At one time, the Sprague mansion had been beautiful. The grounds were immaculate with neatly trimmed hedges and cultivated flowers everywhere. But through neglect, the war, and Sprague's constant drinking, it had become run-down. There was no one to blame except Sprague himself, who now drank from the large bottle of whiskey, rocking back and forth in the dilapidated rocker on his front porch. Hatred and bitterness were building inside his clouded mind with each drink. Whiskey spilled down over his chin onto his open-armed T-shirt and baggy trousers. The crusted bullwhip was still attached to his wide belt.

He got up slowly and stumbled down the steps toward the slave quarters, drinking as he walked. Brown liquid dripped from his thick lips down to a double chin and onto his shirt that stretched over his large belly. He cursed the heavens, becoming angrier with each step.

"Rich, Yankee bastards! What do they know?" he mumbled. "They don't need 'em for the kind 'o niggah work we need 'em for anyhow." He came to a stop underneath a huge oak tree and steadied himself. Taking another long pull from the bottle, he emptied it and threw it away. He stared at nothing for a moment, then wobbled on toward the festivities, his red eyes bulging with hate.

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