He ran hard over the rocky field with only the dim light of a quarter moon as his guide. Ol’ Joe said five miles west was the railroad, the steel rails north his path to freedom. Fear swelled in Elijah’s throat. At the edge of the field he ran into the forest, growing more anxious with every step that took him deeper into the darkness and his own uncertainty. His foot caught on a protruding root and he stumbled, collapsing on his hands and knees. He took long, deep breaths, gulping down air. Dawn was approaching. He knew he had little time to rest—only a fleeting moment to summon his will. He listened for his pursuers. The muffled hooting of a great horned owl was the only sound in the stillness of the night. With his short frame and wide, strapping shoulders, Elijah was growing up just like his pappy; that’s what the other slaves said. And, at the age of just sixteen, he was the strongest slave in the county. That’s why he was sold to Mastuh Fowler for fifteen hundred dollars.
