by John Jakes
Madeline brushed back a stray strand of graying hair. “If, Mr. Topper. If.”
“But you have the complete advantage in the matter! It’s our capital what will be at risk, whereas all you give up is temporary use of your land. We handle everything. Dig the pits, build a tram road for horse carts, install steam-driven washers to separate out the sand and clay. We assume full responsibility for freighting or barging the washed rock to drying yards. Then we negotiate a favorable sale price. Mr. Lewis and Mr. Klett have already capitalized one processing firm to crush the rock and convert it to commercial fertilizer. Competing companies are sure to spring up soon. We’ll be in a splendid position.”
It was all too perfect. She kept searching for flaws. “What about men to dig the rock?”
“Likewise our responsibility. We’ll hire every available nig—ah, freedman. Pay them twenty-five cents per foot dug, rock removal included.”
She shook her head. Topper looked puzzled. “Something wrong?”
“Very definitely, Mr. Topper. There are black families starving all along this river, and I don’t exclude Mont Royal. If you’re going to mine my land, you’ll have to create jobs that are worthwhile. Shall we say fifty cents per foot dug?”
Topper blanched. “Fifty? I’m not certain—”
“Then perhaps I should negotiate with someone else. You did mention competition.”
The lawyer began to squirm. “We can work something out, dear lady. I’m certain we can work something out. Here, I’ve brought the option paper. I’d like to obtain your signature this morning, in advance of a full contract satisfactory to both sides.” He took the folded document from his clerk. It was thick and wrapped with green ribbon. He flourished it as if it were a road map to El Dorado.
Trying to hide her excitement, Madeline scanned the finely written pages of tortured language made even more obscure by occasional Latin. She thought she understood the general sense of it.
“Ask your clerk to add a sentence about the agreed mining wage and I’ll sign.”
“We understand that a second signature will be needed.”
“No. I have the authority to sign for Cooper Main.”
With a trembling hand, she did.
Orry, Orry—joy beyond belief. We are reprieved! To celebrate, I called everyone to the house tonight for saffroned rice. Jane brought a jar of sweet berry wine she was saving, and while the full moon rose, we laughed and sang Gullah hymns and danced like pagans. Sim’s music, blown from the neck of an empty jug, outsang the greatest orchestra. We only wished Andy were here, but he is in the midst of his important work. I longed for you.
The river is shining like white fire as I write this. I have seldom felt it so warm in January. Perhaps our winter of despair is finally over. Best of all, if there are indeed riches in the ground of Mont Royal, then I can make the dream live. I can build the house again.
She was wakened by the sound of a horse coming up the lane from the river road. She wrapped her old gown around herself and rushed out to identify the visitor. Unbelievably, it was Cooper, jumping down from a lathered bay. A foot-thick carpet of mist lay all about them.
“It was all over Charleston by ten last night, Madeline. We’re laughingstocks.”
Sleepily, she muttered, “What are you talking about?”
“Your damned contract with Beaufort Phosphate. Apparently you’re the last person in the district to find out who’s behind the company.”
“Local men, the lawyer said.”
“The scalawag lied. He’s the only South Carolinian involved. The principal share owner is a goddamned Radical senator, Samuel Stout. You’ve sold us out to a man who flogs with one hand and bleeds us with the other.”
… I could do nothing to appease him. He rained invective on me, refused my offer of food, treated Prudence rudely, and ordered me to withhold my signature from the formal contract, legal consequences notwithstanding. I said I would sign a pact with the Devil if he would save the Main lands and give our freedmen food. He cursed me and leaped on his weary horse and rode away. Although he stands to profit by my error, I fear he now hates me more than ever.
