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Outside in the open a while later, two parallel lines of slaves stretched out in front of massa Audachot’s cedar-wood mansion. The men stood on one side, facing them were the women. They revealed brown teeth, jesting across at each other. King had on a white cotton shirt tucked into black pantaloons. He had calculatedly taken his position right opposite Elisabet. He gazed at her, and through her right under the brim of his straw hat. Always her charming best, Elisabet. His heart fluttered. God took His time when He made Elisabet, and like a potter who molded curves on his claypot to detail Elisabet was round like a bottle. Her stays with back lacing made one ogle at her slim waist, underwhich she wore a shift and woolen petticoat. A perfection of nature’s art, her skin resembled clean bronze. She fluttered those curly lashes that bordered her thin devilish eyes. Sinking into her cheeks were permanent dimples that had King lost in reverie every night before he drifted into sleep. She packed her brown curly hair under a tied cap. This seventeen year old mulatto undoubtedly qualified as the finest thing, living or non-living, on massa Audachot’s plantation. It filled him with repugnance though that Elisabet turned her face everywhere except towards him. He felt like empty space.
‘Look, there’s come one of massa friend,’ Elisabet jollied and pointed to a horse-drawn carriage wheeling in from afar.
‘Massa Oakley from Charles,’ a ripple of gossip swept down both lines of slaves.
That boy they called foolish George stood three men to King’s left. He cut in, ‘Nah! Massa Oakley ain’t never gon’ rye’ in carriage like that.’
Elisabet’s eyes were drawn to the stooping and spindly figure. ‘How’s you know, foolish George? Alls your life you ain’t never been outside massa lan’. Only time you’s get a chance sif’ massa sell you.’
‘I’s know,’ foolish George retorted with some arrogance in his voice, as if he enjoyed Elisabet lashing out at him. ‘Massa Oakley richer than all the massa in Vengenya. That man chip lot a’ baccy’ fom’ Nu-Oilins to Inglund. I’s eared he gat three hun’ed niggers on him baccy’ field in Charles.’ George leered at her.
Everyone hummed in jest of George’s looks. They knew he enjoyed playing with girls. But the look on George’s face meant something else to King. King could see a spasm of sexual desire in George’s smoldering face. It was obvious foolish George wanted to add Elisabet to his laurels. King couldn’t help a jealous discomfort unsettle his calm. The truth could not be obliterated; foolish George had it easy with girls. Rumors of his sexual adventures roved everywhere on the plantation like a hurricane. People called him foolish George because he knew so much for a slave and flaunted his knowledge at every given opportunity. Yet, they depended on the boney twenty-one year old for vital knowledge and tidbits. Foolish George would chat about Amer’ca like he had traveled the entire country, naming places that made people imagine. He told of historic moments like he saw them when they occurred. He spun yarns about what exactly led to the war between Amer’ca and Inglund. Which slave damsel wouldn’t be wooed by such rare charm even though he was not fascinating physically? He kept a big and rough Afro over a slim symmetrical visage sides and pointed jaw that made his face resemble an equilateral triangle turned upside down. He wore his usual dark brown fearnought waistcoat over an osnaburg shirt tucked into black breeches patched in several places with white cloth.
King was determined to get to Elisabet’s heart before foolish George did so he blabbed out loud, ‘Ain’t nobody own me.’
People cast their eyes all over King. They whispered down the lines before going into a mocking mute, covering their mouths to stifle an outburst. Only the grizzling from threadbare oldies could be heard as if they were tired of life.
King reconsidered what he had just said and swallowed some saliva. His words didn’t sound right.
Foolish George stretched out of the line and cannoned a scorn King’s way, ‘Boy, jes’ becos’ you’s king back in Afrika don’t make you no king here in Amer’ca.’ He was loud. ‘Look round, you’s a slave like all of us, boy. Always tolking about him king. A nigger on white folks plantation that what you is. You’s hear me, nigger.’
A vortex of laughter hurricaned across both lines of slaves. To crown it all Elisabet joined in the jeers. King fumed inside with red-hot rage.

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