Louisiana, September 1862.
The Belmont Plantation sat on the edge of the Achafallayia basin where civilization ended and the swamp began.
It was a world of cypress trees draped in Spanish moss, black water that hid alligators and cotton mouths, and a darkness so complete that men disappeared into it and were never seen again.
On the night of September 14th, 1862, 13-year-old Lydia ran into that darkness.
She wasn’t running blind.
She was running towards something her mother had whispered to her years ago with dying breath.
If they ever come for you, baby, you run to the old forest.
You follow the marks I showed you.
You find the safe places and you survive.
Lydia’s mother, Sarah, had died 3 years earlier.
The official story was fever.
But Lydia knew the truth.
Her mother had been beaten to death by the overseer for insulence.
She had asked for medicine for her sick child.
And now at 13, Lydia had committed her own unforgivable sin.
She had looked Master Belmont’s son in the eye and said no when he cornered her in the barn.
She knew what happened to girls who said no.
She had seen it.
She had heard the screams from the big house.
She knew that tomorrow or the next day they would come for her.
And there were fates worse than death.
So Lydia ran.
Behind her, dogs barked in the distance.
Torches flickered.
Men shouted orders, but Lydia had a head start, and more importantly, she had knowledge.
Her mother had spent years teaching her the secret geography of the swamp, which paths were solid, which were traps, where the gators nested, where the quicksand waited.
By midnight, the sounds of pursuit had faded.
Lydia was deep in territory that even the slave catchers feared.
This was old forest, untouched wilderness that predated the plantations that would outlive them.
She ran until her lungs burned and her legs gave out.
She collapsed against a massive cypress tree, gasping for air, her heart hammering.
She was bleeding from cuts and scratches, her dress was torn.
She was terrified, but she was free for now.
As her breathing slowed, Lydia became aware of something strange.
Marks on the trees, fresh cuts, deliberate patterns, bootprints in the mud, far too large to be from any man she’d ever seen.
And the bones, dear bones picked clean, arranged in neat piles.
Someone was living out here.
Someone was watching.
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At dawn on September 15th, Charles Belmont stood on the verander of his plantation house, face red with fury.
His son William stood beside him, nursing a black eye.
Lydia had fought back before she ran.
“Five men,” Belmont said to the group assembled in front of him.
“I want five of my best.
You bring that girl back.
I don’t care what condition she’s in.
Alive is preferable, but dead is acceptable.
What’s not acceptable is her getting away with this.
The five men who stepped forward were the most feared slave catchers in Louisiana.
First was Silas Wade, no relation to the Jeremiah Wade from Mississippi, but cut from the same brutal cloth.
Silas was in his 40s, scarred and mean, a man who had spent 20 years hunting human beings through swamps and forests.
He had never lost a trail.
Second was Marcus Preacher Dunn, called preacher because he would quote Bible verses while torturing captured runaways.
He believed that slavery was divinely ordained and that he was doing God’s work.
Third was Leon Thibido, a Cinjun tracker who knew the swamps better than any white man alive.
He could follow a trail 3 days old through water.
He had personally captured over a 100 runaways.
Fourth was Jacob Cole, young and eager to prove himself.
He was only 23, but had already killed two slaves who tried to fight back during capture.
He wore their teeth on a cord around his neck.
Fifth was Henry Moss, the quietest and most dangerous of the group.
Moss didn’t talk much.
He just killed efficiently.
He was the one they sent when someone needed to disappear permanently.
The trail starts at the east edge.
Belmont told them.
She’s headed toward the basin.
You know that country.
Tibido nodded.
I know it.
Dangerous as hell.
Water moccasins thick as your arm.
Gators that’ll take a man whole.
Quicksand that’ll swallow a horse.
Then you’ll be careful, Belmont said.
But you’ll bring her back.
There’s a $100 for the man who finds her, and another hundred if she’s alive enough to be punished properly.
The five men smiled.
$200 was a fortune in 1862, more than most men made in a year.
They set out at first light, armed with rifles, knives, rope, and tracking dogs.
They were confident.
They were professionals.
They had done this a 100 times before.
None of them would see the plantation again.
