A swift furry animal low to the ground started across our path, startled the horses, which startled me, reminding me again of the runaway slave my cousin Jonathan and I had encountered on our fishing day. My heart beat up a flurry, and then settled down. I touched my hand to my coat, where the pistol had made a shape under my fingers. And then let go. I had decided I would not ride out without it anymore. “Here we are, master,” Isaac said, as we left the woods and found ourselves at the rice fields. We dismounted, tied up our horses, and walked toward the field, which looked to me like a large rectangular lawn, submerged by long rains. About two dozen slaves, men and women, some of them not much older than children, moved slowly up and down long rows, pulling up what looked to me like long stems of grass. “Is that the rice?” I said. Isaac shook his head. “Few weeks ago, we planted the seeds and then we flood the field to make them grow.
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