“Awh now, Mister Harper, we just want to hear you tell it again.” Bobby-Joe tried to make the man a child by the coddling tone in his voice. Someone behind Mister Harper laughed.

“Hell! I don’t care. I’ll tell it even if you don’t want to hear it—just for spite!” He leaned back and took a deep breath. “Now, ain’t nobody claiming this here story is all true.”

“That’s true if nothing else is.” Bobby-Joe drew on his cigar and spat.

“All right, suppose you just let me tell this story.”

“Yes, sir.” Bobby-Joe exaggerated his apology, but turning, found no approval on the other men’s shadowed faces; Mister Harper had captured them already. “Yes, sir.” This time Bobby-Joe meant it.

—

LIKE I SAID, nobody’s claiming this story is all truth. It must-a started out that way, but somebody along the way or a whole parcel of somebodies must-a figured they could improve on the truth. And they did. It’s a damn sight better story for being half lies. Can’t a story be good without some lies. You take the story of Samson. Might not all be true as you read it in the Bible; folks must-a figured if you got a man just a little bit stronger than most, it couldn’t do no real harm if you make him a whole lot stronger. So that’s probably what folks hereabouts did; take the African, who must-a been pretty big and strong to start and make him even bigger and stronger.

I reckon they wanted to make certain we’d remember him. But when you think on it, there’s no reason why we’d ever forget the African, even though this all happened a long time ago, because just like Tucker Caliban, the African was working for the Willsons, who was the most important folks around these parts. Only folks liked those Willsons a hell of a lot more in them days than we do now. They weren’t so uppity as our Willsons.

But we’re not talking about the Willsons of nowadays; we’re talking about the African, who was owned by the General’s father, Dewitt Willson, even though Dewitt never got no work out of him. But he owned him all the same.

Now the first time New Marsails (it was still New Marseilles then, after the French city) ever saw the African was in the morning, just after the slave ship he was riding pulled into the harbor. In them days, a boat coming was always a big occasion and folks used to walk down to the dock to greet it; it wasn’t a far piece since the town wasn’t no bigger than Sutton is today.