"With eyes cast downward, each man feels the fear and strain of anticipation. All but one. He stands erect. His eyes remain forward and unblinking. The officer stands before each black man, asking their names and from whence they came. He comes to the last man.
“What do they call you?” the officer asks.
“Tye,” the man answers.
“That is all? Nothing more?”
“It is all I care to keep.”
“Where are you from?”
“Does it matter?” the man asks, his voice rich and unwavering.
The officer stares long into the face of the runaway slave. He slowly nods before moving to stand beside his sergeant.
“A shabby lot as any I seen,” the sergeant offers in a thick Scottish accent.
“Aye,” the lieutenant says, “that they are.” He turns and looks once more at the one who calls himself Tye. “But not that one. There is a fire in his eyes that speaks the desire in his heart. And I dare say we shall see the results when he is given a musket.” He faces his sergeant. “Show them their bunks. I must delay no longer if I hope to sup with Major Leslie.”".........see full story by Harry Schenawolf