13-Year-Old Sold to 51-Year-Old Plantation Owner... 8 Years Later, She Was His Worst Nightmare

They spoke of it as the Hartwell atrocity. When the authorities entered the Grand House in March 1868, they encountered a scene so horrifying that three deputies immediately became ill. Colonel William Hartwell, who had once held the most sway in three counties, was barely clinging to life, secured with chains to the very table where he had tormented numerous enslaved people.

Four of his associates lay dead near him, and his young wife Rebecca—the girl everyone had felt sorry for as the child bride rescued from poverty—was nowhere to be found. The community was baffled. Gentle, reserved Rebecca, who was a member of the church choir, who smiled politely at every social event, who appeared to adore her much older husband.

How could she be responsible for this?

But they were unaware of what Rebecca knew. They had not witnessed what she had seen when she was merely 13 years old. They didn’t know that for eight years she had been playing the most crucial role of her life, waiting for the ideal moment to make them all suffer the consequences.

Before I reveal what transformed an innocent 13-year-old girl into the most calculated killer Georgia had ever seen, make sure you’ve subscribed, notifications are enabled, and leave a comment below—because Rebecca’s tale will permanently alter your view of vengeance.

Now, let me transport you back to its beginning.

Spring in Whitfield County, Georgia, brought oppressive heat and humidity that made the air seem thick. The red clay roads turned to mud after every shower, and the cotton fields extended toward horizons that shimmered in the heat. This was the Deep South in 1860, where affluence meant land, and land meant slaves, and both were safeguarded by laws created by men who believed their superiority was ordained by God himself.

The Morrison family resided on the periphery of this world—not exactly destitute, but far from wealthy. Thomas Morrison possessed 40 acres of poor-quality farmland five miles outside the county seat of Dalton. He cultivated tobacco and corn, laboring on the land himself with the help of two hired workers during harvest season. His spouse, Mary, had succumbed to a fever in 1854, leaving him with three children to raise alone.

Rebecca was the eldest at 13. Next was her brother Samuel, ten years old, and little Annie, only seven. Rebecca had essentially assumed the role of mother after Mary’s death—cooking, cleaning, and looking after her siblings while her father worked the fields from sunrise to dusk. She was a petite girl, slender like children who don’t eat enough.

Her dark hair fell in a braid down her back, and her eyes, people noted, were too serious for a child, as if she were always contemplating matters beyond her years.

Thomas Morrison was not an unkind man, but he was in a desperate situation. The farm had been struggling for three years. Tobacco prices had fallen, a fire had consumed half his tobacco barn the previous fall, and he was indebted to nearly every merchant in Dalton.

By March 1860, the situation was critical. The bank had issued a foreclosure threat. His creditors were hovering like scavengers.

On a Tuesday morning, Thomas prepared his wagon and headed to town. He didn’t inform Rebecca where he was going. He simply instructed her to watch over her brother and sister and told her he would return before dinner.

He didn’t come back until almost midnight.

Rebecca was sitting by the hearth, mending one of Samuel’s shirts, when she heard the sound of wagon wheels outside. Her father entered slowly, moving like a man who had aged two decades in a single day. He sat down at the table and gazed at his hands for a long time before speaking.

“Rebecca, I need to talk to you about something.”

She put down her sewing. Something in his tone made her stomach clench with anxiety.

“I’ve made a deal,” he said, still avoiding her gaze. “With Colonel William Hartwell. You know of him.”

Everyone in three counties knew of Colonel Hartwell. He was the owner of Hartwell Plantation—2,000 acres of prime cotton land worked by over 200 slaves. He was 51 years old, a widower whose wife had died eight years earlier. The Hartwell name commanded influence that could open doors or ruin reputations with a single word.

“Yes, Papa.”

“He’s consented to marry you this Saturday.”

The words struck her like a physical blow. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

“Marry? But Papa, I’m only 13.”

“I am aware of your age.” His voice was harsh, defensive. “But we have no other options, Rebecca. The bank is taking the farm next month unless I can pay what is owed. Colonel Hartwell has agreed to settle all my debts. In exchange, you will become his wife. It is already settled, Rebecca. The papers are signed.”

