North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

“That’s a bargain. You’re very confident the theater will prosper.”

  “I’ll make it prosper.” She wasn’t bragging, merely stating what she believed. “Like so many actors, Sam’s a lovely, charming man, vanity and all. But he has a weakness for drink. If I can keep him away from it, and we can mount three or four new shows in repertory, a Molière comedy, perhaps, and another of those melodramas Sam writes under the name Samuels—they’re dreadful, really, but audiences love them, because he does know how to write stirring lines for himself—if we can accomplish that much by the time you return, we’ll make it. Time then to think of adding actors for a touring troupe.”

  “For someone so young, you’re very determined.”

  She watched the river. A great white side-wheeler churned upriver toward the Missouri, a necklace of amber lights gleaming along her cabin deck. From the channel drifted the slushing of her paddles and the bleating and squawking of sheep and chickens in crates stacked among new farm wagons lashed to the decks.

  “Isn’t she a pretty sight, Charles?”

  “Yes, but the cabin lights make me feel lonesome.”

  “I know. I’ve felt that way ever since I was small and passed through strange towns with my father, wishing one of the lamps was lighted to welcome us—It’s late,” she said abruptly. “We should go back. I always check to be sure Sam’s tucked in, and sober. We’re running through Streets of Shame in the morning.”

  They walked in silence, comfortably, amid the night sounds of St. Louis: a man and woman quarreling; a banjo doing “Old Folks at Home”; street mongrels yapping and snarling over scraps. “That’s a lovely tune,” she said as they approached the theater. “What is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tune you were humming.” She repeated a few notes.

  “I didn’t realize I was—it’s just something I made up to remind me of home.”

  “That’s something I’ve never had, a real home.” They stopped by the stage door. She found a key in her silk reticule. “Sam sleeps in the office, and I have a pallet in the scene loft. It saves the cost of lodgings, though I hope I can move to better quarters if we’re successful this season.” She raised her head, waiting. Charles leaned down and gave her a brotherly kiss, barely touching one corner of her lips with his. Her left hand darted up to press the back of his neck a moment. They separated.

  “Take proper care of yourself out West. I want to see you again in the spring.”

  “Willa—” He struggled; this had to be said. “You’re forthright. Let me be the same. I live a solitary life, especially now that my son’s mother is gone. I don’t want—attachments.”

  Without emotion, she asked, “Does that include friendships?”

  He was put off; could only repeat, “Attachments.”

  “Why don’t you want attachments?”

  “They hurt people. Something happens to one person, and afterward it’s bad for the other. I don’t mean to suggest that you and I—that is—” He cleared his throat. “I like you, Willa. We should leave it at that.”

  “Perfectly fine with me, Charles. Good night.”

  She unlocked the door and disappeared. He remained outside, gazing at the moon-washed building and congratulating himself on speaking at the right moment.

  But if he’d done such a fine job of it, why was he so filled with delight, even a surprising yearning, as he thought of her face, the feel of her breast brushing his sleeve, things she’d said, the little graces that seemed to come so naturally to her?

  Something was astir in him, something dangerous.

  You’ll have a lot of time for getting over that, he said to himself as he turned and strode off toward the hotel stable.

  Inside Trump’s Playhouse, Willa leaned against the street door. “Well,” she said, “it was only a small hope.”

  She’d learned long ago that, in this world, hopes were easily and frequently dashed. She straightened up, touched her eyes briefly, then moved toward the band of light showing under the office door. The sound of Sam’s snoring rescued her from the spell of the night and the tall Southerner, and the evening’s foolish fancies.

  _____________

  Lesson XIII.

  The Good Girl.

  MOTH-ER, may I sew to-day?

  Yes, my child; what do you wish to sew?

  I wish to hem a frill for your cap. Is not this a new cap? I see it has no frill.

  You may make a frill for me; I shall like to wear a frill that you have made. …

  Jane sat down upon her stool and sew-ed like a little la-dy. In a short time she said, Moth-er, I have done as far as you told me; will you look at it?

