The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  “If she survives— My God, man, do ye know what ye’re saying?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said, “yes, I know. You must get a grip upon yourself, monsieur. ‘Twould be a pity to leave Harrow tenantless in a single night. You have a chamber where I can rest?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said, not even looking at the physician. “Yes. Zerline, show the doctor to the North Wing.”

  Throughout the entire night, only Doctor Terrebonne slept and he only at intervals. Odalie’s agony was a fearsome thing. Watching her Stephen found almost unendurable. He went to her bedside a thousand times, only to be driven away by the pain etching her fine mouth and eyes. When he was away he cursed himself with all the foulest terms he had acquired in his years of wandering. But when he was beside her he prayed silently to the Blessed Virgin to preserve and protect her and the unborn child.

  All through the next day the anguished labor continued with scarcely an interval between the black tidal waves of pain. Odalie was quietly, persistently praying for death. This, then she told herself, was how life came into the world, this monstrous, obscene agony without relief or succor.

  Toward morning of the following night, the exhausted little doctor was sleeping fitfully in his chamber while Caleen watched by her mistress’ side. Outside the room, Stephen paced up and down like a caged beast, ten feet in one direction, then back again, never changing his stride. Suddenly, Odalie moaned softly—a sound too low to carry over a yard of space. Caleen bent over her mistress, writhing on the great bed. There was no time now to summon the doctor. And to call the maître was worse than foolish—what must be done, must be done now—alone.

  Fifteen minutes later, Stephen’s stride was arrested abruptly. He stood there, perched grotesquely on one foot, the other still poised in midair. From the chamber came a series of sharp slaps, then a thin ragged wailing. It caught on, became steadier, a lusty, full-lunged howling that filled even the great hall. Stephen hung over the brass knob, too weak even to open the door.

  Then the gigantic form of Achille was shouldering past him, his eyes glazed over and sightless, oblivious to everything.

  “Caleen!” he roared; “you come now! The baby he come, come, Caleen, for God sake come, you!”

  Caleen’s voice was like ice, as she faced her son.

  “Git out of here, you!” she said very quietly. “Before you kills the young maîtresse! Negress no die and if she do die, good! I comes when I can. Go you!”

  Achille stood trembling before his mother’s wrath, the great tears streaking his black face. Then, without a word, he turned and left the room. Stephen came in the door past him, white and shaking, bending over the still form of his wife.

  “Is she . . .” he quavered. “Is she?”

  “Maîtresse be all right,” Caleen said sternly. “Now you git out here too, and git that damn little doctor!”

  When Doctor Terrebonne came out of the bedroom, his round face wore a look of astonishment.

  “Name your price for that old Negress,” he said. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Never in all my years of practice . . .”

  “There is not that much money,” Stephen said happily. “Not now—not in the whole world.”

  “You have a perfect son,” the doctor said. “You can see him now if you will.”

  “If I will!” Stephen growled. “Ye should try to stop me!”

  As they entered the room, Caleen picked up the baby and approached them. Stephen bent over his son, now sleeping peacefully in the old woman’s arms. He drew back a little startled.

  “By the saints,” he said. “How ugly he is!”

  “They all are at first,” Doctor Terrebonne declared. “In fact this one is uncommonly handsome—as babies go.”

  “Then I have no wish to see more of them,” Stephen declared. “Look ye, he is as red as a tomato! And what a mass of hair be has!”

  “Black like his mother,” Caleen declared. “But him got eyes blue like yours, maître.”

  “Good!” Stephen laughed. “I was on the point of disowning him.”

  “The maîtresse, her wake now,” Caleen said. Stephen turned away from the child and knelt beside the bed.

  The doctor glanced at Odalie.

  “That’s odd,” he declared. “She seemed to be sleeping peacefully—as if nothing in the world was wrong with her.”

  “I give her something,” Caleen said.

  “What was it?” Doctor Terrebonne demanded. “If I had that I could cut childbirth deaths in half. What is it, Caleen? How do you make it? Where do you get the ingredients?”

  “Secret!” Caleen snapped. “No good for white man to know!”

  “So,” Odalie was whispering, “I didn’t die after all. I wanted to. I prayed to the Virgin for death . . . the child, how is it, Stephen?”

  “Perfect,” Stephen smiled. “A son, as ye wished. And ye’re going to be all right . . .”

  “May I see him? Let me hold him, my little ‘Tienne. Where is he?”

  Caleen bent and placed the sleeping child in Odalie’s arms.

  “How beautiful he is,” she whispered. “He pleases you, my husband?”

  “Beyond comprehension,” Stephen said. “Now ye must rest. ‘Tis a frightful siege ye’ve undergone.” He bent and kissed her, lightly, upon the mouth. There was the taste of blood upon her lips, where she had bitten them through.

  “Stay with her, Caleen,” Stephen ordered.

  “Maître permit I call Zerline? Her all right now, the maîtresse. I want to see after the baby of Achille—my grandson. Maybe him die, yes, with no one there.”

  “My God,” Stephen said. “I’d forgotten. Come, I’ll go with ye. ‘Tis safe to leave her now, Doctor?”

  “Safer than to stay. You’ll only upset her. I’ll follow you shortly and have a look at the little Nigra. There is an atmosphere of fertility here at Harrow. I must be off before I contract the disease. There are five sons Terrebonne now; that’s enough!”

  Going down the road toward the slave cabins, Stephen could hear the booming of the river. The top of the levee was almost awash and the waters talked with dark voices. Stephen looked upward to see if the slaves were still patrolling his wall of earth. ‘Twould not do to have a crevasse now—Odalie could not be moved. As he watched, he saw a stooped black figure silhouetted against the sky. Old Josh, he recognized. The old Negro was a good slave for all his lack of strength.

