At the clubhouse rail, three young sports and Colonel Jack's spinster daughter relished the Colonel's extravagant self-satisfaction.

"Jackie, Jackie." Jamie Fisher chuckled. "Mustn't tweak the tiger's tail.

Juliet, your father makes a wonderfully smug bow.”

Edgar Puryear was an assiduous student of powerful men and noted Langston Butler's overseer conferring with his master. "Hmm, what might those two be up to?”

"Who gives a damn," Henry Kershaw growled. "Lend me a double eagle!”

Henry Kershaw was big as a prime young bear and had a similar temper.

"Henry, it was my double eagle you wagered on Gero. I haven't another.”

Edgar Puryear turned his pocket inside out. "So, Gentlemen — and Lady — how will Langston even the score?”

"Perhaps he'll welsh on his bets," Juliet Ravanel suggested.

"No, no, sweet Juliet," Jamie Fisher said. "You've confused one Charleston gentleman with another. Rosemary's father, Langston, is the bully; your father, Jack, is the welsher.”

Miss Ravanel sniffed. "Why I tolerate you, I do not know.”

"Because you are so easily bored," Jamie Fisher replied.

Although the acerbic spinster and the tiny youth were inseparable, no scandal touched them. Whatever the nature of their attachment, everyone understood that it was not romantic.

The next race was at two o'clock. Whites and coloreds promenaded the racecourse and meadow, while in the Jockey clubhouse, servants unpacked picnic hampers and popped corks.

On the racecourse, auctioneer's men were crying the negro sale: "John Huger's negroes. Rice hands, sawyers, cotton hands, mechanics, house niggers, and children! One hundred prime specimens!”

Edgar Puryear relieved an auctioneer's man of a sale catalog and ran his finger down the list. "Andrew means to bid on Lot sixty-one. 'Cassius, eighteen years. Musician.' “

"Cassius will fetch a thousand," Henry Kershaw said.

"Eleven hundred at least," Jamie Fisher corrected.

"A double eagle?" Henry wagered.

"You haven't a double eagle," Jamie Fisher replied.

Though he outweighed Jamie Fisher by eighty pounds and was used to getting his way, Henry Kershaw smiled. Whatever their inclination, given Fisher's wealth, even prime young bears smiled.

"Juliet, what does Andrew want with a banjo player?" Edgar Puryear asked.

"When Andrew is melancholy, music uplifts him.”

Henry Kershaw drank and offered Juliet his flask, which she refused, shuddering. Henry remarked, "You can't guess what horse I saw last week pulling a nigger's fish wagon.”

"Tecumseh?" Jamie Fisher said. "Didn't Rhett Butler leave his horse with the Bonneaus?”

"The best Morgan in the Low Country hauling fish," Henry Kershaw continued. "I offered two hundred, but the nigger said the horse wasn't his to sell.”

"Tecumseh is worth a thousand," Edgar Puryear said. "Why didn't you force the nigger to sell?”

Henry Kershaw grinned. "Maybe you'd try that trick, Edgar, but I'll be damned if I would. Rhett might return one day.”

"Where is Butler anyway?" Jamie asked.

"Nicaragua, Santa Domingue?" Henry Kershaw shrugged.

Edgar said, "I hear he's in New Orleans. Belle Watling, Rhett Butler, Rhett's bastard ... isn't that a brew?”

Juliet Ravanel raised her eyebrows. "Edgar, you hear the most fascinating gossip. Didn't the Watling girl go to kin in Kansas?”

"Missouri. And no, she didn't," Edgar replied. "The Missouri Watlings are death on abolitionists. Don't you read the papers?”

"Now Edgar," Juliet said coquettishly, "why should we frivolous ladies read the papers when we have our gentlemen to explain everything!”

Jamie Fisher coughed to hide his grin.

"I think," Miss Ravanel said, "it is far more interesting to ask what Langston's daughter will do with my dear brother. Rosemary is positively throwing herself at Andrew.”

"Some hussy is always throwing herself at Andrew. I don't know why he puts up with it." Jamie sniffed.

"For the same reason he tolerates you, dear Jamie." Juliet smiled sweetly.

"My brother needs his admirers.”

