04 Sold Down the River

FOUR

"This is Monsieur Sefton." Simon Fourchet gestured stiffly as January carried Hannibal; wrapped in a number of blankets against the night's raw chill, down the Belle Dame's gangplank to the rough wharf floating at the river's edge. "He did me a good turn on the trip up from town, saved me from a bad investment. He'll be staying in the gar?onni?re until he's well enough to go on to St. Louis."

"Thank you," whispered Hannibal, and coughed-for effect, this time. In Paris, January had seen the great Kean expiring as Romeo. So, it appeared, had Hannibal. "I am indebted to you beyond what I can say."

It was sixty feet from the levee to the house, but a green-lacquered barouche waited for them at the top of the flight of shallow plank steps. "Ben, give Lundy M'sieu Sefton's bags and get on the back," ordered Fourchet curtly, as January helped Hannibal into the carriage and tucked the blankets around him. "Lundy, give Ben your torch and follow with the men. This is Baptiste." He nodded toward the new butler. "He'll be taking Gilles's place."

January took the torch from the slim white-jacketed man who bore it, and stepped up onto the footman's perch at the rear of the carriage. Thierry, the overseer, sprang up beside the coachman with a catlike lightness, and the driver's wary flinch told January what he had to expect from this man, when he was working under him in the fields.

"Robert, God damn you, leave the bags alone! We haven't got all night! "

The handsome young dandy sprang nervously away from the luggage pile and Captain Ney, and scrambled into the carriage as the vehicle jerked away.

"What'd you-uh-pay for him?" Esteban glanced back to where Baptiste and the others were picking up the various valises and portmanteaux under the Spanish deck-mate's snapped commands.

"Eleven hundred, from Davideaux."

"Not bad. How-uh-old is he?" They might have been speaking of a pack-pony. "Forty-eight? Umuh-Things have been quiet here. We got-uh-ten acres cut today, and the new grinder's behaving itself. Oh, and Reuben died."

"Ten? Damn it, boy, those lollygagging niggers should have been able to clear off fifteen! Are you so stupid you don't realize we're weeks behind? Frost could hit us any day! Thierry, God damn you, I'd better see more cane coming in tomorrow or..."

So much, thought January sourly, for poor Reuben, dead of shock or gangrene or simply because he lacked the physical reserves to pull him through having his legs crushed by a thousand pounds of falling iron. The stretch of ground between the house and the levee's gentle rise was scattered with the native oaks of the area. Through their dark trunks away to his right January could see the hell-mouth glare of the sugar-mill door, and the shapes moving before it as the women unloaded the cane carts. The men of the first gang-having completed a day in the field that began the instant it was light enough to avoid injury-dragged wood from the sheds to feed the boilers, a long line of half-naked bronze figures struggling out of the night.

The smell of burning sugar clogged his nostrils, the choke of woodsmoke and the thick scents of wet earth and cane.

Home.

Something inside him seemed to be falling a long way into blackness. Cold fear and dreads of things he barely recalled:

His father...

"... damn Daubrays are behind it, I tell you! They have to be! It would be just like that weasel Louis to incite a man's own niggers to revolt. That Mammy Hera of theirs is a voodoo and I wouldn't put it past Louis Daubray to pay to have his own grandmother poisoned, if he thought he could get a half-arpent of land out of it. And that greasy brother of his would know who to ask! "

"Father-uh-whatever else may be said of them, the D-Daubrays surely wouldn't-"

"Don't you back-talk me, boy! I was knocking heads with those lying Orleannistes before you could piss standing! Ever since I married your stepmother they've been trying to find a way to keep me from claiming her father's land. Paying my own niggers to wreck the harvest would be of a piece with their sneakiness."

"D-Did you speak-uh-to the police about that trader, Jones? He'd stick at nothing-"

"Listen, Father," Robert interjected. "In France they were speaking of a new system of physical characteristics by which those of born criminal inclination might be identified. I'm sure if you examined the blacks-"

"Oh, shut up, the both of you." Fourchet flung away his cigar. The carriage drew rein before the steps of the big house, whose long windows glowed through the mists in sulfurous lozenges of muzzy light. "If we examined the blacks we'd find that every Sambo of'em was a liar and a thief, and what a surprise that would be! Use your brain."

