Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, like wind driven raindrops on a windowpane he drummed out his twisted tune. It contained an explicit provision prohibiting rape as an act of war. As she shuffled past him, Sergeant Oak reached down with one hand and squeezed her bottom, allowing his index finger to lazily slip between the dark crevice of her firm cheeks. He knew that no questions would ever be asked about a young girl alone on a plantation in deepest Georgia, especially one who had a mountain of allegations stacking up against her. Wearing a torn, dirty slave shift was more humiliating in her mind than being naked … but to be shackled and forced into compliance, led on a chained leash like a dog … Sampson jerked on her chain and Catherine began to crawl across the room on all fours. Beating out the same steady, repetitive rhythm as if striking a drum, as he continued to talk menacingly to her. It was scaring her beyond comprehension, she could feel the vibrations at the side of her body, as Sampson continued his discourse. Or maybe, when you were young, you sneaked outside and saw your daddy disciplining the darkies huh?” As he spoke the light tapping of two sticks, beaten like a boy at the drums, began on the long dusty table top that
