by John Jakes
In the past his attitude had been largely a reflection of theirs: correct, but lacking any passion. The ride down the dirt street between the rows of mean cottages changed that. If slaves were carefree and happy, as Southerners claimed, he saw damned little evidence. He grew angry. Here was an obvious wrong. The conviction was like a splinter in his foot, not really severe enough to interfere with anything, yet a constant source of discomfort.
There was a similar splinter produced by his relationship with Ashton. At first he couldn’t identify the reason he felt uneasy in her presence. She still excited him. This was true even though some of the mystery of sex was gone, thanks to tumbling with that Newport girl in her father’s hayloft; after the initial embarrassment of removing his pants, Billy had enjoyed his hour with Sophie.
Physically, Ashton remained one of the most perfect creatures he had ever seen. And if not exactly intelligent, she was gifted with an innate cleverness and a glib tongue. What troubled him, he concluded toward the end of his first week at Mont Royal, was a certain quality in the way she kissed, or touched his face, or looked at him. It was adult; there was no other word. Yet she had only turned fifteen this year.
Orry arranged a Saturday-night picnic in honor of the visitors. As the breezy twilight was deepening, cousins and neighbors began to arrive. One guest was a handsome woman named Mrs. LaMotte, whom Orry seemed to treat with great politeness. She spent almost no time with her husband; he was off with some of the men and, to judge from their muted voices and raucous laughter, telling dirty stories.
When darkness fell, torches planted in holders in the ground lit the side lawn and kept the insects away. Billy and Ashton left the picnic site and slipped down to the river, hand in hand.
“It’s so grand to have you here,” she said as they walked to the end of the pier and stood gazing at the black water ruffled by the wind. “Will you stay long?”
“George says another week or so.”
“That makes me very happy. But sad, too.”
“Sad? Why?”
“When I’m close to you—”
She turned to face him. The distant torches put small, hard reflections in her eyes. Guests passed back and forth in front of the smoky lights, wraithlike.
“Go on,” he said.
“When we’re close, I must constantly fight my own feelings. I want to be even closer.” She brought her bodice, her mouth, then her whole body against him. He felt her lips move as she murmured, “Much closer than is altogether proper.”
He started to kiss her but abruptly felt something below his waist. God above! She was reaching down to grasp him through his pants and underdrawers. He couldn’t have been more astonished if the earth had opened under his feet.
She moaned his name, closed her hand tight, and kissed him ferociously. He quickly overcame his own surprise and reticence, and returned the kiss. Her left arm crooked around his neck while her right hand kept squeezing, squeezing. The play of mouths and hands rapidly reached an embarrassing conclusion. She felt him go rigid in her arms.
She jumped back, palms pressed to her lips. “My heavens, did I cause—?”
He was utterly humiliated, unable to speak. He turned away toward the river.
“Billy, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help myself, dear.”
“It’s all right,” he mumbled.
Five minutes later, Brett and Charles came strolling across the lawn, searching for them. Billy had to face people whether he was ready or not. Fortunately his trousers were wool, in a busy checked pattern, so if anyone was so rude as to ask what had happened, he’d lie and say he’d spilled a cup of punch.
They rejoined the others. There were no questions. But Ashton’s behavior had left a vivid impression. She was too accomplished. Those were the words that repeated in his thoughts half the night and for days afterward. For someone so young, she was too accomplished.
How had it happened? When he considered the possibilities, an overpowering jealousy gripped him. He wanted to know how she had learned all she knew. And yet he didn’t. He knew the relationship had begun to wither. He was sad about it, yet a little relieved somehow.
A spell of gray, muggy weather settled in. Small annoyances began to spring up between Billy and Ashton. She didn’t understand something he said, even though he repeated it twice. A pebble in his boot kept him from walking as fast as she would have liked. Small annoyances, angering them, spoiling things.