"I was endeavoring, sir, to-" Robert broke off as a tall shape appeared against the luminous rectangle of what January knew-since nearly all Creole plantation houses were built on the same plan-to be the bedroom of the lady of the house. He had an impression of pale hair pulled tight into an unfashionable knot at her nape. Of a small white hand resting protectively over a belly swollen with child. Then she passed into the shadow of the gallery as she descended the steps six feet to ground level, and stepped out into the torchlight once more as January sprang from the back of the carriage.

"M'sieu Fourchet," she greeted her husband in a gruff shy voice.

"Madame." He bowed over her hand.

Over his bent head, his wife's gaze crossed Robert's, questioning and uneasy, and held for a moment before it fled away.

A servant with a branch of candles had come out behind Madame Fourchet, slim and boyish and, like Cornwallis, pin-neat; only when he came closer to take in his free hand the torch January held did January see the wrinkles around eyes and lips that marked him as a man in his forties.

Like Cornwallis, the servant wore a small slip of black mustache, and like Cornwallis he was light-skinned, quadroon or octoroon, with some white forebear's blue-gray eyes.

January lifted Hannibal gently from the carriage as Fourchet made introductions and produced again the story of investments averted and money saved.

"Welcome to Mon Triomphe, M'sieu Sefton," said Madame, in the hesitant voice of one who has never been sure of her position, and Hannibal extended his hand.

"How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter," he quoted, and kissed the lacemitted knuckles. "Forgive me my trifling infirmity. Tomorrow I will prostrate myself to the ground as befits a kind hostess and a lovely woman."

She pulled her hand from his and muttered, "Thank you. It's nothing," and hurried before them up the steps. "Agamemnon, stay and help the men in with the luggage." In the multiple luminance of torch and candles January saw the speculative glance Robert darted from Hannibal to his stepmother, and the burning, bitter glare directed at the fiddler by Fourchet, an undisguised anger that made January's chest clench inside with reactive fear.

The overseer Thierry touched his hat brim and made off in the direction of the mill, his duty to his employer accomplished. He moved, not with a swagger, but with a sidelong swiftness, watching everything around him.

Fourchet led them into the house through his own bedroom, meeting his wife once more in the parlor. This room was small compared to a town house's, as in most Creole plantation houses: sparsely furnished, neat and plain. Over a mantelpiece of cypresswood painted to resemble marble hung the portrait of a young woman clad in the caraco jacket popular in the nineties. A square-faced, dark-eyed boy clung frantically to her striped skirts; a baby in a white christening gown perched on her knee. Next to the mantel a miniature of the same woman was framed in the glittering jet circlet of an immortelle wreath.

Through the parlor's inner sliding doors a child could be heard piping angrily, "But I want to see!

Henna says there's company and they may have something for me! "

A hushed female voice interposed, cut off furiously. "I want to see! I want to see! I'll have you whipped if you don't let me see!" and a second, younger child screamed, "Me, too! Me, too!"

By the rather fixed smile that widened onto the face of the other woman who waited for them in the parlor-dark-haired, ripely pretty, and clothed in a gown of figured lilac muslin with gauze bows and enormous "imbecile" sleeves-January guessed that this was the children's mother.

"Pardon me," said Robert hastily. He stepped through the sliding doors, closing them behind him.

"M'sieu Sefton," introduced Madame. "My daughter-in-law, Madame Helene Fourchet."

"If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And with fresh numbers, number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies;

Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces."

Hannibal's lips brushed her hand, and Helene Fourchet tapped his cheek playfully with her fan.

"Oh, I just adore poetry! Is it Lord Byron? I am most passionately devoted to 'The Corsair.' And 'The Bride of Abydos,' of course. Such a thrill goes through my heart..."

"English pap," snapped Fourchet. "Will you shut those brats of yours up?" For the noise in the next room continued unabated, despite whatever efforts the children's father was putting up.

