Norwood stood and watched them until they were just shadows, no longer in the shapes of men. He felt the starlight on his skin. The sky was a map of old journeys running deep in his blood. The Big Dipper, pointing toward the North Star—in the old days, the slaves had followed it north to freedom. “The drinking gourd,” he whispered to himself. “Follow the drinking gourd.”

Part IV: The Coup

P A R T   IV

T H E   C O U P

Chapter Sixteen

No trade at Wilmington. Spirits of turpentine—nothing doing. Rosin—nothing doing. Crude turpentine—nothing doing.

C H A P T E R   S I X T E E N

Thursday, November 10

SAFFRON WAS STILL ASLEEP in Miz Gabrielle’s sewing room. The headless dressmaker’s dummy stood in the corner, draped with folds of fine satin for Gray Ellen Jenks’s evening gown.

Bessie King busied herself in the kitchen.

David hadn’t come back last night. Bessie didn’t know exactly where he was. If there was trouble, that boy would find it, though he was a good boy at heart. Everybody said so. But he didn’t think too clear. He was the kind of boy things happened to, never the right things.

Bessie served Colonel Waddell in the dining room, where he ate alone. He seemed all stirred up this morning, high color in his cheeks. Kept rubbing his legs and cursing softly, “Damned cavalry legs.” Let him suffer, she thought. Pain was a boon to character.

She ducked into the pantry to fetch another jar of marmalade, and there she saw it: her spider, hanging on her web upside down. “Lordy,” she said out loud, and crossed herself. She grabbed the marmalade and went out quickly.

“Something spook you?” the Colonel asked as she clattered down a plate of eggs, bacon, and cheese grits in front of him.

She looked at him and saw a ghost. She saw him melting away like a haint, a bad dream of a bad man. “No, suh,” she said, ducking her head.

“Do you know what today is, Aunt Bessie? What anniversary?”

“Suh?”

“Ninety-nine years ago, Napoleon seized the throne of France.”

“Yes, suh.”

He sipped coffee. “Go see if Miz Gabby is up yet. When you’ve served her breakfast, take the rest of the day off.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“And Aunt Bessie? Stay off the streets today.”

“Colonel?”

He smiled. “Nothing you’d understand,” he said, and forked into his eggs. “Just politics.”

She left in a swish of skirts.

Waddell ate with gusto. He’d need a hearty meal today. Lately, his appetite was enormous. His muscles were stretching, unbending, craving exercise, like the muscles of a young man. His brain was humming like an electric coil. His voice was tuned and strong. Only his legs gave him pain—cramps, poor circulation, knees that grated. Nothing a good, brisk walk wouldn’t cure.