Bound North

In his pocket burned a ticket to something desperately longed for

         Just twenty-four years old, with twenty-four dollars in his pocket and a train ticket to freedom.

         To Chicago, Illinois, to be exact.

         Amos Johnson shuffled with uncertainty through the crowded station. The cacophony of thunderous engines, screaming babies, and yakking adults mingled with the hot stench of oil, smoke, and sweat, sending a wave of confusion over him.

         It was his first time ever setting foot in a train station—and if it hadn’t been for Old Man Horton driving him there, Amos was sure he’d be lost.

         Pity the old man had left him with nothing more than a gruff “Good luck, young buck,” before swerving away with a whip of the reins, leaving Amos staring after him with a longing that betrayed his fear of the unknown.

         Adjusting the oversized gray hat perched on his head—painfully aware of how ill-fitting his brown suit was—Amos made his way toward the waiting benches, careful to steer clear of the sign that read WHITES ONLY.

         He squeezed between a buxom, dark-skinned woman who smelled of petunia and fried fish—her flabby arm moving rhythmically as she waved her paper fan—and a skinny, middle-aged man dressed in a smart black suit and bowler hat. The man smoked a pipe and read a newspaper, and Amos was quietly pleased to recognize the words printed on its pages.

         Neither made any attempt at conversation, and that suited him just fine.

         Amos was still too stunned by the events of the past week—by everything that had led him here in the first place.

         He pulled the ticket from his inner jacket pocket and stared at it with near reverence, the memory of how it came into his possession playing in his mind like scenes from a dream.

         Everyone on the small plantation had known about Master Johnson’s health.

         There were whispers that he wouldn’t live past the new moon, and despite Dr. Walters making several long trips from town, nothing seemed to help.

         The coughing fits sounded wretched, torn from the depths of his lungs, and when the maids returned with blood-soaked linens, many knew the end was near.

         Amos, who had served as Master Johnson’s personal attendant since boyhood, was distraught.

         Master Johnson, now in his late fifties, had shown him nothing but kindness—not only to him, but to all those in his employ. He was not as wealthy as the other plantation owners with their grand mansions and endless acres of land. Nor did he have a wife or children to carry on his name.

         There were rumours, of course. Some said he favoured the company of men; others claimed he was cursed—sterile and incapable of producing heirs. Still others whispered that his devotion to the sciences, or perhaps even the Dark Arts, was what made him such a recluse.

         Whatever the truth, Amos and the other ten servants were never made to feel like purchased goods.

         Johnson had taken to Amos from the moment they were introduced, and after Amos’s mother succumbed to illness, he was permitted to live in the modest home where he served his master. More than that, he was given the rare opportunity to learn how to read and write.

         Still, something always felt missing.

         “I see it in your eyes,” Johnson said one afternoon as Amos struggled through a writing exercise. “You long for a place beyond here, don’t you? Don’t worry.”

         He reached out and gently ruffled Amos’s hair, a warm smile on his face.

         “Someday, I’ll take you away from this place. We’ll see the world together.”

         It was a promise Amos carried in his heart, even as the years dragged on. Yet his master never spoke of it again. A failing plantation, mounting financial troubles, and declining health forced those dreams aside.

         Then came the well-dressed men—each greedier than the last—appearing with increasing frequency as the staff dwindled with every dreaded sale.

         Eventually, only Amos, Old Man Horton, and Bessie remained.

         Amos knew he would be next. Once Master Johnson passed, he’d be sold quickly. Many nights he lay awake in terror, debating whether escape was his only option. But by morning, when faced with the frail figure of a man he had nearly come to think of as a father, his resolve would falter.

         He had an obligation to stay. At least until the end.

         And so it was on that fateful night, as Amos sat at his bedside, that the barely audible words were whispered.

         “My dear boy… Amos… in my pocket, you’ll find it… a ticket. A train ticket to Chicago. I’ve made arrangements—for who you’ll meet, for your education to continue. He’ll be waiting…”

         Those were the last words he’d ever speak.

         The funeral was an intimate affair; only attended by the three, Dr. Walters, and the pastor.

         Heartbroken yet buoyed by the realization that he—and the others—were finally free, Amos would eventually say goodbye to the only family he had ever known and prepared to begin a life far from the blistering Southern sun.

         There wasn’t much to pack. All his belongings fit neatly into a small black suitcase, including his entire life’s savings.

         “All aboard to Chicago, Illinois!”

         Amos snapped from his reverie and rose to his feet.

         He handed over his ticket and pass to the conductor, who scarcely glanced at them before ushering him into the crowded cabin marked FOR COLOREDS ONLY.

         Finding a seat beside a grimy window, Amos tucked the ticket safely back into his pocket and closed his eyes.

         This time, he dreamed not of shackled servitude—but of promise. Of building upon a foundation laid in a small, sweltering room. And finally, of seeing the world.

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Word Count: 955
Prompt: Start your story or poem with the following: Just 24 years old, with 24 dollars in his pocket and a train ticket to... (you fill in to where)
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp 24th Birthday"