Lydia found the cabin around midday on September 15th.
It was deep in the swamp, built on a rare piece of high ground, surrounded by black water and twisted trees.
The structure was old, maybe 50 years or more, built from cypress logs that had weathered to gray.
Half the roof had collapsed.
Vines grew through the windows, but it wasn’t abandoned.
There were fresh marks everywhere.
A deer carcass hung from a tree recently killed and field dressed.
A stack of firewood neatly chopped, tools, an axe, a saw, various knives organized with military precision.
And inside the cabin, through the broken door, Lydia could see furs, dried meat, a bed roll.
Someone lived here, someone who was very good at surviving.
Lydia was backing away, trying to decide whether to run or hide, when a voice stopped her cold.
Lydia.
It was a man’s voice, deep, grally, quiet, and it knew her name.
She spun around but saw nothing, just trees and shadows and water.
“Don’t run,” the voice said.
“You’re safe here.
Who are you?” Lydia’s voice cracked.
“How do you know my name?” A figure emerged from behind a massive oak tree about 30 ft away.
At first, Lydia thought she was seeing things.
The man was enormous, at least 6 and 1/2 ft tall, maybe taller, with shoulders like a bull.
His skin was dark, weathered by sun and wind.
His hair and beard were long, stre with gray.
His arms were covered in scars, whip marks, burn marks, the kind of scars that told a story of violence survived.
He was dressed in animal skins and homemade clothes.
He carried an axe in one hand, held loosely like it weighed nothing.
His eyes were what struck Lydia most.
They were intelligent, cautious, and infinitely sad.
“My name is Jonas,” he said.
“I knew your mother,” Lydia’s heart stopped.
“You knew Sarah.
I loved her,” Jonas said simply.
“A long time ago, before they separated us, before they told me our baby died, he took a step closer.” Lydia noticed he moved with surprising grace for such a large man barely making a sound despite his size.
“You’re bleeding,” Jonas observed.
“You’ve been running all night.
And there are men coming after you.
I heard the dogs hours ago.
Five men, maybe six professionals.” “How do you know?” “Because I used to be one of them.” Jonas gestured toward the cabin.
“Come inside.
I’ll tend your wounds and then I’ll explain.
We don’t have much time.
They’ll reach this area by nightfall.
And when they do, his expression darkened.
They won’t leave.
Inside the cabin, Jonas worked with quiet efficiency.
He cleaned Lydia’s cuts with water boiled over a small fire.
He wrapped her ankles, which were swollen from running.
He gave her dried venison and clean water from a spring.
While she ate, he talked.
Jonas had been born a slave in Tennessee in 1822, which made him 40 years old now.
His first master had been a military man, a colonel who fought in the Seol Wars.
The colonel had trained Jonas as a tracker and hunter, skills that made him valuable.
I could follow any trail, Jonas said.
Animal or human, I could move through forest without sound.
I could kill silently.
The colonel used me to hunt deserters during the Mexican War.
Then he sold me to a man in Louisiana who used me to catch runaways.
Jonas’s voice was flat, emotionless, as he described this period of his life.
I caught over 50 people in 3 years, men, women, children.
I brought them back.
Some were whipped, some were sold, some were killed.
I told myself I had no choice.
But that’s a lie.
I always had a choice.
I just chose survival over honor.
He paused, staring into the fire.
Then I met Sarah.
She was working at the Belmont plantation.
I was there delivering a captured runaway.
I saw her in the fields and something in me changed.
She was beautiful, strong, defiant in small ways that only another slave would notice.
Over the next year, I saw her whenever my work brought me near Belellmont’s land.
We fell in love.
Dangerous love.
Impossible love, but real.
Jonas’s hands clenched.
When she got pregnant, we were terrified, but also happy.
For a moment, we allowed ourselves to imagine a future.
Maybe we could save money by our freedom, raise our child somewhere safe.
But Belmont found out and he was furious.
He didn’t want his property breeding with an outsider.
So he made arrangements.
I was sold to a plantation in Georgia 300 m away.
And Sarah, they told me she lost the baby, still born.
I believed them for years.
I believed them.
I worked in Georgia, broken inside.
Then the war started.
