by Frank Yerby
Stephen sat up and followed her example. He found the meat amazingly good and well-seasoned. He kept up his eating until he noticed that the mulatto girl was regarding him with big, round eyes.
“Sorry,” he grinned. “Have some. And ye, Tante Caleen.”
He felt immensely better almost at once. Only the slow, dull throbbing of his head remained to remind him of the events of the day. He stretched himself out on his cloak and slept.
When he awakened, it was to find his head being bathed very gently with a warm, soothing liquid. Tante Caleen then took a strip of cloth, torn from one of her petticoats, and bound up the wound, pressing an odd sort of leaf inside the bandage against Stephen’s torn flesh. Stephen could feel it drawing out the inflammation and the fever. He felt stronger.
“Thank ye, Tante,” he said. “Ye’re the best of the lot!”
Outside the lean-to, the rain had stopped.
He looked out of the opening and saw that the sun was already up, over the river. He got up, and called all the Negroes together.
“We must work hard,” he said. “Nobody is to be beaten. Ye obey my orders promptly and all will go well. If not, I’ll sell ye back to the Germans.” Then he sent a Negro to the supply wagons to bring back a sack of corn meal, and put Tante Caleen and the other women to work, making corn bread. The children he sent to dig crayfish from their castlelike mounds near the river. When they had gathered a plentiful supply, Tante Caleen and two other women put them to boil in a huge iron pot. In an amazingly short time the flat slabs of corn bread were done, sooty and covered with ashes, to be sure, for they had been baked on flat stones thrust into the fire. Then they were passed out to the slaves, who crowded around the pot, blowing on their bread and shifting it from hand to hand, and scalding their fingers as they scooped up the crayfish.
Stephen sat on a fallen log, a little apart from his people, and Tante Caleen brought him his breakfast. It was exactly the same as the others—ash-filled corn bread and crayfish. When the Negroes had eaten, Stephen stood up again.
“Ye men,” he said. “Go to the wagons and get axes. Start in here, next to the river, and clear the land in squares. Ye understand me?”
Some of the Negroes nodded, but others looked blank, so Stephen repeated his orders in French. Then they filed away, toward the wagons and the ox carts, and stood there in line while a gigantic black passed out the axes and saws.
“They’ve been well-disciplined,” Stephen decided. “And that big one, he has the makings of a leader. Ye there!” he called. “Come here!”
The big Negro ambled over, looking down upon the white bandaged head of his master.
“What are ye called?” Stephen demanded.
“Achille, master,” the Negro replied.
“Well, Achille, ye’re captain here. When I’m away, ye’re to see that the work goes forward. There must be no laziness and no shirking. Take these men and clear away the palmetto first. Afterwards ye may start on the trees.”
“Thank you, master,” Achille smiled. Then he turned fiercely to the others: “I’m the captain!” he growled. “You work good for me, yes!”
The others looked at him and grinned; but almost at once the air began to ring with the sound of the axes and scythes.
“Ye others,” Stephen said. “Come with me to your old place.” Instantly the Negroes set up a loud wailing and huddled together.
“Don’t fear,” Stephen said. “Waguespack will never beat ye again. Come now—off with ye!”
They walked behind the horse single file, chatting among themselves in the gumbo patois of the islands, but Stephen rode silently, his head bowed in thought.
When he rounded the bend in the road, he saw the coach already drawn up before the door, and on the gallery Tom Warren and Jacques Fabre waited. Fabre’s round face was drawn up in as grim lines of disapproval as a man of his naturally jovial nature could muster, and his pudgy hands toyed nervously with the end of a sword cane he had prudently brought along.
Stephen swung stiffly down from Prince Michael, who was sadly in need of grooming. Stephen, too, was rumpled and unpressed, and two days’ growth of fiery whiskers mottled his fair skin.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “Is everything ready?”
Jacques cleared his throat.
“I’m not quite clear,” he said in his stiff, Teutonic French, “exactly what the nature is of the services you require of me.”