You will be married Saturday at the courthouse. Then you will move to Hartwell Plantation.

She wanted to scream, to weep, to flee. But where would she go? And what would become of Samuel and Annie if she refused?

Her father’s face conveyed everything she needed to know.

This was not a conversation. It was a declaration.

That night, Rebecca lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Annie’s gentle breathing beside her. She was 13 years old, four days away from becoming the wife of a man almost four times her age—a man she had never spoken to, never even observed closely.

The next three days passed in a haze of mechanical preparations. Women from the church arrived with an old dress that had belonged to Colonel Hartwell’s first wife, altered to fit Rebecca’s smaller frame. They spoke in cheerful tones about how fortunate a girl she was, how she would be mistress of the finest plantation in the county, how Colonel Hartwell was so generous to take in the daughter of a struggling farmer.

Rebecca nodded and smiled and said, “Thank you,” while inside she felt like she was drowning.

Saturday dawned cold and cloudy. The wedding took place in Judge Peton’s office with only six witnesses present. Colonel William Hartwell stood next to her in a dark suit smelling of tobacco and bay rum cologne. He was tall, silver-haired, with a face that might have been attractive twenty years earlier but had solidified into something severe and unyielding.

Judge Peton quickly read through the ceremony, omitting most of the customary words. This was not truly a marriage. It was a business deal.

When it was Rebecca’s turn to say, “I do,” her voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Louder, girl,” the judge said, not unkindly. “Need to hear you say it properly.”

“I do,” she repeated, fighting back tears.

Colonel Hartwell placed a gold ring on her finger. It was too big, spinning loosely around her slender finger. Then he bent down and kissed her forehead, a brief, formal gesture.

“Welcome to the family, Mrs. Hartwell,” he said. His voice was deep, devoid of emotion, revealing nothing.

After the ceremony, there was no celebration, no wedding breakfast.

Colonel Hartwell’s carriage was waiting outside. Her father briefly embraced her, whispered, “I’m sorry,” in her ear, then stepped away. Samuel and Annie had not been permitted to attend. She hadn’t even been allowed to say goodbye.

The carriage ride to Hartwell Plantation lasted two hours. Colonel Hartwell sat across from her, reading a newspaper, silent.

Rebecca stared out the window, watching the familiar scenery give way to unfamiliar territory. They passed cotton fields white with bolls ready for picking. Slave quarters with thin smoke rising from chimneys. Overseers on horseback observing the workers in the fields.

Hartwell Plantation came into view as they reached the top of a hill.

The main house was enormous, white-columned in the Greek Revival style, three stories high with wide porches. Magnolia trees lined the driveway, their waxy leaves glistening in the afternoon light. Behind the main house, Rebecca could see the slave quarters—dozens of small wooden cabins arranged in neat rows. Further back were barns, storage buildings, and workshops.

The carriage halted in front of the main house. A Black woman in a crisp white apron came down the steps. She was perhaps 50 years old, her hair covered beneath a head wrap, her expression carefully neutral.

“This is Mama June,” Colonel Hartwell said. “She’s the head housekeeper. She’ll show you to your room and explain the household routines.”

He walked past Rebecca into the house without another word.

Mama June observed Rebecca with eyes that seemed to take in everything. Then she spoke, her voice quiet and kind.

“Come along, child. Let’s get you settled.”

Rebecca followed her into the house. The entrance hall was vast, with a curved staircase and a crystal chandelier. The floors were polished hardwood, the walls covered in silk paper. Everything shone with wealth and meticulous upkeep.

“Your room is on the second floor,” Mama June said as they climbed the stairs. “Master’s room is on the third floor. He wanted you to have your own space, given your age.”

She led Rebecca down a long hallway and opened a door.

The bedroom was larger than the entire room Rebecca had shared with Annie back home. A four-poster bed dominated one wall, draped with lace curtains. There was a wardrobe, a dressing table with a mirror, even a small writing desk by the window.

The dresses in the wardrobe belonged to the first Mrs. Hartwell.