My new master joined the Confederate army.
took me with him as a servant.
In early 1862, we were in a battle near New Orleans.
Chaos, artillery, men dying everywhere.
I saw my chance.
I killed my master with a rock to the head.
I took his knife and his boots and I disappeared into the swamp.
I’ve been here ever since.
Jonas looked at Lydia and she saw tears in his eyes for the first time.
I only learned the truth 3 months ago.
A runaway passed through here, a man from Belmont’s plantation.
He told me about Sarah.
Told me she died 3 years back.
Told me about her daughter, a girl named Lydia, about 13 years old, who looked just like her mother.
I didn’t believe it at first.
I thought my child had died.
But the more he described you, the more I knew.
They had lied.
You were alive.
You were a slave at Bellmonts, just like your mother.
And I had been living 20 m away for months, not knowing.
Jonas reached out slowly and touched Lydia’s hand.
His hand was massive, rough, scarred, but gentle.
“I am your father,” he said.
“And I am so, so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you or your mother.” Lydia stared at this giant stranger who claimed to be her father.
Part of her wanted to run.
Part of her wanted to scream.
But another part, the part that remembered her mother’s whispered words about the forest, about hidden marks and safe places, recognized the truth.
Mama said.
Lydia’s voice was barely a whisper.
She said, “If I ever needed help, the forest would protect me.
She taught me the paths, the markers.
She was leading me to you.” Jonas nodded.
She always was smarter than anyone gave her credit for.
Outside in the distance, a dog barked.
Jonas stood immediately, all emotion draining from his face, replaced by cold calculation.
They’re closer than I thought, he said.
We have maybe 2 hours before they reach this area.
2 hours to prepare.
Prepare for what? Lydia asked.
Jonas picked up his ax and smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile.
It was the smile of a predator who had been hiding for too long and was finally ready to hunt again.
For war, he said, “I’ve been running for months, hiding, avoiding conflict, but they’ve made a mistake.
They’ve come after my daughter, and for that, they’re going to die.” For the next 90 minutes, Lydia watched her father transform the forest into a killing ground.
Jonas moved through the swamp with purpose, setting traps with the expertise of a man who had spent decades perfecting the art of death.
He explained each one to Lydia as he worked, his voice calm and educational, as if he were teaching her to cook or sew.
First principle, he said, is to control the terrain.
Men think they’re hunting us, but we’re actually hurting them.
We leave obvious signs in some places, no signs in others.
We make them think they’re choosing their path, but really we’re choosing it for them.
He showed her how to create a snare that would yank a man upside down into the air, leaving him helpless and disoriented.
Vine is stronger than rope if you know which kind to use.
And a man hanging upside down loses the ability to think clearly within about 30 seconds.
He demonstrated a deadfall trap.
A massive log balanced carefully on a trigger mechanism made from notched sticks.
When they step on this, he indicated a patch of ground covered in leaves.
The log comes down like the hand of God.
Kills instantly if it hits the chest or head.
He walked her to a section of the swamp that looked solid but wasn’t.
This is a sink.
The mud goes down about 8 ft before you hit solid bottom.
A man who steps in here will struggle, and struggling makes you sink faster.
The key is not to fight it, but panicked men always fight.
You could walk through there safely.
I know exactly where to step, but they won’t.
He pointed out patches of seemingly innocent greenery.
That’s poison ivy mixed with something worse.
A local plant the Kitty matcha people call devil’s nettle.
Touch it and your skin blisters within minutes.
Painful enough to make a man careless.
Careless men make mistakes.
Finally, he took her to a narrow path between two enormous trees.
He had rigged a trip wire at ankle height, nearly invisible.
When triggered, it would release a sharpened branch that would swing at head height with enough force to decapitate.
This is excessive, Jonas admitted.
But I want them to be afraid.
Fear makes people stupid.
As the sun began to set, Jonas led Lydia back to the cabin.
You’ll stay inside.
No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, you stay quiet and hidden.
Understand? I want to help.
You help by staying alive.
Jonas said firmly.
That’s all I need.
These men are coming to take you, to hurt you, to drag you back to a life of suffering.
I won’t allow that.