“Business,” Stephen said. “I will render a document in French and then again in German. Ye will write it for me, Jacques, and ye and Tom will witness it. Whereas . . .” he began.
The pudgy fingers flew over the paper. As he wrote, the lines began to disappear from Jacques’ fat face. Suddenly he threw down his pen and stretched forth his hand.
“Sir,” he started, “may I have the honor of calling you my friend? This generosity—this largeness of heart and soul— this . . .”
“Easy, Jacob,” Stephen said. “ ‘Tis no more than I ought. And I shall be glad to count ye as a friend. I have all too few.”
“ ‘Tis only because they do not know—” Jacques began, but from the door there came the sound of knocking. Stephen, who was nearest, got up and opened it. He fell back a step and bowed.
In the doorway, Aurore Arceneaux stood, trim in a deep green riding habit, her hazel eyes widening as she looked at Stephen.
“I hardly expected to find you here!” she said. Then she turned to where Minna sat dressed for traveling, with her bags and children gathered around her.
“So,” she said. “Not only do you kill the father, but you dispossess the wife and the little ones!” Her eyes clouded suddenly and she swung toward Minna. “You poor dear!” she said, and turned again to face Stephen, the great tears caught like diamonds in her long lashes; “Oh, Monsieur Fox,” she wept. “I never thought, I refused to believe . . .” Then as he stretched out his hand to touch her shoulder: “Don’t touch me!”
Minna sat very still her blue eyes wide with incomprehension. Tom Warren frowned, looking at Stephen; then, very clearly in the silence, in his queer, Germanic French, Jacques Fabre began to read the document. Aurore stood very still, listening. Only her eyes were alive, smoldering back of her long lashes. Then the affected voice lisped into silence, she walked up to Stephen.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I knew all the time that you couldn’t—that never could someone like you— Oh, I listened to Odalie and the others calling you ‘the executioner’ and ‘black-hearted Stephen’ until I was half out of my mind . . .”
Stephen was looking past her out of the half opened door.
“Why does Odalie hate me so?” he said at last.
“Because she loves you,” Aurore said, and her voice was very small and soft. “Because you aren’t a thing to be whipped around her little finger, but a man. Because if ever once she let herself go . . . Please express my heartfelt sympathies to Madame Waguespack. I understand she doesn’t speak French, and I have no German. Good day, gentlemen—and please forgive my outburst.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Stephen said. “If ye can wait, these gentlemen are riding into town . . .”
“No,” Aurore said; “I should have been back hours ago! Au revoir.”
VI
RIDING out to Harrow, early in the summer, Andre felt that the sky was dropping down over his head. The heat came up from the road in simmering waves, and the horse’s coat was glistening with sweat. Up above, the sky was high and cloudless, coming over the tops of the oaks like an inverted bowl of steely blue, so clear and far that it was almost colorless, the blue washed out by the avalanche of sun. The spanish moss trailing from the oaks was dry as hay, bleached white by the heat.
“Mon Dieu,” Andre murmured, “what heat!”
He wondered idly if Stephen were angry with him. Not since the day of the duel had he and Stephen met. He shrugged his shoulders listlessly. He must chance Stephen’s anger, that was all.
Farther on, the
branches of the oaks came down very low and close over the road. In the shadow it was cooler. An arm of one of the lesser bayous came up close to the road. The water was black and fetid. On it a small piroque drifted. Andre could see the Acadian boatman lying in the boat, his straw hat pulled down over his face, fast asleep.
“These ‘Cadians!” Andre grinned. “They have no love for work.”
The road was curving now, and Andre could recognize the place despite the blasting it had taken from the heat. This was the beginning of Harrow, though it was yet two miles to the grove in which Stephen intended that his manor house should stand. Andre kept on slowly, not daring to urge the horse to greater speed on such a day.
Then at last, the fields were coming into sight. Andre pulled up his horse with a gasp. Stephen had nearly half of the visible acreage cleared and under cultivation! But now there was no sound of axes in the woodlands, although mounds of cordwood lay stacked high all the way down to a freshly built steamboat landing. The lean-tos that Andre had heard about from Tom Warren were gone, and long rows of cabins made of slashed cypress board housed the slaves. Under the stately oaks, Andre could see a rude oaken house, larger than the others, but just as crude.
