by John Jakes
Legrand turned up the collar of his wool coat and remarked on spits of rain in the air. Hattie agreed that the weather didn’t look auspicious for Christmas. “So we have a duty to brighten it as best we can.”
“Those Yanks who busted the toys pretty well cooked that goose, wouldn’t you say?”
“We should make more.”
“Yes, but time’s short. The fixings, too.”
“Still, don’t you think we should try?”
Legrand sighed and nodded, his surrender.
During this conversation the friends walked south along Bull Street, in the direction of Chippewa Square. Had Hattie been thinking about it, she might have chosen another route, for down this way dwelt the Drewgoods—East Perry Street, closer to the Old Cemetery than any Drewgood liked to admit. On the square’s north side, two brisk walkers approached from West Hull Street. Hattie recognized Napoleon and his squinty sister.
“Hello, hello, we didn’t see you there,” cried the un-beautiful twin, causing Hattie to suspicion that Cherry Drewgood was pleased to encounter them for some reason as yet unknown.
Legrand tipped his kepi. Hattie said, “Hello yourself. Out for a stroll?”
“Errands, but we must hurry home—we’ve extra-special company coming for dinner.”
“A big frog in the pond,” Napoleon said.
“One of the biggest,” said his sister. “The judge is entertaining a Union general, second or third to Sherman himself.”
Hattie recoiled. “You invited a Yankee to your table?”
Napoleon said, “Yes, and he’s one of those nigger-loving abolitionists, too. Phooey.”
“Father believes we must meet and greet our enemies in the spirit of the season,” Cherry said. “Like Sherman, the general’s from Ohio. Well connected in Washington. We’re fortunate to get acquainted with someone so important, don’t you think?”
Not waiting for Hattie’s opinion, Cherry yanked her brother’s hand, and the Drewgoods melted away in the direction of home. Hattie frowned. “Mama will have conniptions. Did you see the airs they put on?”
“Yes I did. Sounds like the old judge turned his coat. Mighty fast, too.”
“You can bet he’s not doing it because the Christmas elves filled his bosom with kindliness. I wonder what he’s up to?”
The Hon. Cincinnatus Drewgood rehearsed his household as thoroughly as Hamlet rehearsed the players, although his soliloquy was considerably less elegant. Elegance not being the judge’s forte, he simply drilled home his demands in his intimidating voice:
“Lulu, change your clothes. Powder your cheeks. Stay out of the kitchen and do not for an instant let on that you prepared the meal. Merry, smile and look happy for our guest. Cherry, rouge your cheeks. Slick up. Don’t act as though you’re attending a wake. Napoleon, keep your fingers away from your face. Adam, pretend a cook is handing you each dish as you bring it out.” The white listeners were grouped around the dining table while Adam remained in his customary corner. “Get cracking—our guest is due at seven.”
They scattered to other parts of the house. Slow-moving Adam inadvertently stumbled over a chair on his way to the kitchen. No one took notice.
The judge remained seated at the head of the table. What an evening it promised to be. He had introduced himself to the imposing and obviously important officer at the Exchange that morning. With much fawning and flattery he lured the brigadier to Perry Street, having suggested that he’d never truly endorsed the war which fired his neighbors to such foolish extremes. If he comported himself properly tonight, directed the conversation in the desired direction, Sara and Silverglass would be parted forever. He planned a slantindicular version of what he referred to in the courtroom as “the true facts.”
The Drewgood house was old, dusty, and poorly maintained. The judge insisted that lamps be trimmed low to conceal its impoverished condition. One sniff revealed the pervasive mold smell of the seacoast, a second sniff the family’s abrupt conversion to the celebration of Christmas instead of New Year’s—odor of pine. Boughs and wreaths were abundant downstairs. On returning from the Exchange, the judge had dispatched Napoleon with a small saw wrapped in valuable but expendable wallpaper. The boy’s destination was a house eight blocks distant, where the judge had previously noticed many pines in the yard. The house belonged to an elderly lady confined to bed. Napoleon cut and stole an armful of boughs without detection. His father patted him on the head when he returned. A skimpy Christmas tree had been moved into the house the day Savannah surrendered.
