House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  “Oh, they’re on the market all the time,” Streean assured him. “Refugees from northern Virginia, coming to Richmond, are selling everything they’ve got for money to live on.” He laughed. “Or to subscribe to Confederate loans that will never be paid. Your high-minded gentry will be paupers before this war ends, Tony, and so will you, unless you use your wits.” And he said: “I can help you get rid of these niggers. I’ll have Darrell arrange it, and I’ll put the money into something safe for you, or I’ll make it work for you.” Tony in the end found himself persuaded to halfhearted assent.

  When Streean departed, Mrs. Currain returned with him to Richmond. From something in her eyes, a sort of patient sadness, Tony suspected that during her stay here she had seen more than she acknowledged; but he brushed the thought aside, nursing the golden dreams Streean had awakened.

  He delayed telling James Fiddler his intention to sell some slaves. The overseer’s manner had begun to make Tony uncomfortable. There was an aloofness in Fiddler’s tones like that uncomplaining silence which Tony detected in his mother. He told himself that his adventures among the wenches on the place had encroached on Fiddler’s preserves and that the man resented it, and the thought aroused in Tony a tolerant contempt, and gave him courage to speak at last of this transaction Streean had proposed.

  “Fiddler, these niggers from Great Oak and Belle Vue will eat us out of house and home.”

  The overseer said reluctantly: “Why, we don’t need them, that’s a fact.”

  “I’m thinking of selling them.”

  Fiddler looked at him in surprise. “I only remember one negro ever being sold off the place,” he suggested. “ ’Phemy’s daughter, five or six years ago.”

  Tony looked at him in surprise. “Trav sold her? What was the matter with her?”

  “Mrs. Currain wouldn’t have her in the house. She took care of the children when they were little; but she taught herself to read, and to speak well, and got pretty impudent, and Mrs. Currain had a lot of trouble with her. So Mr. Currain sold her to the Pettigrews.”

  “ ’Phemy’s daughter?” Tony felt a stir of interest. “Is she black or yellow?”

  Fiddler hesitated. “A bright,” he said slowly.

  “How old is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, damn it, give a guess!” Tony was trying to remember how long ago it was that he had sent ’Phemy from Great Oak to Chimneys. Twenty years? Yes, perhaps a little more.

  “Why, she was about fifteen. She must be twenty, now; maybe a little more.”

  Fiddler’s words seemed to Tony confirmation of his own conjecture. “Where is she now?”

  “At the Pettigrew place. Captain Pettigrew was killed at Manassas, and his sons are in the army. Mrs. Pettigrew lives in Raleigh. There’s not even an overseer there now. I hear the people there do as they please.”

  Tony was immensely curious to see this bright mulatto who was ‘Phemy’s daughter, but he asked Fiddler nothing more. ’Phemy would answer his questions. After dinner that day, when she brought his julep to the veranda, he asked casually: “ ’Phemy, haven’t you any children?”

  She looked at him in quiet attention. “Yassuh, I got six.”

  “Who’s your man?”

  “Long Johnnie wuz, twell he cut his hand at a slaughtering, sticking a ole hawg, an’ it mortified.”

  “Good children, are they?”

  “Yassuh, de heft of ’em.” Her answer invited a question, and he asked it, and she explained: “All only Sapphira. She got too uppity, wouldn’t have nothin’ t’do wid her little brothe’s and siste’s ’count dey ’uz black and she ’uz white as anybody.”

  “She’s not on the place here, is she?”

  “Naw suh. Misteh Currain done sold her to de Pettigrews. She high and mighty now, livin’ in de big house, bossin’ de place lak she ’uz white folks.”

  ’Phemy’s tone was sharp with scorn, yet Tony thought he caught in it a note of pride. “A no-good nigger?” he suggested, grinning at her. He was not surprised to see her expression change.

  “All she needed ’uz someone to take a stick of firewood to her,” ’Phemy assured him. “She didn’t try her tricks on her ma.”

  “Good around the house?”

  “If she ’uz around dis house, she’d better be.” Their eyes met, as though she read his thought, and after a moment’s silence, in a lower tone, humble and almost pleading, she said: “Yassuh, she’d be a mighty help tuh me.”

