Stiff and travel-weary, they settle in among the bales to sleep one last night in the open. But all at once, the river sounds change. There’s murmuring out in the fog, the rasp of boots on rough boards—a boat?

Grant and the others peer into the fog. But it is a trick of the ear—the men come not from the water but from behind, down Market Street.

“Dust yourself off, brothers,” Grant says when he sees them, “and mind your manners.” In the sudden glow of a dozen lanterns, they all get to their feet, hands clasped at their stomachs, backs slightly stooped, heads nodded forward: don’t look the man in the eye.

Except Grant. He stands erect, hands clasped behind his back. He balances on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

The crowd of whites, armed with tool handles and rifles, fills in around them, backing them against the river. They listen to the steady slap of ax handles against palms.

“What have we here?” A tall white man approaches. Unlike the others, he is unarmed. He wears a frock coat and a four-in-hand, even in this heat. The lanterns make it hotter. His hair and beard gleam with oil. As he speaks, his long, smooth fingers play with a silk handkerchief.

“Cap’n,” Grant says, “pardon us for loitering at your wharf. We meant no harm. We have come seeking work.”

“Hear that, Colonel?” one of the white men says. “Damned fugitives.”

“You want to work?”

“Yes, cap’n. We only just arrived.”

The white man lifts a lantern and thrusts it close to Grant’s face. Grant doesn’t look away. The man leans in, squinting. “Why, you’re the creamiest nigger I ever did see!”

“A volunteer nigger,” someone in the crowd says. “Could pass, if he was smart enough to try.” Laughter.

“Bad night to be a volunteer nigger,” someone else says. More laughter.

Grant says, “My daddy was a white—”

The Colonel slaps him—not hard, but so quickly that Grant is taken by surprise. The slap is almost ladylike—it hardly stings. “Don’t ever let me hear you talking like that around here,” the Colonel says quietly.

“Yes sir, cap’n.”

“Don’t look me in the eye, boy.”

“Yes sir, cap’n.”

“Why are you niggers skulking about at this hour? Plotting murder, are you?”

“We weren’t skulking, cap’n. We’re freedmen.”

“Come into the light, all of you, where I can see you.”

One by one, they shuffle closer to the lanterns. The Colonel scrutinizes their dark faces. “You one of Nat Turner’s niggers?” he softly asks each in turn—speaking close to their faces. Grant can smell sweat, naphtha, perfume.

“No sir, cap’n.”

“I think perhaps you are,” he says to Grant. “Part of that murdering gang of wild apes up in Virginia. Going to slit our throats while we slept, were you?”