The Box

It's dark. He can't see, and he can't breathe. It's so black, if it weren't for the splinters, he could almost believe it was the dark itself squeezing the life from his lungs.

He rasps another laboured, too-shallow breath, his ribs aching groaning in weak protest. Was that his ribs, or was it the planking answering the swish and ripple of the water?

The emotion that fuelled him since Nancy was sold can hardly sustain him now. Heartbreak, thinking he might never see her again, nor their children. Anger at the agonising betrayal of it... He'd worked hard, hadn't he? He'd begged. Pleaded. Paid. The old bastard had agreed! He'd agreed not to sell them! He'd given his word! But it amounted to nothing in the end. Less than dust. Less than spit.

He owed the foul creature nothing. Not the sweat of his body, not the loyalty of his heart. Who would do such a thing to another man? Rob him of his God-given wife and children, send them away... For what? For a fat purse, and the respect of anotner white man. What kind of evil soul could sink so low?

The kind of man who thinks he can own another...

Damn the man! Henry is determined to live, and live freely, if only to spite the faithless old snake!

The thought passes across his mind, not for the first time, nor for the last, whether he will die here. Not enough air. Not enough space in his body to suck that little in to sustain him, to steady him. To stop him passing out.

Please, don't let me die. Lend me courage. Sustain my faith. Keep me hidden. Don't let me die.

He has stayed conscious by the force of his will and nothing more. He has spent much of the time upside down, and at these times all the blood rushed to his head. He'd only been able to take shallow, mouse-like breaths, not enough to sustain a man, and keep his eyes open. Were his eyes open? So dark, it was hard to tell... He had thought, as the blackness tried to swallow his mind, that he really was dying.

Could death be any blacker than this, after all? What hour was it? How long has it been? How much longer? Perhaps he was dead already. Maybe this was Hell. Maybe it the Devil whispering doubt in his ear.

No. If he were dead already then he must have been dead a long time, and Hell was surely what he left behind. The Almighty, in his greatness, had offered him a chance of redemption, and Henry had taken it. The rest was with God, now.

Still. He had no mind to die. Not like this. Squeezed almost beyond bearing, far from light, racked with thirst... And (this galled the most), despite his cage being miles behind him, he was still not free. Not yet.

No, he wanted to be a free man under the sky, and then, if God willed it, then, maybe he could accept that fate with courage. But now? When he was so close? Surely not. Surely God could never be so cruel.

Henry has not even the strength to pray anymore. Instead, his every thought is a prayer, his every struggling breath a tiny hymn.

Let me live. Free. Let me live. Let me live. I will live. I'll live a free man. I'll see the sun. I will. I'll live.

The sounds around and above him have changed, and his heart leaps inside its cramped cage.

When his crate was finally pulled ashore and pried open, it is, maybe, like rising from a coffin to a second life. Something other than ordinary physical strength powers him to his feet. Friendly hands help him out of the box, and steady him. He catches sight of his crate, that became his cradle, that was so nearly his coffin. Surely he had never fit in such a small space as that?

Lungs and heart full, he sings his thanks to God.

Author's note

Thank you for reading!

This story is based on Henry "Box" Brown, who shipped himself to freedom in the 19th century.

I'm back with a bang! I posted my first story in a while here yesterday 👇 and Vocal was kind enough to give it T.S. Thanks, Vocal 😁

Thanks, again! Leaving a comment makes it easier for me to reciprocate 👍