Beyond the city, he knew, lay beautiful, unspoiled country. Lowland forests full of deer and stubble fields thick with Canada geese, clear creeks swimming with trout and tidal basins brimming with oysters and clams. Wide-open beaches he had walked with Gray Ellen, dunes where plovers and giant turtles nested. But tonight, the country was invisible under the black sky. He might never see it again. Already, he missed it.

The train rattled over the trestle at Smith’s Creek and through the swamps—were the people still out there, huddling in the cold rain? Then they were moving away from the river for good.

Harry Calabash had told him rumors of bodies—wagonloads of Negro bodies—being dumped into the river in the dead of Thursday night. Sam had no idea if it were true. He knew for sure that dozens of Negroes had been killed. He had carefully tallied all the reports and corrected for redundancy, rumor, and exaggeration. He guessed that 120 to 150 Negroes had been massacred. That was the only accurate word—massacred. They never had a chance.

He had no idea if any of those had been dumped into the river. But he imagined them now, bloated and stiff—a fleet of faceless, nameless black corpses drifting out on the tide, floating down the Cape Fear to the sea.

Epilogue

E P I L O G U E

New Year’s Eve 1899

GRAY ELLEN STARES out the window of her bedroom while Sam fusses with the bottle of champagne. Two stories below, Chestnut Street is thronged with holiday revelers heading to Independence Mall to cheer in the new year, as church bells toll all over the city. Snow has been falling for hours, drifting soft against doorways and curbs.

He twists off the wire and turns the bottle while holding the cork till it pops out softly. He can smell the sweet bouquet. Gray Ellen looks radiant tonight in a midnight-blue satin evening gown—a gift from Gabrielle deRosset Waddell. It arrived last week without a note. Perhaps Gabrielle had waited a suitable period, as if in mourning. Still, a whole year. Sam could not fathom why she sent it, why she even bothered to finish making it. Yet Gray Ellen was not surprised, acted almost as if she expected it.

Its arrival unsettled Sam, but now, fitted onto Gray Ellen’s slim figure, it gives him a kind of hope. Her black hair shines.

Gray Ellen is newly pregnant. She will not show for weeks. It is the best secret they have ever shared.

Sam pours the champagne into two crystal flutes, wedding presents, and watches the bubbles. He has not had a drink since his last whiskey with Harry Calabash. Tonight, they are allowing themselves one bottle of French vintage, a gift from her family, to celebrate.