Tied to the whipping post. The plantation had one. Frederick couldn't imagine a plantation without one. But it didn't get used much. Yes, Henry Barford might have made a much crueler master. Which, of course, did Frederick not an eagle's worth of good, or even a cent's.

I should have tried to run away last night, he thought as the overseer stripped the shirt off his back and shackled his wrists to the post. But the slave cabin where they'd stuck him was fixed up to make it next to impossible-and it had been guarded, too.

House slaves and field hands watched the proceedings with wide eyes. Frederick didn't want to think about the expression on Helen's face. And he especially didn't want to think about the expression on Clotilde Barford's. He understood Helen's anguish. But the master's wife looked as if she was right on the point of reaching a climax. Would she, when the lash began to bite? Frederick feared he'd be too busy to notice.

After he'd been manacled, Henry Barford slipped a thick piece of leather into his mouth-cut from a belt, or maybe from a harness. "Bite down on that there," the master said. "It's supposed to help a little."

How do you know? Frederick wondered. He couldn't even ask, not unless he spat out the strong-tasting leather. He didn't. Instead, he settled it between his jaws as best he could. Anything to distract him from what was about to happen.

Barford stepped away. "Reckon all of you've heard why we got to do this," he said to the assembled slaves. "Doesn't make me happy. You know me. I like it when things go smooth. But when they don't, you got to set 'em to rights, and that's what we're gonna do here. You ready, Matthew?"

"Sure am," the overseer replied. He didn't sound pantingly eager, the way some men in his line of work would have. Instead, he was as matter-of-fact as if Barford had asked him if he were ready to shear a sheep. Whip a nigger? All part of a day's work, his voice seemed to say. That might have been more daunting than if he had seemed to look forward to it.

"All right, then," Barford said. "Five lashes, well laid on."

Frederick closed his eyes. Well laid on. Why say such stupid things? What else was Matthew going to do? Tap him with the whip? Frederick wished the overseer would, but what were wishes worth?

Snap-crack! Frederick jerked and groaned. That wasn't a lash, was it? It had to be fire across his back. Without the rude leather mouthguard, he might have broken teeth biting down. For some reason, he wasn't much inclined to be grateful to Henry Barford.

"One," the master said solemnly.

Snap-crack! Frederick had told himself he wouldn't scream. So much for good intentions. The leather muffled his howl, but didn't block all of it.

"Two," Henry Barford intoned.

Snap-crack! More of the shriek escaped this time. Frederick wanted to die. And he wanted to kill everyone who'd had anything to do with this. Clotilde Barford, Henry Barford, Matthew… They could all perish. Horribly.

"Three."

Snap-crack! As these things went, Matthew was merciful. He didn't lay stripe on top of stripe, which would only have added to Frederick's torment. But these things didn't go very far in that direction. Frederick howled like a dog run over by a brewery wagon.

"Four," Henry Barford said.

Snap-crack! Shrieking louder than ever, Frederick hardly realized it was over. The flames consuming his back ate up the whole world. He slumped against the post, utterly exhausted. Tears and snot and sweat ran down his face. Something wet ran down his back, too. He barely cared if he was bleeding to death back there. If he was, everything would be over soon.

"Five," Barford said. "That's the end of it. Let him loose, Matthew, and help him to the cabin. I expect his woman'll take care of him from there."

"Right you are." Matthew was as businesslike unlocking the manacles as he had been fastening them or delivering the whipping. When Frederick spat out the piece of leather Henry Barford had given him, he didn't quite spit it at the overseer's feet. "You need to lean on me to walk?" Matthew asked him.

"Let me see." Frederick managed a couple of steps away from the post. The world swayed around him. Seeing him so shaky on his pins, Matthew grabbed his elbow with a strong right hand to steady him. The hand that whipped me, Frederick thought. He was glad for its support even so.

The overseer steered him toward one of the field hands' cabins-not the closest, but one that had stood empty since the old man who'd lived there gave up the ghost. "Show's over," Henry Barford told the rest of the slaves. "Get on back to work. It ain't like you got nothin' to do." Frederick heard him as if from very far away.

Three rickety wooden stairs. If not for Matthew's hand under his elbow, Frederick might not have made them. But he did. It was dark and musty inside the cabin. A couple of stools, a cot, and a chamber pot-that summed up the furnishings. "Lay down on your belly," the overseer said. "Your gal, she's got a pot of ointment to slather on you. You'll be ready to go out and weed in a couple of days."

Frederick wouldn't have lain down on his back for all the gold in Terranova. The straw and maize husks in the mattress rustled and crackled as his weight came down on them. The bed creaked. He wondered if it would break, but it held. The musty smell got stronger. Sharp things poked him through the worn-out mattress ticking. So this is how field hands live, he thought dully.

"I got to go keep an eye on things," the overseer said. "Soon as you're up and about, I'll be keepin' an eye on you."

He clumped across the floor and was gone. Softer footsteps came across the cabin toward Frederick. "You were brave," Helen said. "You stood it as good as anybody could have."

"I'll kill them all," Frederick whispered in a voice no one who wasn't right beside him could have heard. "Every last one of them. You see if I don't."

"'Course you will, sweetheart," Helen answered, as if he were a little boy. "Now you hold still while I put this stuff on you."

She dabbed it on with gentle fingers. It hurt anyway. Frederick jerked and twitched at every touch, almost as if he were under the lash again. "What's in it?" he asked, as if he thought it hurt him because of what it was made from.

"Lard and honey," Helen said. "Got it from one of the cooks. He said it'd soothe you-some, anyways-an' it'd make the stripes less likely to fester."

"Maybe," Frederick said through clenched teeth, meaning, You must be joking. Nothing could soothe his poor, abused flesh. Wishing he could drown the plantation in white men's blood came closest, but even that was no more than a momentary distraction. "How bad does it look?"

"How bad does it feel?" Helen countered one question with another.

"Couldn't feel any worse," Frederick said, which wasn't quite true. This ache was bad. The venomous sting of the lash striking him… that had been even worse.

"You're gonna have scars," Helen said sadly. She made haste to add, "Ain't like you'd be the only one. Plenty of slaves do."

"Scars… They'll pay for every damned one. So help me God, they will." Yes, rage was almost enough to vanquish pain. What would Victor Radcliff have thought if he could have seen his grandson's split and bleeding back? Would he have been proud of the United States of Atlantis?

"Hush," Helen told him. "Just you hush, now. Don't go talking crazy talk-don't go talking stupid talk. You land yourself in even more trouble than you're in already."

That was good, sensible advice. Good, sensible advice came easy when you hadn't just taken five lashes, well laid on. Frederick didn't want to listen to it. Whether he wanted to or not, some sank in. "Didn't only get me in trouble," he said dully. "Got you thrown out of the big house, too."