  Tony next morning, telling no one his errand, rode away; and before noon his horse turned into the driveway that led to the Pettigrew house. The fields, except for patches planted here and there to garden stuff, were neglected and gone to weeds and sedge; but the driveway seemed to have been freshly raked, the flower beds were clean, there was a trash gang diligent at work.

  A black-skinned youngster came running to take his horse, looking at him and then at the closed door of the house in obvious excitement. Tony stripped off his gloves, slapped the dust off his trouser legs, and climbed the steps. At his tug at the knob, a bell jangled somewhere in the silent house, and the door presently was opened by an aged Negro with a white fringe around his poll and the courteous demeanor of his kind. Beyond him the wide hall was in order, the house was spotless clean. The old man bobbed and bade Tony good morning.

  “It’s Mister Currain, Uncle,” Tony said amiably. “Tell Mrs. Pettigrew I wished to pay my respects.”

  “Please suh,” the old man said regretfully. “De fambly is all away f’om home. Won’t you step in an’ rest youhse’f f’om de heat o’ de day?”

  Tony nodded, moved into the hall. “Will they be returning today?”

  The butler was about to reply, but from the library at one side someone said: “Bring the gentleman a julep, Uncle Merry.”

  Tony turned at the word, and he felt a quick pulse pound in his throat. He had been prepared to see a bright mulatto wench; he saw instead a young woman who despite her plain black dress of a servant was certainly richly beautiful, who might well have been white, and who said simply: “I am Mis’ Pettigrew’s housekeeper, Mr. Currain. Will you make you’self easy? I know Mis’ Pettigrew would want you to refresh you’self befoah you ride away.”

  Tony wished to laugh aloud. Why, the wench put on as many airs as if she were the lady of the house. By God, she might have been! She was a lot more handsome than most ladies, and as composed, and as well spoken. He had seen white women with darker skins, with hair as black. Clearly she ruled the old butler; yes, and to judge by appearances she ruled the other people around the place! Now how did she manage that? What weapons did she use? There were a thousand questions to which he wished to find answers.

  “Is your mistress at the Springs?”

  “In Raleigh, sir.”

  Uncle Merry came with the julep, and Tony took it. “Thank you, Uncle. I’ll rest on the veranda while I drink this.” He moved past Sapphira toward the open doors at the rear of the wide hall. Would she have the impudence to follow him? If she did, what then?

  But she did not. He sat at ease, surveying the sloping and well-tended lawns, catching glimpses of a little stream at the foot of the slope, shaping in his thoughts the letter he would write to Mrs. Pettigrew. “—the daughter of my housekeeper—” “—to reunite this girl with her mother—” “—sold by my brother at his wife’s insistence; but his home is now in Richmond, so perhaps you will let me bring the girl back to Chimneys—” “—assures me she will be useful, has many household accomplishments; so I am prepared—” When he finished the julep Uncle Merry showed him to the door. Sapphira, to his disappointment, did not reappear.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s reply to his letter was all he had hoped for. Sapphira had many valuable qualities, yes. “But I’m afraid she makes life miserable for poor old Uncle Merry. I’ve thought of selling her, but you know one hates to do that. However, since it is to return to her former home—” She would write to Sapphira, tell the girl her decision.
/>   Tony, after some thought as to procedure, sent Joseph and ’Phemy in one of the farm carts to bring Sapphira to Chimneys. Let ’Phemy take her down a bit; let the girl learn her place. There was time enough. “Put her where she will be of the most use to you, ’Phemy,” he directed. “You know best what she can do.”

  He bade them delay their departure till he and the overseer were gone; and he led James Fiddler on a longer ride than usual that day, careful not to return to the house till the cart should have had time to go and come. When they did ride up the hill, Darrell and another man were sitting on the veranda.

  Tony had completely forgotten, in his new interest during these last few days, his arrangement with Streean. To see Darrell relaxed and at his ease here made him for a moment awkward with surprise; but Darrell rose to greet him, smiling amiably enough.

  “Well, Uncle Tony! It’s been a long time since you tossed me off this same veranda.”

  Tony smiled emptily to hide his thoughts; but he remembered that day long ago when the Martinston men came to ask him to lead them to war. Judge Meynell was their spokesman, and now Judge Meynell was dead at Darrell’s hand, and little Miss Mary had been killed by Darrell as surely as though his bullet pierced her breast.

