Dawson's Fall

by Roxana Robinson

  In Pennsylvania the Morgans had called dark-skinned people friends and kin. In Louisiana they called dark-skinned people servants. Judge Morgan and his family didn’t use the word “slaves,” though they owned nine of them.

  * * *

  THOMAS GIBBES MORGAN had two wives and nine children. His first wife died after giving birth to their son Philip Hicky, who was called “Brother” within the family. Later Thomas met Sarah Fowler. This was in the visiting room at the convent of St. Michaels, Order of the Sacred Heart. Her parents had died when she was a child, and the orphaned Sally had been given to the Church at the age of nine. She was the youngest in the family, and it was said that the others were reluctant to share the inheritance. In her will, Sally’s mother had assigned her a “curator,” the planter George Mather. He visited Sally in the small stone windowless room at the convent. At first she was so small her feet did not reach the floor beneath the chair. She was a meek, quiet child, and on visits she kept her hands folded in her lap. The Church wanted to keep her. When she was older the Mother Superior told Mather how pleased they were that Sally was going to take the veil. She smiled beatifically and tucked her hands inside her sleeves. But when Mather saw Sally and congratulated her, she put her hand over her mouth and began to weep. Eyes shut, she asked if he could get her out.

  It was not easy: the family had assigned her to the Church without recourse. But Mather found a young lawyer to take on her case. By the time he got her out she was eighteen, with dark blue eyes and high arching eyebrows. Thomas Gibbes Morgan and Sarah Fowler were married from the Mather plantation, Belle Alliance, in 1830. It was a Protestant ceremony: Thomas was Episcopalian, and Sally said she would never again set foot in a Catholic church. They had eight children, four sons: Thomas Gibbes, Jr. (called Gibbes), George (Mather, after her savior), Henry (called Hal or Harry), and James (called Jem or Jimmy), and four daughters: Lavinia, Lilly, Miriam, and Sarah.

  Thomas Gibbes Morgan became a distinguished figure in Baton Rouge. He was a judge, with a large private law practice. He was a scholar as well, and edited two books on Louisiana law, in both French and English. All the children were educated. The sons went into law and medicine; the daughters were well-read and married well. The Morgans lived on Church Street, in a big plain white house with pillars. It had a two-story porch, which in Louisiana was called a galerie. They all spoke French; everyone did in Baton Rouge.

  Louisiana was Creole then. At that time the word meant a child of European parents, born in a New World colony. Later the word came to mean mixed, but then it meant pure. Pure blood was important.

  Louisiana was under Spanish rule during both the French and American Revolutions. It had never rebelled against a monarchy; Creole culture was formal and aristocratic. Sarah grew up with Creole rules and Morgan principles.

  * * *

  THAT RAINY MORNING, when Sarah woke early, three of her brothers were also awake, downriver in New Orleans, in Philip Hicky Morgan’s house on Camp Street. It was raining there, too, glistening on the cobblestones.

  The war was scattering the family. George was in Pensacola, Gibbes in Virginia. Jem was coming home from Annapolis. Hal (Sarah’s favorite) had just arrived from studying medicine in France. Hal was twenty-five, and about to join the army as a surgeon. The family had given him a coming-home party in Baton Rouge, and after that he’d gone down to New Orleans. He’d told Sarah he was going to consult Brother about setting up his practice there after the war, though that was not the real reason.

  The war, the war: the idea had been spreading across the South like a prairie fire, flaring in gusts of outrage, guttering down into moderate discussions, rising into towering columns of heat and fury. Southerners resented interference by the North. They talked about their rights. They didn’t mention slavery.

  The night before, Brother and his wife (called Sister in the family) had sat with guests in the dining room. The tall windows overlooked the street, and the big mirrors reflected the light from the crystal chandelier. The women wore low necklines and the men wore starched white shirts. The servants moved quietly around the table, carrying the yellow Sevres platters.

  Philip Hicky was six foot four and powerful, with big hands and feet. He was broad-faced, with a strong nose and deep-set blue eyes. Like his father he was a lawyer and judge. Like his father he supported the Union. The other two guests—John Bouligny, a congressman, and Michel Heriat, editor of the newspaper—were split on the subject.

