William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

timidity in it.
    There was something in Breeland’s features that frightened her. It was not a presence so much as an absence, something human and vulnerable she could not see or reach. Was it that which Merrit admired? Or was it simply not there yet because he was younger? Time and experience would write it in the future.
    Or did Hester imagine it all because she knew he had killed Daniel Alberton for the guns as coldly as if he were … she had been going to think “an animal.” But she could not have killed an animal without horror.
    They rode in silence except for the necessary words for convenience and understanding. There was nothing else to say; noone seemed to wish to bridge the gulf between them. With Monk there was no need to speak. She knew they felt similarly, and the lack of words between them was companionable.
    Nearer Richmond, they passed large plantations, and it was here that they saw black men laboring in the fields, backs bent, working in teams like patient animals. White men kept control, walking up and down, watching. Once she saw an overseer raise a long whip and bring it down across a black man’s shoulders with a sharp crack. He staggered, but made no cry.
    Hester felt sick. It was a very slight thing—it might happen dozens of times a day somewhere or other—but it was a sign of something deeply alien to all she accepted. Suddenly this was a different land. She was among people who practiced a way of life she could never tolerate, and she found herself staring at Philo Trace with new thoughts. She had liked him. He was gentle; he had humor and kindness, imagination, a love of beauty, and a generosity of spirit. How could he fight so hard to maintain a culture that did this?
    She saw the flush on his cheeks under her gaze.
    “There are four million slaves in the South,” he said quietly. “If they revolt it will become a slaughterhouse.”
    Breeland turned and stared at him with unutterable contempt. He did not bother to speak. Merrit’s expression mirrored his exactly.
    The color in Trace’s cheeks deepened.
    “America is a rich country,” he went on steadily, refusing to be silenced. “Towns are springing up all over, especially in the North. There’s industry and prosperity—”
    “Not if you are a colored person!” Merrit snapped.
    Trace did not look at her.
    A brief, contemptuous smile curled her lips.
    “We export all kinds of things,” Trace went on. “Manufactured goods from the North where industrialists grow rich—”
    “Not on slave labor!” Breeland spoke at last. “We profit on what we make with our own hands!”
    “Out of cotton,” Trace said quietly. “More than half ournation’s exports are cotton. Did you know that? Cotton grown in the South … and that doesn’t count sugar, rice and tobacco. Who do you think plants, tends and picks the tobacco for your cigars, Breeland?”
    Breeland drew in his breath sharply as if to speak, then let it out again.
    Trace turned away and looked across the lovely, gentle countryside. There was grief and guilt in his face, a love for something that was beautiful, and terrible, and that he feared to lose. Perhaps he also expected to lose it, if not for everyone, at least for himself.
    They went by train, first from Richmond down through Weldon and Goldsboro to the coastal port of Wilmington in North Carolina. From there they went inland again to Florence and finally to Charleston in South Carolina, where, just over three months before, the first shot of the war had been fired to start the bombardment of Fort Sumter.
    Monk and Hester remained with Breeland and Merrit while Trace went to make arrangements for passage to England. The trip south had been tense and exhausting. Breeland had made no attempt to escape, nor had Merrit tried to help him, but Hester and Monk were both aware that only extreme watchfulness could assure that it did not happen. It was necessary for them to take turns in keeping awake, with a loaded pistol always to hand.
    Once Breeland glanced at Hester with a look of disdain in his eyes, until he considered her face more carefully, and the contempt was replaced with the knowledge that she had seen more death than he had. He was no longer certain that she would not shoot … perhaps not to kill, but certainly to cause extreme and disabling pain. After that he made no attempt to escape from her vigil.
    There was much talk in Charleston of the blockade that Mr. Lincoln had declared along the