Bedlow came back to the fence. Tucker turned to his work and soon Harry could see by the leftover light of day he was struggling with Dewitt Willson’s grandfather clock, the same clock which had come on the African’s ship, boxed and packed in cotton, and had traveled, after the African’s betrayal and death, with the African’s baby and the auctioneer’s Negro to the Willson Plantation. It had been given to that baby, First Caliban, when he reached his seventy-fifth year, or what they thought anyway was his seventy-fifth year, a present from the General for First’s years of good and faithful service, first as a slave and later as an employee; and passed down to Tucker.

The clock was outside now, standing in the yard, and beside it, in the final bloated stages of pregnancy, stood Bethrah, almost as tall, looking down at her tiny husband who had gone across the yard and returned with the ax. He raised it and arched it down on the glass protecting the clock’s fragile hands, popping the glass, shattering it at his feet. He swung until the finely worked steel and imported wood were nothing but scrap metal and kindling.

Bethrah had gone into the house and was coming out with a baby. She carried only the sleeping child and a large red carpetbag. “Tucker, we’re ready.”

He nodded. He was staring at the pieces of wood strewn in the dust of his yard. Then he looked toward the corral and beyond to the field, gray now in the late dusk light. The baby began to cry and Bethrah rocked it, swaying back and forth as if to a silent lullaby, until it was asleep again.

Tucker looked at the house. For the first time he seemed hesitant and perhaps a little frightened.

“I know.” Bethrah nodded. “Go ahead now.”

He went inside, leaving the door open. When he came out, he wore a black chauffeur’s coat and a black tie. He closed the door gently behind him.

Orange flame climbed the white curtains in the center section of the house, moved on slowly to the other windows like someone inspecting the house to buy it, burst through the roof with the sound of paper tearing, and lit the faces of the men, the sides of the wagons, and the faces of the Negroes.

Harry watched the blaze and the orange coating it gave the trees across the field. Sparks curled up and then died, dissolving against dark blue sky. Harry lifted the boy from the wagon and led him to the fence, where they stood watching. After an hour the flames faded, showing here and there tenacious fits and starts on still unconsumed scraps of wood, cloth, and shingle. Finally only glowing coals remained, and the rubble of the destroyed house looked like a huge city seen at night from a great distance.