The end came on a hot, still Saturday. They were unable to find anything to do that didn’t bore them. Finally they went strolling along the high bank separating the river from the fields. After ten minutes Ashton sat down, heedless of dirt on her skirt. He sat next to her, and she said bluntly:
“Are you anxious to go to the Academy next year?”
“Yes.”
“I think a man can find better things to do.”
He frowned. “Why should you worry about that? You’re not a man.”
She looked at him. Not with hostility, exactly, but neither did she show the warmth he’d seen in her eyes during the summer.
“No, but I’ll marry one,” she said.
“And you already know what you expect of him, is that it?”
“I know what I expect for myself. I know what I want, and he must give it to me.”
The tenor of the conversation was growing steadily more unfriendly; did she sense his withdrawal? He didn’t want to fight with her, though. He smiled in hopes of relieving the tension. He poised an invisible pencil over the tablet of his palm.
“Might we have the list for purposes of reference, Miss Main?”
“Don’t joke, Billy. I’m fifteen. In another five years my life will be nearly half over. So will yours.”
It sobered him. “True.”
“If you go through life without a plan, you wind up with nothing. I intend to marry a man with money. At least enough so that I know he isn’t after mine. But more important than that, he must be someone. A congressman. A governor. I wouldn’t mind if he were President. It’s time we had another Southern President.”
“Old Zach Taylor came from Louisiana.”
“Pooh. He was more Yankee than you are. Anyway—I want to be the wife of a man who’s powerful and important.”
The rest of it, unspoken, was still unpleasantly clear. The man she married would be driven to achieve her goals if he didn’t possess those same goals himself. With a flash of her dark eyes, she finished:
“Of course a soldier can become famous and important. Look at General Scott. Or that New Hampshire Yankee they’re mentioning for President—what’s his name?”
“Pierce. General Franklin Pierce.”
“Yes.” Her smile was taunting. “Will you be that sort of soldier?”
It was all over. He knew it. “No,” he said.
She wasn’t prepared for such a positive, final answer. Her smile grew coy. She leaned to him, letting her bosom brush his arm as a reminder of what she could give a man.
“Bet you could be if you wanted.”
“I don’t have the ambition.” He rose and slapped dirt off the seat of his pants. “Shall we go back? Looks like it might rain.”
They returned to the great house in silence. Hers was bewildered and sullen, but his was invested with an unexpected new peace. She had offered herself and informed him of the price. She was too deep, and too dangerous, for him. He had stepped back from the brink and was relieved.
A rising wind stripped leaves from the water oaks near the house. The leaves whirled around the young people as they came upon Orry supervising half a dozen slaves who were nailing shutters closed.
“Cooper just sent one of his men on horseback from Charleston,” Orry said. “Incoming ships are reporting gale winds a hundred miles offshore. I’ve got riders out warning the other plantations. We may be in for a hurricane.”
Ashton picked up her skirt and dashed into the house. Orry watched her, then scratched his beard. “Looks like we’ve already got one clo
ser to home.”
Billy’s smile was perfunctory. “Have you seen Charles?”
In the morning Ashton was all smiles again. She swept into the dining room and sat down next to Billy, who was finishing the last of several slabs of smoke-cured ham. She patted his hand.
“What shall we do today?”
He pushed his chair back. “Charles is taking me deer hunting with bows and arrows. I’ll see you tonight.”
After he walked out, a knot of pain formed in her stomach. She regretted what she’d said to him while they sat by the river. She had done it largely as a test, curious to discover what he was made of and how far she might bend him. Not that it really mattered; she was in love with Billy. He could remain a lieutenant all his life and she’d still love him. For him she’d gladly throw away her dreams, her ambition—everything.
But she had a feeling it no longer made any difference.
Squinting, Billy leaned forward over the neck of his horse. Visibility was cut to a few feet by the pouring rain. Trees creaked. Limbs snapped off and sailed away. Although it could hardly be later than mid-afternoon, the sky had turned an eerie dark gray.
