A New World, Chapter 2: A Broken Wheel

CHAPTER TWO: A BROKEN WHEEL

Tributaries joined the road Trig followed, all pointing to Market Town, as the road widened and traffic increased, in both directions, wagons were coming and going, loaded with goods. Others were light two wheeled rickshaws, carrying one or two passengers. Some were drawn by slaves, others by horses, depending on the needs and wishes of the riders. There were mounted riders, trotting by on horseback, and coffles of slaves being led to market or to their new masters.

There was a light two-wheeled cart approaching from a tributary road to his right, carrying two women and drawn by a slave. Seeing that they would collide if one didn’t yield, Trig rang the “slow” gong once and let the other cart move ahead. The cart, faster than his cargo wagon, moved abreast and then ahead of him, the driver waving to him a gesture of thanks and cracking the whip at her slave. She was a young woman and favored him with a smile as they darted ahead and disappeared around a bend.

A mounted slave patrol passed him as he pulled his slow-moving wagon over to the side to yield the road to them. Their dogs, excited after a successful hunt, tails wagging and tongues lolling, led the way, followed by the riders dressed in their green hunters’ uniforms. Their saddles were hung with the tools of their trade, lariats, bolos, whips, chains and cuffs. Behind them, leashed to their saddle horns, were three recaptured escaped slaves, a female and two males, exhausted, filthy and stumbling. Blood trickled from whip marks and dog bites.

They were leashed by their cuffs, not their collars, to avoid an accidental—or perhaps deliberate—stumbling and death. The time and manner of their deaths would be determined later, to provide instruction to other slaves. The tension on the leash to their wrists made it seem as though they were lifting their hands in supplication to their indifferent captors.

Trig watched the riders trot by, erect and proud in the saddle, with almost arrogant self-confidence. They wore their uniforms with pride, well-tailored and cared for, but with dirt and tears here and there, their gleaming black boots splattered with mud, as though to say: we are not pretty dilettantes, we are professionals who do a dirty, demanding and dangerous job, and we do it well.

As the patrol passed his team they looked down at the harnessed slaves with expressions of contempt and warning. The slaves averted their eyes, until the three captives passed; every slave’s eyes followed them as they went by.

Trig paid no attention to the escapees; he was focused on the patrol riders, his eyes wide with admiration. It must be great to be a slave patrolman, he thought; maybe I can be one someday.

Not long after the slave patrol had passed, Trig noted a cart pulled off the road ahead. One of its wheels was canted at an odd angle, and two women stood looking at it. Their draft slave was on his knees between the traces. Trig thought this must be the cart he had yielded to earlier.

Trig pulled up alongside and brought his team to a halt. “Are you ladies okay?”

The two women turned and looked up at him, shading their eyes with their hands. One was in her late thirties or forties, he guessed, wearing a short sleeved ankle-length dress, her hair covered by a kerchief. The other was in her late teens; her dress was only to her knees with thin spaghetti straps on her shoulders. She wore a wide floppy hat.

“We seem to have a broken wheel,” the older woman said as Trig set the brake and jumped down from the driver’s bench.

He looked over the wheel. “I don’t think it’s broken, I think you’ve lost some lug nuts. There’re only two lug nuts on this wheel, and both are loose.” He spun the two loose nuts with his fingers. “Four of them fell off before the wheel came loose. They’re probably back there along the road somewhere.”

Trig thought about possible solutions to the situation, and both women looked at him with attention, which he enjoyed very much.

“I’m Trig,” he said. The older woman introduced herself as Eleanor, and her daughter Alice.

“I think I can fix this, temporarily, enough to get you home or to a wagon shop,” he said. Trig looked at the slave kneeling between the traces, his head down, taking advantage of the break in his work. He was huge and muscular, over six feet tall, barrel chested with thick arms.  “I’ll need help from your slave. What’s his name?”

“Tiny,” said the older woman. “Unharness him,” she said to Alice.

Alice undid the slave’s harness, and hooked a finger under his collar, by which she led him to Trig. The slave heeled the lissome girl obediently, bent at the waist.

Trig turned to Daisy. “Get the toolbox from under the bench and bring it here.”  As she did, he explained, “Tiny, I need you to get down under the axle to lift the cart off the ground so I can straighten the wheel and bolt it in place. Can you do that?”

“I will do my best, master,” the slave answered.

Daisy brought the tool box and stood waiting for instruction, when suddenly the younger woman spoke for the first time. “Daisy? Is that you?” she exclaimed.

Daisy immediately dropped to her elbows and knees, kneeling in small ball, licking the girl’s sandal straps and toes.

“Oh, stop that! Get up so we can have a look at you!” said the girl. Daisy rose to her feet, and stood with her eyes lowered. “Mom! Look! It’s Daisy!”

The older woman, Eleanor, came over and scrutinized the slave. “Daisy? It is you!”

“Yes mistress,” Daisy quietly replied, the hint of a smile on her downcast face. For a brief moment, it seemed that Elenor and Alice were going to hug Daisy, but hesitated when they thought about the sweaty, dirty slave coming into contact with their pretty summer dresses.

Eleanor turned to Trig to explain.  “Daisy was our house slave three—or four? —years ago. Our children loved her!”

Alice asked Trig, “Do you own her now?”

“No,” Trig explained, “She belongs to my boss. I’m a slave manager apprentice,” he added with a touch of pride.

