As Storky turned to go into the kitchen, she added, "Biddy's not a special wench, Master Selby, sir. Lots of nigger girls around the Star looks skinny like that Biddy wench. Maybe Miss Selby sees somebody she thinks is Biddy."

Selby nodded again. "Probably."

Hesitating in the doorway, Storky asked, "Is that all for now, Master Selby, sir?"

"Yes, that's all, Storky." Selby said, then added as an afterthought, "Oh, Storky. If anybody asks where I am this afternoon, just say I had to go see Judge Antrobus."

"Yes, Master Selby, sir," Storky answered. "Does that mean you're not home for supper?" She knew Selby's schedule whenever he went to see Judge Antrobus. He always came home late.

Selby answered, "That's right, Storky. If anyone asks, tell them where I've gone."

"To see Judge Aatrobus."

Selby nodded. He had to get out of this house.

Rachel sat quivering now on the edge of her bed. She had heard Biddy go screaming down the stairs, and finally the house was quiet again.

Rachel believed that Biddy was a sinful girl. She further believed that all the black wenches on the Star were sinful. She could tell that by their rolling eyes. They were looking for sin.

Biddy had almost driven Rachel to despair by pounding on the bedroom door this morning and asking her if she wanted to eat.

Having tolerated as much of Biddy's noise as she 108.

possibly could, Rachel had screamed through the door and told Biddy exactly what she thought about her. Biddy was a sinful black slut.

Rachel was alone again.

The thought of going outside the bedroom repulsed Rachel. Seeing the remnants of last night's party would only remind her about the women who had been there, the women who she had thought were her friends.

Rachel had never realized until last night how stupid other women were. They hung on then: husbands' arms as if the men were chivalrous knights. Did they not know that those same men spent nights with black sluts exactly like Biddy? That all men were evil?

Rachel asked herself now if there was anything in the world more evil than a male.

She answered herself, "Niggers!"

Standing up, she went to the oval mirror hanging over her dressing table and looked at her reflection. As she stared at her face, one hand found its way to her breasts. She rubbed at the breasts, trying to flatten them, to brush them away from her body.

Turning sideways, she looked at the silhouette of her slim body in the mirror.

She had a small waist, and her breasts still had a definite curve to them. Never before had she realized that she must be quite tempting to a black man. She had heard a story last night about a Savannah lady being raped by a black man.

Stopping, Rachel considered the story. Had that story about rape been the cause for her sudden change of mood last night? Had thinking about that story also made her unhappy today?

Throwing up her head, she thought, yes, of course it was the reason. She had reason to be frightened of black men. A white woman was completely helpless with a black man, and here at the Star she was surrounded by the ravenous brutes. If a Savannah woman had been raped in the middle of town by a black man, what chance did she have here hi escaping the same fate?

Sinking down to the edge of the bed, Rachel tried to imagine what it would feel like if a black man would rape her. She remembered the weight of her husband's 109.

body on the night that she had conceived Melissa. He had been so heavy, and she remembered being embarrassed by the words he had spoken to her. He had said them with whiskey on his breath.

Rachel put the words out of her mind. Men spoke foolishness, she thought now. She hated men, and the women who tolerated them were stupid. Whores. They were whores! Only whores slept with men reeking of alcohol. Drunkards and whores!

Standing up from the bed again, Rachel went back to the mirror. Looking at herself, she saw a tear rolling from the corner of her eye.

Why am I crying? she asked herself.

Am I lonely?

She sniffed. No, she was not lonely. She was frightened, and she thought that she had every reason to be frightened, too. A lady had been raped right in the middle of Savannah, and here she was totally vulnerable on a plantation full of Negroes.

Rachel Selby hated this life on a plantation. She hated its Negroes. She hated the Star.

Judge Tom Antrobus lived at Fairfield, five miles northwest of the Star. But that was not the direction in which Albert Selby set out on his bay mare this afternoon when he cantered onto the dusty public road from his property.

Having tipped his straw hat by habit at the rickety wooden star hanging from the crossbeams of the front gate, Selby squared the wide-brimmed hat back onto his forehead, and turning right, rode southwest on the road that led to Troy.

A few clouds streaked the blue sky today; at two o'clock, the sun burned hot, and Selby was glad that he was not taking the road all the way to its terminus at Troy. He was thankful for having escaped from Rachel, too. Selby was finding that, as he grew older, he tried to ignore the difficulties that might arise in his life-an argument in the house or a crisis on the Star.