February, 1868. Convention expected to last nearly 60 days. Andy S. sends all but $1 of his $11 delegate per diem to his wife. He works nights at the Mills House and pays token rent to a black family for sleeping space in their shanty. Jane showed me his latest letter, simply phrased but a model of clear English. What a wondrous thing is a human mind when it is free to grow. …
Andy Sherman felt he had never stretched his mind, or learned so much, except for the time during the war when Jane was his teacher. Every morning as he dressed for his delegate work, he ached from hours spent on his knees polishing hotel floors or carrying jars of night soil out to the carts. Somehow a few hours of sleep sustained him, as did the one full meal a day that he allowed himself. He was nourished by the convention and the work he was doing there.
When he didn’t understand a word, a phrase, an idea, he asked questions of the chair or fellow subcommittee members. When something was explained and he grasped it, he felt like a carefree boy waking on a summer morning.
Certain delegates, acting from timidity or expedience, tried to modify the great cornerstone of the emerging constitution, suffrage. They tried to add a qualifying poll tax of one dollar, and a literacy provision: any man coming of age after 1875 without the ability to read and write would be denied the vote.
In hot arguments against the amendments, Andy heard Union League doctrine recited by some of the black delegates. Some, but not many, a majority of the blacks were still too overawed by their white counterparts, or simply too shy and uncertain to speak up. He tried to persuade a couple of them to take part. He was answered with apologetic evasions.
He discussed the problem with Cardozo, whose quick mind and impressive oratorical skills he continued to admire. “You’re right, Sherman. As a race we are too reticent. Only education will alleviate that. Given the history of this state, however, I don’t believe an adequate public school system can be in operation by 1875. I will vote against the amendment.”
Andy spoke against it—his first time on his feet in the convention. Nervously, but with conviction, he read the little statement he’d phrased and rephrased on scraps of paper until it satisfied him. “Gentlemen, I believe the right to vote must belong to the wise and the ignorant alike, to the vicious as well as the virtuous, else universal suffrage as an idea means nothing.”
Ransier was the first on his feet to applaud.
The provision was rejected, 107-2. The poll tax, which Cardozo scathingly branded the first step to returning power to the “aristocratic element,” went down 81-21.
Work has begun! The whole Ashley district is swarming with laborers, promoters, men from the new processing plants that have sprung up. After nearly three years of chaos and poverty the district is once again energetic and hopeful Our improved prospects dictate a visit to Charleston soon—in preparation for relieving the burden of our debt …
The blacks of Mont Royal were as protective of Madeline as if she were a child. They continued to insist that someone drive her to the city. She relented, and chose Fred.
On a crisp February morning, they stopped the wagon shortly after turning onto the river road. In the cleared field behind the fence a gang of thirty black men swung shovels. Flagged stakes outlined a trench six hundred yards wide by one thousand yards long, to be dug around the field to drain it.
Six men were dragging a huge timber with ropes to smooth a path down the center of the field. On that path, horse carts would eventually haul away mined rock. Edisto Topper had informed Madeline that most of Mont Royal would soon be covered by similar fields.
Here was the first. She was studying it proudly when a bright flash, as from a reflecting mirror, caught her attention. She turned and saw a mounted man about a quarter-mile down the road in the direction of Summerton. From his pudginess, and the light flashing from his spectacles, she recogn
ized Gettys.
For a moment or so the storekeeper sat very still, as if watching her. Then, with a contemptuous flick of his rein, he turned and trotted away toward Summerton.
Madeline shivered. Somehow the day was spoiled.
It got worse. At the Palmetto Bank on Broad Street, a bald clerk, Mr. Crow, informed her that Mr. Dawkins would be unavailable all day.
“But I wrote him that I was coming. It’s important that I speak to him,” she said.
Crow remained cool. “In what regard?”
“I want to arrange to pay off my mortgage sooner than the bank requires. Mont Royal’s being mined for phosphates. We should be receiving substantial income. I wrote Leverett all about this.”
“Mr. Dawkins received your letter.” Crow emphasized the mister, implicit criticism of her familiarity. “I was instructed to tell you that the directors of this bank are not disposed to prepayment. It’s our prerogative under terms of the mortgage to insist that you continue regular quarterly payments.”