  Yes, my child, it is well done; and if you take pains, as you have done to-day, you will soon sew well.

  I wish to sew well, Moth-er, for then I can help you make caps and frocks, and I hope to be of some use to you.

  McGuffey’s Eclectic First

  and Second Readers

  1836-1879

  _____________

  MADELINE’S JOURNAL

  September, 1865. Cooper is pardoned.

  This from Judith. She drove from Charleston with Marie-Louise to see to our welfare. I showed them the schoolhouse, nearly complete, and introduced Prudence, who charmed them. Cooper will no longer come here because of the school. Judith says he insists that the only acceptable social order puts the colored forever beneath the white. He grants them freedom but not equality. It saddens Judith.

  Knowing of our growing isolation, J. left certain Charleston papers describing the momentous work of the constitutional convention meeting at Columbia’s Baptist church. The secession ordinance is overturned, the Thirteenth Amendment ratified Provisional Governor Perry rebuked a minority who tried to amend the motion to abolish slavery by compensating former slaveowners and forbidding Negroes from all but manual work. Perry: “No; it is gone—dead forever—never to be revived.”

  So two of Johnson’s conditions are met. The third, repudiation of the war debt, is not. Perry: “It will be a reproach to South Carolina that her constitution is less republican than that of any other state.”

  Delegates recommended that James Orr be elected governor. A moderate man, opponent of the hotspurs and once Speaker of the House in Washington; I remember you respected him. While in the Confederate Senate he pleaded for a negotiated peace, predicting certain military defeat. None would listen.

  Inflammatory language was struck from an appeal for clemency for Mr. Davis. Delegate Pickens was blunt: “It does not become us to vapor, swell and strut—bluster, threaten and swagger. Our state, and world opinion, bid us bind up Caroli-wounds and pour on the oil of peace.”

  Some hooted him down. Are we forever prisoners of old old passions, old errors? … A strange parcel found at dusk at the entrance to our lane. Do not know how it came there. …

  The mule recognized the hunched black man and nuzzled him. Juba dragged his tired, arthritic body across the porch of the Dixie Store. In pain, he clutched the door frame. The two white men didn’t acknowledge his presence for almost a minute.

  Finally LaMotte said, “You left it where I told you?” His height reduced the spectacled storekeeper, Gettys, to the size of a boy.

  “Yessir, Mist’ Desmond. Nobody seen me, neither.”

  Gettys laughed. “It’s a fine jest. Choice.”

  “Only the opening salvo,” Des said. “Wait outside, Juba.”

  “I was wonderin’, sir—I ain’t et since mornin—”

  “We’ll be back in Charleston in a few hours. You can eat then.”

  Miserable, Juba knew better than to object. He moved slowly outside to the lowering dark.

  Des said, “When I stopped here to wait while my nigger did the errand, I never supposed I’d meet someone like you. Gettys.”

  “It does appear that we share the same convictions, Mr. LaMotte.”

  “What you said about Mont Royal stupefies me. I had no idea that black bitch would be so audaciou
s. She must be stopped. If you are equally strong about that, we should join forces.”

  “Yes, sir, I am strong about that.”

  Out in the dark, Juba leaned his aching body against a live oak. His head was full of sad thoughts of the heartlessness of which some men were capable.

  Madeline held the mysterious package at arm’s length, to sharpen the letters crudely inked on the wrapping, which was old wallpaper. She couldn’t afford the glasses she needed.

  MADELINE MAIN. She saw that clearly. Seated in a rocker on the other side of the lamp, Prudence said, “What on earth can it be?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  She opened the flat, square package. She discovered an old browned daguerreotype about ten inches high, mounted on a piece of cardboard. The subject was one of the ugliest black women she had ever seen, a woman with a long jaw and jutting upper teeth. Although the woman was smiling, it was a peculiar smile, full of malice. Everything the woman wore—frilly dress, lace mittens, feathered hat—was white. So was the open parasol she held over her shoulder.

  Madeline shook her head. “It must be some reference to my background, but I don’t know this woman.”

