by John Jakes
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 while 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.
Virgilia sat absolutely still. The driver’s face was contorted, as if that would somehow keep the rain off. His grimace showed his teeth. Four upper ones were missing.
Less hostile, Cuffey said, “Didn’t rec’nize you, Grady. What happened?”
“What the hell’s it look like? Old Mrs. Huntoon, she wanted me to drive the carriage back to Charleston so Mr. Jim could use it. I told her the storm would muddy the roads too badly, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Virgilia heard resentment, even a suppressed fury, in that last statement. Grady’s owners hadn’t robbed him of his manhood.
Cuffey noticed the other slave staring at Virgilia with great interest. When Cuffey spoke, his voice held a note of warning. “This lady’s a visitor at Mont Royal. We come up the trail yonder, but it’s swarmin’ with snakes. Got to take the long way home.”
“Better not try it now,” Grady advised. “Least, the lady better not. Storm’s too fierce. Put her inside the carriage and I’ll stand watch. You ride lickety-split to Mont Royal and tell them she’s all right.”
Cuffey gnawed his lip. “I think you should go.”
“You know the way better’n I do. You go!”
Cuffey looked miserable. He was clearly afraid of being punished if something happened to the visitor. Grady was older and stronger, and Cuffey was intimidated. But he didn’t yield until Virgilia spoke above the wail of wind and rush of rain.
“Yes, Cuffey, go. They’ll be worried. I’ll be safe with this man.”
“All right,” he said. “But you watch her good, Grady. I be back with some of the gen’emen quick as I can.”
He rode out of sight. When the last muddy plop of the mule’s hoofs died behind the storm noise, Grady climbed down from the driver’s seat. His eyes never left Virgilia as he walked around to the carriage door.
“Don’t know if you want to shelter in here, miss. Might be wet and muddy.”
“Yes. Especially if the door won’t close properly.” With her face and her eyes, she tried to show him that he needn’t be afraid.
He studied her a moment longer, then clamped both hands on the lower edge of the window in the upper part of the door. He gave the door a sharp pull. When he let go, the door fell into the mud, connected only by the leather hinge on the bottom. The two upper hinges had been ripped apart.
He pointed. “Sure won’t close now. Water’ll be over the sill soon.”
“What”—she swallowed—“what if Cuffey remembers the door wasn’t broken when he arrived?”
“He’s too worried to remember. But if he does, he won’t say anything. I’ll make sure.”
She was almost faint with excitement. “Where can we go?”
“About a half mile down the road there’s an abandoned pounding mill. I should be standing guard when they show up, but I don’t expect that will be for several hours.” He gave her a last long look, then picked up the bridle of her horse and started walking along the road.
“My name’s Grady.”
“Yes. I know.”
That made him glance back and smile.
Cobwebs and the smell of mold filled the old mill. But the roof was solid, and the place offered excellent protection from the weather.
Virgilia felt as nervous as a schoolgirl dancing her first quadrille. For her that was an unusual reaction. Grady caused it because he was so rough-looking, yet so kingly. She found him kingly despite his muddy hands and feet and ragged clothing.
With a cynical light in his eye, he asked, “Why do you want to do this?”
“Grady, Grady”—she ran her palm up along his thick, wet forearm—“don’t look at me that way. I’m your friend.”
“There isn’t a white man or white woman who’s the friend of a nigger. Not in South Carolina.”
“Up North it’s different.”
“Do you come from there?”
“Yes. Northern people hate slavery. I hate it. I belong to organizations that help escaped slaves start new lives. As free men.”
“I thought about going north once or twice. Wasn’t sure the risk was worth it.”
She seized his arm with both hands; her fingers kneading deep into his flesh. “Believe me, it is.”
“You just want to help me, that’s all?”
“No,” she whispered. “You know that isn’t all.”
He grinned. “But I’m still asking why. Never been with a nigger before?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
That flare of temper produced a rumbling laugh in response. “Well, you’re not the prettiest woman I ever laid eyes on—”
She bit her lip and accepted the insult offered with a smile. He was showing who had the upper hand.
“—but your eyes are just about the warmest.” He rubbed his knuckles lightly up and down her cheek. Up and down. “Sure would like to see the rest of you.”