"Do I understand from what you said in the carriage that you're behind in your harvest?"

Hannibal turned to Fourchet and coughed again, with every evidence of great agony valiantly concealed. "I beg that you will let me repay a little of your kindness by lending you Ben here while I'm laid by the heels. You don't mind a day or two in the fields, do you, Ben?"

"To help the good folks who take you in when you're sick?" January did his best to sound like a character in a Chateaubriand novel. "Why, Michie Hannibal, I worked the cotton-fields before this. Won't do me no harm to cut sugar for a while."

"Well done, good and faithful servant."

"M'sieu Sefton, no," protested the young Madame. In the warm amber dimness of the parlor she didn't look much over sixteen, a big-boned, flat-chested girl with a plain triangular face and the sandy coloring that makes a woman appear lashless and washed-out. "Our hospitality-"

"Don't be an ass," snapped Fourchet, and looked January up and down with the same coldness that had been in Esteban's eyes when he'd surveyed Baptiste. "We lost Reuben and it'll be days before Boaz is over his fever. Thank you, sir." He spoke to Hannibal as if the words were being extracted from him with forceps. "I appreciate it. Cornwallis!" He raised his voice like the thwack of a board striking pavement.

The valet, who had evidently finished bestowing the luggage in his master's chamber and the guest room, stepped through the parlor's inner doors.

"Take Ben here out to the quarters and find him a place to stay for a night or two. Tell Thierry he's to be put to work while he's here. And get that Baptiste in here, so Madame Fourchet can teach him his duties."

It was close to nine already, but if the young Madame Fourchet would sooner have had a night's sleep before inducting a complete stranger to a complex set of responsibilities and tasks, she knew better than to say so. Robert, stepping back through the parlor doors in time to hear this, began to protest, "Sir, it's quite late for her to be-"

"Shut up." Fourchet lashed the words at him. "Better tonight than she waste half the day tomorrow when he could be of some use. We need to get this place back into order. Cornwallis, take Monsieur Sefton here to the gar?onni?re. Good night to you, sir. Esteban..." With a peremptory wave at his elder son, Fourchet stalked through the door that led into his bedroom and thence, probably, to his office behind it. Esteban followed, and closed the door with the care of one who fears that a sound will bring the house crashing about everyone's ears.

"I do apologize, Madame." Robert hastened to his stepmother's side as the young Madame led the way through the dining room-cypresswood table, the gleam of glass and flowers in the uplifted shudder of Comwallis's branch of candles and she gave her head a quick little shake and hastened her step. "I beg you to forgive my father, and apologize on his behalf."

"Really-" Madame Helene's strident voice floated behind them, "Robert, you might at least have the goodness to-"

The closing door cut her off.

It was a peculiarity of Creole households that the young men of the family, from the age of thirteen or so, were given quarters separate from the family. In town these usually consisted of a wing behind the main town house, or, in the case of the cottages wealthy men bought for their mistresses along Rue Rampart, Rue Burgundy, and the other small streets at the back of the old French town, a room or two above the kitchen, lest a white man find himself sleeping under the same roof as a young man-however nearly related to him-of color. On plantations the gar?onni?re was usually a separate building connected to the main house by the galleries that surrounded the whole, forming a U that drew the cooling river breezes through. In the case of Mon Triomphe, it was one wing on the downstream, or men's, side of the house. The corresponding wing on the upstream side was, mercifully, given over to nurseries.

"I'll clear this away." Robert followed Madame Fourchet into the second of the gar?onniere's two rooms ahead of January and gathered, from the small desk there, a quantity of Parisian journals and newspapers, stationery, wafers, and ink. "I use this room as a study when we're here. And indeed, M'sieu Sefton," he added, setting down the books he'd begun to pick up, "you're quite welcome to peruse any of my library. I rather pride myself on it."

He nervously stroked the neat Vandyke that framed red lips whose pliant poutiness spoke of what his mother must have looked like. "I've been collecting scientific volumes since I was quite a little boy. By the time I was six, I and a friend had made a little steam engine and fitted it to one of the pirogues we had here. A boy's toy merely, but it worked. My mother always said..."

