Sawyers Mill was no longer a sawyer's home, nor, really, a mill.  It sagged comfortably against the banks of the Peedee, and could have milled the year long, except for the ice times from late December to early March.  But it didn't.  The old wooden gears and shafts were warped, and splintered; the grinding stones frozen together with time. The staircase around the edge of the millroom was not as sound as it was once, and the boards had not been replaced where they showed signs of dryrot. The living quarters on the upper story of the old stone house were sound, but showed signs of the same long deferred maintenance; the maple tree outside had been allowed to grow its branches clear up against the single window, pushing one of the faded red shutters clear off its pintle into a lopsided slant up against the chipping whitewash of the building exterior.  The room was large, dappled by the sunlight coming through the window in spite of the maple's efforts, the wide handhewed oaken floorboards clean, but worn into curves by over a century of use.  The pegs that joined them had grown rounded and smooth with a thousand sweepings, their grain was deepened and wide with wear, but they had another hundred years left in them.  Beneath the bed, which stood on four sturdy smooth posts by the window, a visitor could see an ornate and ancient porcelain chamberpot, it's dark blue decorations faded and chipped from long use, but scrubbed and neat withal. Next to it stood a worn copper bedwarmer, its maple handle polished with years of use,  and a large copper shaving bowl with a section cut away from its side for placing against the neck to capture soap and whiskers.

Adam Thoroughgood, the user of these various appliances, was snoring quietly. He shifted his legs as the morning sun crawled up the counterpane.  His long shanks stuck out at the edge, his bare toes already counting the morning seconds as the sunlight reached and stirred them. In repose, you would call it a handsome face -- lanky, a little, but a strong chin, a striaght nose, all the features balanced and of the usual number.  His eyes opened, and his wandering attention reviewed the fact that he was again firmly tied to his nature of 48 years, his place in the world, and the small farm and mill on the northernmost limb of what they called the Tombigbee river.

He stirred himself again, and threw his long legs out from under the covers, set about readying himself for the day ahead, moving among the affairs of men on the southern edge of the great and honorable slave state of Alabama.