January 5th, 1776
We cannot rid ourselves of the stench of smoke. There is little talking in our dank hold.
Upon Twelfth Night (saith Slant), masters upon plantations here bid their slaves heap the tobacco plots with brush and trash and light the plots on fire; the ground burns all night. The next day, when the ashes have cooled, you rake the ashes. You rake in you tobacco seed. Later, when the sprouts have come up and are strong, they are taken from these beds of ash and transplanted, each to its own mound.
Says he of Norfolk: “It’s a New Year’s . . . burning. You got to burn, to grow.”
Quoth Bono grimly, “Glorious, glorious. That is a pretty sentiment.”