Quame spent three days burying the dead. 17 people from his village were gone. 12 more were killed during the raid.

He dug graves in the red clay soil near the baobab trees where the elders used to meet.

His hands bled. He didn’t stop.

On the fourth day, he walked to the mangrove swamps. He needed wood, strong wood, the kind that could survive an ocean crossing.

He chose African mahogany and mangrove roots. He cut the trees down with an axe he’d made himself years ago.

Each swing reminded him why he was doing this.

His friend Yor found him on the fifth day. Yor was from a neighboring village that the slavers had missed.

He watched Quame work for an hour before speaking.

“You’re building a boat,” Yor said.

Quame nodded.

“To cross the ocean.”

Another nod.

“You’ll die out there.”

Quame kept cutting.

“Maybe, but I’ll die trying to find them. That’s better than dying here doing nothing.”

Yor helped him carry the wood back to the beach. Other survivors joined them. They thought Quame was crazy, but they understood. Any one of them would have done the same thing if they had his courage or his rage.

The boat took 3 weeks to build. It was 15 ft long, narrow with a single sail made from old fishing nets stitched together. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even good, but it would float. Quame loaded it with everything he could carry. Clay pots for collecting rainwater, dried fish, smoked meat, a knife, rope. He tied a wooden box to the center of the boat. Inside the box was a small drawing his daughter Adoa had made, stick figures of their family holding hands. He’d found it in the remains of their hut. It was the only thing that survived the fire.

Yor stood on the beach the morning Quame left.

“The ocean is 4,000 miles wide,” he said. “You don’t have maps. You don’t have a compass. You don’t know where you’re going.”

Quame pushed the boat toward the water.

“West. The ship went west. That’s where America is.”

Yor shook his head.

“You’ll starve.”

Quame climbed into the boat.

“I’ll fish.”

The waves were starting to catch the hull.

“You’ll get lost.”

Quame raised the sail.

“I’ll follow the sun.”

Yor grabbed the side of the boat one last time.

“You’ll die alone in the middle of the ocean and no one will ever know what happened to you.”

Quame looked at his friend. His eyes were dry. He’d cried all his tears already.

“Then I’ll die knowing I tried.”

Quame let go of the boat.

“Yor.”

Yor let go.

The wind caught the sail. The boat moved away from shore. Quame didn’t look back. If he looked back, he might change his mind. If he changed his mind, he’d never forgive himself.

The first week was the hardest. Quame had been a fisherman his whole life, but he’d never been out of sight of land before. On the third day, the coast of Africa disappeared behind him. There was nothing but water in every direction. Blue water above, darker blue water below. The horizon was a perfect circle. He was at the center of it completely alone.

He sailed west by watching the sun. In the morning, he kept the sun behind him. At noon, he adjusted his sail to keep moving in the same direction. In the evening, he sailed toward where the sun was setting. At night, he used the stars. His father had taught him the constellations when he was young. He found the ones that pointed west and followed them.

The food ran out after 12 days. The dried fish went first, then the smoked meat. He tried to ration it, but he was burning energy, fighting the sail and bailing water. The boat leaked, not badly, but enough that he had to scoop water out every few hours. His hands developed blisters. The blisters popped and became infected. He wrapped them in strips of cloth torn from his shirt.

He caught his first fish on day 14, a small tuna. He killed it with his knife and ate it raw. The taste made him gag, but he forced it down. He needed the protein. He needed the strength. He saved the guts and used them as bait. He caught three more fish over the next week. It wasn’t enough food, but it kept him alive.

The water was worse than the food. Rain was unpredictable. Sometimes it rained for hours. Sometimes it didn’t rain for days. He collected every drop he could in his clay pots. When the pots were empty, he drank sea water. He knew it was dangerous. Sea water makes you crazy. It dehydrates you. But sometimes it was sea water or nothing. He chose sea water.

On day 19, he saw a ship. It was far away, just a dot on the horizon. But he saw the sails. His heart jumped. He stood up in his boat and waved his arms. He shouted. The ship didn’t change course. It was too far away. They couldn’t see him or they saw him and didn’t care. A single African man in a tiny boat wasn’t worth stopping for. He watched the ship disappear. He sat down. He didn’t cry. He was past crying. He picked up his fishing line and went back to work.

The hallucinations started on day 23. He saw his daughter Adoa sitting in the front of the boat. She was smiling. She was wearing the yellow dress his wife had made for her sixth birthday.

“Papa,” she said, “I’m thirsty.”

He tried to give her water, but when he reached for her, she disappeared. He blinked. He was alone again. Just him and the ocean.

The hallucinations got worse. He saw his wife, Amma, standing on the water. She was walking toward him. Her feet didn’t sink. She moved like she was walking on solid ground.

“Come home,” she said. “You’re going to die out here.”

He knew she wasn’t real. He knew it was his brain playing tricks on him. But she looked so real. He could see the scar on her left hand from when she’d cut herself preparing yams. He could see the way her hair curled near her temples.

“I can’t come home,” he told the hallucination. “You’re not there. You’re in America. I’m coming to find you.”

The hallucination of Amma shook her head. “You’re chasing ghosts. We’re already dead.”

