The men nod, grunt, then stoop to rinse their hands in the cool river.

Part I: The Word

P A R T   I

T H E   W O R D

1 8 9 8

Chapter One

The city of Wilmington has a population of about 25,000. It is situated on the Cape Fear river, twenty-five miles from its mouth, and at the junction of the northwest and northeast branches. The harbor is commodious, and is a resort for vessels from all ports of the world.

There is a direct steamer line to New York, and a good business is done by sailing vessels to all domestic ports. Considerable trade is also done with the West Indies by sailing vessels and steamships. There are five railroad lines reaching the city, besides a short line to the coast, which handles quantities of coast products. Fish and game are abundant. There are two fine pleasure and health resorts on the beach, reached by rail and steamer. The beach is said to be one of the finest on either side of the continent. Malignant diseases are unknown. The death rate is abnormally low. No city of the South offers better natural and acquired advantages for men of energy and enterprise.

C H A P T E R   O N E

Sunday, August 14

FROM THE OPEN WINDOW of the train, Sam Jenks watched the river—wide and brown, here and there silvered by pools of glare. The brown color came from tannin, his cousin Hugh MacRae had explained in his letter. All that rotting pine and cypress leaching into the current. The Cape Fear basin was practically tropical. Hugh ought to know—he was native and had a cotton mill on the river.

This was the regular train from Raleigh and Goldsboro that brought businessmen back to town after a weekend in the country. The car was full of men in summer-weight suits reading newspapers.

Sam leaned closer to the window, searching the brown water for something else—alligators. Hugh had sworn there were alligators down here, though Sam had not yet spied one. A wild country, Hugh had written: out in the swamp and lowland forest lurked water moccasins, copperheads, rattlers, whitetail deer, wild pigs, raccoons, and foxes.

Sam turned to his wife, Gray Ellen, and took her right hand in both of his. His hands were pink—he was blond, with a fair complexion. During the weeks at the sanatorium, he’d lost the sunburn he’d gotten in Cuba. Gray Ellen was black Irish, with brown eyes and tawny skin, even in winter. “This time, it’s going to work out fine,” he said. “I can feel it.”

Gray Ellen didn’t speak, didn’t look his way.

“Chicago was a mistake,” he said. “They don’t give a man a chance.” Sam was feeling stronger, confident again, now that he was no longer drinking.