  She put the daguerreotype on a little shelf. Both women studied it. The longer they looked, the more sinister the smiling face became. Madeline saw it in her dreams that night.

  Next day, a matter at the saw pit brought Lincoln to the house. As he began to speak, he noticed the daguerreotype and went silent. Madeline caught her breath.

  “Lincoln, do you recognize that woman?”

  “No, I—yes.” He avoided her eye. “I worked for her once, for two weeks. Couldn’t stand her meanness, so I just picked up an’ ran.” He shook his head. “How’d that awful thing come into this house?”

  “Someone left it in the lane last night. Do you know why?”

  Again he evaded her eye.

  “Lincoln, you’re my friend. You’ve got to tell me. Who is that woman?”

  “She goes by the name Nell Whitebird. Please, Miss Madeline—”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the place I worked, her place, there was a lot of fine white gentlemen coming and going at all hours.”

  He hadn’t the heart to say more. Madeline put her hand on her lips, angry, sorrowful, frightened too. Whoever her anonymous tormentors might be, they knew not only that she was an octoroon, but also that her mother had been a prostitute.

  There have been no further “gifts” or incidents of any kind. Prudence urges me to burn the picture. I insist we keep it, a reminder that we must be vigilant …

  … A full week—all quiet. Governor Orr has convened the legislature, and there is spirited debate over a new set of laws purporting to aid and benefit the freed blacks as well as improve economic conditions generally. I do not think well of the regulations proposed thus far. They are the old system tricked out in new clothes. If those who need field labor have their way and these regulations become law, we will surely reap a harvest of Northern anger.

  … A day of rejoicing. At least it began as such. Prudence enrolled her first pupils, Pride, who is twelve, and Grant, fourteen. They are sons of our freedman Sim and his wife, Lydie. When Francis LaMotte owned the boys, they were called by affected classical names—Jason, Ulysses. The latter boy turned the tables and named himself after a less popular Ulysses!

  Even more heartening, we have a white pupil. Dorrie Otis is fifteen. She came shyly, at the insistence of her mother, and quickly showed a hunger to know the meaning of the curious marks printed in books. Her father is a poor farmer, never a slaveowner but in sympathy with the system. How glad I am that his wife won the battle over schooling for the girl.

  A single day of rejoicing—that was all granted to us …

  “Wake up, Madeline.” Prudence shook her again. Madeline heard a man shouting. “Nemo’s outside. There’s a fire.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Madeline hastily rose from the rocking chair, rubbing her eyes. With clumsy fingers she fastened the four top buttons of her stained dress. She’d opened them for a little relief from the humid heat, and fallen asleep where she sat.

  She ran to the open door. The lamplight revealed Nemo outside, his face tearful. She saw light in the sky. “Is it the school?” He couldn’t speak, only nod.

  She dashed from the whitewashed house and ran barefoot along the sandy road to the old slave quarters. Prudence kept up with her, dampness plastering her cotton nightgown to her broad bosom and wide hips. The bright glare through the trees lighted their way.

  Just as they reached the schoolhouse, the last wall fell inward, a brilliant waterfall of fire and sparks. The heat was fierce.

  Prudence didn’t seem to think of that. “All my books are in there. And my Bible,” she cried.

  “You can’t go in,” Madeline said, dragging her back.

  Prudence struggled a moment before she gave up. She stood watching the fire with pain and disbelief in her eyes.

  Behind the two women, some of the blacks gathered: Andy and Nemo and Sim and their wives. Pride and Grant looked confused and lost.

  “Did anyone see strangers around here?” Madeline asked. No one had. Sim said the fire’s glare had wakened him; he was a light sleeper.

  Madeline paced, almost dancing on her tiptoes, so angry was she, so overwhelmed with a sense of violation of her self, of her property, of simple and reasonable principles of decency and practicality.

  She flung a damp strand of hair off her forehead. “Randall Gettys warned me not to open the school. I suspect he had a hand in this. He wouldn’t set a fire by himself, I think. He strikes me as a perfect coward. He would need accomplices.”

