and the jerks back home sure aren’t helping. - Harry Turtledove

After another mile or so, he passed a gang of blacks weeding in a tobacco field. They did not notice him. Their heads were down, intent on the work. Hoes rose and fell, rose and fell, not quickly but at a steady pace that would finish the job soon enough to keep the overseer contented-the eternal pace of the slave.

He'd grown used to faster rhythms. He also remembered, from his dealings with the Rivington seen in Rivington itself, that slaves could be made to work to men and from what he'd those rhythms. But why bother? Things got done, either way. Slowing down was part of coming home, too.

Odds were there’d never been a human being born who couldn’t use a drink now and then.

When you thought of permanent oblivion, temporary oblivion was the only foxhole you had.