Survival

I knew that my survival depended upon my keeping my wits about me. I had been wandering for several days now, and had not met a colored face. Had all the Negroes fled the city? Would I find other whites who would have pity upon me? 

Realizing that my travels had taken me farther south than I had ever been before, I paused as I sought to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. The numbered streets had ended, and I was now wandering along streets with names. Although I was but six years old, my reading skills greatly exceeded those of other children my age. C-L-A-R-K-S-O-N was the name of the street I found myself on. 

"Hanging a Negro in Clarkson Street. Harper's Weekly, August 1, 1863.

A strange and dreadful feeling came over me as I glanced up. Something evil had passed this way. I made a silent prayer and continued on my journey.

 [TO BE CONTINUED.]