"How long will it take Andrew to catch Miss Rosemary?" Edgar mused.

"Before the end of Race Week." Juliet Ravanel wagered five dollars on it.

Shaded by live oaks across the racecourse, Grandmother Fisher, her granddaughter, Charlotte, and John Haynes were picnicking. Haynes & Son placed advertisements in Philadelphia and New York City papers: "CHARLESTON RACE WEEK: ROUND-TRIP PASSAGE, LODGING, MEALS — ALL INCLUDED!" John booked his tourists into the Mills Hotel on Queen Street, where Mr. Mills set Charleston's finest table.

One New York tourist made no secret of his abolitionist sympathies and offended Southerners who boarded the excursion schooner in Baltimore.

When the Abolitionist learned Mr. Mills was a free colored, he rejected his accommodations and demanded his money back. Since there were no other rooms to be had in Charleston during Race Week, he finally accepted his, but he still wanted a refund. "Yankee principles are wonderfully flexible,”

John Haynes said. "Charlotte, you aren't yourself this afternoon.

Where is our Charlotte's sunny smile?”

"Charlotte's mooning over Andrew Ravanel," Grandmother Fisher said, tapping the picnic hamper peremptorily. "Cook does the finest chicken in the Carolinas.”

"Grandmother! I am not mooning!”

"Of course you are, dear. Andrew Ravanel is gallant, daring, handsome, charming, and bankrupt. What young lady could ask for a better suitor?”

After praising Cook's chicken, John continued: "I hoped I'd see Rosemary this afternoon. I begged for a waltz last night, but her dance card was full.”

Despite the efforts of Charleston's cleverest dressmakers, Charlotte Fisher was not attractive. Her hair was mouse-colored, her complexion unfortunate, and her waist more resembled the bee's than the wasp's. Charlotte set her lip. "I'm not certain Rosemary and I are friends anymore.”

"Charlotte, don't be a goose. You and Rosemary have been friends since you were five years old," her grandmother objected.

John Haynes sighed. "Why must Charleston's most charming belles vie for the same gentleman? An ordinary fellow like myself doesn't stand a chance. Though I've no grudge against Andrew, if he stumbled and broke his aristocratic nose — a slight disfigurement, I'd wish him no worse — I'd not grieve.”

Grandmother Fisher said, "John, you do go on.”

Haynes smiled. "I suppose I do. I must ask you ladies: Don't you think I would make an excellent husband?... Thank you, Grandmother Fisher, I will try a drumstick.”

Spectators and buyers drifted toward the long barn that housed the negro sale. Inside, buyers mixed freely with the merchandise. The negro women wore modest cotton dresses and handkerchief turbans, the men linsey-woolsey jackets, their trousers belted with rope. At each wearer's whim, the men's slouch hats had been shaped into dashing or practical or disreputable configurations. The negro children wore cleaner, newer clothing than their parents.

Novice slave buyers had that nonchalant, knowing expression men assume when out of their depth.

Cassius, the musician Andrew Ravanel coveted, leaned against a stall door, arms crossed and banjo slung over his shoulder. He was a smoothfaced, fattish, very black young negro, with a complacent air some whites thought disrespectful.

"Let me hear you pluck that thing, boy.”

Cassius tapped his banjo respectfully, as if it had powers of its own.

"Can't do it, Master. No sir. Auctioneer say I'm zactly like a fancy wench: I can't give nothin' away for nothin'! Who buys me, buys my music...

Master," he said solemnly, "I can make a Presbyterian kick up his heels!”

Most negroes made themselves agreeable, seeking kindly buyers and those who might buy a family intact. "Yes, Master, I a full-task rice hand.

Been in them rice fields since I was a tad. Got most my teeth, yes sir. My nose broke account of a horse kick me. I ain't no hand with horses. My wife, she a laundress, and my son, he a quarter-task hand and he ain't got all his growth.”

Field hands were commanded to bend this way and that so any ruptures would be apparent. Some were asked to pace rapidly to and fro or prance in place as shrewd buyers evaluated their stamina and wind.

"How often you get to the dispensary, boy?”

"You say you bore three live children? Hips like yours?”

