Free Storm Clouds Rolling In by Ginny Dye, Virginia Gaffney

stir up the same trouble as some of the other niggers in the area.
    “He’s too soft on them, you know.”
    “Huh?” Crutchins looked confused.
    “Cromwell,” Adams snapped. “He’s too soft on his slaves. Someday it’s going to spell trouble. I can feel it coming.” He wanted to sneer as Crutchins looked at him quizzically. The portly, middle-aged man owned no slaves himself. He was content to make a living for his wife and two children by being a driver for area plantation owners. Adams knew the complacent man had no desire for the burdens that went with the responsibility of plantation wealth. Adams own desire burned in his gut. Losing his farm and five slaves several years ago had lit a raging fire of bitterness in him. He knew it would only be stilled when he was once again in the position he craved. He felt nothing but contempt for men like Crutchins.
    “Take that Moses fellow,” Adams continued. “He’s going to be trouble.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    Crutchins’ s tone said he didn’t care, but Adams chose to ignore it. He just wanted to talk. “I know where he came from,” Adams continued. “The fellow up at the Smith Plantation knew how to get a good day’s work out of the slaves there. He knew being too soft wasn’t any good. Mr. Smith put him in charge and left him in charge. Smith lived in town and only came out a few times a year to check on things. That’s the way it should be done.”
    “I hear tell he lost that plantation. That’s why all the slaves were up for sale.” Adams spun around, fire spitting from his hardened eyes. “It had nothing to do with how the plantation was run! My brother did a damn good job—”
    “Your brother?” Crutchins’ s eyes narrowed.
    “That’s right! My brother.” Adams hadn’t meant to let that slip, but it didn’t really matter now. “It’s the Yankees who are causing all of our problems down here. Them, and all this fool talk of secession. It’s causing our economy to suffer. The little farmer is having a hard time keeping up.” The Smith Plantation, with over eight hundred acres, could hardly be called little, but it didn’t matter. Crutchins didn’t have to know everything.
    Crutchins remained silent but lifted the reins a little to hurry up his team. Adams was lost in his bitter thoughts when they rounded the curve and he spotted his house.
    “Here you go, Adams. My missus is waiting for me so I’ve got to go.”
    Adams wasn’t done, however. “This is just another example of what I’m talking about.”
    “What’s that?” Crutchins said, sounding bored and tired.
    “My house shouldn’t be a half mile down the road.” He chose to ignore the fact he would live in constant fear if his house were any closer. “How does Cromwell expect me to keep things under control when I’m this far away? Those niggers are probably hatching up some evil plans right now.”
    Crutchins just nodded and pulled the team to a halt. “Goodnight, Adams.”
    Adams climbed wearily from the wagon and turned to continue his bitter tirade. But with a gentle cluck, Crutchins had his team rolling away before he could speak. Closing his mouth again, he wiped a grimy hand across bleary eyes and turned toward his cottage. He couldn’t blame the driver for wanting to get home. He had heard Missus Crutchins laid a fine meal. The thought sped his steps. His own wife wasn’t that great a cook, but he knew there would be hot food waiting for him. His two boys should be in bed by now. He could sit by the fire and eat in peace. The idea was a welcome one.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    FOUR
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Abigail Cromwell looked over from where she was seated at her dressing table.
    “Robert Borden seems like a very nice young man.”
    “He does indeed,” Thomas agreed. He was tired and ready to call it a night, but he remembered the