But I need to know you’re safe while I work.
Lydia nodded.
Mama used to tell me you were a good man.
She said if I ever met you, I should trust you.
Jonas’s eyes glistened.
Your mother saw a better version of me than actually existed.
But for her memory and for you, I’ll try to be that man.
He handed her a knife just in case.
If anyone but me comes through that door, you use this.
Aim for the throat or the belly.
Then he melted into the forest, disappearing so completely that Lydia couldn’t tell where he’d gone, even though she’d been watching him.
The last light faded.
The hunt began.
Silus Wade was the first to die.
He was leading the group, following the tracking dogs through increasingly difficult terrain.
The trail had been easy at first.
A 13-year-old girl leaves obvious signs.
But for the last hour, things had gotten strange.
The dogs kept losing the scent and picking it up in random directions.
They’d find a clear footprint, follow it for a hundred yard, then nothing.
WDE had tracked hundreds of runaways and he’d never seen a pattern like this.
Something’s wrong, Leon Tibido muttered.
The cinjun tracker was nervous, which was unusual.
Trail don’t make sense.
It’s like she’s doubling back, but also not like someone’s playing with us.
She’s 13, Jacob Cole scoffed.
How smart can she be? Smart enough to make it this far into the basin? Tibido pointed out, “Most runaways get turned around within a mile.
She’s gone at least 10 through some of the worst country in Louisiana.
Either she’s a genius or or someone’s helping her,” Henry Moss finished.
He hadn’t spoken in hours, but now his voice was quiet and deadly serious.
“We’re not alone out here.” Wade was about to respond when one of the dogs started barking frantically, pulling at its leash.
It had found something.
They moved forward carefully.
The dog led them to a small clearing where the ground was covered in fresh footprints.
Small ones clearly from a child.
She stopped here.
Wade said recently.
The prints are fresh.
She can’t be more than the world exploded.
A massive log easily 3 ft in diameter and 8 ft long came swinging down from the trees like a battering ram.
It had been suspended by vines held in place by a trigger that Wade had just stepped on.
The log hit Silus Wade in the center of his chest with over a,000 lb of force.
Every rib shattered.
His sternum caved in.
His heart and lungs were crushed instantly.
The impact launched WDE’s body backward through the air.
He flew 15 ft and crashed into a tree trunk, then fell to the ground in a broken heap.
The four remaining hunters stood frozen in shock.
Marcus Preacher Dunn ran to Wade’s body, checked for a pulse, and looked up at the others with wide eyes.
“He’s dead.
He’s [ __ ] dead.” “Trap!” Tibido said, his voice shaking.
“That was a trap.
Someone set a goddamn trap.” “The girl couldn’t,” Jacob Cole started.
“It wasn’t the girl,” Henry Moss interrupted.
He was looking around the darkening forest with the expression of a man who just realized he was prey instead of predator.
“There’s someone else out here, someone who knows what they’re doing.
We need to go back,” Preacher said.
“This is wrong.
This whole thing is wrong.
” “We’re not going back empty-handed,” Jacob snarled.
“Wade’s dead, which means his share of the reward is ours.
We find that girl, we get paid double.
I’m not leaving because of one accident.
That wasn’t an accident, Moss said quietly.
That was murder.
Professional murder.
Whoever did this has done it before.
Then we’d better be careful, Jacob said.
He checked his rifle.
Come on.
It’s almost dark.
Let’s make camp wait for first light.
No, Tibido said.
No camps.
We need to leave now.
But they didn’t leave because they didn’t truly understand what was happening.
They thought they were still the hunters.
They were wrong.
Marcus Preacher Dunn and Leon Tibido died together about 2 hours after sunset.
They had split off from the other two trying to circle around to cut off potential escape routes.
Tibido was in front using his knowledge of the swamp to navigate in the dark.
Preacher followed, muttering prayers under his breath.
This feels wrong, Tibido whispered.
The ground here feels wrong.
He was right, but he realized it too late.
Jonas had spent hours preparing this section of the swamp.
He had identified a natural sink, an area where the mud went down 8 ft or more before hitting solid bottom.
Then he had carefully created what looked like solid ground.
