"Look, Gerald, look at him," said Tom, admiringly. They were in the outbuildings of the Alexandria slave market, where the domestic and house slaves were being sold decorously, as befitted the fact that occasionally ladies were present. He pointed at a coalblack slave who was in the second row for sale. "Is he not the blackest man you have ever seen, and such a physiognomy, wrought like iron? He would use up all my charcoal in one drawing, for certain. Why did I not bring my book today? – I could have bettered Gericault, surely."

Gerald put his hand on his friend's arm, and said slowly and quietly, so as not to be overheard: "My dear Tom, I appreciate that you are an artist, and mean well with your thoughtless remarks, but you have for the first time in our long friendship said something deeply unworthy of you."

Tom, attempting to explain himself, replied: "I was merely thinking of him as a subject, as I might you, or anyone or anything, I meant no personal slight."

"No," said Gerald firmly, "You were thinking of him as an object, as are all the others here. You are no better than they are, he is a slave to your selfish purposes, artistic though they may be."

"But –" Tom began, and then stopped, and a look of horror came over his face. He turned and walked out of the building.

Several hours later, Gerald returned to the small hotel at which they were briefly staying. He knocked on Tom's door, and Tom said, "Come in."

The room was dark in the early evening, and Tom was sitting in a chair by the window.

Gerald came over to him, and sat on the sill ledge.

"You were of course right," said Tom. "I have been a child. I have been playing at this like some kind of exciting game, another game."

"I meant well," said Gerald.

"And I? I meant – I meant, who knows what I meant, it was worthless, despicable nonsense. I have done with it, done with it all. I have been treating life as if it were a sketch for a life, and the people in it props for my theatricals. It disgusts me."

"As Henry said, the slavery of the heart is worse than the slavery of the body, and harder to emancipate. Though he never spent the day at Alexandria market, God help us." Gerald stood up. "Do not be too hard on yourself," he concluded: "Artists are ruthless, are they not, at least by repute?"

"No withdrawing, no softening, Gerald, your remark was true and struck true. I am changed utterly, in the twinkling of an eye."

Gerald moved to the door, and opened it. "I am suspicious of sudden conversions, but should this one stick, I for one should be sorry to be deprived of your art. Especially as I went to all the trouble of purchasing Hezekiah. Come in, Hezekiah."

The same striking black figure entered the room, Gerald closed the door, and Tom rose to his feet.

Gerald said, "I have told Hezekiah who we are, and of our purposes.

Hezekiah, who looked bashful in spite of his strong features, said: "Oh, Mister Gerald, Lord it is a blessed day for me, a blessed day, snatched out of hellmouth itself." "Welcome, Hezekiah, I am Tom," said Tom, striding forward to shake his hand, tears coming into his eyes. "It is a blessed day, and not just for you. Welcome to freedom."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a hard little fight in the morning woods, the bounty hunters surprised with their prey, but not frightened by the unexpected eruption of a trio of masked riders into their midst, Tom at their head. The five men wheeled, and returned fire, howling curses. No one hit anything on either side in the first volleys, but with the second, closer, Hezekiah killed his man, but was sideswiped with a sabre from another, that opened his shoulder to the elbow, and sprayed blood over the snow. In the melee, Tom killed a second, and the third bolted, Tom in pursuit. Gerald cut the guard off, freeing the party of runaways – "Scatter, scatter," he cried, and they scattered, except for one who swiftly sidestepped, crouched and then leapt, knocking the guard off his horse, and wrestled, rolling, gouging, down into the still flowing creekbed. Gerald leapt off his horse, and raced down, gun in hand, but saw there was no need. There was a sound of riders crashing through the trees away into the distance, and then silence. He turned and raced back up the lip of the creekbed – "Tom, Tom?" – but there was nothing but the two splayed bodies, a horse rearing and kicking, and Hezekiah dancing around holding his ripped shoulder. "God, Hezekiah, how are you?" he called. "All right, if I can stop this blood, I can't feel anything all down the arm." Gerald pulled the bandanna off his face, and tried to stanch the wound, and then went and ripped the jacket off one of the dead bounty hunters, and ripped it again into lengths, and circled it around Hezekiah's arm. "Looks like a clean wound, Hez, but I don't know." There was a crash of a returning horse, Gerald turned, at the ready, and it was Tom. "Got away, Gerald, got away. Hez, how are you doing?" Hez gritted his teeth, and smiled: "Well, at least it isn't my writing arm, Tom, at least I can still write." Tom looked at him for a moment, said, "Oh, I don't think your strong right arm is quite done for yet!", and then went over to the runaway. "Thank you for your timely assistance," he said, "We heard the rumour of your passing, and your troubles. From Alabama?"

"Yes, suuh," said the man. "Alabama."

And that was about all they ever got out of him, except his name, Theo. And when he took one of the bountymen's horses, and a gun, then they were four.