“For how long.”
“The full term.”
“That’s years. If it’s a matter of the interest, I’ll gladly pay that, too.”
Crow stepped back a pace, disdainful. “It’s a matter of policy, Mrs. Main.”
“What policy? To keep me on a leash you can cut any time you choose?”
“Are you referring to foreclosure?”
“Yes. Is that a matter of policy, too?”
“Kindly lower your voice. Why should the Palmetto Bank wish to foreclose on Mont Royal? It’s valuable land, with dramatically improved prospects for generating income. You’re raising an extraneous issue.” He thought a moment, then added, “Of course it’s true that foreclosure remains an option of the bank, should you default. But in that event, the person to suffer would be the owner, Mr. Main. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be responsible for putting your relative in such a position—”
The point—the threat—was made. But how clumsy they were, how obvious in their passion to control her. Was the whole state, the whole South, still insane on the subject of Africanization? Surely, surely they no longer feared unlikely conspiracies, uprisings, arson plots against property, the raping of white women—
Then, abruptly, intuition pointed to the real cause, less dramatic but nevertheless lethal: the convention. It was meddling with the vote, and with taxes; it threatened to touch white money. Did Leverett Dawkins know of her connection with a black delegate? He must.
Crow stood behind a gleaming oak rail with a gate in it. Provoked by his rebuff, and by snide looks from a couple of tellers, she reached for the gate. “I’m a good customer of this bank, Mr. Crow. I’m not satisfied with your explanations, or happy about your rudeness. I’m going to take this up with Leverett whether he’s busy or not.”
“Madam, you will not.” Crow seized and held the gate shut.
“Please leave. Mr. Dawkins reminds you that colored are not welcome on these premises.”
He walked off. Her eyes brimming with tears of rage, she fled.
… Some of the shock of the bank experience is leaving. But not the humiliation—or the anger.
March, 1868. What confusion and melodrama! Two months ago the Senate in executive session refused to concur in the matter of the suspension of Mr. Stanton, whereupon Gen. Grant resigned and permitted Stanton to return to his War Dept. offices. Johnson immediately appointed Gen. Lorenzo Thomas in Grant’s place, and Thomas boasted that he’d remove Stanton by force if need be—whereupon Stanton quite literally barricaded himself in his rooms and had a warrant drawn for the arrest of Thomas! The warrant was delivered at a masked ball!!—it would all be perfect for a comic opera libretto if the passions behind it were not deep and deadly.
But they are, and the wolves pursuing Johnson have at last cornered him. On the 24th instant, a vote to impeach for “high crimes and misdemeanors” passed in the U.S. House by substantial margin. It is an event without precedent in the nation’s history, and those on both sides are rabid about it. Stout and his crowd call J. “the arch-apostate,” insisting that he has betrayed Lincoln, the Constitution, the nation, etc. The President’s supporters claim that he, deeming the Tenure of Office Act unconstitutional, had no choice but to test it by direct action. The Radicals are bent on bringing him to trial. I cannot believe a chief executive will be so humiliated. Yet many are rejoicing at the prospect. …
Andy home last night. The convention adjourned after 53 days, having called special elections for April to ratify the new constitution and elect state and national representatives. …
Topper here with assay results. I confronted him with the deceit about Stout’s ownership of his firm. With a cool arrogance I have noted in some short men, and many lawyers, he turned aside my accusation by showing a profit projection based on the assay. The sums are staggering. …
… Much activity in the district. Horsemen on the road at all hours, lanterns glimmering in the marshes long into the night. I suspect either the election campaign or the influx of surveyors, mining experts, etc. But neither can altogether explain a curious change among the freedmen. Few are smiling, and they seem easily alarmed. I hear many conversations kept private by the use of the swift Gullah tongue, which must be clearly overheard to be understood. …
… I am convinced now—they are frightened. Prudence has noticed it. Why?
The Imperial Wizard came by night.
