“No, I don’t believe the spirit of Gran’ Lamen guards his land.”

Ballou chuckled. “Do I look like a fool? I did not mean that.” He stared down at the tip of his cigar. “I meant the story of Gran’ Lamen and the hanging tree.”

Both men reflected for a moment.

Gran’ Lamen had been one African among many chained in the hold of the slaver Mary Donahue when it foundered off Pittime. He broke loose and freed his fellows before the ship sank. Not one white man made it to shore alive.

It was said that in the wars with the natives, Gran’ Lamen wielded a club that could kill twenty savages at one swing. It was said he was eight feet tall and he had twenty-five adoring wives of every color. This harem cooked his enemies and fed them to him by hand in bloody, rare morsels, while some of his fifty children sang and the rest fanned him with palm fronds.

It was said that when the Island Council voted seven to six in 1808 to give slave smugglers a port in return for a cut of the profits, all seven members who had voted in favor were found hanged the next morning from the live oak in the main square. Gran’ Lamen, who by then was not one day under sixty, stood beneath the dangling bodies, placidly smoking his pipe. Nobody asked questions.

Amadeo and his guest contemplated this. “I would like to think it was true,” Amadeo said. “Wouldn’t you?”