Liberating Atlantis by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online

did. Why should a slave care how he handled tools that belonged to his master? Make those tools extra sturdy helped, but only so much.
    The overseer pointed Frederick down a row of cotton plants. “You make God-damned sure you get rid of the weeds, hear?” he said. “But don’t you dare hurt the plants any. I’m gonna keep my eye on you, see how you make out.”
    “Reckoned you would,” Frederick said. He bent and assassinated something small and green pushing up through the dirt near the closest cotton plant. His breath hissed out of him as if he were a snake. Moving hurt like blazes. And the heavy iron head on the hoe made it clumsy to swing.
    Other slaves advanced up rows to either side of him. To his amazement, he had no trouble keeping up. They weren’t getting over a whipping. Why couldn’t they move faster? Again, the question was no sooner asked than answered. Why should they? It wasn’t as if they’d get anything for themselves if they did more work.
    When Matthew was shouting down at the far end of the slave gang, the Negro in the row to Frederick’s left paused for a moment and told him, “You don’t got to stay even with us, man. He see you workin’ like that after a whippin’, what’s he gonna want from you when you’re all right again? ’Sides, he see you workin’ like that, what’s he gonna want from the rest of us?”
    Frederick duly slowed down. If a few weeds got missed, well, how much would that matter in the grand scheme of things? Not enough to get excited about.
    He might have slowed down, but he couldn’t stop. Thwock! Matthew’s switch came down on a copperskin’s back. “Damn your miserable, shriveled-up honker turd of a soul to hell and gone, Bill, but you got to do somethin’ !” the overseer shouted. “You stand there with your thumb corkin’ your asshole, you reckon I ain’t gonna notice?”
    Bill didn’t say anything. All the same, Frederick wouldn’t have wanted any man looking at him like that. If Matthew noticed, he affected not to. In his own way, he had nerve. Slowly, the copperskin got back to work.
    Sweat ran down Frederick’s face. It also ran from the backs of his hands to his palms, and stung the blisters that had swollen and burst there. And it stung the lash tracks on his back; his shirt didn’t soak it all up. His shoulders and arms started to ache from the continued unfamiliar motion of swinging the hoe.
    A copperskinned boy who couldn’t have been more than nine came by with a jug, a tin dipper, and a cup shaped from the dried skin of a gourd. “Want something to drink?” he asked Frederick.
    “Lord, do I ever!” the Negro exclaimed.
    The boy filled the cup with the dipper. How many other mouths had drunk from that gourd? When was the last time anyone washed it? Frederick wondered about such things . . . afterwards. In the moment, he cared about nothing but the lukewarm water sliding sweetly down his throat. He didn’t want to hand back the cup; he thought he could have emptied the jug. But the half-grown copperskin had other people to water. He wouldn’t want to go back to the well and fill up the jug again too soon. Reluctantly, Frederick returned the gourd.
    “Water?” the boy asked the slave in the next row, the one who’d warned Frederick not to push too hard. The slave made a production out of pausing to drink. Not even Matthew could possibly doubt that he deserved his moment of rest. So his manner proclaimed, anyhow. Frederick had the feeling the overseer could doubt anything he set his mind to doubting. If you were going to be an overseer, doubting was a talent you needed to cultivate.
    A couple of pregnant women carried food out to the work gang when the sun stood at the zenith. The rolls were made from barley, which wouldn’t rise like wheat. They were dense and chewy. Frederick didn’t mind too much. He thought he was getting more food this way. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was till he ate—and discovered that what he