William Freeland rode over his acres with satisfaction. True, they had diminished in number; but if cotton prices continued to rise, the master of Freelands could see years of ease stretching ahead. Since his mother’s death Freeland had left the running of the plantation pretty much to hired overseers. He had not interfered. He spent a lot of time in Baltimore, Washington and Richmond. With his dark brooding face and wavy, gray-streaked hair, the master of Freelands enjoyed much popularity with the ladies. He remained a bachelor.
It was Sunday morning, and the slight chill in the air was stimulating. Dead leaves rustled beneath his horse’s hoofs as he pulled up just inside the wrought-iron gates, where the graveled drive was guarded by the old sycamore. Time was beginning to tell on the big house far up the drive, but it still stood firm and substantial, though the Old Missus no longer tapped her cane through its halls. William Freeland sighed. He wished his mother had lived to see the last two good years at Freelands. For things falling to piece had made her unhappy. “A strong hand was lacking,” she said. The Mistress had grieved when old Caleb died and Aunt Lou, crippled with rheumatism and wheezing with asthma had to be sent away to a cabin at the edge of the fields. Henry had taken Caleb’s place, of course. But in this, she had acknowledged, her son had been right: Henry was stupid and incompetent. It was evident he would never master the job of being a good butler. On the other hand she used to remind William of the “bad-blood rascal” he had brought in to plant wicked seeds of rebellion at Freelands. Grumbling and sullen faces multiplied. In the old days, she had said, Freeland slaves never tried to run away.
The overseers came, had tightened up on things. The last runaway had been a young filly with her baby. The dogs had caught her down by the river and torn her to pieces. Freeland had gone away for a while afterward.
He went on up the drive slowly, chuckling when he spied the queer figure bent double under the hedge, scooping at the dirt with his bare hands. The inevitable butterfly net and mesh bag lay close by on the ground, though everybody knew that fall was no time to chase butterflies. William Freeland shook his head. What some men did to get famous! For that funny little figure under his hedge was Dr. Alexander Ross, entomologist, ornithologist, and ichthyologist, whose discoveries of rare specimen of bugs were spread out on beautifully colored plates in expensive books! He had met the scientist at the home of Colonel Drake in Richmond. The daughter of the house, who had been sent North to school, had simply babbled about him. She had displayed an autographed copy of one of those books, as if it were worth its weight in gold. When the funny little man had murmured he might be able to find a Croton Alabameses on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, the master of Freelands had invited him to his plantation where, he had said with a laugh, there were sure to be some very rare bugs indeed. Later Freeland learned that a Croton Alabameses was not a bug, but a plant. It was the first evening when they were sitting on the veranda, and Dr. Ross had remarked on the charm of the old garden with its sweeping mosses, overgrown walks and thick hedges.
“It is lovely!” The little man had screwed up his eyes behind his thick glasses and blinked with delight.
After that he had been up before dawn and out all day, net and bag in hand. He tramped great distances through woods and river mud. He talked with the slaves, who, his host was certain, thought the little man was crazy. Freeland thought it well to warn him about lonely, unused lanes and river lowlands.
“Time was,” he added, “when I’d never think of cautioning a visitor at Freelands. Crime used to be unknown in these parts. But now there are many bad blacks about. It’s dangerous!” The little man was not listening. He was measuring the wing spread of a moth. Freeland became more insistent.
“Just a few weeks ago,” he said, “a poor farmer named Covey was found in his own back yard with his head crushed in. Most of the slaves were caught before they got away, but the authorities are still looking for his housekeeper, whom they really suspect of the crime. It’s horrible!”
The scientist was frowning, a puzzled expression on his round face.
“But why—Why should they think his housekeeper did this awful thing?”