  Darrell was introducing him to the stranger. “Mr. Pudrick; my uncle, Mr. Currain.”

  Mr. Pudrick was a plump little man with an oily brow and an oily smile and an ice-blue eye. “Servant, Mr. Currain!”

  Tony bowed, hiding his instant dislike. “I see you’ve been made welcome.” There were juleps on the table where they had been sitting.

  “Yes,” Darrell assented. “Pegleg took care of us.” Tony hoped ’Phemy would be wise enough to keep Sapphira out of Darrell’s sight. “We’ve been so well entertained we’ve almost forgotten hunger,” Darrell assured him.

  “James Fiddler and I were delayed today,” Tony apologized. Joseph brought a frosty glass for him; and Tony said: “Tell ’Phemy we will have dinner in half an hour, Joseph.”

  Mr. Pudrick, when they were seated, said at once: “I’m a business man, Mr. Currain, so I’ll come to the point. Mr. Streean says his father and you have discussed throwing a bit of business my way.”

  Tony stared into his mint-topped glass, thinking uncomfortably of James Fiddler and what the overseer would say to this upon which he had decided. He roused in himself anger to smother his sense of guilt. Fiddler was nothing but an overseer. The niggers were not his property. It was true, they were not Tony’s either; but he could act for the family. Yes, and in the family interest, too. If Fiddler were sensible he would see this, see the wisdom of selling off some surplus slaves. He nodded.

  “Why—yes, Mr. Pudrick, to be sure.”

  “I’m a business man and a busy man, Mr. Currain.” The slave dealer’s tone was a mixture of humility and insistence. “Can we set about our business this evening? I should take the road back to Raleigh tomorrow.”

  Tony drank deep. The cool fragrance of the mint, and the tingling sweetness soothed his nerves, uneasy after a morning’s abstinence. “Presently, presently,” he said in an irritable tone. Fiddler would scowl and frown; Brett and Trav and Faunt would disapprove. But with this man Lincoln bent on ruining the South, niggers would be worthless presently. “What’s a good hand worth, Mr. Pudrick?”

  “What we can get for them, sir.”

  “I’m selling to you, at your risk.”

  “Then I will protect myself on the price.”

  Tony drank again. He shouted over his shoulder for Joseph, bade him summon Fiddler. When the overseer appeared, Tony said harshly:

  “Mr. Fiddler, how many people have we here from Belle Vue and Great Oak?”

  Fiddler looked from Tony to Darrell, who nodded in casual greeting, and then to the slave dealer; and he wetted his lips. “I’d have to tally the lot, Mr. Currain.”

  “Well, damn it, man, do it then. Get them all together, with their families.” He spoke to Pudrick. “You can have a look at them after dinner.” Fiddler moved away, and Tony said angrily: “But you’ll have to get them off the place tonight. I’ll not have them snivelling around in the morning.”

  “That’s the way I like to do business, Mr. Currain. If we do business, I’ll have the whole coffle of niggers on the road by sundown.”

  Joseph said dinner was served. When the meal was done, unwilling to face Mr. Fiddler, Tony said: “Pudrick, I don’t propose to bargain with you. You’ll not pick and choose. You must take all or none. Look ’em over, come back and show me your money, and I’ll say yes or no.”

  The slave dealer glanced at Darrell, who said in an amiable drawl: “Pudrick will give you a draft on Richmond, Uncle Tony. I’ll take him to Richmond to see it honored.” His eyes twinkled. “Unless you insist my visit here be prolonged.”

  Tony felt a befuddlement he would not avow. Matters of business were strange to him; it was a relief to leave all that in Darrell’s hands. Doubtless this young man had his father’s wisdom in such matters. He nodded: “Take Pudrick down to the quarter, then,” he directed. “I suppose you’ll find Fiddler there.”

  When they rose, he went to his room. The quarter was out of sight from the house, but he stood for a moment at the window, watching them go that way. Fiddler would wear a reproachful look for days. Well, let him! Tony turned in angry defiance to the brandy bottle on the table beside the bed. An eye-opener in the morning, a night cap every night: that was any gentleman’s habit. But sometimes Tony’s eyes were hard to open, sometimes his sleep was tardy; so Joseph knew enough to keep a full bottle by the bed. It was full now, but before Darrell and Pudrick came back it was half empty.

