Shift (ChronoShift Trilogy) (18 page)

“Guess I can’t really know what it’s like.”

“Maybe not.  Then again, there had to be some time in your life when you didn’t fit in to some group, some time when you were despised because of something you had no control over.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

They walked without speaking, their eyes glued to the dust passing beneath their feet.

“How many times have you shifted back to the 1860's?”  Mark asked.

“Four or five.”

“How does it compare?  I mean....the racism here must be worse, but how does it feel to be walking in an era when your ancestors were slaves?”

“Hard to describe.  Wasn’t exactly what I expected.  Sure, there’s a lot more blatant racism in 1863, but I knew it’d be that way, so I haven’t really paid too much attention to it.

“It’s frustrating to feel like I’m not free, like I can’t go where I want without an escort — unless I wanna risk getting shot, that is.  Makes my blood boil seeing my people forced to work themselves to death in the fields.  Other times, I’m just resigned to the fact that it’s just the way things are here.

“There’s a lot that might surprise you, though,” he continued.  “Nothing is quite as cut and dry as history teachers make it out to be in the 21
^st
century.  First of all, there aren’t as many slave owners in the South as you might think.  Only about 10% of the southern population actually owns a slave.  90% of whites don’t, usually because they can’t afford any, but often because they’re morally against it.

“The poorer whites are the hardest to figure out.  Some are envious of the jobs slaves take from them.  Many of those would love to set ‘em all free and send ‘em up north.  Some hate all blacks and will turn you in as a runaway faster than you can blink, while others are downright cozy with us, sharing liquor, good times, whatever.

“Same thing with the owners.  Not all of them treat their slaves badly.  Though too many do.  I’ve seen some real bad stuff since I started coming here.  On the other hand, there’s some owners that believe the best way to get the most work out of their slaves is to treat 'em well.  Even though we’re viewed as property, we are
valuable
property.  Mistreating us can be bad for business.  Unfortunately, for every good owner, there’s probably two with just the opposite philosophy, though usually it’s the foreman who decides how things are gonna go.

“There’s a rare few among the plantation owners who wish to God they didn’t have to have slaves but don’t think they can make it without them.  Then, among those, there’s some who actually give in to their moral convictions, free all their slaves, and shut their plantation down, because the bottom line is, they’re right.   It’s not possible to keep a plantation running in 1863 without slaves.  The local economy won’t support it.

“I admire those men.  They’re willing to give up all financial well-being, even put their family’s welfare at risk, just because they are so convinced of the evil of slavery.

Ty shot him a sly look.

“Wanna know a dirty, little secret?  I don’t worry about my people.  There's no denying they suffer, and terribly.  There’s also not much I can do about it, but many of them have made their peace with God.

“No, I tremble for the owners.   Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and slavery corrupts the slave owner down to his very core.  It’s not uncommon for owners at death's door to summon their slaves to their bedside in their last moments, begging for forgiveness.  That actually happens
a lot,
and it’s rare to hear of an owner who doesn’t pass into eternity screaming in utter terror of figures and shadows they see lurking in the darkened corners of their rooms, waiting to drag them down.

“Whips draw blood, but physical wounds heal.  And even when they don’t, there's a healing salve waiting in heaven above.  I’d choose the whip over eternal burning any day.”

Mark scowled.  “I didn’t realize you were so religious.”

“It’s not religion.  Facts are facts.”

Mark took it all in.  It was eye-opening to hear these things from a black man who’d experienced the best and worst of all eras.

“You should have studied sociology, Ty.”

“Ha!” He snickered, “I am.  That’s what I do in my spare time.”

They both laughed.

For years, Ty had longingly pondered his roots, wondering who his ancestors were, what they'd been like, what they'd endured.  Growing up, the only living grandparent he'd known had been his grandmother, and her history-telling had always been a bit sketchy.  He’d pieced together as much as he could with the crumbs of fragmented memories that she could recall, but it wasn't much to go on.

Many blacks he knew didn’t care much for genealogy.  He could understand that.  It was a much easier hobby for whites to take up.  Better paper trails.  Illiterate blacks weren’t always issued the proper birth and death certificates, etc.

Whites were also more likely to find something in their family history in which to take pride.  Blacks tended to think they already knew where the trail would end up....slavery.  Not only was slavery not something to be proud of, it hurt to think about.  No one really wanted to dwell on the inglorious and painful suffering of their forefathers, especially when subconsciously you had to recognize that their suffering made possible your future, comfortable life in the good old U.S. of A.

A third reason Ty suspected some didn’t care for long family trees was the futility of it.  Slavery capped every family tree as sure as rain.  It was almost impossible to trace one’s line through that historical obstacle all the way back to Africa.  Still, family history had always fascinated Ty, as had history in general, and he had wanted to try.

When he first received his shifter, he saw no reason why he couldn’t use his free time to go back and investigate his family line in person rather than on the dusty pages of some ledger.

It turned out to be an easy exercise when you had the right tool.  First, he’d traveled back to the town where he'd been told his grandparents had grown up.  He’d shifted to a year when he thought they’d be kids (Though he was very careful to limit his contact so he wouldn’t inadvertently create some kind of time paradox that would prevent his own birth).

He met their parents (His great-grandparents) who looked shockingly, though appropriately, young, and then simply asked them where they’d grown up.  He repeated this process for his 2
^nd
great grandparents.  It turned out that his 2
^nd
great grandfather, Jefferson Jr., had been born during the Civil War.  In as long an interview as Ty dared risk, Jefferson Jr. revealed that his father, Jefferson Sr., Ty’s 3
^rd
great grandpa, had been killed around that same time.  Jefferson Jr. hadn’t known any of the circumstances of his father’s death, only that it had happened in Madison, GA.

