens shouldered the bloody whip and went into the house to wash up for his dinner, almost instantly forgetting the horror he had just inflicted on me.

  Whippings and beatings were second nature to both of us. Mr. Stephens had always had a mean streak in him as long as I’ve known him. I don’t remember exactly at what age I came to be in Mr. Stephens’ possession, but I was young, too young. When I was little, he started me out working simple chores, like doing his laundry or scrubbing his boots or sweeping off the porch. That didn’t last too long. It was just shy of my eighth birthday when he had me out working in the fields for the first time. From then on, it was back-breaking work from the crack of dawn to the butt of dusk. Every day.

  I tried running away several times, but my get-away was cut short by ill luck every time. The first time I ran, I sought help from the nearest neighbor, a farmhouse a few miles down the road. Unbeknownst to me the owner was a good friend of Mr. Stephens. So, just as soon as I made it up on the front porch and was banging on the screen door, a hulking, toothless man in dirty overalls emerged and dragged me all the way back with an iron grip on my ear. I steered clear from that farm from then on out.

  The other inhabitants of our local community weren’t much different. There were only a half a dozen or so that lived nearby. Some of them farmed, but most of them got by on a meager existence of living on welfare in their rundown trailers. Mr. Stephens had me do work for them sometimes. They didn’t seem to care that I was being forced to work against my will.

  On my second and third escape attempts I tried making it to the nearest town. I couldn’t make it. It was fifteen miles away. The countryside was too vast and I was only a boy. I wouldn’t make it a mile before Mr. Stephens hunted me down, shotgun in hand, alongside the toothless neighbor and his dogs. When I heard them coming, I’d curl up in some bush out of sight, but the dogs would sniff me out, snarling and barking and yanking at the leash, hoping for the opportunity to tear me to shreds. After the third time, Mr. Stephens gave me a good whooping, threatening to kill me the next time I tried running away. I believed him and finally gave into my fate.

  My little corner of the earth, my prison, was the Stephens Plantation. One hundred acres of prime farming real estate deep in the Alabama countryside, far away from any prying eyes.

  When the screen door slammed shut, I found it in me to raise myself out of the dirt and slowly, but painfully walk back to my living quarters. The grey clouds above obscured any sign of the sun, but the sky was progressively getting darker. Night would be here soon.

  Seeing my shack at the end of the day was no comfort. The old wooden shanty was on the verge of being swallowed up by nature. One entire side of the building was enveloped in a tangle of green vines and thorn bushes. On the other side was an old oak tree, three times my arm’s length around. Its thick, low arching branches would scrape the roof at night when the wind blew. A splintered rocking chair sat limply on the open veranda, its seat worn smooth from years of use.

  With the fervor of a defeated man, I stammered up the steps of the rotten porch. Reaching out for the handle, the door swung open. An older man stood in the door frame with one arm extended to hold the screen door open. It was Mr. Jeffries, the only other slave on the plantation. His own frame looked as craggy and skinny as the door, his skin almost a perfect match to the deep ebony hue of the wooden shack. Short cropped graying hair showed that he was pushing sixty-five.

  Mr. Jeffries ushered me inside with a look of grandfatherly empathy. Our shack wasn’t much inside: four termite ridden walls, a couple glassless windows and a roof that had seen better days. Our two, tattered mattresses were arranged along the back wall. Only a threadbare blanket and pillow masked their aged appearance. Our wood burning stove sat against the side wall next to our tiny, three legged dining table. The only electricity we had ran the single, naked light bulb that hung from the center of the rafters.

  I lied down on my bed and plunged my face into my pillow as Mr. Jeffries applied the last of our supply of homemade medicinal ointment to my bloody back. The pain was excruciating, biting down on my tongue with each strip of linen he applied on my wounds.

  With dozens of whippings every year my body was shrouded with scars, deep set valleys of fleshy disfigurement that arched across my back. They emanated outward from my spine like some terrible disease. A few stray lashings left scars that stretched across my shoulders, around my sides and even down to my buttocks.

  “What did you do this time?” asked Mr. Jeffries.

  “Nothing. He was drunk. Said I eyeballed him funny.”

  “Can’t help but look at the man funny. He bout as pretty as puttin a wig on a horse’s ass.”

  I chuckled. Mr. Jeffries always had something to say to make me smile when I was feeling down. He was my rock, my anchor to sanity, the one person on the face of the planet that kept me on my feet and moving in the right direction. Besides, what he said was true. Mr. Stephens wasn’t pretty to look at; mid-fifties, a short stocky build, a balding head with patches of silver above his ears, an unshaven face that held a crooked smile and an even more crooked nose. His eyes were so brown they were almost black. One look from him would send a goat up a tree.