Through the French doors, the petulant shrieks of the children floated across the open piazza between the arms of the house.

"Thank you," Hannibal murmured, as January laid him on the tall half-tester bed. Either Cornwallis or Agamemnon had already been in and unpacked the portmanteau and placed Hannibal's violin carefully on the bureau. Four of Hannibal's half-dozen bottles of opium were arranged tidily beside it.

Robert turned again to his stepmother. "I do apologize for my father. He was drunk, to have spoken to you thus-"

"He was not drunk." Madame Fourchet's voice was low and stammering, like an ill-at-ease boy's.

"And I suppose that sober-" began Robert, and stopped himself. Turning back to Hannibal, he finished, "Whatever the case, I do apologize, and bid you welcome to Mon Triomphe. Should you require anything, M'sieu, please feel free to ask any of the servants. And thank you again for the loan of your boy. His help will be invaluable in getting the cane in."

"I'll just get him settled, if you don't mind, M'am," said January diffidently, and Madame Fourchet inclined her head.

Cornwallis lit the candles on the bureau from those on the girandole he bore, then led Robert and Madame out onto the gallery again. "Go on ahead and find Baptiste," January heard Robert say, as they closed the doors. Then, voice low but still audible, "You can't let him talk to you like that, Marie-Noel." The candlelight had departed, and they would be standing, January guessed, in the velvet shadows of the gallery, away from the leaked glow of Fourchet's office window. "He treats you like a servant. Like a dog."

If the young woman replied she did so in a voice too low for January to hear. But he guessed that she only stood with her head bowed and turned a little away. Lips folded close, as they had been when her husband's voice had cut at her before strangers and servants. Pale-lashed eyelids lowered. Heretofore Robert-whose French was irreproachably Parisian-had addressed her with the formal vous of a man speaking to his father's wife. Now he called her tu, as one would speak to a sister or a friend.

"I've been beneath this roof with you for a few days only, my child, but already I see how it is for you here. It fills me with rage to see him treat you so."

"I have lived with worse." January had to strain to hear, but could not go closer because the candlelight in the gar?onni?re would show him up through the French door's glass panes. "Your father isn't so bad as you think." She said, V?tre p?re, speaking as to a stranger.

Then he heard her footfalls retreat along the gallery. Robert stood where he was for a long time, while Madame Helene's voice rose from the women's side of the house: "I realize that you're now the mistress here, Madame, but it has always been the custom of this house to offer a visitor tea and sweet cakes. I was most mortified when you whisked M'sieu Sefton away as you did without so much as a sociable word. Of course I'm sure you had your reasons..." And in the nursery wing the older child screamed over and over, "I'll have you whipped! I'll have you whipped! I'll tell Grandpere and he'll sell you down the river! "

"Ben, this is Mohammed." Cornwallis held up his branch of candles and with his free hand gestured to the spare gray-haired man who stood beside him. January, coming down the back gallery steps with the usual slave's luggage of a clean shirt and shaving things done up in a bandanna, had to remind himself forcibly that a youth of twenty will look pretty much the same when he's fifty-three; a boy of seven will be unrecognizable. Besides, why would Mohammed remember one child from the Bellefleur hogmeat gang?

"He'll get you settled." Evidently Cornwallis was not a man to sully his dignity by association with field hands. The valet turned without another word and strode back toward the house, the lights of his candles blurring to golden willy-wisp in the fog.

"You eaten?" Mohammed looked up at him, bright dark eyes as January remembered. The image of the young man he'd carried all those years settled in against the gentle erosion of sunken flesh, wrinkled skin, missing teeth; long years lived in hell while January had eaten good food, learned surgery and music, earned his bread in Paris and New Orleans, and married the woman he loved.

"Yessir. On the Belle Dame they had pone and greens."

"Michie Ney's boat." The flex in the older man's voice made January wonder whether he'd at some time had a run-in with that arrogant captain in the scarlet coat. "If you care to stay up a little there'll be some food at Ajax's-Ajax the driver," Mohammed added. "If you're tired I'll take you on to the cabin-I thought I'd put you in with the bachelors, Gosport, Quashie, Parson, and Kadar-and you can sleep if you want. But they're havin' a shout for Reuben, that was sugar-boss here. He died yesterday. Would you care to come?" "I'll come, thanks," said January.

