The first two pages of Chapter 3

June 23, 1888

I have wasted nearly half of the morning sun looking for the right words, but I guess I could start with my name, or rather which name should I give you. For the past 33 years I have lived as Reginald Williams a Negro writer living just outside of Lawrence, Kansas. I was born on December 24th, 1836 and according to those that were there it was one of coldest day of the year and my father did everything he could to keep the room warm. As soon as it was over my mother took one long look at me and named me John. John is the reason why Reginald became a free man, but he is also the reason why I’m seating in this cell waiting for my death.
I never knew much about my father because he died just a few years after I was born. Master O’Neil accused him of stealing along with three other slaves. I remember my mother being held back by several other women as the overseer Buck and his grunts marched my father and uncle into the center of the property and tied each man to a wooden post.
With their hands bound with rope Buck ripped away their shirts and began flogging them with a thong of raw cow hide. As he made his way down the line my father broke free from the twine and caught the flying piece of leather before it could reach his body.
Chapter 3
“Let it go James, please Lord, let it go,” screamed my mother after my father allowed the long piece of leather to wrap around his forearm. Not knowing what to do most of the slaves stood in disbelief as one their own started to fight back. Despite hearing my mother’s voice my father grabbed the leather thong even tighter, and with sweat pouring down his face he starred down the man who was trying to break him. With a mighty tug he ripped the whip from Buck’s hands and began waving it around his head. Like he and seen so many times before my father cracked the whip with great accuracy striking Buck in his chest and knocking him to the ground. With his prey gasping for air my father rushed the tyrant and threw the whip to the side.
“Kill him,” screamed dozens of Negroes as my father made his move, but my mother knew nothing good could come of this.
“No James! Please Lord no they gonna kill him,” she screamed.
In a matter of seconds my father had his massive hands around Buck’s neck. “You gonna die here”, he shouted. As the grip got tighter Buck started to turn red in the face and began gasping for air. Unfortunately my father’s thirst for death would deaden his senses and he did not hear nor see Buck’s apprentice sneak up from behind.
“No,” screamed my mother from the top of her lungs, but it was drowned out by the groans of the crowd as Henry pulled out a machete from his waist band. Like a Tobacco plant that needed to be cut down the sharp blade made its way through my father’s neck, and the blood splattered all over Buck’s face. His severed head rolled for several yards until it finally rested at my feet. With tears in my eyes I looked down and saw my father’s eyes still blinking and his nostrils still searching for air before his brain finally gave up.
“Damn it Henry get this nigger off me,” yelled Buck, and with his warn out boot Henry kicked my father’s limp body to the side. Still gasping for air Buck staggered to his feet, and began shouting at the group of slaves who were still stunned by what they just witnessed.