Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
the little girl, but Claudius Sr.'s will mentions only two sons—directly, that is. Claudius Sr.
gave his servant woman Cortney and her son, Martin, to his son, William, as slaves. He also
gave Cortney her own slave and directed that a house be built for her and Martin. He stipu-
lated that the two of them were to be set free when Martin was twenty-one, and that Martin
be given tools and taught a trade. Cortney and Martin then disappear from the record.
I couldn't quite countenance, looking across the land, that both the Revolutionary War
and the Civil War took place here, that people who had fought in the revolution for inde-
pendence from England were the same people who kept slaves. And that their slaves kept
slaves.
Solo whined loudly in the car. He was a cemetery novice and would not get to go first,
which irritated him greatly. Paul Martin would start with Macy, one of his veteran cadaver
dogs. Paul started working on ancient human remains more than ten years ago, and it has
become both an intellectual and a training challenge for him. A bit more sun, Paul said, and
the scent would start rising and moving, if scent were there. Too much sun can burn it off.
There's a sweet spot for grave work.
Arpad Vass observed the following about using dogs to find more recent, clandestine buri-
als, and Paul was applying the principles to older remains: Humidity should be between sev-
enty and eighty-five percent. Check. Ideal soil type: sand and humic. Check. Temperatures
at fifty-three degrees and rising. It was colder than that, but otherwise, we were searching in
conditions that were well-nigh perfect, according to Arpad's calculations, although I didn't
know if the barometric pressure was falling, as it should be.
Macy looks more like a cross between Old Yeller and Gollum than a Labrador. He's slip-
pery and primitive, with amber eyes, a reddish-dun coat, and ribs sticking out; though he
eats constantly, he runs it off. He had raw spots on his pink nose that morning from butting
his wire crate door repeatedly in his eagerness to get out. Macy banged in joy as Paul ap-
proached the crate; as soon as the latch turned, Macy shot out into the woods. Paul followed
more slowly, then stood amid the oak, beech, sweet gum, black cherry, and sycamore trees.
Calm and quiet, he watched Macy dash around the perimeter of the area like a surveyor on
methamphetamines.
“Too far,” he said in his nasal, lilting voice as Macy dropped out of sight down the bluff
toward the river. It's a term that Lisa Higgins uses, and I had started using it with Solo. It
doesn't mean “come.” It means “start to circle back.”
Macy was working hard, snorkeling scent in the leaves without finding anything. It was
too cold. He ignored Paul and didn't ask to be rewarded. After ten minutes, Paul put Macy
up. We would have to wait until the sun penetrated the canopy. In the meantime, another
glade beckoned, where it was warmer than it was on this crest. Down the gentle hill, where
the cotton was harvested months before, lay the “black cemetery”—covered with periwinkle