“So,” he said to himself, “so this is Harrow!”
He rode on past the house and out into the fields. Under the glare of the sun he saw a little black knot of figures moving up and down the rows. He rode toward them, skirting the rows of cane. As he came close, he saw that one of the figures was white, the hands and arms covered with freckles.
“Mon Dieu!” he said. “So it’s true!”
“Andre! I thought ye were sick or dead!”
“But no! Stephen, Stephen! What on earth—Ma foi, how ternble you look!”
Stephen grinned, the great scar on his temple glowing scarlet, angling upward into his red hair. It gave him a curiously diabolical look, twisting his whole face into a mocking Mephistophelian cast. Above his fair brows, which the sun had bleached almost white, the skin of his forehead was peeling off in angry red strips. He pushed back his wide-brimmed straw hat like the ones the Cajuns wore and laughed aloud.
“What are they saying about me in New Orleans?” he asked.
Andre said slowly, “They no longer blame you for the duel; they have discovered you are mad.”
“Mad!” Stephen said, and his laughter rocketed skyward. “ ‘Tis late they are in discovering it, don’t ye think? I knew it all the time!”
“ ‘Tis no joke, Stephen. They say you live in a hovel, and work in the fields with the blacks. And that sometimes at night you work all night alone, after the blacks have finished for the day.”
“And for that I am considered mad? Listen, Andre, I owe more than seventy thousand dollars for the land and supplies and machinery. I have machinery coming down the river from Cincinnati this minute. When it comes, I shall have to pay the steamboat captain five thousand dollars. But, thanks to all the saints, I have that now.”
“How? Does money grow on the trees at Harrow?”
“No—but it comes from trees. Ye’ve seen my landing? And the stacks of cordwood?”
Andre nodded.
“Practically every other steamboat on the river stops here for fuel. By the end of the summer I’ll have sold seven thousand dollars’ worth of wood. And the supply, my good Andre, is practically inexhaustible. But ye, where have ye been hiding? Or are ye among those who think me mad?”
“No, Stephen, ‘tis not that. Papa forbade me your company at first, but the storm has settled now. But even that could not have kept me. The truth is, I’ve been spending the summer in vain pursuit of Aurore. Even Papa approves. In fact, everybody approves—except Aurore.”
“Poor fellow,” Stephen said. “Come, let us go up to the house for a drink. By the way, how is Odalie?”
“Still running ahead of the pack, if it is any comfort to you. Rumor has linked her name to half a dozen beaux, but as usual it came to nothing. You know, Stephen, I think she’s waiting for you. Twice now, she has asked after you. Says you’re the most interesting man she’s ever met.”
“I understand,” Stephen said, “that it was she who coined that ‘black-hearted’ phrase.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. You irritated her no end by not falling at her feet like so many others. Why don’t you take a day and come in to see her?”
“Too busy,” Stephen grunted. “Ye may tell Mademoiselle Odalie for me that if she wishes to see me, she knows the way to Harrow.”
“I’ll do just that,” Andre grinned. “If only for the pleasure of seeing her fly into a rage. But what on earth is that?”
He pointed to a new building standing almost completed some distance behind the house. It was of fresh red brick, and gleamed brightly in the afternoon sunshine.
“The sugar house,” Stephen said. “ ‘Tis waiting only for the machinery that I ordered. I’m having steam crushers, Andre.”
“And what became of the machinery you got with the Waguespack place?” Andre demanded.
“Five stone crushers driven by mule power. A stone milwheel revolved in a circular stone trough by an ancient mule walking around and around. Ye gods, Andre, what could I do with that?”
“Steam. You’re very modern, Stephen.”
“Monsieur Coiron has had it since ‘22. All the bigger planters are putting it in. But here we are—up with ye, lad. I’ll have Georges bring us wine up from the spring.”