  The talk was war. South Carolina had seceded, and now so had Louisiana.

  “The best outcome would be a quick victory for the North,” said Philip Hicky, “then for them to be magnanimous to the South.”

  “The North can’t win quickly. The South will never surrender,” said Heriat. He was a French Creole, the editor of L’Abeille de Nouvelle Orleans. He was small and intense, with dark eyes. “It’s a matter of honor.”

  “Wars aren’t fought for honor,” said Philip Hicky. “It’s always something else. Money. Land.”

  “We have the land,” Bouligny said.

  “They have the banks,” Philip Hicky said.

  “It’s culture,” said Heriat. “The North and South are separate countries. They can’t unite.”

  “The whole point of our government is the union,” said Philip Hicky.

  The week before, he’d given a speech against secession. It was in a city park; he stood on a platform above the crowd as it was growing dark.

  “War would be a catastrophe,” Philip Hicky had warned. “If we fire a single shot against the Union, in five years your former slaves will be your political masters.”

  As he spoke the evening sky was turning dark, sinking into night. Behind him something jerked into view: a straw man was hauled slowly into the air by a rope flung over a telegraph pole. Pinned to its chest was a placard: “PH Morgan—Traitor.” The body hung, dangling over the crowd, while a bright flaming chunk of wood was held to its foot. The straw blazed suddenly against the dark sky. The smoke bloomed upward, pale and opaque, reddening in the light from the flames below.

  “But your view is not popular,” said Heriat. “As you saw. The people want war. Anyway, England will join us.”

  “Why will it?” asked Philip Hicky. “They banned slavery years ago. They won’t get involved.”

  “They need our cotton,” said Heriat.

  “Not enough to go to war,” said Philip Hicky. “They’re too wise. And they’ll have it anyway.”

  “If we win,” said Heriat, “we’ll be a great country. The Confederate States of America.”

  “The north has the mills,” Bouligny said. “The factories.”

  “We’ll trade with them,” Heriat said. “Just as we trade with England.”

  Philip Hicky shook his head. “It wouldn’t be that simple. And I don’t think we’d win.” He changed the subject, turning to Jem.

  “Young Jem,” he said, “tell us what happened at Annapolis.”

  Jem was fifteen. He told them how during morning convocation someone had come in to say that South Carolina had fired on Fort Sumter, then seceded. They were dismissed, and went out into the yard. The Southern boys all said they’d resign to fight for the South, and so had Jem.

  “You did the right thing,” said Hal. “It’s a matter of honor.”

  “C’est important, l’honneur,” said Heriat.

  * * *

  IN LATE APRIL it was still cool in the evenings in New Orleans. The tall windows stood open and the breeze carried moist air from Lake Pontchartrain. New Orleans was lush with foliage, trees and flowers, shrubs and vines. Wisteria clambered up wrought-iron balconies, along roofs and trellises, throwing out a dense coverlet of green. Great magnolias, with their dark glossy leaves and velvety white blossoms, towered over the gardens. On the outskirts of the city, near Bayou Metairie, stood the grove of live oaks. They were huge and ancient, with vast green crowns that shadowed the ground below. Nothing grew beneath them. The great limbs swooped low, lying h
eavily along the ground, like immense serpents.

  After the guests had gone, the three brothers stood in the front hall. The candles guttered, the smoke turning thin and black.

  “And so to bed,” said Philip Hicky.

  “Young Jem, come sleep with me,” Hal said. “I’ve hardly seen you, and tomorrow we go in different directions.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Jemmie said. “Just home. I’m the only Morgan the Confederacy doesn’t want.”

  “They’ll want you,” said Hal. “Wait a bit.”

  “It’ll be over by then,” Jemmie said. “I can’t get older any faster.”

  “Anyway, come and talk to me tonight.” They all made a pet of Jemmie.

  “You go up, Hal,” Brother said. “Wait a moment, Jem.”

  Hal started up, the wide stairs creaking under his boots. His candle cast flaring shadows behind him until he vanished at the landing.

  Brother turned to Jem. “Don’t keep your brother up. He has a duel at dawn, at the Oaks.”