The brigadier’s carriage arrived at the stipulated hour. His orderly preceded him to the door with an umbrella—light rain fell again—and used the tarnished door knocker. The judge had donned his evening finery: a single-breasted burgundy tailcoat with black trousers, white silk waistcoat, and tie. Keeping the lamps low would help hide the fraying of his cuffs, the raveling of his seldom-worn cravat.
His family waited in a line at one side of the hall. Cherry did her best to simper. Merry’s expression varied from blank to disapproving. The judge threw the door open and greeted the guest in a voice that nearly blew the orderly off the porch. “General Sensenbrenner, welcome to our humble abode. Felicitations of the season.”
“Thank you, sir, we are pleased to be here in a spirit of cordiality and reconciliation.” The general turned sideways to squeeze through the opening.
To say Brevet Brigadier H. H. (Hiram Hugo) Sensenbrenner of Columbus was fleshy was akin to saying the falls of Niagara were damp. He was a behemoth, a rolling jiggling mountain of blubber. He stood four inches over six feet. The judge wondered if he had to be hoisted to the saddle in a sling, as old Winfield Scott had in his latter days.
The general shrugged out of his coat cloak; the judge signaled Napoleon forward. General Sensenbrenner dropped the cloak without noticing who received it. Napoleon almost collapsed under the weight. He lurched off while the general waved his orderly back to the carriage and closed the door.
For an officer in the middle of a wartime campaign, the brigadier was amazingly clean and trig. His long thick fan beard, tawny brown with white streaks, was neatly clipped. Single stars on his shoulder straps gleamed, as did eight paired buttons on his double-breasted frock coat and the bullion fringing of his sash. Napoleon reappeared. General Sensenbrenner handed him his chapeau de bras. Napoleon left.
“Our festive table is ready,” said the judge. “First, however, I must introduce my dear family.” He began with Lulu and ended with Napoleon, who returned gasping for breath. As they filed into the dining room, the judge kept chattering.
“All the Drewgoods are delighted you’re here, sir. The sanguinary war will soon end—never much supported in this household, I assure you again. Please take the seat of honor—the head of our humble table.”
General Sensenbrenner creaked the floor prodigiously as he circled to his place. Adam stood in his corner. The general pointed to him. “Is your nigger aware that he’s free?”
“Oh yes, he knows all about Abe Lincoln’s proclamation, don’t you, Adam?” The judge smiled; his oddly colored eyes warned Adam not to speak.
“That’s excellent. We don’t tolerate your peculiar institution further than I can throw an elephant. If you have any friends who are still thumping the tub for the South’s outmoded and outrageous economic system, we suggest you not associate with them.”
“Noted, noted.” The judge waved to shoo Adam to the kitchen. The twins and Napoleon seated themselves along the sides of the table; Lulu took the chair at the judge’s right. “Alas, we not only have friends of that persuasion, but a relative, namely Lulu’s sister-in-law.”
Adam returned with a plate of cornmeal muffins and a decanter of French claret imported illegally on a Fernandina blockade runner. While Adam poured wine, the general stuffed a lukewarm muffin into the center of his beard. “We must hear of that in due course. Who is returning grace?”
“I shall,” the judge said. All bowed their heads. The jud
ge proceeded to pray for seven minutes, ending with a stentorian, “Amen.” General Sensenbrenner emptied his wineglass and reached for another muffin.
“Savannah has suffered cruel shortages, General, but I can assure you that everything set before you tonight will be pure and wholesome. No frog or mule meat on this table, hah-hah.”
“No rat, neither,” said Napoleon. The judge glared.
He rang a small silver hand bell. Adam brought in a barely hot casserole of shrimp, followed by the fowl course, a broiler awash in its own congealing juices. The judge had commandeered the bird from a bail bondsman who owed him a favor.
“Salt, General?” Lulu waved the cellar. “Butter? Sugar?”
“Not at the moment. We must say, Mrs. Drewgood, for a wartime feast, this is more than adequate—though of course not as lavish as the table which feeds that poltroon Jef Davis. We hear he sits down to gumbo, chicken, olives, salad, jelly cake, and chocolate ice cream nearly every day.”