“Master had them altered for you,” Mama June said. “If they need more adjusting, just let me know.”

Rebecca stood in the center of the room, suddenly overwhelmed. This was her confinement. Beautiful, comfortable, but still a prison.

“Thank you,” she managed.

Mama June paused at the door. “Dinner is at seven. I’ll send someone to fetch you. Master prefers everyone dressed properly for evening meals.”

After she departed, Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was soft, nothing like the straw tick mattress she had slept on at home. She looked down at the wedding ring spinning loosely on her finger.

Mrs. William Hartwell. At 13 years old.

She allowed herself five minutes to cry.

Then she dried her face, stood up, and began to inspect her new cage.

That evening, Rebecca put on one of the altered dresses, a deep blue silk that rustled when she moved. It felt odd, heavy, like wearing someone else’s skin. A young enslaved girl came to assist with her hair, pinning it up in a style that made Rebecca look older, more sophisticated.

Dinner was served in a formal dining room with a table long enough to seat twenty people. Colonel Hartwell sat at the head. Rebecca was placed to his right. Three other people joined them: James Hartwell, the colonel’s 25-year-old nephew who managed the plantation’s daily operations; Dr. Marcus Brennan, the plantation physician who lived on the property; and Margaret Hartwell, the colonel’s sister—a sharp-featured woman of about forty-five—who looked at Rebecca with clear disapproval.

The meal was extravagant, course after course of rich food that Rebecca could barely taste. The adults discussed cotton prices, the political climate, and whether war was genuinely imminent, as some feared. They spoke around Rebecca as if she were absent, or as if she were an inanimate object.

After dessert, Margaret Hartwell excused herself with barely a nod in Rebecca’s direction. Dr. Brennan and James Hartwell withdrew to the colonel’s study for cigars and brandy.

Colonel Hartwell turned to Rebecca.

“You may go to your room now. I have business to attend to.”

Rebecca stood, thankful for the dismissal. But as she moved toward the door, he spoke again.

“Rebecca.”

She turned back.

“You’re very young,” he stated. His voice was neither kind nor unkind, simply stating a fact. “I want you to understand that I have no intention of demanding certain marital duties until you’re older. Perhaps when you turn sixteen. You have my promise on that.”

Relief washed over her so intensely she felt dizzy.

“Thank you, sir.”

“However,” he continued, “you are the mistress of this house now. You have responsibilities. Mama June will instruct you in your duties. I expect you to fulfill them properly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go.”

Rebecca rushed up to her room, her heart pounding.

Three years.

She had three years before he would expect that. It wasn’t freedom, but it was a postponement. She could endure three years. She had to.

She changed into a nightgown, another garment from the first wife’s wardrobe, and got into bed. The house was quiet, but not silent. She could hear footsteps in the corridors, distant voices—the usual sounds of a large household preparing for the night.

Around eleven, she heard something else.

A sound from outside, faint but distinct.

A cry, quickly muffled.

Then another—not animal sounds, but human.

Rebecca got out of bed and went to the window. Her room faced the back of the plantation, looking out over the slave quarters. The small cabins were dark, but there was light coming from somewhere behind them—a flickering orange light.

Torches.

She pressed her face to the glass, trying to get a better view. Dark figures moved in the torchlight. She could hear voices now, though she couldn’t distinguish the words.

And then another cry, longer this time—a scream of anguish that stopped abruptly.

Rebecca’s blood ran cold.

What was taking place out there?

She stood at the window for nearly an hour, watching the torchlight, hearing occasional sounds that made her skin crawl. Finally, around midnight, the lights went out. The voices ceased. The plantation returned to silence.

Rebecca climbed back into bed, but she did not sleep.

She lay there in the darkness, contemplating what she had just witnessed, wondering what kind of house she had entered.

In the morning at breakfast, she wanted to ask—wanted to say what had been happening the night before behind the slave quarters. But something in Colonel Hartwell’s expression, something in the way Mama June avoided her eyes, told her that questions would not be appreciated.

So she remained silent, and she began to learn the first lesson of survival at Hartwell Plantation.