They sat in the bare-boarded room. The sun poked fingers of light through the cracks, and the shuttered windows were without glass or screens. Andre sipped the cool wine and looked at his friend. Stephen’s face was freckled more than ever from the sun, and here and there were the broken blisters of sunburn. The lines about the eyes were deeper, and the whole face seemed older somehow, older and quieter and more certain.
“You’ve changed, Stephen,” Andre said.
“Time and hard work. . .” Stephen said. “This year and the next, Andre—by then I will have made it—or I will have failed. Now at the moment I’m not sure I care.”
Andre rose.
“You won’t fail, Stephen. Whether what you’ll win is worth the struggle, I don’t know; but you won’t fail.” He walked to the doorway. “I must be going now,” he said. Then he paused, grinning wickedly. “I’ll deliver that message,” he said.
One day fused into the next, so much the same that Stephen lost all track of time. The steaming, tropical rains fell and wet the earth. An hour later the sun was out and the water rose up from the earth leaving it parched and baked. In the bayous the alligators sunned themselves. The cypress stood in the black water and the frogs sang basso choruses. All night the insects made sleep a living hell.
But the cane grew, and the cotton that Stephen had planted on some of his newly cleared back lands. The machinery had come from Cincinnati, and a mechanic had set it up in the sugar house. All the kettles had been set up and were ready. In the cooling room, the tanks were completed, and the big wooden paddles were already cut waiting for the Negroes to pick them up and start stirring the syrup until it crystalized.
Stephen worked in the fields like a Negro and wondered if Andre had delivered his message. The cane grew tall in the fields and bowed all together to every passing wind. The cotton fields were white with bursting pods. All day and far into the night the Negroes picked, piling up the cotton in bales by the steamboat landing. Only the rice crop failed, for lack of sufficient water.
Then it was Fall and almost time for harvesting the cane. The heat was moderating, and the work lessened. Stephen rode through the fields, next to the road, on Prince Michael. He was hatless, and his shirt was open half way to the waist. The breeze up from the river blew across his face and stirred his coppery hair. He pulled Prince Michael to a stop and looked out over the expanse of his fields. His fields! the cotton crop had brought in nineteen thousand dollars. And when the sugar was sold.
He stiffened suddenly, listening. From the roadway came the unmistakable so
und of hoofbeats. He stood up in the stirrups and turned. A horse was coming up the road, and as it neared, Stephen could see that the rider was riding side saddle. Now the horse was almost upon him—a sleek black mare, beautifully groomed. But Stephen was looking at the rider and his blue eyes were very pale and bright in his sun-whipped face.
“Odalie!” he said.
“Yes, monsieur. The mountain is come to Mohammed. I got your message, months ago . . . so at last I decided to accept Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Immensely,” Stephen said. “I’m flattered and honored.”
“You needn’t be. Perhaps I came to see the mad planter who holds one of the largest and richest plantations in Louisiana and yet lives in a shack.”
Stephen was looking at her, watching the sun touch the midnight masses of hair with golden highlights, watching the eyes into which all light seemed to have passed and drowned, leaving only a flicker now and then to break the surface. Odalie had skin as fair as a Scandinavian’s, against which the heavy waves of gleaming jet broke with double force. Watching her mouth moving, the lips not pink, but red—wine-red and petal-soft—Stephen was lost so that the mockery passed by him unheard.
“So,” she said, and a little huskiness crept into her voice, “you still stare.”
“At ye, yes!” Stephen said.
“Come, show me the place. Andre has told me all about it. I want to see your shack, next to your magnificent sugar house.”
“Ye’re insolent,” Stephen said. “Ye’ll need a check rein and a strong hand on the whip. What if someone saw ye here like this?”
“But no one did, monsieur—nor will they. You have no need to trouble yourself about my reputation. Is this the road to your manor?”
“Yes. Have ye no fear of a madman?”
“None. Are you going to show me your place?”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “This way, mademoiselle.”
They rode through the waving sea of cane toward the rude house in the grove. As they neared it, Odalie reined in her horse, looking from the rough planking to the smooth pink outlines of the sugar house that stood behind it at a distance.