He had woven a thin mat of branches and moss, just strong enough to hold its own weight, but not strong enough to support a man.
He had covered this with leaves and debris, making it looked like the rest of the forest floor.
And he had created a safe path on one side, a path that looked dangerous and unstable, but was actually solid.
Humans, when presented with two options, usually choose the one that looked safer.
Tibido stepped onto what looked like solid ground.
He went through immediately, sinking to his waist in thick black mud.
He gasped in shock and tried to pull himself out.
But struggling in quicksand like mud has the opposite effect.
The more you fight, the deeper you sink.
“Pull me out!” Tibido screamed, “Preacher, help me!” Preacher grabbed Tibido’s hand and pulled.
But the mud had suction.
For every inch they gained, Tibido sank two inches deeper.
It’s pulling me down.
It’s pulling me.
Preacher pulled harder.
He was a strong man, but he was fighting against hundreds of pounds of suction.
Then Preacher felt the ground beneath his own feet start to give way.
He was standing on the same false surface he went through.
Now both men were in the sink, waist deep in mud that was actively pulling them down.
They grabbed onto each other, which only made it worse.
Their combined weight accelerated the sinking.
God, save us.
Preacher screamed, “Lord Jesus, save your servants.” But God wasn’t listening.
Or perhaps he was, and this was his answer to men who tortured in his name.
The mud reached their chests.
Tibido was crying, a grown man reduced to terrified sobs.
I don’t want to die like this.
Please, please, someone help us.
From the darkness about 20 ft away, a voice spoke.
How many people did you hunt through these swamps, Tibido? How many did you drag back to be whipped or killed? How many children did you separate from their parents? Preacher’s eyes went wide.
Who’s there? Show yourself.
How many sermons did you preach while torturing human beings? the voice continued addressing preacher now.
Did you really believe God sanctioned what you did? The mud reached their shoulders.
Please, Tibido begged.
I’ll do anything.
I’ll let the girl go.
I’ll never hunt again.
Just pull us out.
You’re right, the voice said.
You’ll never hunt again.
The mud reached their necks.
Both men were screaming now.
Raw animal terror.
They clawed at the mud, at each other, fighting for every breath.
The mud reached their chins.
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” preacher gasped.
“Hallowed be thy.” The mud covered their mouths.
For another 30 seconds, their hands remained above the surface, grasping at air, at nothing, at hope that didn’t exist.
Then the hands sank beneath the black water.
The swamp was silent again.
Jonas stood in the darkness, watching the place where two men had just died.
He felt nothing.
No satisfaction, no guilt, just cold emptiness.
These men had chosen their path long ago, and paths have endings.
He turned and moved silently through the forest, heading toward where he knew the last two hunters would be.
Jacob Cole died fighting.
He was young, arrogant, and stupid enough to believe he could survive this.
When Tibido and Preacher didn’t return, when the screams echoed through the swamp, Jacob had pulled his rifle and started moving.
“We need to leave,” Henry Moss said quietly.
“We need to leave right now.” “Fuck that,” Jacob snarled.
“Someone’s out here.
One man, we’re armed.
We’ll kill him, find the girl, and collect our money.
This isn’t about money anymore, Ma said.
This is about survival.
Three men are dead, professionals, and we haven’t even seen who’s killing us.
Then let’s change that.
Jacob started making noise, deliberately, breaking branches, calling out, “Hey, you out there.
You think you’re clever? You think you’re a [ __ ] ghost? Show yourself.
Fight me like a man.” Henry Moss sighed.
He’d worked with Jacob before and always thought the kid was going to get himself killed through sheer stupidity.
Looked like tonight was the night.
I’m going back to the plantation.
Moss said, “You want to stay and die? That’s your choice.” “Coward!” Jacob spat.
Moss shrugged.
“Better alive coward than a dead hero.” He turned and started walking back the way they’d come.
Jacob watched him go, then turned and shouted into the darkness again.
Come on, I know you’re listening.
You want to protect that little slave girl.
You think you’re her hero.
I’m going to find her, and when I do, I’m going to He never finished the sentence.
Jonas came out of the darkness like a force of nature.