Some things were not meant to be observed, and even fewer were meant to be discussed.

But Rebecca was not naïve.

She was young, but she was sharp. And over the following weeks, she began to notice patterns.

But what exactly was occurring in that clearing? What was Colonel Hartwell concealing from the world? Stay with me, because what Rebecca was about to uncover would be far more terrible than anything her 13-year-old mind could have conceived.

And the issue isn’t just what she saw. It’s what she would transform into after seeing it.

Every Tuesday and Friday night, Colonel Hartwell would retire early, usually around 9 p.m. He would exit through the back door of the house, and sometime after 10, the noises would begin—the cries, the screams—always from behind the slave quarters, in an area Rebecca couldn’t quite see from her window.

She also noticed that certain enslaved people would vanish. A young man who worked in the stables, a woman who assisted in the kitchen—they would be present one day, gone the next. When Rebecca inquired about it with Mama June, the older woman’s face became blank.

“They were sent to work another plantation,” she said. “Master sometimes loans out workers.”

But there was something in her tone, something in the slight tremor of her hands as she folded laundry, that indicated to Rebecca this was a falsehood.

Three months after her arrival, on a June night when the heat was stifling and sleep impossible, Rebecca made a choice.

She had to find out.

She had to witness what was happening.

She waited until the house was quiet, until she heard Colonel Hartwell leave through the back door, as he did every Tuesday. Then she put on a dark dress, left her room barefoot, and crept down the back stairs.

The back door of the mansion led to a covered path that connected to the kitchen building. Rebecca moved through it quietly, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought everyone in the house must hear it.

She reached the kitchen, empty now, the cooking fires banked for the night.

What Rebecca did not yet know was that this single decision—this one moment of refusing to look away—would set in motion eight years of planning. Eight years of evolving into someone she never imagined she could be. Eight years that would culminate in four men dead and a plantation reduced to ashes.

But I’m moving too quickly.

First she had to see.

She had to know.

Beyond the kitchen was the yard, and beyond that, the slave quarters. Rebecca stayed in the shadows, moving from building to building. The quarters were silent, but she could see candlelight through the cracks of some cabins. People were awake, but staying inside, hiding.

She moved past the last row of cabins and found herself facing a small cluster of trees. This was the area she couldn’t see from her window. The torchlight was emanating from somewhere within those trees.

Rebecca moved forward, her breathing coming in short, quick bursts. She could hear voices now—men’s voices laughing. And beneath that, another sound: whimpering, pleading.

She crept nearer, moving from tree to tree until she could see.

There was a clearing.

Four torches on poles illuminated it with harsh, flickering light. In the center of the clearing stood a wooden structure like a barn but smaller. Its doors were open.

Inside, Rebecca could see a table. And on that table, secured by the wrists and ankles, was a girl.

She looked no older than twelve.

She was unclothed, covered in blood, and she was screaming.

Four men were positioned around the table.

Rebecca instantly recognized Colonel Hartwell. The others were James Hartwell, Dr. Brennan, and Samuel Dockery, a neighboring plantation owner.

But what they were doing to that girl—what Rebecca saw in those few terrifying seconds before she staggered backward in shock—would torment her for the remainder of her life.

Colonel Hartwell held a knife. He was cutting, engraving, while the other men observed and offered suggestions as if they were discussing the construction of a piece of furniture rather than the torture of a child.

The girl’s screams weakened into choking sobs.

Dr. Brennan stepped forward with a bottle, pouring something onto her injuries. The girl convulsed, her scream rising again before stopping completely as she lost consciousness.

“Be careful,” Colonel Hartwell said calmly. “Don’t want her to die before we’re finished.”

Rebecca backed away, her hand clamped over her mouth to keep from retching. She spun around and ran, no longer concerned with silence—just needing to escape from that clearing, from those sounds, from the casual malevolence she had just witnessed.

She somehow made it back to her room, though later she wouldn’t recall the path she took. She locked her door, climbed into bed fully dressed, and pulled the covers over her head like a child trying to hide from monsters—except the monsters were real, and she was married to one.

She didn’t sleep that night.