Selby had wholeheartedly enjoyed himself at the party last night. He had received old friends,,some of whom he had not seen for many months,, others for years. But 110.

there was one person who had been missing from the gathering. Although respecting the fact that Judge Antrobus adamantly refused to step foot on the Star, or any other property that had a connection with the Roland family, Selby did like to talk to his old friend. But, in a curious way, Selby was always pleased that the judge refused to come to his home; by having to leave the Star to see him, Selby was able to accomplish two or three other things on the same visit. And today Selby was glad that he had to leave home to see the judge. He needed this escape.

The large, shady groves of elm trees on either side of the Troy road passed quickly now as Selby galloped faster, hurrying toward the established rendezvous with his friend, anxiously looking forward to the restful surrounding that always awaited him at their usual meeting place. It had become Selby's habit to visit Judge Antrobus at the Dewitt place, the secluded cottage on the road to Troy that was owned by two sisters, Charlotte and Roxanne Dewitt.

More than a few males in this neighborhood, married men as well as single, had reason to pay a call at the Dewitt place. Although it was an accepted fact in the South that many white gentlemen took sexual liberties with the black wenches on their plantations, not every white man enjoyed such freedoms. Rachel Selby was not the only strict woman in these parts. Other wives and mothers also kept a constant watch over their husbands' and sons' activities. Thus, it was those upright, God-fearing females like Rachel Selby who unwittingly had created a local demand for the Dewitt sisters.

Prostitution would be the last profession in the world that someone would assign to two ladies who looked and lived like the Dewitt sisters. Charlotte was in her mid-sixties, and Roxanne confessed to being fifty-seven years old. They both dressed in conservative frocks, simple cottons sprigged with violets, or pastel dimities decorated with nothing more ornate than a cameo brooch or a modest string of heirloom pearls. The older sister, Charlotte, had let her hair go completely white, wearing it in a neat plaited coronet on top of her head. Roxanne's hair was still a youthful chestnut brown, 111.

pulled into an unassuming roll over each ear. The ladies were generally thought to be two spinsters living on a modest family inheritance. No one but their faithful following knew that their livelihood came instead from the immoral earnings of young white females.

The young ladies who worked at the Dewitt place always came from faraway places, mostly from the states to the north, and never stayed in the Louisiana Territory longer than four months. As the Dewitts were not considered to be, nor thought of themselves as, madams of a bordello, neither did their short-term visitors fit naturally into the category of whores. The Dewitts' girls were drafted from the ranks of proper young ladies who needed extra cash at a critical moment, sophisticated adventuresses who were tem porarily down on their luck, or merely pretty girls who wanted to snatch a sample of life before they committed themselves to the rigors of married life back home. There was no room in. the Dewitt household for common women of the street.

Apart from enjoying the obvious physical attractions offered by the smooth-skinned young ladies who came to stay at the Dewitt cottage, the regular customers at the establishment often congregated there to discuss local politics, the seasonal condition of cotton and tobacco, social events in the community. A small corps of males used the Dewitt place as a gentlemen's club. And the club was exclusive, a place run strictly for gentlemen, because the Dewitts carefully screened all the men before they allowed them onto their place. The two business-minded spinsters did not want to risk exposure and be driven from a neighborhood where they had discreetly but profitably existed now for more than fifteen years.

Reaching the thick blind of tall cypress trees that blocked the Dewitt land from passersby, Selby reined his mare and listened for the sounds of a rider or a farm wagon coming from around the far bend of the road. But all was silent. He heard only the music of a creek tinkling alongside the road.

Hopping from his horse, Selby opened the gate and led the mare onto the Dewitt land. As he always felt a 112.

special comfort when he passed under the wooden standard of the Star, Selby felt a particular kind of warmth, too, when he came through these gates at the Dewitt place. Apart from admiring the two ladies' ingenuity for guarding their true identity in the community, he praised them for having chosen a house so well protected from the scrutiny of the public eye. He felt safe here.

Astride his horse once again, Selby trotted up the poplar-lined drive, already feeling revived from his problems at the Star. He fanned his face with his straw hat as he came in view of a small, double-storied white house sitting at the end of the drive. With iron fretwork crowning its steep roof, the Dewitt house looked prim and guiltless of sin.

Selby saw no horses tied to the post near the wide gallery that surrounded the house on three sides, but he realized that that was no sign to tell whether or not other men were here today. The Dewitts always had their visitors' horses taken around to the stables at the back of the house. That was one of the jobs done by George, the Negro groom.

