Drake Shoney planted 150 acres at Gloaming Birch with eighteen slaves. He wasn't a Greek. His family was of the smaller yeomanry of the north County and the bottomlands. They had come from a Whig tradition and were strident against secession, all except Drake. He had hoped to ghost his Northern creditors by voting for it. He was mortgaged to the hilt. In a fit of resignation, he had to admit he had no idea what he was doing. He was just a sportsman, a playboy. The plantation he inherited from his mother was more than he could handle. He had learned he could save money by buying a creole overseer rather than hiring a white one, hence the black woman who sat uncomfortably beside him. It began to draw the ire of other white passengers.
A sheepish conductor approached. Sir, you can't have your negro in this carriage. Oh, he replied? But she's got a lot of white in her! Don't you Elzey (Elzey?). Here I got her receipt. Can’t you see she’s high yeller? Drake showed the conducter, pointing to where it was scrawled she was a “marabou.” See, he snapped smugly? She's creole, as if to impress. At any rate, the conductor let them be so as not to be rude to the gentleman. Drake Shoney never minded the glare of vitriol from the others. He went on reading his papers, tipping a flask dramatically and often until he had passed out. Elzey, uncertain of her future, rubbed the stones which lined her grigri bag and prayed to Blanc Dani.
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