House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“Go back inside,” one of them said.

“Y’all burning out their caves? You cain’t do that, suh.”

“Watch.”

“They God’s creatures. I feed them. I give them all names, too. They make their li’l squeaking noise when they hear me coming.”

“You do what?” Cod Bishop said, approaching her, half of a smile on his face. He wore a tight-waisted coat and polished knee-high riding boots, his pants tucked inside them.

“The gophers ain’t hurt nothing, suh. My grandson say there ain’t none in the pasture. They got their li’l town down under the ground here.”

“Go back into your cabin,” Bishop said. “Don’t try to intervene in the operation of my farm. You should know better than that.”

“They suffering down there, suh.”

“I’ve tried to be patient, Aunty. You’re forcing my hand.”

“Where Reverend Jasper at?”

“I suspect he’s still in his grave. He’s been there eighteen months.”

“I seen him three days ago,” she said.

Cod Bishop put on a world-weary face, then balled his fists and placed them on his hips, his coat stretching across his back, like a man lost in the most profound of thoughts. He studied the ducks pecking at their feathers among the flooded reeds, his cows grazing among the buttercups, the lovely green knoll that backdropped a collection of hovels. He turned to his workmen. “Get everybody out and soak it,” he said.

“The other mounds?” one of them asked.

“All this,” Bishop said, waving his finger at the cabins. “The privies, too. Rake the embers into the river. I don’t want them blowing onto my rooftop.”

“You’re telling them to burn our cabins?” Aint Ginny said.

“I’m going to give each of you two silver dollars. I’ll tell the colored preacher in town about your situation. There’s a workhouse for colored in San Antonio. You’ll be a lot better off there.”

“I got the croup in my lungs, suh. They ain’t gone take me. Where Reverend Prudhomme at?”

“The Prudhommes are not here anymore. That’s one more reason you should seek help among your own people. But try to remember this, Aunty. You mustn’t sass a white person again. I let it pass because of your age. Others may not be so kind.”

She began to cry, tears running straight down her face onto her dress. He put his gloved hand on her arm and led her to the pasture fence. “Hold on to the rail till we bring the wagon down,” Bishop said. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

In minutes her cabin and the cabins of her neighbors were blazing, the flames flattening and whipping across her vegetable garden, curling and dissolving everything that grew there.

HACKBERRY SAW THE fire from his porch. He went into the house and came back out with his brass field binoculars. “What is it?” Ruby said from the doorway.

“Cod Bishop is burning out his darkies,” he replied.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a son of a bitch.” The binoculars made a plopping sound when he dropped them back in their leather case.

“Where are the colored people?” she asked.

“Watching the fire.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Where are you going?”