He had been standing less than 15 ft away the entire time, perfectly still, perfectly silent, invisible in the shadows.
When he moved, it was with explosive speed that seemed impossible for a man his size.
Jacob tried to bring his rifle up.
Jonas hit the barrel with his hand, knocking it aside.
The rifle fired into the air.
Jacob dropped the gun and pulled his knife.
The knife he was so proud of, the knife he’d used to kill two slaves.
Jonas caught his wrist.
Jacob was strong, young, fit.
He’d won dozens of fights.
But Jonas was something else entirely.
The strength in his grip was inhuman.
Jonas twisted.
Jacob’s wristbones snapped like dried twigs.
The knife fell.
Jacob screamed and tried to punch with his other hand.
Jonas caught that wrist, too.
For a moment, they stood there.
Jacob held helpless, staring up at the enormous man who had appeared from nowhere.
“You were saying something,” Jonas said quietly.
about what you were going to do to my daughter.
Please, Jacob whimpered.
Finish the sentence, Jonah said.
I want to hear it.
What were you going to do to a 13-year-old girl? Jacob was crying now.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean Yes, you did.
Men like you always mean it.
You hunt children through swamps.
You wear their teeth around your neck.
Jonas glanced at the cord of teeth.
How many? Two.
their names.
I don’t.
Jonah squeezed harder on the broken wrist.
Jacob screamed.
Their names.
Daniel and And Marcus.
Their names were Daniel and Marcus.
They tried to fight when we caught them.
I had to.
You didn’t have to do anything.
Jonas said, “You chose to.
Just like you’re choosing to die right now.” Jonas released one wrist and in a single fluid motion grabbed the knife from the ground.
Before Jacob could react, Jonas drove the blade up under his rib cage, angling toward the heart.
“Jacob gasped.
” His eyes went wide.
Blood poured from his mouth.
“Daniel and Marcus,” Jonas said softly, holding the dying man.
I didn’t know them, but they were someone’s sons, someone’s brothers, and you took them from the world.
Jacob’s legs gave out.
Jonas lowered him to the ground gently, almost kindly.
I want you to know, Jonas said, that you died for nothing.
You died because you were greedy and cruel, and in a hundred years, no one will remember your name.
Jacob Cole’s eyes went empty.
Jonas pulled the knife out, wiped it clean, and took the cord of teeth from around Jacob’s neck.
He would bury those teeth properly with a prayer for the young men they had belonged to.
Then he heard it, a gunshot far in the distance back toward the plantation.
Henry Moss was making his escape.
But Jonas had planned for that, too.
Henry Moss was the most dangerous of the five hunters because he was the smartest.
He knew when to fight and when to run.
And right now, running was the only logical choice.
He moved through the swamp quickly but carefully, using all his experience to avoid traps.
He tested every step, checked every shadow, kept his rifle ready.
He had almost reached the edge of the basin.
Almost made it back to safe territory when he saw the marks.
Fresh blazes on trees.
Marks cut into the bark pointing the way.
A clear trail.
Moss stopped.
Every instinct screamed that this was a trap.
But it was also the only way out that he could see.
The alternative routes were underwater or blocked by impenetrable undergrowth.
He had to make a choice.
trust the trail or try to forge a new path in complete darkness.
He chose the trail.
It led him to a narrow path between two massive cypress trees.
The trees were so close together that he had to turn sideways to squeeze through.
Halfway through, his foot caught on something.
A trip wire.
Moss heard the snap of the release mechanism and threw himself forward with desperate speed.
The sharpened branch swung through the space where his head had been a split second earlier, missing him by inches.
Moss hit the ground hard, rolled, came up with his rifle ready.
He was alive.
He’d avoided the trap.
“Smart,” a voice said from behind him.
Moss spun, bringing the rifle around.
Jonas was standing 15 ft away, axe in one hand, knife in the other.
In the moonlight, he looked even larger than he was, a giant from a nightmare.
“You’re the first one to avoid a trap,” Jonas said conversationally.
The others walked right into them.
“You’re different, professional.
I don’t want trouble,” Moss said, keeping the rifle pointed at Jonas’s chest.
“I’m leaving.
The girl can go.
The job’s done.
