The Unlucky

The men were wild. Waving their tickets between pinched fingers and causing a raucous, the winners of the fight were in a frenzy. Everyone believed the dog would win, but this dog was known for his strategy. The canine had a reputation for drawing the fury out of a bull before screwdriving the bovine into a yelping cry. They called him “The Ox”, and today, The Ox was victorious within six minutes. Six minutes. Three-hundred sixty seconds, or less, and the bull was down. The tiny eyes of the bulldog squinted with its folded smile as he pranced and wagged around the ring. The dog knew that this is why they loved him. A large tongue stretched out and savored the blood of the bull that painted the dog’s face, and he knew why the called him “The Ox.”

The majority of men bet against the bull. They bet that The Ox would pin the bull in less than twenty minutes. Some bet that the bull would go down in less than fifteen. Only four men bet that the baiting would end in under ten minutes. They would win a small fortune—enough to visit the local pub and edify everyone with an elixir; enough to leave the pub with a woman who’d left her shoe undone; enough to bring the leftovers to their wives, who’d be impressed and indebted for the next week or so. Those four men were the lucky ones.

An unlucky man waited, choking in the cloud of dust that veiled the makeshift arena. He kept is head down and spoke to no one, and he tried his very best not to react to the excitement around him. It was best that he did not seem too interested in bull baiting. It was vital that he ignored the signage about the contenders of the day, and so he also pretended not to follow the calculations being shouted between the house and the guests who tallied their winnings and losses. He feigned ignorance and waited. He didn’t hurry anyone along, nor did he make way for the bull. He simply waited until there weren’t any more feet in the horizon of dirt on which he focused his stare. Once the air was completely clear, he would walk, plainly, to untether the bull.

They would act as if they didn’t know each other, he and the bull. They were always careful not to attract any unwanted attention from the people who were so lucky. The bull would snarl and bellow and pull away as the steward pulled him along with a strong arm and a stern brow. The steward would keep several feet of distance between he and the bull, for he could never be too sure of how the bovine felt after such a traumatic and unrighteous experience as bullbaiting. He knew, firsthand, what it was like to be harassed and mauled whilst physically restrained. The embarrassment was angering, and the pain was painful.

This is why Sam was thankful. The Hamburg family was well-known in throughout England for their skilled butchering, breeding, and bullbaiting. Mr. Edwin Hamburg was a self-made butcher, who migrated as a teenager from Germany in 1774. Now, at the age of thirty-five, he owned three butcher shops across England and two massive farms. His southern farm is where he held the bullbaiting fights, as mandated, before the males were taken in for meat. When he acquired Sam, Mr. Hamburg sent him to work directly with the bulls. “Any slave who will run for their freedom is courageous enough to handle my bulls,” he said of Sam.

Sam had never known much of Master Edwin before. He knew of meat packing, and he was sure that the Williams’ had patronized Hamburg’s Butcher’s Shop before—he thought, though it never did matter to him. His main concern was for his life.

When they caught Sam, he was in the corridor tender of a train heading to Liverpool. He meant with all of his might to make it to Liverpool and sneak aboard a vessel destined for Ireland. Sam was not very tall, but was very dark, like coffee, and he believed that the black smudging coal and thick wafting steam would camouflage him well in the train’s tender. He never knew the reason behind his color, or why it was so unlucky—but this was where blackness and luck collided. He hid in the coal-car of the train, fueling the locomotive as if he had done so many times before, and no one ever did noticed that their crewmember was gone. The success of the train ride was exhilarating, and the only thing left for Sam to do was to exit the train unnoticed, reach the docks unnoticed, and find a long-term hiding spot on somebody’s boat, unnoticed. Sam was unshakeable though. He believed with all of his spirit that he could maneuver his way to a new, free life. He’d been planning his way out from the day that he was branded.

Master Williams was serious about retention. He wanted to ensure that “everyone anywhere would always know to whom you belong,” and he did. Whenever one of the little bucks he owned was ready for work, they were scorched with a fancy “W” on the right side of their rib cage. Sam would meet this same fate when he began to work the furnace room for him. From then on, the very fire he tended to, that burned him, would dance for him and tell him stories and strategies for how to get free. He didn’t care about whatever fugitive laws there lived, he only cared for his life.

But Master Williams was serious about retention. He simply could not live with this loss, with this infraction. Sam was in total violation of what it meant to be a slave, and he wanted to make sure that Sam was sorry. Sam did not exit the boat unnoticed. It was the hounds who noticed him first. They yelped and bayed heavily, hungrily stretching towards Sam and Williams spotted him right away. This is how he knew what it meant to be harassed and mauled.

Williams didn’t want him anymore, and that was the way it had to be. You could not leave unless you’d been banished. And so, Sam was a gift to Master Edwin, the owner of the bullbaiting butchering dynasty. His life with the Hamburgs was not much better than his life with the others, but he was happy that they did not care so much to embarass him daily by reminding him that he was not a free man. They knew that he knew, and he knew that they knew, and so it was settled. Sam worked with the bulls that Master Edwin used for the bloody sport, and he tended to them when they were not fighting.

Sam opened the gate and locked eyes with the bull. He took slow steps and walked in a semi-circle until he stood a few feet behind the bull. Looking directly at one another, Sam made a clicking sound and the bull turned its head forward and walked into the gate. The bull stood still, gazing with glassy tired eyes.

“Come here, Bunchie” cooed Sam. He walked slowly toward the bull, holding a bucket of cool water in one hand and a soft sponge in the other. The tissue and the severity of the wounds hurt Sam so much, and he wished that things were different.

Bunchie looked at Sam, and the glass in his eyes began to fall into his mane. Sam looked at Bunchie, and another piece of his heart broke off.

“I saw what happened today,” he whispered.