Quame closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone.

A storm hit on day 28. He saw it coming from miles away. A black wall of clouds moving across the water. He’d been through storms before, but never in a boat this small, never this far from land. He lowered the sail and tied everything down. Then he waited.

The storm lasted 6 hours. The waves were 15 ft high. His boat climbed up one side, balanced on the crest, then crashed down the other side. Water poured over the sides. He bailed constantly, scooping water with his hands, with his pots, with anything he could use. The wind screamed. The rain hit his face like needles. Lightning cracked across the sky close enough that he could smell the ozone. He thought he was going to die.

The boat flipped twice. Both times he managed to right it before it sank completely. His rope snapped. His sail tore. The wooden box with his daughter’s drawing came loose and slid toward the edge of the boat. He grabbed it just before a wave could take it. He held it against his chest while the storm tried to kill him.

When the storm finally passed, Quame was lying in the bottom of the boat in 4 inches of water. Everything hurt. His ribs felt cracked. His hands were bleeding again, but he was alive. The boat was still floating. The box with the drawing was safe. He sat up slowly. The sky was clear. The sun was out. He had no idea if he was still going west. The storm had spun him around so many times that he’d lost his bearings. He looked at the sun. It was afternoon. He adjusted his torn sail and started moving again.

On day 31, he saw birds, pelicans, big brown birds with huge beaks. They were flying east, which meant they’d come from the west, which meant there was land to the west. His heart beat faster. He’d made it. He was close to America.

Two days later, he saw land, a thin line of green on the horizon, trees, beach, solid ground. He’d crossed the Atlantic Ocean, 4,500 miles in a 15 ft boat with no compass, no maps, and no real plan. He’d done what everyone said was impossible. He landed on a beach in South Carolina. He didn’t know it was South Carolina yet. He didn’t know anything except that his boat was touching sand and he could stop sailing.

He climbed out of the boat and collapsed on the beach. His legs didn’t work. He’d been sitting in the same position for 33 days. His muscles had forgotten how to walk. He lay there for an hour, maybe longer. The sun was hot on his back. The sand was warm. He could hear waves breaking. He could hear birds. After a month of nothing but ocean sounds, normal sounds felt strange.

When he finally stood up, he saw them. Three men walking down the beach toward him. They were black. Free black men, he realized later. They stopped about 20 ft away and stared at him. He must have looked like hell. Skinny, sunburned, skin peeling off his face and arms, clothes in rags. One of the men said something in English. Quame didn’t understand. He spoke Susu, the language of his people. These men spoke English. They stared at each other. Quame tried to explain using gestures. He pointed at his boat. He pointed west back toward Africa. He made a motion like a ship sailing. He pointed at himself, then made a gesture like chains around his wrists.

The men’s faces changed. They understood. This man had come from Africa. This man was looking for enslaved people. This man had crossed the ocean. One of the men, older with gray hair, stepped forward. He spoke slowly using simple words and gestures.

“You from Africa?” He pointed east.

Quame nodded.

“You looking family?” He made a gesture like holding a child.

Quame nodded again more urgently.

The old man’s face was sad. “Many slaves here. Sold plantations.” He pointed inland. “Charleston.” He pointed north up the coast. “Ships come every week. Africa to Charleston. Slaves sold sent south. Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia.”

Quame understood maybe one word in three, but he got the message. His family had been brought here. They’d been sold. They could be anywhere.

The old man, whose name was Samuel, led him to a small settlement of free black people about a mile inland. There were maybe 20 families living there. They gave him food. Real food, cornbread, beans, pork. He ate slowly. His stomach had shrunk. Too much food too fast would make him sick. They gave him water. Clean water from a well. He drank until his stomach hurt. They gave him a place to sleep, a real bed with a blanket. He lay down and closed his eyes. For the first time in 33 days, he wasn’t in a boat. He wasn’t surrounded by water. He was on land. He was in America. He’d done the impossible part. Now came the harder part. Finding his family in a country of 4 million enslaved people spread across a thousand miles of plantations, farms, and cities.

Samuel sat with him that evening. Samuel spoke slowly, using his hands to help explain. Quame was starting to understand a few English words. Wife meant Amma. Children meant Kofi and Adoa. Sold meant they’d been taken somewhere. Plantation meant the farms where enslaved people worked. Samuel explained that ships from Africa usually landed in Charleston. The enslaved people were sold at markets. Some stayed in South Carolina. Most were sold south to bigger plantations in Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi. Cotton plantations, sugar plantations, places that needed hundreds of workers.

Samuel asked when Quame’s family was taken. Quame held up three fingers then pointed at the moon. Three moons ago. 3 months. Samuel’s face fell. 3 months. They could be anywhere. Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, sold many times. Quame didn’t care. 3 months. 3 years. Three decades. It didn’t matter. He would search until he found them or until he died trying.

Samuel introduced him to others in the community. There was a woman named Ruth who’d been enslaved on a plantation near Charleston. She’d escaped 5 years ago. She knew how the system worked. She explained that slave ships kept records, names, ages, where people came from in Africa, where they were sold in America. The records were kept in Charleston at the slave markets. If Quame wanted to find his family, he needed to see those records. But there was a problem. The records were kept by white men who ran the slave markets. They wouldn’t just hand them over to an African man who couldn’t speak English. Quame would need help. He would need someone who could read, someone who could talk to white people without raising suspicion, someone who knew how the system worked.