"What happened?" he asked, as they passed the dark still shapes of the kitchen and laundry, and the ground grew rough and weedy underfoot. Mohammed, who was dressed in a coarse clean calico shirt, wool trousers, and the "quantier" shoes of a yard hand, doused his pine-knot torch in the rain barrel behind one of the plantation workshops-carpentry, pottery, cobbler, cooper-and picked up another stick of pitch-smeared wood from the little stack nearby, to use later if needed. The mill rose ahead of them, fire-lit and seething with life, but January's guide led him around behind a stable and a barn, and past the long sheds where the wood was stored, and so into the dense whispery forest of the cane.

"You got to understand, it started in the dark of the moon." Mohammed's voice came soft out of the pitchy blackness as they trod the narrow rough cart-path between the cane-rows. "And the moon's dark is the time when ill will lies strongest on the land." Mohammed was, January remembered, a storyteller, a griot. His earliest recollections of the man were of a young animated face transforming itself from expression to expression, of a quick-frailed banjo and a voice that skipped effortlessly from Compair Lapin's cocky tenor to Bouki Hyena's deep, self-pitying drawl. "There was a hoodoo marked the mill in anger, and the mill caught fire in the dark of the moon. Reuben was the man put the fire out before it could spread. He was a most careful man, unless he'd been drinking. He thought a lot of himself and was prideful and strong, careful even about where and how he drank lest any should carry back tales to Michie Fourchet. He said he'd checked over the grinders, and the gears beneath them, and the sweeps down below them in the roundhouse where the mules walk. He brought me in to see if the iron had been hurt, and I found no damage. But we did find marks."

January had nearly forgotten how completely the eight-foot walls of the cane shut out air, sound, light, reducing everything to dense narrow slots of rustling gloom. What little moonlight struggled between the razor-edged leaves showed Mohammed's breath, and his own. It was only the walls themselves, and the puddled ditches at the walls' feet, that guided them on toward the woods.

The house, and the mill, and the kitchen and barns and shops-those were the white man's kingdom. Squared and neat, comely as January had been taught to understand beauty. A world where Mozart and Shakespeare had lived, where the surgeons of the Hotel Dieu had taught him how to set bone and relieve suffering.

But beyond that small neat realm lay the cane. And beyond the cane, the woods, the cipriere. That world was measured differently. It was a network of interlacing paths, which led to places identified only by the presence of certain trees or certain water: old Michie Lays-Along-the-Ground, they'd called a big oak in the cipriere behind Bellefleur plantation where the slaves had met for dancing in January's childhood, or the Big Slough where the men had sneaked away from their work to catch fish and swim. It was a world of inference and small signs, a world where snakes could be made to talk if you addressed them right and eyes you couldn't see watched you from the shadows. It was a world where les blankittes didn't often come. This was the world toward which Mohammed led him, and as they walked, January was aware, over the murmuring of the cane, of the mutter of other voices, the soft stealthy passage of other shadows on this narrow track.

"Now Reuben was an angry man," the griot went on. "He thought that every morning when Allah woke up His first thought was, How can I make this day harder for Reuben? And that He set about it before He even had breakfast. Reuben knew all about the marks. But Reuben had his reason for wantin' to stay on Michie Fourchet's good side. If he worked fast and saved the whole of the roulaison, he knew he could get Michie Fourchet to give him back a woman he wanted, a proud strong woman Michie Fourchet had took away from him and give to the butler Gilles. So Reuben checked the mill once, and didn't call up Mambo Hera to come from Daubray, or Mambo Cassie from Prideaux, or even Jeanette here that was daughter of old Mambo Jeanne. He didn't put store in marks. But he forgot how marks sometimes have a way of puttin' store in you." Far ahead of them, somewhere past the rustling wall of darkness, January heard singing, the dim ghosts of rhythm utterly unlike the music that for so many years had been his life. The clapping of hands, rhythm that drew at the blood of the heart like the moon draws on the sea. Rags of words, African-French fragments of his childhood: Azou zouzou ziza, Legba abobo. Legba abobo...