“Scandalous,” the judge said, eyes heavenward.
“As soon as Richmond falls, we’ll curb his appetite with a hang rope. Now”—the general continued between bites—“about this unreconstructed relative you mentioned.”
“Her name is Sara Lester. She owns three hundred acres of prime rice land on the Little Ogeechee River. Her deceased husband exercised a measure of restraint with his slaves, but the widow is unbelievably harsh.”
Brows furrowing, the general said, “We don’t like hearing such charges.”
“Nor do I relish repeating them. Unfortunately the woman is without a conscience. She beats her niggers mercilessly, and when that won’t avail, starves ’em. Frankly, she doesn’t deserve to reap the profits of her plantation.”
Cherry said, “No, definitely not.” Napoleon cried, “I’ll say.” Lulu agreed by bobbing her head. Merry pressed her serviette to her lips, silently appalled.
“As you know, Judge, I serve on the general staff, with access to the highest echelons of authority. We have ways of dealing with unreconstructed rebels. For example, land may be confiscated and offered at public sale.”
The judge’s eyes flashed, the conversation having arrived at the desired destination. He feigned an expression of piety. “For a very modest price, I would hope, sir. Darkies can’t afford to pay huge sums.”
This generated a belch and a shrug, in that order. “We sell not only to colored persons but to anyone who cares to bid on the property. What is the name of said plantation again?”
“Silverglass.”
“On the Little Ogeechee, you say?”
“Precisely.” The judge provided the approximate location. General Sensenbrenner promised that the Federal authorities would delve into the matter and take action.
“Thank you, General. You will be serving humanity and Christianity—isn’t that right, children?” Cherry and Lulu offered amens. Napoleon bounced up and down on his chair and applauded. Merry continued to look appalled. The judge reached for the decanter.
“More wine? For dessert Lulu has prepared her special fruitcake.”
“We shall enjoy that,” said Gen. H. H. Sensenbrenner while the others at the table, except for Merry, exchanged sly looks. Adam observed this from his corner, darkly handsome as always and, as always, invisible.
Union troops were camped in the brick vaults of the Old Cemetery, which they’d emptied of the original residents, building fires inside. The infernal glare lit up Perry Street halfway to Chippewa Square. So long as men didn’t venture outside the area after curfew, they were free to search for valuables rumored to be buried among the tombstones. Mounded earth, flying shovels, looters silhouetted under dripping trees created a bizarre midnight mosaic. To this was added the fretful neighing of army horses penned in a corner of the property.
Tybee Jo Swett, he of the choleric disposition, avoided this brighter end of Perry Street and skulked in the lee of a porch across from Judge Drewgood’s. Jo busily scratched his leg. He needed a bath, if not delousing, before he executed his plan. He also needed to fill his aching middle. On reaching Savannah he’d sneaked over to the mansion of his former employer, Mr. Green, only to find it aglow with lanterns and aswarm with Billy Yanks. No chance of cadging a few morsels from the Green kitchen.
In three days Jo hadn’t digested anything more solid than berries and bark. Just like the war, this state of unwashed starvation would end soon, and his personal crusade would be completed as planned. This he vowed several times a day.
Darkness cloaked the Drewgood residence. They were all slumbering in there, his darling Merry and her vicious father who had jobbed him to Milledgeville to dispose of him. That gentleman was in for a big surprise. People didn’t tread on Jo Swett with impunity.
He studied the ground-floor windows, selected one he thought promising, over there past the fence pickets and flower beds on the east side of the house.
A trio of soldiers in calf-length overcoats approached from the direction of the square. Jo assumed they belonged to the curfew patrol. One bellowed “Just before the Battle, Mother.” Jo eased the LeMat from his waistband. He’d plug all three rather than be captured when he was so close to success.
The soldiers straggled to the cemetery, never suspecting a jailbird nearby. The young men became indistinct figures in a garish mural of firelight and earth. Horses continued to bemoan the rain. Jo eased the LeMat back into his waistband. Nothing more to be accomplished on Perry Street tonight. He addressed the dark house through gritted teeth.
“Sleep well, Merry dear. And you, you old devil—I’ll wake you up pretty soon, count on it.”