Ruth knew someone, a free black man named Marcus, who worked as a carpenter in Charleston. Marcus could read and write. He taught himself using a Bible he’d stolen from his former master. Marcus sometimes did work at the slave markets, building pens and auction blocks. He had access. He could look at the records.

Samuel and Ruth took Quame to Charleston. It was the first city he’d ever seen. Buildings three stories tall. Cobblestone streets, carriages, hundreds of people. The noise was overwhelming. People shouting, horses, church bells. It smelled like smoke and sewage and salt water. They found Marcus in a workshop near the docks. Marcus was a big man, over 6 ft tall with carpenter’s hands scarred from years of work. Samuel explained the situation.

Marcus looked at Quame for a long time.

“You cross the ocean,” Marcus said. “In that little boat I saw on the beach.”

Quame nodded.

Marcus shook his head slowly. “That’s either the bravest thing I’ve ever heard or the craziest. Maybe both.”

Marcus agreed to help. But he warned Quame. “If your family came through Charleston 3 months ago, they’re long gone. Probably sold to a plantation somewhere in the deep south, Alabama, Mississippi. Those are bad places. Really bad. Worse than here. You go looking for them, you might end up enslaved yourself or dead.”

Quame didn’t care about the danger. He’d crossed an ocean. He’d survived storms and starvation and hallucinations. He wasn’t going to stop now.

Marcus saw the determination in his eyes.

“All right,” Marcus said. “I’ll help you, but you need to learn some English first. Basic words. Yes. No. Please. Thank you. You need to understand what people are saying. You need to be able to ask questions.”

For the next two weeks, Quame stayed with Samuel’s community. During the day, Ruth and Samuel taught him English. Basic words, simple sentences. Where is my wife? Have you seen this woman? I am looking for my children. His accent was thick. His grammar was terrible. But he could communicate. That was enough. At night, Marcus went to the slave markets. He worked late repairing auction blocks, pretending to focus on his carpentry while actually reading through sales records. He was looking for a woman named Amma and two children named Kofi and Adoa who’d arrived from Guinea around 3 months ago.

He found them on the 12th night. A record dated April 1851. The ship ‘Charleston Belle’ had arrived from West Africa. Cargo: 73 enslaved Africans. Among them, one woman approximately 30 years old from the Nunez River region. Two children, boy age 8, girl age 6. Purchased by a slave trader named William Hutchkins. Destination: Mobile, Alabama.

Marcus told Quame the next morning. Alabama. Mobile, Alabama. That’s where his family had been taken. That’s where the trail led. Quame felt something loosen in his chest. After 3 months of not knowing, he finally had an answer. They were alive. At least they’d been alive 3 months ago. That was enough. That gave him hope.

But Alabama was 500 miles away. 500 miles of slave territory, 500 miles of plantations and patrols and slave catchers. Just walking there, he’d be captured in a day. He was an African man who barely spoke English, traveling alone through the South in 1851. He might as well wear a sign that said ‘escaped slave’. He needed a plan. Samuel, Ruth, and Marcus helped him. There were routes. Secret routes used by escaped slaves trying to reach the north. The Underground Railroad, they called it. It wasn’t actually a railroad. It was a network of safe houses, secret paths, and people willing to help. The routes usually went north toward freedom. But some routes went south, too. Slave catchers moved south. Traders moved south. If you knew the right people and the right paths, you could travel south without getting caught.

Ruth knew a conductor. That’s what they called the people who guided escaped slaves along the Underground Railroad. His name was Elijah. He was an older black man who’d escaped slavery in Georgia 20 years ago. He’d spent the last two decades helping others escape. He knew every backroad, every safe house, every friendly face between South Carolina and Louisiana. If anyone could get Quame to Alabama safely, it was Elijah.

They found Elijah in a barn outside Charleston. He was hiding three runaways who were heading north to Philadelphia. When Samuel explained Quame’s situation, Elijah laughed. Not a happy laugh, a tired laugh.

“Man crosses the ocean from Africa. Now he wants to go to Alabama into the heart of slave country to look for his family.” He shook his head. “Brother, you’ve got more courage than sense.”

But Elijah agreed to help. He knew people in Alabama, conductors, free black communities, white abolitionists who hated slavery. He could get Quame there safely. But it would take time, maybe a month, maybe longer, and there was no guarantee Quame would find his family once he got there. Mobile was a big city. Slaves were sold and resold constantly. His wife and children could be on any plantation within a 100 miles. Quame didn’t care about the odds. He’d already beaten impossible odds. He’d do it again.

Elijah looked at him and saw something he recognized. The same determination he’d seen in every person who’d escaped slavery. The same refusal to accept defeat.

“All right,” Elijah said. “We leave tomorrow night. Pack light, walk quiet, do exactly what I say. You don’t follow instructions, you’ll get us both killed.”