  “Here. Eat this.” Mr. Jeffries grabbed a bowl of stew off the table.

  “No sir, I can’t take your food.”

&nbs
p; “You can and you will, you hear me? You finished off your rations yesterday. You aint going hungry till Monday.” His tone was of wise determination and of personal negligence, but I could never go against what he asked of me. “You got two weeks left until we leave. I can’t send you out into the world all skin and bones. So, eat up you little pip-squeak.”

  Not wanting to push the matter further I gulped down the entire bowl. I didn’t realize how hungry I actually was. It was the first thing I’d eaten the entire day.

  Contrary to what Mr. Jeffries said, I wasn’t skin and bones or very little. At seventeen, I hovered around six foot tall and thanks to long working days and a little extra food on the side, I muscled up over the past few years. Mr. Jeffries told me all the time, with a decent haircut, a good wash and a glance from my deep set emerald green eyes the ladies wouldn’t hesitate to take a second look at me.

  “This old man’s got to sleep. My old bones can’t take this beating no more. ” Mr. Jeffries groaned as he gingerly lay back on his mattress, pulling the blanket up to his chin and closing his eyes.

  I smiled and watched as my lifelong friend and mentor almost instantly fell asleep. I loved him like a father. He was my link to the outside world, my teacher, my illuminator…my family. Everything that I knew of the outside world was from his enlightening words.

  Mr. Jeffries had slaved on the Stephens Plantation for nearly twenty-five years, but before, he had had a normal life with a well-paying job and a loving wife and two kids. Although he never shared much about his family, something about the look in his eyes told me that something terrible must have happened to them. Why does this world have to be such a cruel place?

  Sometimes we would stay up late at nights, contrary to our bodies’ eager demands for sleep, and Mr. Jeffries would tell me about life outside the plantation. He explained to me what going to the movie theater was like, or how fun it was to watch a high school football game. He talked about huge shopping centers with dozens of aisles of all the food and clothing you could imagine. It all sounded fantastic to me. I would sit and listen like a little boy awed by a bedtime story.

  Those days, I found myself worrying about him more and more. With a combination of a skimpy weekly food allotment and long work days, he wasn’t looking good. It all showed in his shallow, crevassed face. The hunger. The physical weakness. The wilting will to live. He was running on empty.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Jeffries.”

  As per my usual night time ritual, I lifted up the corner of my mattress and retrieved the pocket sized piece of fabric that I had rolled up and stashed there for safe keeping.

  I unfurled the stiff material and stared in wonder. The cloth was crimson red with two diagonal blue bars that crossed at the middle and stretched to the four corners. The blue bars were encased in a thin white line and interspersed with thirteen little white stars.

  It was the Southern Cross of the Confederate States of America. To me it represented freedom, a new world, and a new life. I idolized those three brazen colors. My trust, my dreams, and my life hinged on that flag. I knew that one day I would fight for this flag as a way to return the favor of a gift given.

  Only a few more weeks.

  The flag might be a piece of discarded trash, but to me it was invaluable. In my hands I had the gift of hope. Hope that someday, somewhere I would have a family to call my own, a house to call home, and a life I could look back upon and say it was worth living.

  *

  January 21

  Nearly two weeks had passed since that violent beating. The days ran on one after the other without any further incident. Mr. Jeffries and I stayed out of the farmer’s way as best we could and did what we were supposed to do as not to draw any more attention to ourselves. This was pretty standard for us, but even more so that our plans for departure were quickly approaching. We didn’t want to let on that we were scheming something devious. This day had been on our minds for over three years. The time had come for us to leave that wretched place.

  It was only morning and we had a full day of work ahead of us before nightfall, when we’d put our plan into action. We had no choice but to work as hard as we did any other day.

  A good chunk of the backside of the property was undeveloped and covered in an oak and pine forest. The rest was cleared and divvied up for crops. We grew mostly cotton and corn, but sometimes soybeans and tobacco. No matter how hard we worked, our crop yields would plummet every year. It was too much work for three people.

  During the winter, when we didn’t have crops, our workload was much different. Mr. Stephens wouldn’t allow us much time to sit around idle, so he made up work for us. This month he had us out clearing a plot of land on the other side of the property. He said he wanted to plant a larger cotton crop the next year. It was excruciating work for two men with hand tools, but we didn’t complain.

