Brackett’s face twisted. “If you were any kind of a white man you wouldn’t have to ask. Working for somebody is one thing. For a darkey to own land is something else. It is like saying he is equal to the rest of us. That, I cannot accept. Those people were brought here to serve. Let one become too independent and the others start thinking they should be, too. Worst thing Lincoln ever did was to free those people. Everybody was a lot happier before that.”

“Except maybe the slaves.”

“They had plenty to eat and a place to sleep, probably far better than in Africa. Now there are hundreds of them adrift without work, without a place to sleep or anything to eat unless they steal it. Do you think freedom has made them better off?” Brackett waved a hand toward the man with the plow. “Do you know why I’m out here watching him? Because if I don’t, he’ll stop at the end of the row and lie down in the shade. Left on their own, they’d not work enough for their own subsistence.”

“Shanty has done all right on his own.”

“But it was given to him.”

“Whatever that little place amounts to, Shanty made it so with his own muscle and sweat. His master was drunk more than he was sober.”

Brackett shrugged away further argument. “I see I am not going to sway your opinion, and certainly you are not going to sway mine. I know nothing about the burning of that darkey’s cabin. You’ll have to take my word on that.”

Rusty did not want to believe him, but something in Brackett’s eyes told him he spoke the truth. He asked, “What about your son Farley?”

“I regret to say that Farley was in jail last night. Some altercation with a state policeman.”

“You wouldn’t have any idea who did burn Shanty out?”

“Ideas do not stand up in court. You have to show proof.”

“Not always, not in a Yankee court.” Rusty decided upon a flanking approach. “It has the look of somethin’ Fowler Gaskin might do, him and his dim-witted nephew.” He watched in vain for anything in Brackett’s expression that might reinforce his suspicion. He decided the farmer must be a good poker player.

Brackett said, “Fowler Gaskin is a lazy, ignorant lout, and no confidant of mine.”

Rusty nodded. “At least there’s somethin’ we can agree on. It’s a mystery to me why good men die young while reprobates like Fowler Gaskin live on and on.”

“Perhaps it is because the Lord wants no part of him, and hell is already filled up with FJnionists.”

Rusty said, “Those who fought for the FJnion side were honest in their opinions.”

“They were wrong. And if you sympathized with them—which seems to be the case—then you were wrong.”