They left Charleston two nights later. Elijah led the way. They traveled at night and slept during the day. They stayed off main roads. They walked through swamps, forests, and fields. They avoided towns. They avoided white people. They avoided slave patrols. Elijah knew which farms had sympathetic owners and which ones would turn them in. He knew which rivers could be crossed and which ones were too heavily watched. He knew where to find food and where to find shelter. The journey to Alabama took 6 weeks. They walked nearly 500 miles. Quame’s feet bled. His legs ached. He was exhausted. But he kept moving. Every step brought him closer to his family.

They reached Mobile in early July. The city was bigger than Charleston. More buildings, more people, more slaves. The slave market was in the center of town, a large brick building where hundreds of people were bought and sold every week. Elijah had contacts in Mobile, free black men and women who lived in a settlement on the edge of town. They welcomed Quame and Elijah. They fed them. They gave them a place to rest. And they told them what they knew about William Hutchkins, the slave trader who’d bought Quame’s family 3 months ago. Hutchkins was one of the biggest slave traders in Alabama. He bought slaves in Mobile and sold them to plantations all over the state. He kept detailed records. Everything was written down, names, ages, physical descriptions, where they came from, where they were sold. But getting access to those records was nearly impossible. Hutchkins didn’t trust anyone. He kept the records locked in his office and his office was in his house, a large mansion on the north side of Mobile. Breaking in would be suicide.

But Elijah had an idea. Hutchkins employed several free black men as laborers. They loaded and unloaded cargo at the docks. They cleaned his office. They ran errands. One of them, a man named Isaiah, had worked for Hutchkins for 5 years. Isaiah hated Hutchkins. Everyone who worked for Hutchkins hated him, but they needed the money. Isaiah agreed to help. He would sneak into Hutchkins’ office late at night when Hutchkins was asleep. He would look through the records. He would find out what happened to Amma, Kofi, and Adoa.

It took Isaiah three nights to find the information. On the third night, he came back with answers. Amma and the two children had been purchased by Hutchkins in April. They’d been held in Mobile for 2 weeks. Then they’d been sold, but they hadn’t been sold together. The children had been sold to a plantation owner named Thomas Crawford. Crawford owned a cotton plantation about 60 miles north of Mobile near a town called Demopolis. Amma had been sold separately to a different owner, a man named Robert Whitfield, who owned a smaller farm near the Tombigbee River about 40 miles northwest of Mobile.

Quame felt his stomach drop. They’d been separated. His children were in one place, his wife was in another. He couldn’t save them both at the same time. He would have to choose. He would have to decide who to rescue first.

Elijah saw the look on his face. “We’ll get them all,” Elijah said. “But we have to be smart. We can’t just rush in. We need a plan.”

Quame nodded. He’d come 4,000 miles. He’d crossed an ocean. He’d walked 500 miles through enemy territory. He wasn’t going to fail now. He would rescue his wife. He would rescue his children. And then he would find Captain James Crowley and make him pay for everything he’d done.

They spent the next week preparing. Elijah contacted his network in Alabama. There were conductors near Demopolis. There were safe houses along the Tombigbee River. There were people who would help, but rescuing three people from two different plantations was dangerous. It would require timing. It would require luck. And it would require Quame to do things he’d never done before. He would have to lie. He would have to steal. He might have to kill. Elijah looked at him. Are you ready for this? Quame thought about his family. He thought about everything they’d been through. He thought about Captain Crowley and the slavers who destroyed his village.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m ready.”

They decided to go after Amma first. Robert Whitfield’s farm was closer than the Crawford plantation, and according to Isaiah’s sources, Whitfield only had about 20 enslaved workers. Crawford had over 200. Smaller numbers meant fewer guards, fewer dogs, and a better chance of getting in and out without being caught.

Elijah explained the plan. They would approach the Whitfield farm at night. They would locate Amma. They would get her out. Then they would head north to Demopolis and rescue the children. Simple. Except nothing about rescuing enslaved people from armed white men in Alabama was ever simple.

They left Mobile on a Saturday night. Elijah, Quame, and two other men from the free black settlement. One was named Jacob, a former field hand who’d escaped from Mississippi. The other was Daniel, younger, maybe 20 years old, who’d been born free, but had family still enslaved in Alabama. They traveled on foot, staying off roads, moving through pine forests and along creek beds. The journey to Whitfield’s farm took 2 days. They arrived on Monday night, just after midnight. The farm sat in a clearing surrounded by cotton fields. There was a main house, white with columns, typical plantation style. Behind it were several smaller buildings, slave quarters, a barn, a storage shed. Everything was dark except for one lamp burning in the main house.

They watched from the tree line for over an hour. Elijah was counting guards, looking for dogs, checking exit routes. Finally, he turned to Quame.

“The quarters are behind the main house. That long building with the tin roof, that’s where your wife will be. We need to get in there, find her, and get out before anyone notices. You speak any Susu?”

Quame nodded.

“Good. When we find her, you talk to her. You calm her down because when she sees you, she’s going to want to scream or cry or something loud. We can’t have loud.”