In a lonely grove of great oaks a mile from Summerton, they planted and lit a ring of torches. Wives and sweethearts had sewn the regalia according to instructions sent earlier by letter. The Invisible Empire prescribed no color for regalia. At Des’s urging, the initiates chose red. Gettys had paid for the expensive yard goods out of his handsome earnings from the Dixie Store.
Standing six feet two inches and powerfully built, General Nathan Bedford Forrest had a swarthy complexion and gray-blue eyes. Streaks of white showed in his wavy black hair and neat chin beard. He impressed the initiates as a man it would be unwise to challenge. When he presented them with an official copy of the Prescript, the national constitution, and told them the fee was ten dollars, no one objected.
The initiates stood in a line. The torches smoked and hissed around them. Erect and clear-eyed, Forrest moved from man to man, inspecting them. Des was almost dizzy with excitement. Jack Jolly carried himself with a certain smugness; this was his old leader, after all. Gettys sweated, though not nearly so much as Father Lovewell, who kept shooting glances into the insect-murmurous dark beyond the torches. One of the two farmers who completed the group recognized the priest, whom he saw in church every Sunday.
Forrest began his instruction.
“This is an institution of humanity, mercy, and patriotism. Its genesis and organizing principles embody all that is chivalric in conduct, noble in sentiment, heroic in spirit. Knowing of your previous declaration of loyalty to these principles, I shall, by order of the Grand Dragon of the Realm of Carolina, ask you ten questions.”
His stern eyes raked them. “Have you ever belonged to or subscribed to the principles of the Radical Republican Party, the Union League, or the Grand Army of the Republic?”
As one, “No.”
“Do you righteously oppose Negro equality, both social and political?”
“Yes.”
“Do you advocate a white man’s government?”
“Yes.”
“Do you favor constitutional liberty, and a government of equitable laws instead of a government of violence and oppression?”
“Yes!”
So it went, for nearly an hour. The lessons:
“We protect the weak, the innocent, the defenseless, against the lawlessness and lust of the violent, the brutal, the deranged. … We serve the injured, the suffering, the unfortunate, giving first priority and highest allegiance to widows and orphans of the Confederate dead.”
The rules:
“Any ritual, hand grip, code or pass word, as well as the origins, designs
, mysteries, and other proprietary secrets of this organization shall not be knowingly betrayed, if any are so betrayed, the perpetrator shall incur the full and extreme penalty of our law. Never shall the name of the organization be written by any member. For purposes of printed announcement it shall be identified always and only by one, two, or three asterisks.”
The investiture:
From the ground, Forrest plucked up a robe and sacklike hood of shiny sateen-weave cotton. Solemnly, he handed these to Des.
“I endow you with the title, rights, and privileges of Grand Cyclops of the klavern and, additionally, the title, rights, and responsibilities of Grand Titan of this district.”
To Jolly: “I endow you with the title, rights, and privileges of Grand Turk, charging you to assist the Cyclops in all regards, and serve as his loyal adjutant.”
“Yes, sir, General.” Jolly accepted the regalia, his eyes brimming with anticipatory pleasure.
Grand Sentinel, Grand Ensign, Grand Scribe, Grand Exchequer—each man had a responsibility. With great solemnity and a high sense of patriotism absent from his life since he’d mustered out of the Palmetto Rifles, Des donned the shimmering red robe and hood. So did the others.
The torches fumed and smoked. General Forrest surveyed the hooded den. Well pleased, he smiled.
“You are the newest knights of our great crusade. Begin your purge here, on your home soil, where the face of the enemy is known to you. Joined klavern to klavern throughout our great Invisible Empire, together we will sweep the debased government of certain evil men from this land we love.”
Des licked his lips and exhaled, rippling the mask that hung below his chin. Again he felt the weight of his boon companion, Ferris Brixham, sagging dead in his arms.
Jolly felt the rolling gait of a war-horse, and heard the screams of the dying at Fort Pillow.