  Tony went uncertainly to meet them. Liquor seemed to take hold of him more quickly than it had used to. Certainly he had not drunk enough to make him thus stumble-footed, to blur his eyes so that these two men moved in a red haze. The figures Pudrick quoted—so many hands, so many women young enough to make themselves useful, so many children of working age, so many other children too young to count—were meaningless to him.

  “Take ’em all or none,” he said thickly. “I’m a man of heart! Won’t break up families. Don’t leave any old ones here that we’ll have to look out for. Take ’em all or none.”

  Pudrick flattered him. “You’re the sort of man it’s a pleasure to meet, Mr. Currain. Take ’em all or none, you say. Well, here’s my price.” He handed Tony a slip of paper. “Take it or leave it.”

  Tony blinked, trying to read the figures Pudrick had written, trying to seem wise and shrewd; but he was so benumbed that the bit of paper slipped out of his hand. Darrell picked it up, and Tony demanded: “How’s it sound to you, Darrell?”

  “Seems fair to me, Uncle Tony.”

  “Huh!” Why was his vision clouded? It could not be the little brandy he had drunk. Maybe a touch of malaria, left over from those weeks on the Peninsula last year when he was playing soldier. “Done,” he muttered, and scowled at Pudrick. “Now get the niggers off the place! They don’t belong at Chimneys, anyway, this lot. My brothers unloaded ’em on me.” Sudden puny anger filled him. “Get ’em out of my sight, damn it! Don’t sit there gawping like a catfish! Get ’em away from here!” The effort exhausted him; his head drooped. It was mighty comfortable to close your eyes, shut out the wavering and formless world.

  He woke in his own bed, in the dimness of drawn shades through which sunlight came peering to affront his eyes. So it was daylight. Joseph must have put him to bed. His wandering eyes found the bottle within reach; and a gulp from it ran through his shaking body. A wonderful thing, a drink of brandy when you woke! He lay enjoying this pleasant relaxing ease, this passive recovery. Another drop or two would complete the process.

  When he rose, shouting for Joseph, he was sufficiently restored to be almost jovial. Joseph brought coffee; Tony flavored it with a spoonful more of brandy. “Those gentlemen gone, are they?” he demanded.

  “Yassuh!” Tony saw the whites of the Negro’s eyes.

  “What
time is it?”

  “Sun two hours high.”

  “Well, damn it, hustle my breakfast. Get my horse, too. Tell Fiddler I’ll be right along.”

  “Yassuh, he heah waitin’.”

  Waiting? For Fiddler to be waiting was outside the normal pattern. The overseer always found things to do till Tony was ready to join him, or till Tony decided not to ride that day. “Waiting?” He repeated the word aloud.

  “In de office, suh. I git you some breakfus’.” Joseph stumped away.

  Tony dressed slowly, and he ate slowly; he put off as long as possible going down to the cool pleasant room on the ground level where the plantation books were kept. But in the end, fortified by another glass of brandy, his head high as became that of a master going to meet his underling, Tony went to face James Fiddler.

  The overseer was at the desk; he rose when Tony appeared. Tony yawned with some elaboration. “Slept late and I’m still sleepy,” he commented. “Kept you waiting, I’m afraid.”

  Fiddler nodded. “I just wanted to hand you these things,” he explained. “This is the duplicate bill of sale you signed last night. Mr. Darrell left it for you. He said to tell you he’d return in a few weeks to make an accounting.”

  “Put it where such things go,” Tony directed. “We ought to be on our way.”

  “I must have a word with you, Mr. Currain.”

  “Eh?” Tony’s anger stirred. “Well, damn it, go ahead.” He sat down, slapping at his boots with his riding crop. “Go on, out with it, man.”

  James Fiddler hesitated. “I’ve been all my life at Chimneys, Mr. Currain. Born here. Grew up here. My father and mother are buried here.”

  “You’ve told me so before. Don’t repeat yourself!”

  “I’ve decided to go into the army, Mr. Currain.”

  “The army? Good God, what for?” And Tony urged, suddenly alarmed: “See here, Chimneys can’t go on without you. You’re needed here.” His eyes narrowed. “The enrolling officers won’t touch you, Fiddler. You’re exempt. Both of us are. One white man for twenty slaves!”