"Was it the marks made him careless?"

"His anger made him careless," answered Mohammed. "His anger and his greed. And marks like that, made in ill will, have a way of whispering to you when you're thinking of other things. Reuben was angry that the men were sick that day, and he had to do more of the work with a crew not used to the task. The grinders stuck three, four, five times that morning-he was always being called from his work to pull knots of cane, and sticks and branches, free. Always working faster and faster, and not taking care. It was only a matter of time, til something spooked the mules-and they were spooky that week, and wild-while he was at the grinders. The grinders broke free, they came down on him like the lintel of the temple when Samson called on the name of Allah."

"This was yesterday?"

"This was a week ago. But it was clear when they rolled the iron off him he would not live." Oh, and Reuben died, Esteban Fourchet had said, casually.

After a week of suffering. A week of knowing. They had entered the woods. From the river the land fell gradually, until the drained and ditched ground of the cane-fields gave place to the cipriere. The roots of red oak and loblolly pine made ridges of high ground, and between them softer wetter earth, cypress, hackberry, live oaks whose branches spread out in all directions under floating veils of Spanish moss that the men would harvest in off hours through the year, to sell for cash. Now and then small scurrying life fled the smell and tread of the men, but with the autumn's cool at least the mosquitoes were few. The summer chorus of frogs and cicadas had long ago stilled.

Others joined them on the pathways. Some bore candles, and others pine torches that dripped gouts of flame; some found their route by simple familiarity. Some had washed and put on what finery they had: bright-colored shirts, or waistcoats of silk or embroidered wool, tattered and patched mostly, or bought brilliantly new from river traders. The women had taken their hair out of its strings, crimped and curly, or braided it up in fantastic shapes which they wore with cocky pride; the men had combed out their hair, or cut or queued it, and put beads on their necks or clappers on their ankles. Others still had just slipped away from night-work at the mill still filthy with the dust and cane-sap of the fields, dark eyes gleaming through masks of grime. Exhausted, facing another day's work in mere hours, still they'd come to give Reuben his send-off. Maybe not because they'd liked him-by what Mohammed said, few had-but because it was the proper thing do.

And too, January knew, even in the roulaison few folks of color, either slave or free, would pass up the chance to dance.

Voices wailed from the darkness ahead of them, the slow shuffle of feet and the slap of clapping hands.

"Abobo, abobo,

Ago Legba, ago Legba, Abobo..."

"Could any have got into the mill, to have made the marks?" asked January. Or tampered with the machinery? he added in his mind.

"I don't think so." A man fell into step with them, thick-muscled and heavy-shouldered with one of the front teeth missing from his slow, gap-toothed smile. "Reuben, he keep the key to that mill always on a string 'round his neck. See, five-six years ago there was a fella here name Nick, that broke into the mill and tried to do the same thing and break the rollers, and Michie Fourchet had him sold off-and the sugar-boss, too, for not bein' more careful. That's when Reuben got to be sugar-boss, when he'd been just 'ssistant before."

"Nathan's right," added a taller, rangy man with a big cane-knife scar on his forearm. "Reuben always knowed which side of the bread the butter was on. He kept good track of that key and he didn't leave the door open much, either."

Firelight glowed before them through the trees. To the hypnotic, ever-changing beat of hands was added the silky whisper of feet shuffling on the earth. They came into the clearing and January saw what he had not seen since his childhood: men and women ranged in a circle around the clearing, singing as they moved in a slow, swaying line. A low fire burned within the ring and cast gold shawls and handkerchiefs of light across the faces in the circle. Men's faces and women's, children watching from the edges of the clearing with enormous midnight eyes. All swaying, lost, bathed in the music as the saved on Judgment Day would be bathed in light.

The dancers didn't lift their feet, like those who danced in Congo Square in town on the Sunday afternoons of their brief freedom. This wasn't that kind of dance. January remembered one of his mother's friends telling him, "It's 'cause you have to keep touch of the earth." No instruments played-no fiddle or banjo or bones. Only the clapping of hands, the steady beat of open palms on thighs.