She lay there trembling, her mind replaying what she’d seen again and again. That girl’s face. Those men’s laughter. The blood—so much blood. The way they discussed her suffering like artisans discussing their craft. The clinical lack of emotion. The complete absence of humanity in their eyes.

Rebecca considered running—sneaking out before dawn, finding a horse, riding as far and as fast as she could.

But where would she go?

She had no money, no family that could shield her from a man like Colonel Hartwell. If she fled, he would find her. And when he did, she would end up on that table—chained, screaming, slowly dying while he recorded her agony.

So running was not an option.

Neither was informing anyone.

Who would believe a 13-year-old girl over the most respected plantation owner in three counties? The sheriff was likely his acquaintance. The judge certainly was. And even if someone did believe her, what then? Would they jeopardize their own lives and reputations to challenge a man as powerful as Colonel Hartwell?

No.

She was alone—completely and utterly isolated—trapped in a house with a fiend, expected to smile and perform the role of a beautiful wife while people perished in the darkness.

But lying there in the hours before dawn, Rebecca felt an internal shift.

The terror was still present. The horror was still present. But beneath it, something tougher was emerging—something cold and composed and utterly unforgiving.

As the light of dawn began to filter through the windows, Rebecca grasped something with perfect clarity.

She was confined in hell.

And if she didn’t want to end up on that table—chained and screaming—she needed to become someone new.

Someone who could survive in this house of horrors.

Someone who could smile at monsters and wait for her opportunity to destroy them.

At breakfast, Rebecca compelled herself to eat, compelled herself to look at Colonel Hartwell, and smiled courteously when he inquired if she had slept well.

“Yes, sir. Very well. Thank you.”

He examined her for a moment, and she wondered if he could perceive the deception, if he could sense what she had witnessed, but his expression remained impassive.

“Good. Mama June informs me you’re adapting well to your duties.”

“I’m trying my best, sir.”

“That’s all anyone can ask.”

The conversation shifted to plantation matters. Rebecca ate her eggs and toast, drank her tea, and behaved as if she hadn’t seen anything that would cause a normal person to lose their sanity.

After breakfast, she found Mama June in the linen closet, counting sheets.

“Mama June,” she said quietly. “I need to speak with you.”

The older woman’s face grew tired. “About what, child?”

“Last night… I saw. I saw what happens in the clearing.”

Mama June’s hands paused on the linens. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with a sorrow so profound it seemed bottomless.

“Then you know,” she whispered. “And now you understand why we do not speak of it.”

“The girl… is she dead by morning?”

“They always die. Sometimes it takes days, but they always die. And then they are buried in the woods where no one will discover them.”

Rebecca felt tears tracing paths down her face.

“How long? How long has this been going on?”

“Years. Since before the first Mrs. Hartwell died. Perhaps longer. I do not know. I try not to know.”

“Why doesn’t someone put a stop to them? Why doesn’t someone report it to the authorities?”

Mama June’s laugh was bitter.

“The sheriff—he joins them sometimes. The judge—he’s Colonel Hartwell’s brother-in-law. The newspaper editor—he owes the colonel money. There is no law here except the colonel and men like him. They own everything. Everyone.”

“You think the law protects people like us? People like that girl last night?”

Rebecca shook her head, numb.

“Someone has to stop them.”

“Perhaps. But it won’t be me, child. I have grandchildren in those cabins. If I speak out, if I resist, they don’t just harm me. They harm everyone I love. That is how they keep us quiet—by making certain we have too much to lose.”

Rebecca wiped her eyes. “What about the other slaves? Do they all know?”

“Everyone knows. No one speaks of it. That’s how you survive here. You keep your head down. You do your work. And you pray their attention falls on someone else. It is evil—I know it is. But what choice do we have?”

That afternoon, Rebecca sat in her room and confronted a truth she didn’t want to accept.

She was thirteen years old.

She had no money, no allies, no power. If she attempted to run, they would find her and bring her back. If she tried to inform anyone outside the plantation, they wouldn’t believe her—or worse, they’d notify Colonel Hartwell.

