I was loitering on the dock looking at the steamboats
being loaded by slaves. A negro driving a wagon almost collided with a
wagon being driven by a white man. I saw the whole of it. The white man
was at fault. Yet he began to curse the negro, who laughingly spoke the
truth, that the white man had suddenly veered. With that a man,
apparently an officer of some sort, stepped from a patrol box carrying a
rifle and with an oath and a vile epithet commanded the negro to drive
on. And he did quickly and without returning a word. There was something
about the injustice of this that aroused my resentment. It was a
partiality that had nothing to do with the circumstances, but only with
the persons.
I visited the slave market and again saw the auctioning of human
beings, some as light of color as Zoe and of as much breeding. Again I
began to speculate on Zoe's future. What would become of her? How would
her fate tangle itself with mine? If Douglas had taken an impetus in
life from his uncle's failure to educate him, what direction had my life
been given by my father's marriage and Zoe? Already I had killed a man
for Zoe's sake; and I had been rejected by Dorothy because of Zoe, or
because of the circumstances which Zoe had created around my life.
Wherever I wandered on Canal Street, on the wharves, in the French
quarter, out to the battlefield where Jackson had won a victory over
Packenham, Dorothy was habitually in my thoughts.
Pages:
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140