For slaves, that is. I have, comparatively speaking, ample information regarding the Royalls, the Browns and quite a few folks on Tory Row. The scant about I have on enslaved Africans, on the other hand, serves only to tantalize.
God’s Little Acre Monday, Aug 2 2010
I’m skulking through Newport’s Common Ground Cemetery, searching for the slave plots. Night is beginning to fall in earnest and a light drizzle is blanketing the ground. As I step in a divet and faceplant I curse myself for leaving my flashlight in my friend’s car (thanks, M, for letting me drive all over the Rhode Island coast). The rain and the rapidly darkening sky add a certain degree of atmosphere to this whole thing but, having been an avid watcher of both Buffy and the X Files I’m feeling a little bit . . . well . . . bite-able. Thanks to all the cars slowing down to watch the strange, bearded, damp, and shabby-looking prowler trawl through a cemetery squinting at headstones and snapping pictures I’m also feeling rather ghoulish.