“There’s the house,” Charles shouted from up ahead. Billy could see nothing but the tail of his friend’s horse switching back and forth. Without Charles as a guide, he’d have been lost. He ached from riding in the buffeting wind. Charles yelled something else, but a deafening cracking obscured it. Billy looked up just as a huge live-oak limb sheared off and dropped toward him. He booted the horse forward. Small branches whipped his face, but the heaviest part of the limb missed horse and rider.
The horse pranced in panic. A hand reached out of the murk to stroke the animal and calm it. As the effects of the scare passed, Charles asked:
“You all right?”
Billy gulped and nodded.
Five more minutes and they were in the stable. The other horses fretted and kicked the sides of their stalls. Billy and Charles surrendered their mounts to the frightened grooms and laid their bows and quivers on a hay bale. They were two very wet, tired, and unlucky hunters. They had sighted only one buck all day. Charles had given Billy first chance at it. Billy’s arrow flew wide, and the buck fled. Charles slashed the tail of Billy’s shirt in half—the traditional sign of a novice who had missed his shot.
Billy was disgruntled by his failure but not exactly surprised. All day long he had been distracted by thoughts of Ashton. He saw her more realistically now, without the distortions his own emotions had created. She was still a beautiful girl, desirable in many ways, but she wasn’t for him. He felt fortunate to have made the discovery before he became more deeply involved.
“Lucky the crop’s harvested,” Charles shouted as they ran for the house. “Sometimes the storm tide drives salt water this far up the river, and it poisons the fields.”
“I thought the big storms arrived in August or September.”
“Usually, but they can come later, too. The season lasts through November.”
They reached the house. Gasping with relief, they ran inside and pulled up short at the sight of a tense family group in the downstairs hall. “Well, at least you two are safe,” George said in a strained voice.
Billy pushed wet hair off his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
Orry answered. “Your sister insisted on going riding late this morning. I sent one of my people with her. They haven’t come back.”
Billy was aware of Brett by the staircase. She watched him with anxious eyes as he said to Orry, “Shall we saddle up again and look for them?”
“I asked the same question,” George said. “Orry discourages it.”
“For good reason.” Orry sounded testy, as if hurt by George’s implied criticism. “Virgilia could be riding on any of a dozen trails and back roads. I wouldn’t know where to begin to search. And with the storm this bad already, we could pass within ten yards of her and never see her. But I’ll go if you want, George.”
“No, not if it’s foolhardy. I didn’t mean to be sharp about it.”
“Cuffey’s a reliable boy,” Orry told the others. “He’ll find shelter for them. I’m sure they’ll be all right.”
Somewhere overhead, the wind ripped a shutter off the house, then blew through one of the rooms, toppling furniture and shattering glass. With exclamations of alarm, Clarissa rushed upstairs. Maude followed, then three of the house girls. Brett rushed to Charles. Ashton wasn’t present, Billy realized belatedly.
“I’m thankful both of you are back,” Brett said. She touched her cousin’s arm but looked at Billy.
He blinked, noticing her—really noticing—for the first time. He was surprised and pleased by her display of concern.
Tillet suggested the hunters come with him and warm themselves with a cup of whiskey. Charles agreed enthusiastically. Billy trailed after him. As he passed Brett, his eyes lingered on hers a moment. She was young but pretty. Her face had a gentleness that Ashton’s lacked. He found her extremely appealing.
Maybe he’d been paying attention to the wrong girl.
“Miss, we better turn for home,” Cuffey said about an hour after their departure from Mont Royal.
“No, this is exciting,” Virgilia said above the moan of the wind.
Cuffey made a face. But he was ahead of her, straddling an old mule, and she couldn’t see his reaction.
Virgilia rode sidesaddle. She had asked the young Negro to show her scenic places near the river, and he was leading her to one such area now, following a woodland trail that was little more than a narrow, muddy rut. The heavy growth of trees held back most of the failing light, but rain reached the two riders—an indication of how fiercely the wind blew.