I just want to walk away.
I can’t allow that.
Why not? I haven’t hurt anyone.
Not tonight, Jonas said.
But in your life.
How many? Henry Moss.
Moss was quiet for a moment.
Then surprisingly, he smiled.
It wasn’t a happy smile.
You know my name.
You’ve been following us, watching, planning.
I asked you a question.
How many? I stopped counting at 50, Moss admitted.
Probably over a hundred by now.
Men, women, children? I brought them all back.
I told myself it was just a job, just business.
But you and I both know that’s [ __ ] He looked Jonas in the eye.
I’ve been doing this for 15 years.
And you know what I learned? This system we live in, slavery, brutality, treating human beings like property.
It makes monsters of all of us.
Black, white, doesn’t matter.
It corrupts everything it touches.
Then why keep doing it? Because I’m good at it.
Because it pays.
Because Moss’ voice dropped.
Because I stopped feeling things a long time ago.
Guilt, remorse, empathy.
They all just went away.
And without them, there’s only survival and money.
Is that supposed to make me pity you? No.
I’m explaining why I’m going to kill you.
Moss pulled the trigger.
The rifle misfired.
In the damp environment of the swamp, gunpowder absorbed moisture.
Misfires were common.
Moss knew this.
He had prepared for it.
He dropped the rifle and pulled two pistols from his belt.
These had been kept dry, but Jonas was already moving.
For a man of his size, Jonas moved with terrifying speed.
He closed the 15- ft gap in less than 2 seconds, swinging his ax in a horizontal arc.
Moss got one shot off.
The bullet caught Jonas in the left side, tearing through muscle just below the ribs.
Jonas didn’t slow down.
The ax blade caught Moss in the shoulder, biting deep, shattering the clavicle.
Moss screamed and dropped the pistols.
Jonas ripped the ax free and swung again.
This time, Henry Moss didn’t scream.
The blade hit him in the neck, severing the corroted artery.
Blood sprayed in an arterial fountain.
Moss fell to his knees, hands grasping at his throat, trying uselessly to stop the bleeding.
He looked up at Jonas with eyes that were calm, almost curious.
“What’s her name?” Moss gasped.
“The girl you’re protecting.” “Lydia,” Jonas said.
Moss smiled, blood running between his teeth.
“Pretty name.
You’re a good father.
” Then he fell forward and died.
Jonas stood there for a moment, breathing hard, blood running down his side from the bullet wound.
It hurt, but it wasn’t fatal.
He’d had worse.
He looked down at Henry Moss’s body and felt for just a moment something like sadness.
This man could have been different, could have chosen a different path, but he hadn’t.
None of them had.
Jonas cleaned his weapons, checked his wound, painful but manageable, and started walking back toward the cabin.
By dawn, all five hunters were dead, and Jonas had a daughter to protect.
Lydia hadn’t slept all night.
She had heard the screams, the gunshot, the terrible silences in between.
When the cabin door opened just after dawn, she had the knife ready, gripped in shaking hands.
But it was Jonas, bleeding, exhausted, but alive.
They’re gone, he said simply.
All of them.
Lydia lowered the knife.
You killed them? Yes.
All five? Yes.
Lydia should have been horrified.
Should have been afraid of this man who had just killed five people in a single night.
But all she felt was safe.
For the first time in her entire life, someone had fought for her, protected her, chosen her survival over everything else.
Jonas sat down heavily, wincing at the bullet wound.
We need to leave soon.
When those men don’t return, Belmont will send more.
Maybe soldiers.
We need to be far away from here.
Where will we go? North.
There are Union forces in New Orleans now, about a 100 miles from here.
The city fell to the Navy in April.
If we can reach Union lines, you’ll be free.
Legally free.
The Emancipation Proclamation.
Will you come with me? Jonas was quiet for a long moment.
I’ve killed men.
A lot of men if I’m honest.
The war might be changing things, but the law might still see me as a murderer, a fugitive.
You’re my father, Lydia said firmly.
Mama loved you and I I just found you.
I can’t lose you now.
Jonas’s eyes glistened.
He reached out and pulled Lydia into a careful hug.