They moved in. Jacob and Daniel stayed at the tree line as lookouts. Elijah and Quame crept across the cotton field toward the slave quarters. The building was long and low, maybe 60 ft from end to end. No windows, one door. They reached the door. Elijah tried the handle. Locked. He pulled out a thin piece of metal and worked the lock. It clicked open. They slipped inside.

The smell hit them immediately. Sweat, unwashed bodies, sickness. 20 people were crammed into a space meant for 10. They slept on wooden platforms along both walls. Some had thin blankets, most didn’t. A few people stirred as Quame and Elijah entered, but no one spoke. In a place like this, you learned not to ask questions.

Quame moved down the center of the room, looking at faces. Most were turned away. Some were covered by blankets.

“Amma,” he whispered in Susu. “Amma, are you here?”

“Nothing.

“Amma,” he whispered louder. “It’s Quame. I’m here.”

A woman at the far end of the room sat up. She was thin, thinner than Quame remembered. Her hair was cut short. Her face was marked with scars that hadn’t been there before. But it was her. It was Amma. She stared at him like he was a ghost. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Quame moved quickly to her side. He knelt down and put his hand over her mouth gently.

“It’s me,” he said in Susu. “I’m real. I’m here. But you can’t make noise. We’re leaving right now.”

Amma’s eyes filled with tears. She grabbed his face with both hands, feeling his skin, making sure he was real. Then she whispered so quietly he almost couldn’t hear.

“You’re dead. They said you were dead.”

Quame shook his head. “I’m not dead. I came for you. I crossed the ocean. I found you. Now we’re leaving.”

Amma looked around at the other enslaved people in the room. Some were awake now watching. “What about them?”

Quame felt his chest tighten. He wanted to save everyone, but he couldn’t. Not tonight.

“We can’t take everyone, just you. Come on.”

They moved toward the door. Elijah was already outside checking the path back to the tree line. Amma was weak. She’d been working in the fields for 3 months, picking cotton from sunrise to sunset. Her hands were cut up. Her back hurt, but she moved as fast as she could. They were halfway across the cotton field when a dog started barking. Then another, then a third. Lights came on in the main house. Someone shouted.

“Run!” Elijah said.

They ran. Quame held Amma’s hand, pulling her along. She was stumbling, her legs not used to running. Behind them, more shouting. The front door of the main house opened. A man came out holding a shotgun. He fired into the air.

“Stop right there!”

They didn’t stop. They reached the tree line. Jacob and Daniel were waiting.

“Go, go, go!”

Elijah pushed them forward into the forest. They ran through the darkness, branches hitting their faces, roots trying to trip them. Behind them, more gunshots, more shouting, dogs barking. The slave catchers were coming. Whitfield would send men after them, possibly a whole group. Escaped slaves meant lost property. Lost property meant lost money. Men like Whitfield would hunt them for days.

They ran for 3 hours straight. Amma collapsed twice. Both times Quame picked her up and carried her. She was light, too light. She hadn’t been eating enough. Nobody on that plantation ate enough. By the time the sun started to rise, they’d put maybe 10 miles between themselves and Whitfield’s farm. Elijah found a hiding spot, a depression in the ground surrounded by thick brush. They climbed in and covered themselves with leaves and branches.

“We stay here today,” Elijah whispered. “We don’t move. We don’t talk. We don’t make a sound. Slave catchers will be looking for us. If they find us, we’re dead.”

They lay there all day. Quame held Amma. She was shaking. Not from cold, from everything. From three months of hell, from seeing her husband who she thought was dead, from running for her life. She whispered to him in Susu, “How did you find me?”

He told her everything. The boat, the ocean crossing, Charleston, Mobile, the records. She listened with her eyes closed, tears running down her face.

“The children,” she whispered. “Where are Kofi and Adoa?”

Quame squeezed her hand. “I know where they are. We’re going to get them. I promise.”

That night they started moving again north toward Demopolis. Elijah said it would take 4 days to reach the Crawford plantation. 4 days of walking at night, hiding during the day, avoiding roads, avoiding people, avoiding slave catchers. Amma was slowing them down. She tried not to. She pushed herself as hard as she could. But three months of brutal work had taken everything out of her. On the second night, she could barely walk. Quame carried her on his back. Jacob and Daniel took turns helping. By the third night, she was better. She’d eaten some food. She’d drunk clean water. Her strength was coming back.

They reached Demopolis on the fourth night. The town was small, maybe a thousand people. Half of them were enslaved. The Crawford plantation was 5 miles east of town, sitting on the banks of the Tombigbee River. It was one of the biggest plantations in the area, 2,000 acres of cotton, over 200 enslaved workers. A private militia of overseers and guards. Breaking into Whitfield’s farm had been risky. Breaking into Crawford’s plantation was borderline suicidal.

But Elijah had a contact in Demopolis, a white man named Richard Hayes. Hayes was a Quaker. He hated slavery. He’d been helping escaped slaves for 15 years. He had maps of the Crawford plantation. He knew which buildings were which. He knew where the children were kept.

They met Hayes in a barn outside town. He was a thin man, maybe 50 years old, with gray hair and tired eyes. He looked at Quame.

“You’re the one who crossed the ocean.” It wasn’t a question. Word had spread. The story of an African man who sailed across the Atlantic to find his family was traveling through the Underground Railroad network. People thought it was inspiring or crazy. Maybe both.

