Bayard nods. "I know it." He reaches forward and takes another sugarcube, tipping the bowl forward a bit with his knuckle to encourage Linden to take another as well. "I reckon even smart as he is, Ringo ain't ever going to be anything but a slave. I think more often than not that that ain't fair, since he's no different than me where it counts."

That's as far as Bayard's venturing into equal thought will go, however - the rest lies behind a veil of maturity and of the propaganda he's been swallowing about the Yankees, about the awful things they say about the South. Barbaric, backwards, inhumane. But it's a seed. Given a few years, it'll grow into something.

"I'd like to think I've already met one." He smiles at Linden, popping another sugarcube into his mouth. "Unless I got you pegged wrong."