Careful because he was injured because he was covered in blood and dirt because he had never held his daughter before and wasn’t sure how.
But Lydia hugged him back fiercely.
“I spent 13 years as a slave,” she said.
13 years being told I was property, that I was nothing.
But Mama told me stories about you.
She said you were strong and brave.
She said if I ever needed you, you would come.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.
You’re here now.
That’s what matters.
They stayed like that for a while.
Father and daughter reunited over the bodies of men who had tried to tear them apart.
Finally, Jonah stood.
We’ll rest today.
I need to treat this wound and gather supplies.
Tomorrow before dawn, we start north.
It won’t be easy.
Nothing in my life has been easy, Lydia said.
But this time, I won’t be alone.
Jonas smiled.
The first real smile Lydia had seen from him.
No, he agreed.
This time you have family.
The Union Army occupation of New Orleans had turned the city into a haven for escaped slaves.
Thousands poured in from across Louisiana seeking freedom under the protection of federal troops.
Among them were a giant of a man and a 13-year-old girl who looked like she’d walked through hell but refused to be broken by it.
Jonas and Lydia registered with the Union authorities as free persons.
Jonas enlisted in one of the Cordre units, black regiments being formed to fight for the Union.
His skills as a tracker and hunter made him immediately valuable for scouting and reconnaissance.
Lydia was placed in a school for freed children run by northern abolitionists.
She learned to read and write properly.
She learned mathematics and history.
She learned that she was more than property.
When people asked about the scars on Jonas’s body or about the hard look in his eyes, he would simply say, “I did things I’m not proud of, but I’m trying to be better for my daughter.
” When people asked Lydia about her father, she would say, “He saved my life, and he’s the strongest man I know.” In late 1862, stories began to circulate about a plantation in Louisiana where five slave catchers had disappeared.
The official report said they had gotten lost in the swamp and died from natural causes, quicksand, alligators, accidents.
But the slaves whispered a different story.
They talked about a giant in the forest who protected runaways.
They called him the ghost of the Achafallayia.
They said if you were running and needed help, you could find marks on the trees that would lead you to safety.
Jonas never confirmed or denied these stories.
But on quiet nights when he thought Lydia was asleep, he would slip out of their small room in the freed men’s quarter and disappear into the darkness.
And sometimes runaway slaves would appear in New Orleans with stories about a giant man who had helped them escape, who had killed their pursuers, who had told them, “No one will ever own you again.
” The war would continue for three more years.
Jonas would fight in multiple battles, earn commendations for bravery, and survive wounds that should have killed him.
Lydia would grow up to become a teacher, dedicating her life to educating freed children throughout the South.
And on quiet evenings, father and daughter would sit together, and Lydia would ask, “Tell me about Mamar.
” And Jonas would tell her everything about Sarah’s strength, her intelligence, her love, her sacrifice.
and he would end every story the same way.
She loved you more than anything in this world, and she would be so proud of the woman you’re becoming.
In 1865, when the war ended and the 13th Amendment was ratified, abolishing slavery throughout the United States, Jonas and Lydia stood together in the streets of New Orleans with thousands of other freed people, celebrating freedom.
“We made it,” Lydia said, holding her father’s hand.
We did, Jonas agreed.
Thanks to your mother’s courage and your strength, we made it to the other side.
What happens now? Jonas looked at his daughter, 17 years old now, educated, free, with an entire life ahead of her that she could choose for herself.
Now, he said, we live, really live, not survive, not endure, live.
and they did.
Historical note, this story is fiction, but it reflects real dynamics of the slavery era.
The Achafallayia basin was indeed a place where runaways could disappear.
Escaped slaves did hide in swamps and forests, using knowledge of the terrain to evade capture.
Some did fight back against their pursuers, though these stories were often suppressed or distorted.
The Cordreak was a real organization.
Nearly 24,000 black men from Louisiana enlisted to fight for the Union.
Many had been slaves mere months before taking up arms.
The violence in this story is harsh.
But it’s important to remember that the violence of slavery itself was far worse and lasted for centuries.
For every Jonas who fought back, there were thousands who suffered in silence.
Their names are mostly lost to history, but their strength echoes forward to us today.
