close my eyes for a few seconds and imagine how the chirping of birds must have clashed with the whistle of the whip and the dull sound of flesh being torn from bone. How the odor of sweat and blood must have blended with the heavy aroma of orange blossoms and magnolia flowers. How the plantation owner’s wife and daughters must have trained themselves to shut out the sounds of suffering around them. How they must have sat with their embroidery, chatting about weekend trips to New Orleans or gossiping about the neighbors, their voices growing louder and louder each time the whip cracked in the
...more