A moment later, drowning in her own heat, Virgilia stepped out of her pantalets. Using both hands, she raised the front of her skirt and petticoats. Grady’s smile faded.
“My, my. Guess I didn’t speak too kindly a minute ago. You’re pretty enough.”
“No, I’m not. It doesn’t matter.”
“But I got to tell you the truth, Miss Virgilia. I’ve never been with any white woman before.”
“Then come here,” she said, giving her skirt a little flounce.
She lost track of time then, taking him into her again, and again, and again, while the hurricane blew.
A dawn, pink and still, followed the night of wind and rain. Almost as soon as it was light, Orry came riding to the abandoned mill together with George, Billy, and Cuffey. They found Grady on guard outside.
“We’ve been searching for hours,” Orry barked. “Why didn’t you stay with the carriage?”
Scrambling to his feet, Grady answered respectfully. “Sir, I surely meant to do that. Just like I tole this here nigger of yours. But the carriage door was broke an’ mud an’ water come in. It weren’t a fit, dry place for a white lady to shelter. I ’membered this old mill, and we reached it ’fore the blow got too bad. I knowed you’d have some trouble findin’ us, but I knowed you’d come along this here road an’ see me, or I’d see you. I stayed awake out here the whole night long. The lady is fine inside. Hungry, I ’spect, but otherwise jes’ fine.”
Inwardly, he was chuckling. He always slurred his words when addressing any white man. It made them think they were dealing with another dumb, guileless darky. The deception worked perfectly; it usually did.
Virgilia appeared, pretending great relief. She complimented Grady on his politeness and loyalty throughout the long night. George looked relieved as she went back inside to collect her wet shoes and stockings—the only articles she had removed for sleeping, she said.
The worst destruction had occurred along the coast. As the hurricane roared up the Ashley, its force was already diminishing. When it whipped over Mont Royal, it uprooted trees to render roads impassable. But the plantation, and those nearby, sustained nothing more serious than roof damage and some staining of furniture when rain blew in through shattered windows. The tidal surge had not been strong enough to drive salt water this far upriver. All in all, the Mains could give thanks that they had again been spared the full wrath of one of the great storms.
On Wednesday of the last week of the Hazards’ visit, Virgilia announced that she was taking the river sloop down to Charleston in order to do some shopping. She wanted one of the house girls to accompany her, if Mrs. Main would permit it. Clarissa naturally said yes.
Maude questioned her daughter about the trip. Couldn’t she shop when they went to Charleston to catch the steamer? No, Virgilia replied with a smile, that would be impossible. Maude would see the reason when she returned.
Virgilia�
�s behavior was puzzling, her mother thought. But then Virgilia’s behavior had been unusual during the entire visit. She had behaved herself. Ah, but perhaps she was going to Charleston to buy gifts for the Mains. Maude planned to send hers after she returned to Lehigh Station. If her daughter felt a need to express appreciation sooner than that, Maude had no intention of hindering her. The change in Virgilia was too welcome to be interfered with.
Slipping away from her slave chaperone wasn’t as easy as her desire had led her to suppose. Virgilia had to wait until the girl dozed off on her pallet, and that took longer than she had anticipated. Finally she crept from the hotel room and down the stairs.
A lone white woman hurrying along Meeting Street drew stares from some late-hour idlers, but they were people she would never see again. She had her newfound passion to help banish fears of discovery. In an alley near the Dock Street Theater she came upon Grady crouching in the darkness of a doorway. During their time at the mill they had worked out the day for the meeting, the hour, and the place. The instant she arrived, he snapped at her.
“You’re late.”
“I couldn’t help it. Did you have trouble sneaking out of the house?”
“No, I never have trouble with that, but the curfew for niggers rang a half hour ago. The pass I’m carrying is six weeks old. Should have figured out a way we could meet in the daylight.”
“If we met in the daylight, we couldn’t do this.” She put her arms around him and kissed him fiercely. “We might have been forced to wait months till I could arrange stops on the underground railroad. We decided it should be now. We decided it together, remember?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
She kissed him again, then opened her reticule. “Here. This is all the money I have. This slip of paper has an address in Philadelphia. A safe house run by Friends. Quakers,” she amended when she realized he didn’t understand the other term.