  Every morning around sunrise we’d grab a two-man felling saw, a couple axes and shovels from the barn and we’d drive the tractor out to work. We felled the trees, trimmed the limbs and used the tractor to pile the timber off to the side. Out of habit, I thought to myself that after we were done here, our next project would be to harvest the timber for sale and for firewood. Too bad I won’t be around for that, I thought to myself sarcastically.

  It was cold, but working in the sun kept us warm enough. After breaking our backs all day we packed up and headed back as the sun sank over the horizon.

  I backed the tractor into the barn and hopped off to wash my hands under the spigot on the side of the house. I splashed the cool water across my face, washing off the sweat and the dirt. Without realizing he had snuck up behind me, Mr. Stephens put his lanky hand on my shoulder.

  “You worked good today.” His nauseating breath wafted over me.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Y’all two almost done out there?”

  “I say two more weeks oughta do it,” I said in all honesty.

  “Two more weeks? I told y’all to be finished with that project by the end the month.”

  He took a step toward me as I stepped back.

  “There were more trees than we thought.”

  “More trees, my ass. You and that nigger have been sitting about twiddlin your thumbs. I seen you.” I never understood why he always saw fit to degrade Mr. Jeffries with that word. It was a disgusting word and I didn’t like it.

  “That aint true,” I said without thinking. Damn, why’d I say that?

  Mr. Stephens’ gaze quickly turned into a scowl, his left eye twitching in sadistic chemistry.

  “What d’you just say?” He unbuckled his belt and drew it. Not the belt, I thought backing away.

  “I’ll teach you to sass mouth me, boy.”

  He walloped me in the ear before I could put my hands up to protect myself. The sting forced me down on my knees. A few more full-swinging whacks put me on all fours. He wrapped the belt around my throat and tightened it. With the rough leather gripping into my neck, I quickly lost my breath.

  “Yur gettin too big for yur britches, boy.” I clawed at the noose, but he was overpowering. My vision started to blur and I felt the energy draining from me. “This’ll be the last time you disrespect me.”

  The man was drunk. He was slurring his words and slobbering all over himself. I had seen him take a swig from his flask countless times already that day.

  Before the blackness of lost consciousness could completely take over, he let go. I collapsed to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. He kicked me in the rear end and I watched from the dirt as he causally walked back into his house, whistling a merry little tune. This was the last time, you prick.

  Pushing myself up onto my hands and knees and coughing up spittle, I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There on the ground in front of me was his ring of keys. What a stroke of luck. They must have slipped from his pocket. I scooped them up as I stood and stumbled back to my shanty.

  Mr. Jeffries was setting wood in the stove when I walked in.
r />   “Mr. Jeffries, look what I got,” I said, jiggling the keys in the air.

  “Where in the world you get those?” He asked.

  “He dropped them. He was choking me out and he dropped them.”

  Mr. Jeffries didn’t look too pleased.

  “Put’em back for Christ’s sake, before he finds out and he comes looking for your dumb ass.”

  “He won’t find out.” I hope.

  “He will and when he does your ass is goin to get a whoopin worse than anythin you’ve gotten befoe.”

  “Relax, it doesn’t change nothing.”

  “It jeopardizes everything.”

  “It’s all part of the plan,” I said.

  “Aint no part of the plan about stealing no keys.”

  He was right. It wasn’t part of the plan. But this was a golden opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

  “Everything will be fine.”

  Mr. Jeffries went to sleep early that night, still fuming. I couldn’t sleep, I was so excited. I waited in bed, wide-eyed and nervous, fiddling with my Confederate flag. I dreamed of days to come.

  My stomach rolled so much I had to get up and use the restroom. I eased the door shut and tiptoed my way to the side of the house where our shit bucket was. It was freezing outside. I rubbed my arms vigorously to keep warm as I squatted over the tin pail.

  Nighttime was always my favorite. It was always so peaceful. I loved to bathe in the soft glow of the moon, watch the stars twinkle and listen to the ambient sounds of bugs and other nocturnal creatures. I was going to miss this place. As messed up as that might sound, it was the only home I’d ever known. The world outside these one hundred acres was foreign to me, full of exotic people and strange places. But if I wanted a real life, I had to get out of this place and settle somewhere new. I finished up and made my way inside. It was time.

  When the clock struck midnight, when the sun was equally a distant memory as a certain future, I woke Mr. Jeffries. We rolled up all of our few, measly belongings in our blankets and waited another fifteen minutes to make sure Mr. Stephens was asleep. Perhaps it was just our nerves holding us back.