Bono himself became more quiet in those years. Always circumspect when addressing the white inhabitants of the house, he ceased to speak to them at all unless speech was demanded of him by his master. This was not defiance, but watchfulness. He would say nothing that gave them insight into his intelligences and stratagems. They, of course, did not notice.

Bono had been trained to read and write, as contributing to his usefulness as Mr. Gitney’s valet. Shortly after the coming of Mr. Sharpe, Bono began to peruse the gazettes and papers when Mr. Gitney was quit of them; and he would tear out certain articles and paste them onto paper, making, after some six months, a sizeable book.

One day, Mr. Sharpe and I chanced to enter the kitchen while Bono pasted. Mr. Sharpe was sufficiently canny to see that Bono attempted to direct his attention elsewhere, towards the cook, who was laboring over beets. Mr. Sharpe would not be shaken.

“What are those papers?” asked Mr. Sharpe.

“I am a fashionable man,” said Bono. “It’s a catalogue of fashions.”

Mr. Sharpe held out his hand.

Bono handed over the sheaf. “There ain’t nothing illegal,” he said, “about being devilish handsome.”

Mr. Sharpe flipped through the pages. I stood behind him, but could not see Bono’s miscellany. I could perceive, however, Mr. Sharpe’s agitation. “For what purpose do you collect these?” he demanded.

“I’m part of the bo mond. I fancy seeing what your man on the street is wearing.”

“Do you know where Mr. Gitney is?”

“I believe he is in the garden, sir.”

“Let’s go and fetch him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To authorize your whipping. You,” he said to me, “go call one of the grooms. Tell him to bring a riding crop and meet us in the garden.”

Bono walked out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. Mr. Sharpe followed, saying, “Three more lashes for the slam.”

I went to the table where the papers had been left. I lifted up the first, blank, page, and surveyed those beneath, to see, as Bono quoth, what the man on the street was wearing.

It was a catalogue of horrors. Page after page of Negroes in bridles, strapped to walls, advertisements for shackles, reports of hangings of slaves for theft or insubordination. He had, those many months, been collecting offers for children sold cheap, requests for aid in running down families who had fled their masters. For the first time, I saw masks of iron with metal mouth-bits for the slave to suck to enforce absolute silence. I saw razored necklaces, collars of spikes that supported the head. I saw women chained in coffles, bent over on the wharves.

Mr. Gitney burned Bono’s fashion catalogue an hour later.

“Let us rid ourselves,” he said, “of this noisome object.”

But I could not rid myself of it. It was the common property of us all.