After investigating further in Madison, Ty learned that in 1863 Jefferson Sr. had been lynched for the crime of stealing a chicken.

This discovery steeled Ty, and he became determined to save him.

            Mark absorbed the account intently as Ty explained the history.

            “So....
did
he steal the chicken?”  Mark asked.

“Does it matter?”  Ty spat on the ground.  “Stealing a chicken isn’t a hangable offense.”

“Relax.  I wasn’t saying it should be.  Just curious.”

“No.  Near as I can tell, he was innocent.  It was a trumped up charge so some plantation owner could get revenge for something else.”

“What’s the real story then?”

“A lot of men were involved in the lynching, but the whole thing was instigated and led by two men in particular who owned large plantations nearby, Stephen Plageanet and Vincent Regnier.  I’ve been told they hated my grandpa because he walked in on Plageanet while he was trying to rape some poor white woman named Ruby.  Plageanet is a known womanizer, by the way.

“Most slaves would have meekly snuck back out of the building, knowing what it would mean for them to interfere.  But not my gramps.  Jefferson Sr. went right up to Mr. Plageanet and stood there, staring him down.  Never lifted a hand in violence, just stared hard from no more than a foot away until Plageanet stopped.

“His aggressiveness cooled Plageanet in the way that mattered right then, but it also made his blood boil in another.  If Jefferson had done anything else, Plageanet would have had an excuse to skin his hide right then and there, but there was no clear offense he could point to without incriminating himself in front of other whites.  Plus, Jefferson belonged to the Martin plantation, and a man had to have a good reason to harm another man’s slave.  We
are
considered valuable.”

Mark noted how Ty kept referring to local slaves as “we” instead of “they”, a subconscious act of solidarity.

“Jefferson went home proud, but nervous.  He knew Plageanet wouldn’t forget the humiliation, not for a long time, if ever.  Plageanet couldn’t stand the idea of being bettered by a slave.  So, he bode his time.  A few months later, he hooked up with another plantation owner, Vincent Regnier, a man who hated all blacks and treated his own slaves horribly just for the sake of being mean, together with some other like-minded folk.  They stole a few chickens from the Martin plantation, cooked themselves a nice lunch, and then claimed they’d caught Jefferson with them red-handed.  The lynch mob hung him that same afternoon.”

Mark couldn’t imagine the horror of having to live like that, always on guard lest you step out of line and put your life at risk.  “What about Jefferson’s owner, Martin?  Why didn’t he stop it?”

Ty sighed.  “John Martin is indifferent, as you’ll see.  He’s got a lot of slaves, so losing one didn’t bother him too much, as long as he felt there was cause.  Plus, Plageanet’s stealing the chickens from Martin’s own farm stripped Martin of the ability to protest very loudly.”

“So where did your family get the name Jennings then?  I haven’t heard of anybody named that yet.  Didn’t a lot of slaves take the last names of their former masters when they were freed?”

“Well, there’s a fourth gentlemen I haven’t told you about yet by the name of Jacob Jennings.  He also has a large plantation in Madison.  From all I’ve heard, he’s a good man and treats his slaves very well.  Some ridicule him for it, but when my grandpa was hung, Jennings went to Martin and offered to buy Jefferson’s wife and son, Jefferson Jr.  He overpaid by a substantial amount just to make sure they had a safe place, and Martin, of course, took it, being the businessman that he was.  My family took Jennings name from then on out, and ever since I learned this story, I’ve been proud to wear it.”

“But we’re going to try to save Jefferson Sr.?  Aren’t you afraid we’ll screw things up in a way that might forever change your family’s history or even cause you to cease to exist?”

“It’s a risk.  But, it’s one we’re gonna take.”

“Okay.  Count me in.”

After that, as hard as Ty tried to maintain proper decorum for 1863, he kept finding himself drifting forward and walking more alongside Mark than behind him.

“Just don’t forget who’s boss, got it?”

“Got it.”  Mark grinned.

1:57 PM, April 15
^th
, 1863, Madison, GA

They lay silently in the brush lining the beginning of a ridge line.  Both had been through sniper school in the Marines, so they felt right at home.  Their bodies were well disciplined in lying for hours at a time without movement.

Ty’s previous research had led him to this grove.  There was an oak tree down in the vale about fifty yards in front of them.  That was the tree where they would hang Jefferson Sr later in the day — at 2:12 PM to be specific.  They even knew which branch the mob would swing the rope over.

This time, however, events would not proceed as they always had in unaltered history.  Ty and Mark had neatly sawed most of the way through that branch and hidden the traces of their work.  When Jefferson’s weight was suddenly thrown upon it, the branch would snap off cleanly, dropping Jefferson to the ground without any pressure on his neck.

Ty had prepared well.  On some previous visit, he’d stashed two sniper rifles in a camouflaged dugout.  This was their only concession to modern times.  It was a risk to their identities, but as long as no innocent bystanders walked into this brush, no one would be the wiser.

Each rifle was well-oiled, wrapped in waterproof plastic, and was outfitted with a decent silencer.  They each took one and set it up, messing with the tripod and the scope until they were satisfied they would be able to perform.

Then, they waited.

A few minutes after two, a group of men on horses entered the clearing.  An obviously exhausted black man dressed in rags stumbled along behind them, his wrists tied to the last horse.  He was barely keeping up.

The men wore neither hoods nor costumes.  They’d made no effort at all to hide their identity.  Masked lynch mobs would come later in history.  There were ten men in all, four of them seeming to be the leaders of the group.  Mark guessed that one well-dressed figure who, even from this distance, gave off an air of arrogance, had to be Plageanet.  Another shorter, burly man stayed close by his side and had a cruel look to him.  That was probably Vincent Regnier. Mark had no idea who the others were.