Trig was a little disappointed when the two free women failed to show any interest in him or his position, focused on catching up with Daisy, asking about her current owner and place, previous owners and so on. Daisy seemed genuinely pleased to see them again.

“How is Master Tommy?” Daisy asked.

Alice answered, “He’s not Tommy anymore, he’s Thomas,” she said, deepening her voice into a false and mocking gravitas. “He’s learning engineering at Seaside.”

“He always did like digging holes and building things! He gets that from his father,” said Daisy. “How is Master Alexander?”

“You know my husband,” said Eleanor. “Always working. He’s overseeing building a warehouse in Market Town.”

Alice put a finger on Daisy’s shoulder and turned her a quarter. “Daisy, what’s this?” she asked, pointing at the welts on her bottom. “Have you been a bad girl?”

“My mistress was not pleased with how I scrubbed the kitchen floor, and I deserved to be punished,” she said rotely.

A light went on Trig’s head. Ms. Janice, the kitchen manager, was a model of patience, but when vexed or taxed beyond her limits was a frightful woman of fury. Mathias had probably wanted Daisy out of sight for a day for the good of both mistress and slave, and that’s why she was leashed to his wagon. If Daisy needed to be kept away from Ms. Janice, it probably wasn’t just the kitchen floor.

“Oh, Daisy,” said Eleanor, “You were always terrible at housework! I had to whip you at least once a week!” Elenor rolled her eyes and laughed, as though this was an amusing memory they all shared. “You haven’t changed at all!”

Daisy had been chatting pleasantly with Alice and Elenor, but at Elenor’s words, Trig noticed a subtle, fleeting change in Daisy’s expression, meeting her former mistress’s eyes.  Her submissive and friendly expression changed to something harder, but it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced instantly with that of an obsequious affectionate slave.

Trig had a flash of understanding; Mathias had told him to watch for the “spark” as he called it; when a slave’s obsequious docility breaks, and is replaced, however briefly, by a look of defiance, or anger. That spark must be extinguished, immediately, lest it spread to other slaves; once that happened it could only be extinguished by the most terrible of means.

Trig had never seen—or perhaps never noticed—the spark before, and its brief appearance startled him. Especially so that it was not some big hulking brute like Tiny, but in a small bitch slave like Daisy. He was somewhat unsettled. Should he thrash her? Should he ignore it? Scold her? What would Mathias do?

Trig decided to fix the broken wheel. He rummaged a crescent wrench from the toolbox, and adjusted it to fit the remaining lug nuts. He took the driver’s seat cushion from his wagon and told Tiny to lay it across his shoulders, before instructing the slave to crawl under the axle of the wagon. Tiny braced himself in place, the axle resting across his broad shoulders.

On Trig’s commands, Tiny lifted the wagon, straining and grimacing. Trig quickly straightened the wheel and secured the two remaining lug nuts as fast as he could. When he was done, Tiny crawled out from under the wagon and tossed the cushion aside, as though it had been nothing. All three women, slave and free, watched wordlessly.

Trig removed two lug nuts from the undamaged wheel and attached them to the other, so that each wheel was now secured by four nuts, instead of six. It wasn’t ideal, but better than having one wheel with only two. They would need to get to a wagon shop and have their cart serviced, Trig explained. The threads on the bolts might be damaged and should be replaced, he added with a touch of mansplaining.

As Trig returned Tiny to harness, the three women continued to chatter, mostly about other masters, mistresses and slaves, who was where, who owned whom and so on, catching up like old friends. Their conversation was light and casual, as though it mattered not that two of them were in pretty summer dresses and chic sandals, and the third was naked, barefoot, dirty, collared and leashed like a dog. Trig was anxious to get on his way, and a little annoyed that Daisy was getting more attention than him, their mighty savior.

Once Tiny was harnessed, Trig told Eleanor and Alice that they must be on their way. Alice pouted, and said, “Can we give her a treat?” Trig was unsure; he had already shared a morsel of his sandwich with the slave and allowing her “people food” twice in one day might spoil her. He doubted Mathais would approve. Wanting to play the role of the magnanimous master, Trig nodded assent.

Alice rummaged in a picnic basket and found a small bite-size pastry, layered with honey and almonds. She held it up for Daisy to see.

“Do you remember the game we used to play?” Alice asked Daisy. The slave knelt, and held her hands up at the level of her breasts, wrists hanging limply, looking up at the young woman. “Beg!” said Alice,

“Arf! Arf!” said Daisy, her mouth open wide.

“Good girl!” said Alice, depositing the pastry on Daisy’s extended tongue.

As Daisy savored the treat, Alice said, “Oh Daisy, I wish we could have you back! Mom, is there any way we could have her again?”

Eleanor shook her head sympathetically. “No, dear, the rules are quite strict. You can own a slave for a year, but then they have to go back to market

Trig knew this was the law, but for the first time he wondered why. It seemed that Daisy would be a good slave for the family, and even Daisy herself showed some fondness for her previous owners. He would have to ask Mathias about this later.

The two ladies mounted their cart again, and Trig tried not to be too obvious looking at Alice’s tanned legs in her short dress as she climbed up to the bench. Alice flashed him a smile, as though to say, I caught you looking! Trig blushed and turned away, busying himself with his own team’s harness and tack.

As Alice took the reins, she called down to them, pointing with the whip. “Daisy, you be a good slave!  And Trig, be nice to her!”

Alice cracked the whip on Tiny, just a sting, not a slash, and their cart cantered down the road, soon out of sight.