She was trapped. Completely and utterly trapped.

But she didn’t have to remain trapped indefinitely.

Rebecca went to her writing desk and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. At the top, she wrote:

Things I need to survive.

First: Make him trust me.

If Colonel Hartwell trusted her, he would grant her more autonomy. More autonomy meant more chances—to observe, to prepare, to find a way out or a way to fight back.

Second: Learn everything about this place.

She needed to know the plantation’s layout, the routines, the schedules. She needed to know who could be relied upon and who could not. She needed to understand how everything functioned.

Third: Wait.

She was thirteen. She was small, frail, powerless—but she wouldn’t stay thirteen forever. She wouldn’t remain small or frail forever. Time would pass, and as it did, she would become tougher, smarter, more capable.

And when the moment was right—when she had learned everything she needed to know, when she had positioned herself perfectly—she would make them pay for every scream she had heard in the darkness.

But you are probably wondering: how does a thirteen-year-old girl transform into someone capable of destroying men who had been committing murder for years? How do you transition from victim to executioner?

Stay with me—because Rebecca’s transformation was about to begin.

And it began with the one thing she possessed in abundance.

Time.

Fourteen months passed.

Rebecca’s fourteenth birthday arrived and departed, marked only by a small cake that Mama June baked for her. Colonel Hartwell gave her a gold locket—a formal gesture that required a formal thank-you.

She had become proficient in her role as mistress of Hartwell Plantation. She managed the household finances, supervised the house slaves, and planned menus and entertaining. Margaret Hartwell, who had initially treated her with disdain, gradually softened toward her, appreciating her efficiency and quiet capability.

Rebecca attended church every Sunday, sitting in the Hartwell family pew, singing hymns in her clear, sweet voice. She joined the ladies’ auxiliary and helped organize charity drives. She became known in Dalton society as poor Colonel Hartwell’s child bride, who had blossomed into a proper lady despite her unfortunate circumstances.

No one knew that every night she lay awake, listening for the sounds from the clearing.

Every Tuesday and Friday—regular as clockwork, sometimes other nights too when the colonel hosted certain guests.

No one knew that she kept a journal hidden inside a hollowed-out book on her shelf, where she documented everything. Every date. Every name of the visiting men. Every enslaved person who disappeared. Every scream she heard.

No one knew that she had cultivated relationships with every enslaved person on the plantation, learning their names, their families, their skills. She treated them with kindness and respect—a manner so different from the typical plantation mistress that at first they were suspicious. Gradually, they realized her kindness was genuine.

Mama June became her closest confidant.

Then Isaiah, the blacksmith—a strong man in his forties who had been on the plantation for twenty years.

Then Ruth, the midwife, who knew more about herbs and medicines than any doctor.

Then Solomon, who managed the stables and knew every concealed road for twenty miles in any direction.

Rebecca never disclosed what she was planning, but she allowed them to understand that she was on their side—that when the moment came, she would need their assistance, and they would need hers.

The most difficult part was maintaining her façade around Colonel Hartwell himself.

He had kept his promise not to force himself upon her. But as her fourteenth birthday approached and then passed, she noticed the way he looked at her changing. His gazes lingered. His casual touches on her shoulder or hand lasted a moment too long.

She was running out of time.

Two weeks after her fourteenth birthday, Colonel Hartwell summoned her into his study.

“Sit down, Rebecca.”

She complied, folding her hands in her lap, keeping her face composed. She had anticipated this, dreaded it, but in a peculiar way, she was prepared for it.

“You are fourteen now,” he stated. “No longer a child.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have been very patient—very respectful of your youth.”

“Yes, sir. I’m grateful for your consideration.”

“Tomorrow night,” he announced, studying her face for any reaction, “you’ll move your belongings to the third floor, to the mistress’s chambers next to mine. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Her heart raced, but she kept her voice steady. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

She paused, then added softly, almost bashfully, “I’ve been preparing myself. I know my duties as a wife.”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps. Maybe even satisfaction.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good. I’m pleased you recognize the necessity.”