George was one more enigma of the Dewitt place. He was the same age as Selby, if not older, but appeared to be a much younger man. With the stamina of a bull, he often joined in the activities of the bedrooms. George had a fine mahogany-brown body and enjoyed exhibiting it to the guests. George often performed vigorously with the young girls in front of paying customers.

But George's role at the Dewitt place included more than being both groom and show man. He was also the long-term lover of Roxanne, the younger Dewitt sister. So unspeakable was a union between a white woman and a black man in these parts, though, that most of the visitors here did not know of the relationship. Selby was one of the few who did.

Hitching his horse to the front rail, Selby still did not see George, and guessed that he was engaged in one of the bedrooms. Sauntering across the gallery, Selby tapped lightly on the door and then saw the white plaited crown of the older Dewitt sister through the 113.

frosted panes of the door. He listened as she unfastened the bolt on the door.

Charlotte Dewitt wore a buttercup-yellow dress today. She fondly embraced Selby as he entered, holding both cheeks to him to be kissed before leading him into the parlor through a pair of tasseled green draperies.

Three men were already seated in the parlor, a small room covered with primrose wallpaper and furnished with couches and chairs upholstered in floral prints. One guest was Judge Antrobus, a portly man with ginger sideburns. Charlotte Dewitt introduced the other two guests as Antony Taylor and Monsieur Remain. Taylor was a banker from Carterville, and Romain had come from the island of St. Thomas, traveling to New York. After giving Selby a whiskey and replenishing the other drinks, Charlotte fluttered from the room to prepare a room for Taylor.

The conversation among the gentlemen in the parlor was stilted. The only two who had come here to talk were Selby and Antrobus, but they were not going to speak in front of strangers. The topic of conversation began at the popular subject of Eli Whitney and his struggle to keep the patent on his cotton gin and progressed to opinions on slavery. Monsieur Romain said that the West Indian islands were becoming rife with slave rebellion. He warned that the American markets would soon be glutted with mutinous slaves from the Caribbean. He cautioned the others not to buy them.

Charlotte returned, and clasping her dainty hands in front of her waist, asked both Taylor and Romain to follow her. She had finally made arrangements for both of them.

Selby and Judge Antrobus were left alone.

Antrobus began in his usual gruff voice, "Losing any more niggers at the Star, Selby?"

Relaxing, Selby shook his head. "Things have quieted down for a while. But I still can't figure out where they ran. Nobody else seems to be having the problem." He did not seem to be too concerned.

"What does Tucker have to say? Anything?" Judge 114.

Antrobus never visited the Star, but because he was Selby's legal adviser, he knew everything that Selby knew about the plantation and often felt more concern than Selby did for its future. He despised the family who had settled the Star but recognized its crop potential, especially now that green cotton and the cotton gin were widening the market.

"Tucker can't figure it out either."

Judge Antrobus sneered. "Tucker. There's a scoundrel if I ever saw one. When are you going to get you a new man?"

"You can't find a white man who's willing to work these days. But if Ro had stayed on . .." Selby stopped. The ease of the Dewitt place had made Selby forget that he had promised himself that he would never mention his son's name again. He quickly changed the subject to something bright. He asked, "Anything new here?"

A leer spread between Judge Antrobus' sideburns, and looking quickly at the archway, he said, "Something very new. Do you remember that Faye Willows girl?"

Selby thought back to the faces and names he had seen and heard here at the Dewitt place. Resting his head on the back of the couch, he thought aloud, "Faye Willows ... Faye Willows."

Judge Antrobus helped. "The filly you decided against. Because of your"-Antrobus patted his chest- "ticker."

Pulling on his goatee, Selby smiled and confessed, "That includes about most of them here." Selby knew his heart would not sustain any vigorous lovemaking with a young lady.

"Faye Willows," Antrobus prompted. "The one who wore out everybody except good old George."

"The redhead!"

Judge Antrobus nodded. "And knockers out to here."

Selby smiled. He remembered Faye WiJlows, all right.

Judge Antrobus whispered, "Well, there's one here like that now."

"No wonder I didn't see George," Selby said smiling,115.

remembering a scene between George and the now-departed Faye Willows.

During the days of Faye Willows, George always had met Selby in front of the Dewitt house with the words, "Good thing you ain't riding a stallion today, Master Selby, sir. That Miss Willows is taking on every blasted thing that's got him a dong!"

