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he knew what he had to do.
    Jake walked sheepishly back into the house about five minutes later, cooled off and embarrassed. Already he was rehearsing in his mind the apology to his mother he knew he had to make. The house was still and quiet. He glanced around. His eyes fell on the floor where he had dumped the leather satchel.
    It was gone.
    Immediately he suspected the truth. The same instant a wave of panic surged through him. He had seen the same leering looks on Tavish’s face that his mother had. He knew well enough the cause of them.
    The next moment he was sprinting out of the house and running toward the creek.
    Jake heard the screams he knew were his mother’s well before he reached the bridge. When they went silent he increased his pace. He pounded across the footbridge, then slowed. He listened intently for any sound, then made for the field where he thought Tavish had been working.
    Halfway between the bridge and the clearing, he saw Tavish ahead. He had just unbuttoned his trousers, knelt down,and begun to rip at Jake’s mother’s dress. Jake flew the remaining distance and leaped at the man, hitting him in full flight and knocking him flat on his back. Even half drunk, Tavish had been able to overpower Jake’s mother. But he was no match for the son. His alcohol-soaked brain had no more begun trying to make sense of what had happened, and his eyes attempted to focus on the sky and treetops above him, than the fists and booted feet of what seemed like a dozen men began pummeling him with a frenzy that soon lost all sense of reason.
    Two or three minutes later, Jake was dragging the limp form off the path into the nearby underbrush. Behind him he heard his mother moaning in pain.
    Jake hurried back, glanced about, then ran ahead to the clearing, picked up the man’s shirt and jacket, ran back, and threw them into the brush out of sight. Now first he saw the color on his hands. But the horror of what he had done had not yet fully dawned on him. He ran to the creek to wash. As he did, it was the creek that gave him the idea of how to get rid of Tavish for good.
    A few minutes later he hurried back to his mother, who was struggling to come to herself.
    â€œMama, Mama,” he said, stooping down beside her. “Oh, Mama, I’s sorry . . . I’s sorry for all da things I said.”
    â€œJake . . . Jake,” she moaned feebly, “dat be you?”
    â€œYes, Mama. It’s me. I’s here now.”
    â€œWhere dat terrible man?”
    â€œHe’s gone, Mama. I run him off. He’s gone now.”
    â€œHe hit me, Jake . . . he hit me bad.”
    â€œHe’s gone, Mama . . . he won’t hurt you no mo.”
    â€œMy head . . . it’s painin’ me sumfin dreadful.”
    â€œI’ll git you home, Mama,” said Jake, gently slipping his hands beneath her shoulders and knees and lifting her as he stood.
    Ten minutes later his mother was resting on her own bedpad while Jake wiped her face and forehead and arms with a damp cloth. Already welts and bruises were beginning to show color around her eyes and across her cheeks. But the blows to her jaw and back of her head were more serious than the rest. Young Jake was not physician enough to recognize that she was feverish, nor to know the danger of allowing her to drift off to sleep so soon after hurting her head.
    Once she was asleep, the reality of his own plight began to press itself upon him.
    What should he do?
    He had to get help for his mother. That was the first thing. But if it was discovered that he had attacked a white man, even fair-minded Master Winegaard would mete out the white man’s justice swiftly and harshly. Whatever form that justice took, it would not be favorable for young Jake Patterson. And he knew it.
    First he would find the rest of the women where they were working in the garden. He would get old Mammy Jenks to sit with his mother. Then he would go back to the master