Hayes spread a hand-drawn map on the floor of the barn. “Crawford keeps the children separate from the adults here.” He pointed to a building on the east side of the plantation. “It’s a dormitory, maybe 40 children, ages 5 to 12. They work in the fields during the day. At night, they’re locked in this building. Two guards, sometimes three.”

Quame studied the map. “How do we get in?”

Hayes shook his head. “You don’t. Not without getting caught. Crawford has patrols. He has dogs. He has men with guns watching every corner of that plantation. You go in there, you’re not coming out.”

Elijah leaned forward. “There has to be a way.”

Hayes was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “There’s one way, but it’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Crawford sends work crews out every morning. Groups of 20 or 30 slaves. They work different fields. If your children are in one of those crews, you could intercept them on the road. Hit fast. Take the children. Run before the overseers can organize a response.”

Quame looked at the map again. “Which crew would they be in?”

Hayes pointed to a spot on the map. “Crawford has a cotton field about 2 miles from the main plantation. He sends a crew there every morning, mostly children. They’re small. Good for picking cotton in tight spaces. If your kids are anywhere, they’re in that crew.”

It wasn’t a perfect plan. It wasn’t even a good plan, but it was the only plan they had. Quame looked at Elijah. “When do we do this?”

Elijah looked at Hayes. Hayes said, “Tomorrow morning. The crew leaves at dawn. You’ll have maybe a 10-minute window. After that, Crawford will send every man he has after you.”

They spent the rest of the night preparing. Hayes gave them supplies, food, water, a pistol with six bullets, a knife, rope. He also gave them directions to the nearest safe house. A cabin 20 miles north run by a free black family. If they could reach that cabin, they’d have a place to hide while Crawford’s men searched for them. It was a long shot. But everything about this rescue was a long shot. Quame checked the pistol. He’d never fired a gun before. Hayes showed him how. Point. Pull the trigger. Try not to shoot yourself. Quame nodded. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but if he did, he would.

They left the barn before sunrise. Hayes led them to a spot on the road between the Crawford plantation and the cotton field. It was a narrow dirt road surrounded by trees. Good cover, good visibility. They could see anyone coming from either direction. They hid in the brush and waited. The sun came up. An hour passed, then another. Quame was starting to think the crew wasn’t coming. Then he heard voices, children’s voices. He looked at Elijah. Elijah nodded. That’s them.

The work crew came into view. About 30 children walking in two lines, ages 5 to 12, just like Hayes said. They were thin, exhausted. Most were barefoot. Two white overseers walked alongside them on horses. Both carried whips. Both had pistols on their belts. Quame scanned the faces of the children looking for Kofi and Adoa. He didn’t see them at first. Then he did. Near the back of the group. Kofi was taller than Quame remembered. 8 years old now. His head was shaved. His clothes were rags. Adoa was next to him holding his hand. 6 years old. She looked so small, so fragile. Quame felt something break inside him. His children, his babies, working like animals.

Elijah whispered, “On my signal.”

He waited until the crew was right in front of them. Then he stood up and fired his pistol into the air. The horses spooked. The overseers shouted and reached for their guns. Jacob and Daniel rushed out of the brush. Jacob grabbed one overseer and pulled him off his horse. Daniel tackled the other. Both overseers hit the ground hard. The children scattered, screaming and running in every direction.

Quame ran toward Kofi and Adoa. They didn’t recognize him at first. He was just another adult grabbing them. Kofi tried to pull away. Quame grabbed his face.

“Kofi, it’s me. It’s Papa.”

Kofi’s eyes went wide. “Papa?” His voice cracked.

Quame grabbed both children and pulled them close. “It’s me. I’m here. We’re leaving right now.”

Adoa started crying. Not scared crying. Relief crying. Quame picked her up. She was so light, lighter than she should be. He grabbed Kofi’s hand. “Run.”

They ran back toward the trees. Behind them, one of the overseers had recovered his pistol. He fired. The bullet hit a tree next to Quame’s head. Elijah fired back. His shot hit the overseer in the shoulder. The man went down screaming.

They ran into the forest. Amma was waiting there. When she saw the children, she collapsed to her knees. Kofi and Adoa saw her and started crying.

“Mama!”

They ran to her. For a moment, they were all together holding each other crying. Quame wanted to stay in that moment forever. But they didn’t have forever. They had maybe 5 minutes before every armed man on the Crawford plantation came after them.

“We have to go,” Elijah said. “Now.”

They ran north. Quame carried Adoa. Amma held Kofi’s hand. Jacob and Daniel led the way. Elijah covered the rear. Behind them, they could hear shouting, dogs barking, horses. Crawford’s men were coming, and they were coming fast.

The chase lasted all day. Crawford sent at least 20 men after them. They had dogs, good tracking dogs, bloodhounds that could follow a scent for miles. Every time Quame thought they’d lost them, he’d hear the dogs again. Closer. Always closer. By mid-afternoon, they were exhausted. The children couldn’t run anymore. Amma was limping. Even Quame was slowing down. They needed a plan. They needed something to throw the dogs off their scent.