  “Dawn,” Jemmie said, transfixed by the word “duel.” “With who?”

  “Mr. James Sparks, from Baton Rouge. It’s illegal there, they had to come here.”

  “But what happened?” asked Jemmie.

  Brother shook his head. “Off you go. Don’t keep him up.”

  When Jem came in, the room was dark and Hal was already in bed. Jem set down his candle and began to undress. He wanted to hear about Sparks, but Hal spoke.

  “Tell me more about Annapolis,” Hal said.

  Jem began unbuttoning his jacket. “We all went down to the office and gave in our resignations. The secretary wrote down our names and then we had to sign next to them. We felt like patriots. Then we packed our trunks and set out for the station. I was heading across the grounds, and my captain came up to me. He was kind and I liked him. He took me by the hand and asked if I didn’t want to reconsider. I said I’d already resigned, but he said that if I wanted to change my mind, he could still fix it. But once I went through the gate I could never come back. I said thank you, but it was too late. He just nodded, but I felt I was letting him down.”

  “You did the right thing,” Hal said. “You’d have been miserable fighting for the Union, the rest of us for the South.”

  “Not Brother,” said Jem. He sat down to pull off his boots. “Or Lavinia’s husband, Drum.”

  “Then if you support the Union,” Hal said, “you should have stayed.”

  “I don’t support it,” said Jem. “And it’s too late now.” He set his boots down side by side.

  “It’s too late,” Hal agreed, and Jem wondered if he were thinking about the duel.

  Jem padded across the room in his stockings. He climbed into bed and blew out the candle. He wondered what weapons Hal had chosen, what distance. He remembered young Mr. Sparks, with his high shiny forehead and small sneering mouth. He’d come to Hal’s party and stalked about, too important to talk.

  “You must be glad to be going home,” said Hal. “You must have missed it. In France I used to think of it. Everything. The evenings singing in the parlor, Miriam at the piano.”

  “But you’re home now,” Jem said.

  “Yes,” Hal said.

  Jem wondered if he were afraid. He thought of the live oaks, their low twisting branches. He pictured Hal, his arm raised, holding a dueling pistol. A loud shattering sound, Mr. Sparks falling.

  The street was silent. Branches scraped in a small nocturnal wind; something scurried in the wall. Jem lay awake, keeping watch. Footsteps passed in the street, coming close, then dying away.

  He awoke to the door opening. Hal was slipping out, carrying his boots. Jem leaped out of bed. He pulled on his trousers, grabbed his coat and boots, and hurried after his brother.

  Outside it was raining lightly. At the curb stood two bays pulling a gleaming carriage, green with black trim. Hal was opening the door; inside were Bouligny and Heriat.

  Jem ran down the steps, carrying his boots. He waved to the driver, who waited until Jem climbed up on the box to lift the reins. The big bays moved forward, their backs wet and glistening. Jem pulled on his coat and boots, then hugged himself against the cold.

  In Bayou Metairie they stopped beneath a huge tree, near a knot of men. It was raining steadily now. Hal got out, followed by Heriat and Bouligny. Jem climbed down but stayed in the shadows; he didn’t dare step forward.

  Heriat asked, “Vous êtes bien prêt?” Are you ready?

  Hal nodded, and they moved off toward the others. The light from the lantern shone upward, reflecting off the canopy overhead. The rain drummed on the leaves, dripping through the branches. Jem followed, at first at a distance, then closer. Bouligny heard him and turned around. His face turned stern.

  “This is against the code,” he said. “No family members within two hundred yards. You can’t stay.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jem said, and moved back.

  Bouligny frowned, then turned and went on.

  As soon as he turned away, Jem slid behind a tree. After a moment he slipped on toward the duel.

  Hal and the others stood beneath the long snaking branches of the tree. The lanterns cast wild shadows on their faces. Jem came closer, keeping behind the trees. The rain was coming down harder now.

  The lanterns were set down, making a bright cave of light. The duelers took off their jackets, handing them to their seconds. The white shirts shone against the gloom. The seconds handed each dueler a shotgun. The rain on the leaves was loud. Hal broke open his gun, checked the chamber, then closed it. He raised his hand to push back his sodden hair; the rain was coming down in his eyes. James Sparks faced him, his shotgun held at a slant. They stood very straight. A voice called out and they turned, striding away from each other. The voice counted the paces: fifteen.