“Of course, sir. You’ve been so patient with me, so kind, considering the circumstances of our marriage. I want to be a proper wife to you.”

The lies tasted like ash in her mouth, but her voice remained sweet, modest—exactly what he wanted to hear.

This was the part she had to play.

The obedient child wife. Thankful for his consideration. Accepting of her fate.

If she showed fear or resistance, he might grow suspicious. He might watch her more closely. He might discover that beneath her submissive exterior, something dangerous was growing.

So she smiled.

And she waited.

That night, Rebecca went to Ruth’s cabin. The midwife took one look at her face and drew her inside.

“He told you, didn’t he? That it is time?”

Rebecca nodded, unable to speak.

Ruth’s face hardened. “I can give you something. It will make you sleep through the worst of it. It won’t stop the pain, but you won’t remember it as clearly.”

“No.”

Rebecca’s voice was stronger than she felt.

“No sleeping draughts. I need to remember all of it.”

“Child, why would you want that?”

“Because I need to remember what he is capable of. I need to keep the anger alive. If I forget—if I let myself become numb to it—I will never have the fortitude to do what must be done.”

Ruth studied her for a long moment.

“You are planning something?”

“Yes.”

“Something perilous?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what?”

“Not yet. But when the time comes, I will need assistance. Will you help me?”

Ruth was silent for a long while. Then she nodded.

“Whatever you need, child. Whatever you need.”

The following night, Rebecca moved her belongings to the third floor. The mistress’s chambers were larger than her previous room, with a connecting door to Colonel Hartwell’s bedroom. The walls were covered in dark green silk paper.

The bed was immense, four-postered, with heavy curtains that could be drawn for privacy—though privacy, she knew, was a myth in this house.

She spent the evening preparing, putting on the white nightgown Mama June had left for her. It was fine linen, too delicate, too revealing. Everything about it was designed to emphasize her youth, her fragility.

She looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the girl staring back.

At ten, the door opened.

Colonel Hartwell stood there in his dressing gown, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t intoxicated. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t anything.

He was simply taking what he believed was rightfully his.

“Leave the candles lit,” he said. “I want to see you.”

What occurred that night was savage—not because he was intentionally cruel in the way he was with his victims in the clearing. He didn’t employ instruments of torture. He didn’t derive sadistic pleasure from her pain.

That, in a way, made it worse.

Because to him, this wasn’t cruelty.

It was simply his prerogative—his property being used for its intended purpose.

He was precise. Clinical.

When she cried out in pain, he instructed her to be quiet, saying it would be easier if she relaxed. When she bled, he showed mild annoyance that she hadn’t been better prepared.

When it was finally over and he returned to his own room without another word, Rebecca lay in the darkness, her body bruised, her mind reeling.

She had expected it to hurt. She had prepared herself for that.

What she hadn’t anticipated was the absolute objectification of it—the way he touched her with the same casual lack of feeling he might show when examining livestock he was considering purchasing.

She wasn’t a person to him.

She was a thing.

A possession.

No different, really, than the enslaved people he tortured in the clearing.

That realization was somehow more damaging than the physical pain.

Rebecca did not cry.

Not that night.

She lay there in the dark, feeling blood and other fluids drying on her thighs, and forced herself to remember every sensation—every moment of humiliation, every second of powerlessness.

This was what it felt like to be owned.

To be used.

To be nothing.

And as the night slowly gave way to dawn, Rebecca made herself a vow.

Someday—somehow—Colonel William Hartwell would know exactly how this felt.

She would make sure of it.

The routine persisted after that.

Two or three times a week, the connecting door would open. He would use her body for however long it pleased him, then return to his own room. He never stayed the night, never showed affection or even basic kindness. She was a convenience—nothing more.

During the day, he behaved as if nothing had changed. He was courteous at breakfast, professional when discussing household matters, the ideal Southern gentleman in public—the cold exploiter of flesh in private.

And Rebecca played her role flawlessly: the beautiful wife, the compliant servant, the grateful child bride who understood her position.

But internally, she was transforming.

The girl who had arrived at Hartwell Plantation at thirteen was fading a little more each day, and something harder, colder, more dangerous was replacing her.