Elijah had an idea. “Water. We need to get into water. Dogs can’t track through water.”

There was a creek about a mile ahead. If they could reach it, they could follow it downstream and lose the dogs. Maybe.

They reached the creek 20 minutes later. It was shallow, maybe 2 ft deep, moving fast over rocks. They waded in. The water was cold. Adoa gasped. Quame held her tight.

“It’s okay, baby. We’re okay.”

They moved downstream as fast as they could. The water slowed them down, but it would slow the dogs down, too. Behind them, the barking got quieter. Then stopped. Elijah smiled.

“It’s working. Keep moving.”

They followed the creek for 3 miles. Then they climbed out and ran through the forest for another 2 miles. By the time the sun started to set, they’d put serious distance between themselves and Crawford’s men. They found the safe house just after dark. It was a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. A free black family lived there. A husband, wife, and teenage son. They’d been helping escaped slaves for years. They saw the group approaching and immediately opened the door.

“Get inside. Quick.”

The cabin was small. One room, a fireplace, a few pieces of furniture, but it was warm. It was safe. The family gave them food. Cornbread, beans, water. Quame’s family ate like they’d never seen food before. Because for 3 months, they hadn’t seen real food. Just scraps, just enough to keep them alive and working.

The woman who owned the cabin looked at Amma’s scarred face and damaged hands. She didn’t say anything. She just brought out clean cloth and water and started cleaning Amma’s wounds. The man talked to Elijah.

“Crawford’s going to be looking for you. He’s going to search every farm, every cabin, every hiding spot within 50 miles. You can stay here tonight, but tomorrow you need to keep moving. North. Get as far away from Alabama as possible.”

That night Quame sat with his family. They were together for the first time since the raid on their village. They were all together. Kofi and Adoa had so many questions. How did you find us, Papa? How did you get here? Are we going home? Quame answered as best he could. He told them about the boat, the ocean, the journey through South Carolina. He simplified it. Made it sound less terrible than it was. He didn’t tell them about the starvation, the hallucinations, the times he thought he was going to die. They didn’t need to know that. They’d been through enough.

Amma sat quietly holding Adoa. She hadn’t said much since the rescue. Finally, she spoke.

“What now?”

Quame looked at her. “We go north. We find a place where we’re safe. Somewhere they can’t find us.”

Amma shook her head. “They’ll always find us. You know that. As long as slavery exists, we’ll never be safe. They’ll hunt us forever.”

She was right. Quame knew she was right. Even if they made it to the north, there were slave catchers there, too. The Fugitive Slave Act meant escaped slaves could be captured and returned to their owners anywhere in the country. There was no real safety. Not in America.

But Quame had another thought, something that had been growing in his mind since he left Africa.

“Then we leave America,” he said. “We go to Canada. I’ve heard people talk about it. Canada doesn’t have slavery. It’s free. We go there.”

Elijah, who was sitting nearby, nodded. “He’s right. Canada’s the only real option. It’s a long journey, maybe a thousand miles. But there are routes, safe houses, people who will help. You could make it.”

Amma looked at her children, then at Quame. “A thousand miles.”

Quame took her hand. “I crossed an ocean. We can cross a thousand miles.”

They rested that night. Real rest. For the first time in months, Amma and the children slept without fear. Quame stayed awake. He sat by the window watching the darkness, making sure no one was coming. Around midnight, Elijah joined him.

“You did it,” Elijah said. “You found them. You got them out. That’s incredible.”

Quame nodded but didn’t smile. “It’s not finished. Not until we’re safe. Not until we’re free.”

Elijah was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “What about Crowley, the captain of the slave ship? You said you wanted to make him pay.”

Quame had thought about Captain James Crowley every day since leaving Africa. The man who’d ordered the raid on his village. The man who chained his family and sold them like cattle. Quame wanted revenge. He wanted to find Crowley and kill him. But now sitting in this cabin with his family sleeping nearby, he realized something. Revenge wouldn’t change anything. Killing Crowley wouldn’t undo what happened. It wouldn’t heal Amma’s scars. It wouldn’t give Kofi and Adoa their childhood back. The best revenge was survival. The best revenge was making it to Canada and living free.

“Maybe later,” Quame said. “Right now, I need to focus on my family.”

Elijah nodded. “Smart choice.”

But Quame wasn’t entirely telling the truth. He wasn’t giving up on revenge. He was just delaying it. Someday when his family was safe, when they were settled in Canada, when the children were older and stronger, then he would come back. He would find Captain James Crowley, and he would make him answer for everything he’d done.

They left the cabin the next morning. The family gave them supplies for the journey, food, water, directions to the next safe house. Elijah was going back to South Carolina. He had other people to help, other families to rescue. He shook Quame’s hand.

“You’re a good man,” Elijah said. “Most people wouldn’t have done what you did. Most people would have accepted it and moved on. But you didn’t. You fought. You won. Don’t forget that.”

Quame hugged him. “Thank you for everything.”

The journey north took three months. They traveled at night and hid during the day. They moved through Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio. They used the Underground Railroad, moving from safe house to safe house. Some houses were run by free black families. Some were run by white abolitionists. Some were run by formerly enslaved people who’d made it to freedom and now dedicated their lives to helping others. Every person they met had a story. Every person had lost something to slavery, but they were all fighting back in their own way.