The auctioneer was florid, jolly, and on the best of terms with the buyers.

"Say, Mr. Cavanaugh, you needn't bid on this lot. Lot fifty-two's what you want: light-skinned wench, fourteen years old, Lot fifty-two. Don't I keep you in mind? Don't I now? "Mr. Johnston, if you don't bid more than seven hundred dollars for this prime buck, you ain't as shrewd as I make you to be! Seven, seven, I say seven. Won't you help me out, boys? Seven, going once, going twice. Sold for seven hundred dollars to Drayton Plantation!" The auctioneer took a quick sip of water.

"I remind you, gentlemen, of our terms. The successful bidder pays one half the winning bid in cash and signs surety for the balance to be remitted no later than thirty days, secured by a mortgage on the purchased negro.”

He smiled broadly. "Now, let's get on with the sale. Lot fifty-one: Joe's a prime boy, twelve or thirteen years. Step up on the platform, Joe, so folks can see you. Now, Joe ain't one of your spindle-shanked boys; he's already putting on frame, and in a year or so he'll be a full-task hand. A sharp fellow" — the auctioneer put his finger to his nose and winked — "could buy Joe cheap, feed him up, and by next planting he'd own a man, having paid a boy's price! Joe, turn 'round and pull off that shirt. Anyone see a mark on that back? Mr. Huger, he was a fine gentleman, but he weren't scared of the bullwhip, no sir. Joe never needed no whip because Joe's a respectful nigger, ain't you, Joe? Do I hear two hundred, two hundred dollars? Two, two, five, I have five. Do I hear five fifty, five fifty, five fifty? ... Sold to Mr. Owen Ball of Magnolia Plantation.”

Andrew Ravanel leaned indolently against an empty stall. His horseman's sinewy legs were cased in fawn-colored trousers, his frilled shirt was framed by the lapels of a short yellow jacket, his broad-brimmed hat was beaver felt, and his boots had the deep transparent gleam of frequent polishing. Andrew raised one indolent finger to Puryear and Kershaw as they came near. Andrew had a nighthawk's complexion, his pale skin so transparent, one could almost see his moods. There was tension under his fashionable languor, as if the fop were a coiled spring.

Edgar Puryear struck a match to light Andrew's cigar and nodded at the high yellow on the block. "Fine wench.”

Henry Kershaw craned to identify the bidder. "That's old Cavanaugh.

I wonder if Cavanaugh's wife knows she wants a housemaid.”

"Maid she may be ..." Andrew drawled. Henry Kershaw guffawed.

Edgar Puryear said, "Isn't that Butler's man? Isaiah Watling? There, behind the stanchion.”

Andrew Ravanel said, "One wonders how he could remain at Broughton after Rhett killed his son.”

"Man's cracker trash," Henry Kershaw snorted. "Overseer's jobs ain't as easy to find as sons. If Watling wants more sons, he can go to the quarters and make 'em.”

Andrew Ravanel said, "But Watling is said to be pious?”

"Supposed to be. Him and Elizabeth Butler pray together every time ol' Langston's out of town. Course, there's prayin' and prayin'.”

"Henry, you are a vulgar fellow," Andrew said without animosity. "Lot sixty-one. That's my Cassius.”

Kershaw scratched himself where a vulgar man scratches and said, "My flask's dry. I'm off to the clubhouse. Edgar?”

"I'll stay.”

Andrew opened the bidding for Cassius at four hundred dollars.

"I have four hundred... Six? Sir, are you sure? Yes, sir. I have six hundred for this fine young negro. Banjo throwed in with the man — one price takes both of 'em.”

"Why's Watling bidding?" Edgar Puryear asked. "Langston has no need of a banjo player.”

At eight hundred, everyone had dropped out except Isaiah Watling and Andrew Ravanel.

Isaiah Watling bid nine fifty.

When Andrew Ravanel bid one thousand dollars, Watling lifted his hand until he had everyone's attention. He climbed onto a tack box, head and shoulders above the crowd. "Mr. Ravanel, sir. I have my instructions from Master Langston Butler. I'm to ask how, if you win this nigger, you will pay for him. Where's the cash to be paid today? Where's your five hundred dollars?”