The pattern continued.

Two or three times a week, Colonel Hartwell would come to her room. He wasn’t the worst husband in the South by the standards of the time. He didn’t beat her without cause. He provided for her material needs. By the warped logic of their society, he was even considered respectable.

But Rebecca knew what he was.

She had seen it in the clearing, and now she experienced firsthand what it meant to be owned by a man who viewed human beings as objects to be used and discarded.

The worst part wasn’t what happened in her bedroom.

It was what continued to happen in the clearing behind the slave quarters every Tuesday and Friday like clockwork.

The torches.
The screams.
The victims who vanished by morning.

Rebecca had once thought she might grow accustomed to it. Instead, every scream added fuel to the fire burning inside her.

Every morning, watching Colonel Hartwell calmly eat his breakfast and read his newspaper, she had to suppress the urge to seize the knife from the table and drive it into his throat.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

She wasn’t ready.

So she waited.

And while she waited, she learned.

What is remarkable about Rebecca’s story is that she did not wait passively.

She was building something.

A network.
An alliance.
A plan so meticulous that when the moment finally arrived, nothing would be left to chance.

The question was not whether she would seek vengeance.

The question was whether she would survive it.

Rebecca became a devoted student of the plantation’s operations. She learned which overseers were crueler than others, which neighbors shared Colonel Hartwell’s inclinations, which business associates could be relied upon, and which could not.

She studied the plantation’s finances. Colonel Hartwell, trusting her aptitude with numbers, allowed her to assist with the accounts. She discovered that despite its grandeur, Hartwell Plantation was deeply in debt. The colonel had gambled recklessly and borrowed against cotton yields that never fully materialized.

She learned about the hidden places on the plantation.

Isaiah showed her the root cellar beneath his workshop, large enough to hide a dozen people.

Solomon showed her the back roads that led off the property—routes that could be traveled at night without being seen from the main house.

Most importantly, she learned the truth about the clearing.

Dr. Brennan was the architect of the torture. James Hartwell documented everything, keeping meticulous records of each session. Colonel Hartwell was the executioner—the one who decided when each victim’s suffering would end.

They convinced themselves they were conducting research. Studying endurance. Exploring the limits of pain.

In reality, they were monsters indulging their urges beneath a thin veil of intellectual justification.

Rebecca learned all of this through careful observation and strategic questioning.

She never revealed her knowledge.

She remained the obedient wife, the efficient mistress, the respectable Southern lady.

Inside, she counted the victims.
She counted the months.
She counted down.

By the time Rebecca turned twenty-one, she had become someone her thirteen-year-old self would not have recognized.

She was taller now. Her face had lost its softness. More importantly, she possessed a core of steel.

The enslaved people noticed the change. She was no longer the frightened child bride. She was someone who might actually challenge the evil at the heart of the plantation.

It was Mama June who finally spoke of it openly.

“You’ve been here eight years,” she said quietly. “You’ve seen everything. And you’re still standing.”

“I’ve learned how to hide it,” Rebecca replied.

“That’s the same thing here,” Mama June said.

Over the following months, Rebecca prepared her allies.

Isaiah forged tools that could serve as weapons.
Ruth gathered herbs—some for healing, others for inducing pain or unconsciousness.
Solomon ensured horses and supplies were ready along the escape routes.

Rebecca herself studied Colonel Hartwell’s habits, his weaknesses, and how to use them against him.

She also began undermining his reputation—subtle rumors, quiet suggestions, nothing traceable to her. Business deals failed. Invitations dried up. Debts were suddenly called in.

By early 1868, Colonel Hartwell was under pressure.

His temper shortened.
His drinking increased.
And his caution faded.

March 10, 1868.

A house slave named Sarah disappeared.

She was twelve.

Rebecca knew instantly.

Sarah reminded her of Annie—cheerful, musical, innocent.

That night, Mama June came to her, tears streaming.

“That was my great-granddaughter,” she said.

Rebecca made her decision.

“No more waiting.”

She gathered Isaiah, Ruth, Solomon, and Mama June that night.