Virgilia was more than a little frightened. She had never experienced a hurricane before. At the same time, the ferocity of the oncoming storm excited her in a way that was completely unexpected. Under her riding habit, she began to feel tense and damp. Her steel stays hurt.
“Cuffey, you haven’t answered the question I asked you sometime ago.”
“I be worried about the storm, miss. I don’t ’member the question.”
Liar, she thought, more in pity than anger. Somewhere behind them, a tree uprooted with a great cracking and a thrashing of underbrush. When the tree fell, the ground shook.
“Can you wait here a minute, miss? I better go back an’ see if the trail’s still clear.”
He kicked his mule with bare heels and rode past her, giving her a nervous glance. He was a handsome boy, just about the age of Cousin Charles. He was intelligent, too—but doing his best to hide it. He was frightened of the questions with which she had bombarded him the past half hour. The Mains had cowed him into denying and concealing the powers of his God-given mind. That was one more reason she hated the family and the whole accursed slavocracy.
To come to South Carolina and get a firsthand look at the system, she had been forced to feign friendliness and to suppress her convictions, emotions, and desires. She wasn’t entirely successful. Today, when that damned high-handed Orry Main had tried to discourage her from taking this ride, she had politely defied him. She had done it on principle and also because she wanted to talk privately with a slave. On his own ground, so to speak. So far the conversation had been one-sided.
Cuffey came back, whacking his mule with a stick. He appeared apprehensive about returning to her company. No, she realized, something besides that was bothering him.
“Miss, that tree opened up a whole nest of copperheads when it fell. They swarmin’ all over the trail. Big storm—it scares ‘em. Makes ’em mean. Can’t take a chance on goin’ back that way. Got to ride the long way ’round. It be about an hour longer that way.”
“I’m not worried. You’re an excellent guide.”
Smiling, she leaned over to pat his hand. He pulled away as if he had touched fire. Then he jogged the mule into motion. “Can’t do nothin’ but go ahead to the river road now,” he mumbled.
“Since it will take a w
hile to get home, you might as well answer my question. I want to know if you understand the meaning of the word freedom.”
The sound of rain filled the silence. Seconds became half a minute. “Cuffey?” she prompted.
“Think so,” he said without looking back.
“Do you have any comprehension of what your life would be like if you were free?”
“Compre-what, miss?”
“Do you have any idea of how it would feel to be free?”
“No, miss, I don’ never think about that. I’m happy here.”
“Look at me and say that.”
He neither turned nor spoke.
“Cuffey, I could give you money if you wanted to run away.”
Hearing that, he wheeled the mule while his eyes darted about wildly, trying to pierce the intensifying rain.
The poor creature feared that someone might be listening in the middle of the forest. Damn them for destroying his spirit. Damn every one of the Mains—every Southerner—and damn her brother George as well. He was turning into a regular doughface—a Yankee with sympathy for the South. She’d give anything to punish the lot of them.
Cuffey stared at her with big, pleading eyes. “Wouldn’t ever run away, miss. Mist’ Tillet and Mist’ Orry treat me good. I’m a happy nigger.”
How sadly desperate he sounded. She gave a curt little wave. “All right. Let’s go on. It’s raining hard.”
The trail grew dark as it twisted through the deep woods. What had been merely a rain became a downpour that soaked her riding clothes. She saw two deer go bounding westward. The underbrush came alive with whisperings and slitherings as the animal population ran ahead of the advancing storm.
Virgilia’s anger rose like the groaning wind. She had dissembled, given false promises, in order to persuade George to bring her south. Now she didn’t know whether she could endure the rest of the trip without denouncing those who had crippled Cuffey’s spirit and castrated his courage. She wanted to strike them, hurt them—
“What you doin’ out here, nigger?”
Startled, Virgilia realized Cuffey had reached the edge of the forest. He was shouting at someone she couldn’t see. Quickly she rode up beside him. As she did so, she caught sight of a fine carriage with its rear wheels mired to the hubs in a gumbo of mud.
