DURING THE LONG DRY SUMMER, the Banham slaves spent hours dragging water from the river to the tobacco fields. In places, the creek ran dry, the bare rocks in its bed exposed to the sun like a crop of bones. The water smelled stagnant and foul. Mrs. Banham's little son fell ill with a raging fever and runny bowels. Within days, he was dead.
Weeks later, the black midday sky erupted. A jagged snake of lightning snapped down to strike a dead oak near the Washbrook Plantation. The parched forest burned, smoke billowing high as the wind blew the fire west. Orange flames licked the rotting timber of the manservants' shack, the tobacco barn, and finally the main house. The fire consumed the three crosses and the empty coffin on the riverbank.
When the wind changed direction, the fire spread east, heading toward the Banhams'. Every man, woman, and child was occupied digging fire ditches and passing buckets of water. Young Richard blindfolded the panicked horses. Smoke blackened the ivory faces of the Banham daughters as they watched their dowries go up in flames along with their home. The English spinet, the cherrywood tea table, and their gowns trimmed with Flemish lace all turned to ash.