Hattie and Legrand left the house on York Street with a dozen lumpish dolls pieced together before last night’s curfew sent Legrand home. The youngsters had decided to distribute the toys a day early, in a poor, largely Negro neighborhood. Amelia remained behind, snuffling in her loneliness. Sara didn’t have the heart to turn the pig out in a chill drizzle.
Vee, meantime, was out of sorts—had been since she huffed into the house after the gathering at M. G. Parsley’s. She’d gone to bed immediately, without commenting on what had transpired. Attempts to learn more this morning had proved fruitless.
At ten, Sara decided her friend had been moody long enough. She went to the parlor where Vee was playing G. F. Handel’s “Joy to the World” at a tempo appropriate for a funeral. Sara seated herself, folded her hands. When the music stopped, she began. “Vee, it isn’t my business to pry, but you’ve been grumpy ever since you came home from that rebel caucus. What went wrong?”
Vee drew a breath; her sizable self seemed to inflate even more. Sara waited. Suddenly Vee banged the keys with both hands, a noise so discordant, Sara started. She saw tears on Vee’s cheeks.
“Christmas. That’s what did it, Christmas.”
“It is the season,” Sara agreed. “Do you care to explain further?”
Vee dabbed her eyes with a kerchief. “It all went swimmingly at first. One of M. G. Parsley’s guests vilified Abe Lincoln for ten minutes—‘upright ape’ and ‘prevaricating snollygoster’ were the kindest terms used. Another guest attacked Generals Grant and Sherman. M. G. produced her pitch pipe—she chopped up her piano for her fireplace, poor thing—and we sang ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag’ a capella. We’d hardly begun the second stanza when a guest dashed to the window, hearing voices.”
“Carolers?”
“Yes, five of the dearest children you ever saw. Four white, one colored, standing in the rain chirruping ‘Joy to the World’ as if the sky were blue and cloudless. We all fell silent to listen. M. G. Parsley herself burst into tears. How could we celebrate with thousands of boys in graves far from home? How could there be joy with thousands more lying in filthy hospitals, maimed, all hope of a decent future dashed?”
“And how can there be peace and justice when men and women can be sold like so many cattle?”
Sara’s gentle question brought a look of deep concentration to Vee’s round face. “Yes, I suppose we mu
st think of them. I admit I haven’t done so before.” She collected herself, resumed. “A lady found twenty Confederate dollars in her reticule and gave them to the children. The money’s worthless now, but the children thanked everyone and ran away in the dark. When someone suggested we end the meeting, no one disagreed. I heard M. G. Parsley still weeping as we raised our umbrellas and left.”
Vee gulped, brought her own tears under control. “It must be Christmas, Sara. I found I couldn’t hate Mr. Lincoln very much, I was too busy thinking of the sweetness of that carol, and the starved faces of the little ones braving the rain to sing. I woke up this morning realizing the suffering of this war had touched me in a way I never expected. I yearn for peace. I even thought kindly of that Yankee sergeant.”
“Winks?”
Vee fluttered her tear-dampened kerchief. “Oh, I don’t remember his name.” Sara knew she did of course remember. “I just recalled how courteous he was, and how angered by those men who threatened us. He’s not a well-educated person, but he’s handsome—striking, in his own way.” Vee fanned herself rapidly.
“I understand.” Sara did feel tenderly sympathetic, yet at the same time was seized with an urge to giggle. Miss Vastly Rohrschamp was love-struck, or the next thing to. Vee flung herself around to the keyboard and played “Joy to the World,” this time with gusto, at peak volume.
Twenty minutes later it was Sara’s turn to blush and burn hot as a June afternoon. Stephen Hopewell presented himself at the front door. If Saint Nick’s sleigh had plummeted through the roof, she couldn’t have been more surprised.
Vee answered the knock. Stephen jammed his black felt hat under his arm and, ignoring rain dribbling off his eyebrows, asked cheerily, “Beg pardon, ma’am. Is Mrs. Lester at home?”
“Why, she is, do come in.” Vee stepped back to admit him. Upon arising Sara had washed and combed her hair, but she was otherwise unrouged and pale, a condition of which she was uncomfortably aware.
