Redeemed

Ch. 26

Maurine's sleeping draughts continued to keep the nightmares away for the next two weeks. Usually, I was so exhausted from the day's work that I wondered if the draught was even necessary, but I preferred not to find out. Labor had steadily increased in the number of tasks as well as the complexity. Once Milor learned of my knowledge and skill with horses, he directed Norman to have me spend time exercising, training, and grooming them in addition to my other tasks. Being back in the saddle was the best part of the day, but it also added to my workload, and I often missed the midday meal and breaks.

As I worked a fiery young mare through her paces, a horn blared. A gathering, then. I led the mare back to the stables and took off her tack, setting her free to graze in the pasture before following the other workers.

"Do you know why we're meeting?" I asked a group, interrupting their murmurings. They exchanged glances.

"There is only one reason we would gather in the middle of the day," said Beatrice, one of the other indentured servants. "This your first one?" I nodded. "Then I suggest you steel yourself, for this is not a joyful celebration."

With those ominous words, we continued our trek. My heart beat faster as I realized where we were going.

Already, there was a large crowd gathered in a circle, but unlike a typical crowd, this group was silent. Goosebumps crept across my arms. In the middle of the circle next to the whipping post knelt a man, naked save for his undershorts, the branding stark on his ankle, as if taunting his fate. An overseer stood next to him, her arms crossed. Milor looked on, his face set in a frown and his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

After several more charged and silent minutes, Milor lifted his chin and addressed us. "As you know, insubordination will be punished. Talking back or refusing to do your work may seem brave in the moment, but it is utter foolishness. Your actions will earn you your consequences. Work well, and you will be rewarded. Defy, and you will be disciplined. Let the nine-and-thirty commence."

The overseer grabbed the man's wrists, tying them to the post and forcing him to crouch at an awkward angle, his bare back laid out. Unclipping her whip and letting it spool on the ground, the overseer regarded the man, as if sizing up what to paint on a canvas. Sweat beaded the man's face, though his face remained stoic, as if refusing to give in to fear. Without warning, the overseer struck. The man grunted.

"One." The crowd spoke together.

"Two." No other sounds broke the silence between whippings, not even bird song or the wind.

"Three." The monotonous chorus continued. Someone elbowed me, signalling that I was to join in the count.

Skin broke at lash eighteen, the man's grunts turning to screams at lash twenty-three. By lash thirty, he was crying for mercy. Still, the crowd continued counting, and still the lashes kept coming.

Finally, lash thirty-nine came, and the overseer ceased. Sweat ran down her face, and she was breathing heavily, as if she had just run for miles. She swallowed, taking in what she had done before dropping the whip and turning away.

Any sympathy I might have had for the overseer disappeared as I beheld the man. His moans filled the air as he writhed from the pain. Blood dripped down his back onto the dirt, leaving dark splashes.

"Let this be a lesson to you," Milor said. His face remained impassive, as if he were merely at another of his meetings. He nodded, and Maurine came running to the man, her medical bag in hand. Another servant joined her in helping the man from the post to the ground. "You are dismissed," Milor said, striding away, Jax and Roark flanking him.

It took Norman putting a hand on my shoulder and leading me away to realize I had been staring at Milor's retreating form, my hands balled into fists.