  They turned, and faced each other again. The lanterns shone on their faces, glistening in the rain. They raised the guns to their shoulders, and their white sleeves caught the light.

  It was pouring now, rain sliding through the branches and leaves in sheets, coursing down the hanging moss. Jem could hear nothing but the thunder of the rain.

  * * *

  GRIEF CAN RISE UP and overwhelm a family the way a rogue wave overwhelms a ship. Looming, enormous, curved, green, and shining, it towers overhead, too large to consider or understand. It is suddenly upon you, exploding, erupting, engulfing you within its glassy depths.

  * * *

  SARAH WOKE AGAIN later, rain still pattering on the leaves. The roads would be mud; the trip called off. They’d planned to visit Linwood, her sister-in-law Lydia’s father’s plantation, but it was twenty miles away, in East Feliciana Parish.

  Sarah got out of bed. The floorboards were cool against her bare feet, and a shiver rippled up her back. She poured water into the basin and sluiced it onto her face and neck. Her skin tightened in the cold and she rubbed the towel hard against her cheeks, her closed eyes.

  She unraveled her night braid, her fingers flicking quickly in and out, then brushed the thick rope of hair. She twisted it up into a chignon. She held it with one hand while she took hairpins from the crystal dish and drove them in, one by one, to hold it firm. Something from that early-morning sadness stayed with her.

  She and Miriam were the only children left at home now. The other girls were married: Lavinia to a Union officer, Richard Drum (they lived in California), and Lilly to a French Creole planter, Charlie Lanoue. The boys had left: Gibbes had married Lydia Carter, and lived next door. George had been here, studying law. Hal had been in Paris, Jem at Annapolis.

  The others were at the table when Sarah came down. Her father was reading the paper; he read all the papers, from Baton Rouge and New Orleans, in French and in English.

  “Good morning.” He looked at her over the top of his glasses with his powerful blue gaze. Sarah was his favorite. She knew this.

  Sarah’s mother was struggling with her melon. “Don’t try this, Zay,” she told Sarah. “It’s li
ke green stone.” She set down her spoon. She was also Sarah, called Sally.

  Miriam looked up at Sarah. They were close as twins.

  “What’s the matter, Zadie?” Miriam asked. “Are you sad?”

  Sarah shook her head, though she did feel sad.

  The feeling clung. After breakfast she and Miriam went over to Lydia’s, where they sewed until noon. Sarah was making shirts for Hal. Lydia’s little pop-eyed dog lay on the rug, his legs straight out behind him. Sarah wondered how the shirt (she was sewing the long side seam) would reach Hal, once he was in the army. How would the mail find their boys? The rain continued all morning, flooding down the windowpanes. After sewing, Lilly’s children arrived, and Sarah and Miriam gave them lessons. Geography, and a French dictée. Sarah still felt clouded by something, but as they went home for dinner she asked Miriam the time. The church bell rang as Miriam answered: three. Sarah declared that from that moment on she’d be herself.

  After dinner they all went walking near the State House, Sarah and Miriam; their best friends, the Brunot girls; and some others. Sarah was with a cousin, Henry Walsh. The rain had stopped, but the trees were still wet, and spattering drops cascaded suddenly from the branches. A fine mist rose from the gravel walks.

  “Gibbes looked so handsome,” Henry said, “with his hair cut short.”

  “It made him look more like Hal,” said Sarah. “Hal’s the handsomest in the family.” He was on her mind.

  When it started to rain again Miriam went back with the Brunot girls, but Sarah went home. The house was empty, and she went into the parlor and took up her guitar. She wanted to play the song Hal had brought back. It was a melancholy march about a young man setting off to war, “Partant pour la Syrie.” Hal said in Paris everyone was singing it.

  Partant pour la Syrie

  Le jeune et beau Dunois

  Venait prier Marie

  De bénir ses exploits.

  Faites, Reine immortelle,

  Lui dit-il en partant,