No Good Deed 73

Ishmael returned in the driving seat of something which might well have been called a Stanhope, had there been any coachwork at all resembling seating for the comfort of the traveller. In fact, there appeared to be nothing more to the vehicle than four wheels, a bench seat for the driver and a flat arrangement of planks to the rear, presumably for the transportation of freight. The wood, including the spokes of the mismatched wheels, of which there were four, was devoid of paint or varnish. Ishmael's face fell as I ordered him to the rear of the cart. I handed Miss Pardoner up to the bench seat and took my place next to her. The lady showed great fortitude, for I was moved to leap up immediately on sitting, due to a particularly vicious splinter. I recovered the carpet bag from the muddy street and placed it under my rump. Since I took on the duties of driver, I felt I deserved such comfort as could be found and clearly my lady companion was in agreement, for she said nothing, merely sniffed, but perhaps this was a consequence of her recent loss of equilibrium.

It was a fresh evening. We rode for about an hour at Miss Pardoner's direction, ever deeper into a crepuscular gloom. It was peaceful, the only sound the insistent cries of whip-poor-wills and the grunts as Ishmael bore the buffeting meted out to him in just punishment for his dire choice of transportation. For the most part we followed the levee, passing dark green swampland and nothing that looked as though it might be tilled or cultivated to grow the meanest of crops of any kind. Presently, we left the levee and skirted one particular rank-smelling area, foetid with the corruption and rot brought about by rainfall and flooding. Gradually the thoroughfare began to rise and we cleared the swamps, gaining an area that at least looked more home to the mammalian than amphibian. At last we came upon some poorly tended cotton fields, which seemed to stretch for a great many acres. In the far distance was the outline of the Plantation House, the home of the Master of Molasses. Even at this great remove, the dilapidation of the building was visible. For design, the best which could be said was that it had an elegant simplicity, being a long run of single-storeyed accommodations for the men house with several long barn-like buildings at some distance from it. Several furlongs from the Plantation House, it became clear that one of the barn-like buildings was, in fact, a stables, and that it was the only building on Molasses with any pretension to a good state of repair.

There were few slaves in view. All were crouching around a sort of camp fire, although none of the wood had been gathered from any copse. Inlays and fine marquetry could be seen as the varnish bubbled on what had once been fine furniture. Several nursing women had babes of lighter complexion than their own in their arms. One blind, grizzle-headed old negro leaned on a hoe, although there was no vegetable patch in the vicinity.

A squat little man led a quite magnificent horse from the stables. It was black and its coat shone like polished jet. The man was as unprepossessing as the horse was magnificent. A bald pate was surrounded by a fringe of hair a most unfortunate red in colour. His effeminate cupid's bow mouth appeared to have been painted. His shirt and pantaloons were once white, but now boasted all manner of stains, doubtless caused by prolonged ministrations to the magnificent stallion. He looked to be about thirty five years of age, so long as each and every one had been spent in very hard-living. His piping voice was as irritating a sound as ever I had heard.

'Whatchall, want heah. Prah-vit property. Ah'll run y'all off!'

My lady companion spoke up,

'The Governor asked us to call.'

This last was news to me, but at least it called forth a grudging welcome from Campion Garroway.