  She watched the nearby trees, in case the fire spread. It didn’t; the cleared area around the burned building contained it. The flames receded but the heat remained intense.

  “The worst part is not knowing who your enemies are. Well, no help for that. Will one of you go up to the house and bring me that picture of the black woman?”

  Lincoln stepped forward. “I will.”

  He hurried off. Madeline kept pacing. She couldn’t control her nervous excitement. Prudence spoke softly to the blacks, shaking her head and shrugging because she couldn’t answer their questions.

  Lincoln brought back the daguerreotype of Nell Whitebird. Madeline took it and stalked toward the glowing ruins. “This fire was the work of men so despicable, they have to hide their deeds under cover of darkness. I’m sure the same men sent me this.” She thrust her arm out, showing them the face of the prostitute. “This is a black woman of bad character. The men who burned the school are saying blackness equals evil, evil equals blackness. God curse them. Do you know why they sent me this particular picture? My mother was a quadroon.” They were astonished. “What’s more, during a certain period in her life she sold herself to men. Yet my father adored her. Married her. I honor her memory. I’m proud to have her blood. Your blood. They want us to think it’s a taint. Inferior to theirs. We’re supposed to cringe in a corner and bless them when they deign to throw us scraps, or thank them if they choose to whip us. Well, to hell with them. This is what I think of them, and their tactics, and their threats.”

  She ripped the daguerreotype in half and flung the pieces on the coals. They smoked, curled, burned, vanished.

  Madeline’s face glowed red in the firelight. It ran with sweat from the heat, and her anger. “In case all of you are wondering, yes, this upsets me terribly, but, no, it doesn’t change anything. When the ashes are cold, we’ll clear them out and we’ll start building a new schoolhouse.”

  One of the “Negro laws” foolishly enacted by the new legislature defines a person of color as one with more than one-eighth Negro blood. So I am exempt. Somehow, my dearest, I think that will have no effect on those who are against me.

  I am convinced Mr. Gettys is one of them. Could another be that dancing master? I don’t know, nor care much. They have declared war, we need to know nothing else.r />
  I can tell you, my dearest, that I am badly frightened. I am a person of no special courage. Yet I was brought up to understand right and wrong and the need to persevere for the former.

  The school is right. The dream of a new Mont Royal is right I will not submit. To thwart me they will have to kill me.

  _____________

  A Negro is allowed to buy and hold property.

  A Negro is allowed to seek justice in the courts, to sue and be sued, and to be a witness in any case involving Negroes only.

  A Negro is allowed to marry, and the state will recognize that marriage and the legitimacy of children of that marriage. A Negro is not allowed to many a person of a different race. A Negro is not allowed to work at any trade except that of a farmer or servant without a special license costing $10 to $100 per annum.

  A Negro is to be whipped by authority of a judicial officer and returned if he runs away from a master to whom he has attached himself as a servant; if under 18, he is to be whipped moderately.

  A Negro is not to join any militia unit or keep any weapon except a fowling piece.

  A Negro is to be hired out for field labor if found guilty of vagrancy by a judicial officer.

  A Negro is to be transported out of state or put to hard labor for all crimes not demanding the death penalty.

  A Negro is to be put to death for inciting rebellion, for breaking and entering a home, for carnal attack upon a white woman, or for stealing a horse, a mule, or baled cotton.

  Some provisions of

  South Carolina’s “Black Code,” 1865

  11

  DEAR JACK, CHARLES WROTE, I am going west with a trading company for 6 mos. to a year. My partner says leave any messages at Ft. Riley, Kans. I will be in touch as soon as I come back. I hope my son will stay well & will remember me & won’t be too much trouble for you & Maureen. Give him an extra big hug from his “Pa.”

  I have to do this because I’m not in the Army after all. I had some trouble at Jefferson Barracks. …

  A slit of brilliant light lay between the land and solid gray clouds pushing down through the western sky. The calendar still said summer, September, but the rain-freshened vegetation and the chilly air tricked the senses into thinking autumn.