The Train
Clickety clack go the wheels of iron on the rails to Kingston Town.
The heat and sour human stench was somewhat akin to a noxious, gaseous molasses that seemed unable to escape the confines of the wooden third-class carriage.
It was made worse by the smoke and cinder grit pouring from the locomotive stack, targeting, or so it seemed, only those with the lowest-priced tickets.
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the carriage's corrugated roof, increasing the discomfort of these poor travellers, only a generation or so removed from slavery.
It reminded them, as if they needed reminding, that although free for a generation, they had yet to be freed from the indignity of poverty.
It was rumoured that there were some who, given half a chance, would willingly swap the freedom to be poor for the certainty of bed and board that slavery ensured.
This, of course, was quite contrary to the fervent belief of the abolitionists that casting off the shackles was the answer to everything.
Job done.
Many did not know what to do with their newfound "freedom" and often returned of their own volition to labour for their former masters.
Thomas Mason, as he now called himself, incongruously pale and wearing a cream linen suit of a cut and quality that did not belong in this carriage, sat back and pondered this and his own inauspicious beginnings as he breathed the muck-filled atmosphere of the carriage.
This was because, well, what else could he or anybody else in the carriage do?