The children grew stronger during the journey. Kofi started smiling again. Adoa started talking more. Amma’s wounds healed. Her body recovered, but there were scars that wouldn’t heal. Mental scars, emotional scars. She woke up screaming some nights. She flinched when she heard loud noises. She couldn’t stand to be touched sometimes. Quame understood. He had his own scars, his own nightmares, but they were together. That was what mattered.

They crossed into Canada in October 1851, 7 months after the raid on their village. 7 months after Quame had stood on an African beach and decided to do the impossible, they arrived in a town called St. Catharines, a settlement where many escaped slaves had made new lives. The people there welcomed them. They gave them a place to stay. They helped them find work. Quame got a job as a fisherman. Amma worked as a seamstress. The children went to school, real school. They learned to read and write. For the first time in 7 months, they felt safe. They had a house. Small, but it was theirs. They had food. They had freedom. Kofi made friends with other children in the settlement. Adoa learned English. She still spoke Susu at home with her parents, but she was adapting. They all were.

One evening, about a year after they’d arrived in Canada, Amma and Quame were sitting outside their house watching the sunset. Amma said, “Do you ever think about going back?” Quame knew what she meant. Going back to Africa, back to their village, back to the life they’d had before.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But that life is gone. Our village is gone. Everyone we knew is dead or scattered. This is our life now. Here in Canada with our children.”

Amma nodded. She’d been thinking the same thing. “What about Crowley?”

Quame was quiet. He’d thought about Crowley a lot over the past year. The rage was still there. The desire for revenge. But it was quieter now, less urgent.

“Someday,” he said, “but not today. Today, I’m with my family. That’s enough.”

But 3 years later, in 1854, Quame heard news that changed everything. A ship had docked in Montreal, a former slave ship that had been seized by the British Navy and converted to merchant use. The captain was selling goods in the port. His name was James Crowley. The same Crowley. The same man who’d raided Quame’s village. The same man who’d stolen his family. He was in Canada, just 200 miles away.

Quame told Amma he had business in Montreal. She knew what kind of business. She didn’t try to stop him. She understood. Some debts have to be paid. Quame traveled to Montreal alone. It took him 4 days. He found Crowley’s ship docked in the port. He watched it for 2 days, learning Crowley’s routine. Every evening, Crowley left the ship and went to a tavern near the docks. He drank, he gambled, he talked loudly about his glory days as a slave ship captain. He bragged about the fortunes he’d made, the thousands of Africans he’d transported. He laughed about it.

On the third night, Quame followed Crowley when he left the tavern. It was late. The streets were empty. Crowley was drunk, stumbling down an alley toward the docks. Quame stepped out of the shadows. Crowley stopped. He looked at Quame. He didn’t recognize him. Why would he? Quame was just another African man, just another face in a sea of faces Crowley had destroyed.

“Get out of my way,” Crowley said.

Quame didn’t move. He spoke in English. His English was good now. Three years in Canada had taught him well.

“My name is Quame. Three years ago, you raided my village on the Nunez River in Guinea. You killed my neighbors. You took my wife and children. You sold them in Charleston.”

Crowley’s face changed. Confusion first, then recognition, then fear. He reached for a knife on his belt. Quame was faster. He grabbed Crowley’s wrist and twisted. The knife fell to the ground. Quame picked it up.

“You destroyed my life,” Quame said. “You took everything from me. Do you remember? Or am I just another nameless African to you?”

Crowley tried to pull away. “I was just doing business. It wasn’t personal.”

Quame gave a cold laugh. “Not personal. You burned my village. You chained my children. You sold my wife like she was cattle, and it wasn’t personal.” He pressed the knife against Crowley’s throat. “I crossed an ocean to find them. Did you know that? I built a boat and sailed 4,000 miles. I walked 500 miles through slave territory. I risked my life a hundred times, all because of what you did. And you say it wasn’t personal.”

Crowley was shaking. “Please, I’m sorry. I’ll give you money. I’ll-”

Quame pushed the knife harder. A thin line of blood appeared on Crowley’s neck.

“I don’t want your money. I want you to know. I want you to understand. You didn’t win. You didn’t break us. We survived. We’re free. And you’ll never hurt another family again.”

He could have killed Crowley right there. It would have been easy. One quick motion and it would be over. But Quame stopped. He thought about his family, about Kofi and Adoa, about the life they were building in St. Catharines, about the man he wanted to be. He lowered the knife.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “Because I’m not like you. But I want you to live with this. I want you to know that one of the thousands of people you destroyed came back. I want you to know that I won.”

He dropped the knife and walked away. Crowley collapsed against the wall, gasping. Quame didn’t look back. He walked through the Montreal streets, through the darkness, toward home, toward his family, toward the life he’d fought so hard to build. He’d crossed an ocean. He’d rescued his family. He’d faced the man who destroyed his world. And he’d chosen mercy over revenge. Because in the end, the best revenge wasn’t violence. It was survival. It was freedom. It was love. And Quame had all three.