George was right. And although Selby followed his better judgment by never going with Faye Willows, he had seen enough of her to satisfy himself.

It was five years ago that Selby had sat on the floor of a bedroom-beside two merchants from Troy-and watched Faye Willows making her reputation. She was performing not only with George, the groom, but also with a strapping young sailor with a headful of tight yellow curls.

The sailor had come to the Dewitt place with a letter of introduction from an uncle in New Orleans. He had brought with him a three-month store of sexual starvation, which proved to be hardly ample for Faye Willows.

It had never been clear to Selby whether the creamy-complexioned girl was innately desirous of sex or whether she responded to the sight of having identical male organs in each hand, one George's, one the sailor's, and both like rods of steel but in opposite colors. She liked to look and observe what was happening to her, it seemed, as much as she enjoyed the sensations.

Faye Willows groaned theatrically as the sailor began plunging eagerly into her. She cleverly screamed and swooned to make the beefy youth feel more magnificent than he actually was. She cajoled him toward the full steam of his excitement. And as much as the sailor tried not to explode, Faye Willows employed her warm vacuum to release his pent-up excitement and drain every last drop he had been hoarding at sea.

She then switched her attention to George. Tonguing the ebony version of the sailor's large phallus, she moistened this black counterpart until it glistened with her saliva. Next she rubbed her enormous white breasts against it like a cat snuggling along the length of a 116.

thick black tree. Miss Willows virtually purred with contentment, enjoying the closeness of such a monumental species of manhood next to her naked body, gasping when George reached bis huge black hands down for her white breasts, beginning to knead her large strawberry-pink nipples with his working black fingers.

Unlike the youthful sailor, George was not so easily flattered by Miss Willows' reactions to him being inside her. He had been praised before, and often more honestly. When she howled and panted, both cursing and adulating his prowess, calling attention to how he was stirring her furry patch with his stonelike phallus, George only grinned at his audience, expanding his black chest like a gorilla.

George took great pride in his fitness. Whenever he prformed in front of the white customers here, there was always a smile on his face.

Now, as the three men squatted on the floor watching his lean hips back and forth, back and forth against Miss Willow, George grinned shamelessly.

Selby had marveled not so much at the voraciousness of the white girl as he had praised the physical condition of George. George's chest looked like a plate of Roman armor; the hairs that had turned white with age resembled small metal shavings. He still had all of his teeth, too, a glistening white line that spread wide in his mouth as he continued rhythmically into the girl.

As George was still going, the sailor lay collapsed on the bed, sprawling face down on the mattress, spent by the rigors of Faye Willows. The sailor's only reaction to her now was a groan as she reached for the downy crack in his buttocks, and as George kept pummeling her with his phallus, she poked a moistened finger into the sailor's rosebud anus.

But Faye Willows did not have such an easy time with George. Although not brutal, George worked the girl until she finally gasped, "I surrender! I surrender!"

George stared at her with large eyes. His masculinity was still half-held by her wet femininity. He asked, "Surrender? This ain't no war, Miss Willows, ma'am! We don't have no wars here!"

117.Selby and the other two men on the floor applauded George's truthful words.

At the Dewitt place there were no battles, no altercations, no differences, not about race, creed, or color.

"Did you and the judge have a good talk?" Charlotte Dewitt asked Selby.

Charlotte and Selby were sitting side-by-side in an ornate brass bed in a bedroom upstairs called the Rose Room. Charlotte had come back to the parlor to tell Judge Antrobus that his room was ready. Then she and Selby had adjourned upstairs together, removed their clothes, and climbed into bed.

With two white pillows propping up his back, Selby lay in the light, turned golden as it poured through the closed window blinds. He answered, "We had our usual gab." He did not want to tell Charlotte about their memories of Faye Willows. He cherished his relationship with Charlotte too much to talk to her about such matters.

Charlotte said, "I haven't had time lately to chat with you about hardly anything, Albert. How's little Peter? Is he well?"

"Peter's a fine boy. I couldn't be more proud of Peter than if he were... my own."

"And Melissa? She must be thrilled having someone like Peter."

"Melly is doing just fine," he said, squeezing her hand.

"That's good," Charlotte said, pulling the quilt over her narrow shoulders. She knew that she did not have to ask Selby any more questions than those. Melissa and Peter were his two favorite subjects. She knew he loved them even more than the Star. She knew that all of his Negroes could run away, and as long as Selby had Melissa and Peter, he would be happy.

Now all that Charlotte had to do was to make bun feel good in his body.