As they roughly loaded her into the back of the wagon, Hannah looked up at the bright sky. It was late afternoon now, the sun high and mercilessly hot. She thought about Mercy and Jacob. She desperately wondered if someone in the quarters had told them the final verdict yet. She deeply hoped they would somehow survive whatever horrors came next. The wagon lurched forward violently. Behind her, the imposing brick courthouse receded into the distance—that grand temple of law and order built entirely on the sickening assumption that some human lives inherently mattered vastly more than others.
Ahead of her lay exactly three more sunrises. Three more fleeting chances to feel the warm air of the world on her skin before they violently took it all away. Hannah closed her eyes tightly and tried incredibly hard not to think about the rough hemp of the rope.
The Louisa County Jail was a grim, heavily fortified stone building that permanently smelled of deep despair, stale sweat, and human waste. It held four cramped cells, but Hannah occupied an entire wing alone. This was absolutely not out of any sense of kindness or respect; they isolated her because they deeply feared her rebellious influence on the other prisoners. To the authorities, a slave who had successfully struck out at her mistress was exactly like a highly contagious, deadly disease that might rapidly spread through whispered midnight conversations and shared racial grievances.
Her dark cell was a miserable eight feet by six feet, containing a single straw mattress that was as thin as paper, and a foul wooden bucket for waste that hadn’t been properly emptied in days. A tiny, barred window set high up on the thick stone wall let in a weak shaft of light, but it offered absolutely no view except a tiny, teasing square of the blue sky. It was entirely through this tiny window that Hannah silently marked the slow passage of her final days, watching the white clouds drift past like great ships sailing to beautiful places she would absolutely never get to see.