An old man knelt in the center of the ring, bowed to the ground, singing. Those in the circle would call out in response, words January dimly recalled from dirges he'd heard in French, in English, in town...

"Who'll close my eyes in death?" "Abobo, abobo."

"Who'll close my eyes in death?" "Spirit come down."

"Who'll close my eyes in death?"

"Dig my grave with a golden spade." "Abobo, abobo."

"Dig my grave with a golden spade." "Spirit come down."

"Dig my grave with a golden spade."

At the edge of the fire's light a tall thin field hand stood with his arms around a beautiful girl in a purple calico dress. Two young boys, brothers by their faces, practiced exaggerated swaying, swinging their bodies in ecstatic double-jointed unison. A good-looking man who'd spruced up with a yellow silk waistcoat slipped and shifted through the torchlight shadows to speak to first one, then another of those new-come from the mill, and January saw something-salt? candles? a bottle?-change hands.

Slow music rolled over January like the sea's breaking waves, sadness and farewell with the smell of smoke and sugar thick in the misty air. He picked out faces from the shadow and fireglow of the circle, people he'd be living with for days or possibly weeks. Big main gang men, strong enough to swing an eighteen-inch knife and cut cane tough as bone. Some had come straight from the field to hauling wood in the mill, and so here, with a second and more ragged pair of cut-off trousers on over the first to protect from the sharp leaves, the razor-edged ends of the cut stalks, and a second shirt. Second-gang men, older or smaller, the soot of the mill striped with streaks of sweat. Here and there an artisan or groom stood out in gaudy finery, colors chosen and matched as no white man would choose or match them. Women stood among the trees with their babies at breast, and they too swayed to the music, crooned the responses to the wailing cries.

"Lower me down with a silver chain. " "Abobo, abobo."

"Lower me down with a silver chain..."

No house-servants, January noted without surprise. Like Cornwallis, house-servants as a rule looked down on the field hands, scorning them as an alien race. And in fact they were. These people had probably all been baptized, but generally that was as far as it went. January's mother, and the other women on Bellefleur, had told him of God and the saints, but they were curious tales, dark and odd and very little like what he heard later from P?re Antoine in town.

The music itself, he understood, was what spoke to these people in the wordless words of God.

Only one-a girl, slim and sullen with her dark hair lying in thick corkscrew ringlets over her shoulders-did not sing. Bitter-eyed, bitter-mouthed, she stood apart from the ring, holding a baby in her arms and watching with her back against a cypress tree. In time a heavy-muscled giant in the long-tailed coat and beaver hat of a driver came to her, to draw her away with him into the dark of the trees.

Now and then a woman would shriek or cry out, head lolling in grief, but on one face only did January see actual tears. His attention was drawn to this woman because she was the only person who wore mourning, and her black dress was better fitting, despite her short round body and immense breasts. Her mahogany-black hair had been crimped into long streams, and waved as she rolled her head in a kind of solitary ecstasy, tears flowing from her closed eyes and down her velvet-dark apple cheeks.

"Good-bye, my voice be heard no more." "Abobo, abobo."

"Good-bye, my voice be heard no more." "Spirit come down."

"Good-bye, my voice be heard no more."

People came, and people left, as those who'd slipped from the mill vanished again in the darkness, lest the overseer and the drivers note too many gone too long. A big strong woman and a lovely girl, clearly her daughter, gathered seven smaller children-including the dancing boysand led them away to their beds, with an eighth tucked in the front of the mother's dress at breast.

The thin field hand and the girl in purple calico faded into the dark of the woods, hands entwined.

These people were the pattern he had come here to learn, January thought. The warp and the weft of the lives whose telltale break, somewhere, would point the way to the killer whose deed would condemn them all.

And yet looking at them, it was hard to remember that one of these was a killer and a calculating despoiler. All he felt in his heart was a curious and profound sadness, rooted in a darkness his memory couldn't pierce.

They were still singing when he left.