  As fast as he walked, Caleen was ahead of him. She flung open the door of the cabin and went inside. Stephen followed her, holding his handkerchief against his nose to keep out the dark, fetid smells of birth. La Belle Sauvage lay upon the rude bed with an infant cradled in her arms. The child was of an inky, bluish blackness, large and sound of limb. Looking closely, Stephen could see it had something of its mother’s striking dark beauty.

  “A son?” he asked.

  “A manchild,” Sauvage whispered. “A warrior for his people!” She began to chant a wild, savage song to the baby. Stephen found it unpleasant, somehow.

  Achille’s face was split by a pleased grin.

  “All by herself, she have him yes! She bite the cord through with them cat teeth. I tell you, maître, her something, that one!”

  Stephen was examining the child.

  “He is a fine one, Belle,” he said. “Ye’ve done well. Never have I seen a better. This one, Caleen, is to be kept apart from the rest. I want him trained as a manservant for my Etienne. It will be a good life for him—he will be taught lilany things. And never will he have to labor in the fields.”

  Caleen smiled slowly. But Sauvage was coming erect in the bed, holding the child to her naked breast.

  “My child no slave!” she said. “Him prince-warrior prince! Him killer of lions and master of men! Him nobody servant, nobody slave!”

  “Hush, girl!” Achille growled. “We do like maître say, yes!”

  Stephen smiled.

  “ ‘Tis not so harsh a fate, Belle,” he said gently. “Here, let me bold him
.”

  “No!” the girl screamed; “no touch! No lay hands on him, no!” Then like a great cat, she had sprung from the bed and was dashing for the door. Achille sprang after her, and Stephen and Caleen followed more slowly.

  But the great, clumsy black was no match for Sauvage’s lithe swiftness. Watching her as she ran, her slim body innocent of clothing, Stephen realized again that here was an unmatched beauty. Then, he too gave a short cry, and took up the chase. For La Belle Sauvage was headed straight for the levee, straight for the river.

  She went up the incline like a black panther, with effortless, cat-like grace, the long, ebony legs shooting out, and the earth flowing backward under the slim feet. Still holding the child, she stood for a moment atop the levee, her belly sucked in to make a curving hollow, and the high, up and outthrusting, conical breasts pointed and flaring. Then old Josh was coming toward her, his wizened hands outstretched.

  “Stop her, Josh!” Stephen roared.

  The old man grappled with the savage girl. There was a brief flurry of motion, and Sauvage tore free. She stood upon the levee, outlined sharply against the light, and lifted the child high above her head.

  “Him manchild,” she chanted, “him warrior! Him die, but him never no slave!”

  Then Achille was upon her tearing the child from her grasp. Stephen was but a step behind. Together, they dragged the crying infant from Sauvage’s arms. The girl fell back, her eyes like yellow coals in her glistening black face. Then, with a cry, she whirled and threw herself out and down into the swirling yellow water. It rose like dirty yellow wings as she went in, then it fell back, and the current howled like a living thing.

  Achille thrust the child into Caleen’s arms. But Stephen lunged forward and grasped the big Negro about the waist.

  Josh caught the big man’s arm, and Caleen, placing the baby tenderly upon the muddy earth, tightened her ancient arms fiercely about his neck.

  “Lemme go!” he wept. “She drown, her! She drown, sho!”

  “And so will ye, ye fool!” Stephen said. “There’s no saving her now.”

  Fifty yards downstream, Sauvage’s head broke water; then the swirling yellow torrent rode over her. The sound of the river pounded upon their eardrums. Caleen picked up the child.

  Then they all went down the levee together. Achille’s big hands hung loosely at his side, and the tears streaked his black face. Stephen put a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Trouble yourself not about her,” he said. “She was never the one for ye. I will get ye another—gentle and comely, better for ye and the baby.”

  Achille did not answer him. He went on down the road to the cabins, his great body shaken with sobs, like a child.

  And old Caleen held the baby, her ancient eyes veiled and crafty. “Inch,” I will call him, she mused. “Little Inch,” after his grandfather. Never such a one will he be like Achille, but a man, him. His body will they enslave, yes, but never his mind and his heart. I will teach him, me. And in him the blood of his grandfather and of this girl. A man, him. A warrior, yes! She smiled slowly to herself.

  Stephen saw the smile.

  “At what do ye laugh, ye old witch?” he growled. “However much ye hated her, ‘tis a bad thing to smile thus!”

  “ ‘Tis nothing maître,” Caleen said humbly. “I do not smile.”

  XIII

  THE year 1831 was a good one throughout the Bayou Country. The great plantations grew and prospered. And of them none grew richer or greater than Harrow. Twice during the year, Stephen Fox found it necessary to purchase new slaves. The law of 1808 forbidding the further importation of African blacks had not yet had serious effect upon the supply, so now there were nearly fifteen hundred Negroes laboring on the broad acres of Harrow.

  Stephen paid off his debts to Tom Warren and the various factors and invested money in newer and finer machinery. He opened accounts with two of the largest banks in New Orleans; but the bulk of his profits he sent away to far-off Philadelphia.

  “Your Louisiana banker,” he remarked to Andre, “is like your Louisianian generally, long on emotion but short on prudence and foresight. For monetary affairs, give me a vinegary Yankee every time.”

  Little Etienne Fox, at the age of one year, was already trying his first steps. His coming had changed everything at Harrow. All life at the plantation was geared to revolve around him: Caleen watched his waking movements, and was on her feet at his lightest whimper in his sleep. Odalie forgot Stephen existed in her preoccupation with the child; Aurore Arceneaux’s visits increased and old Pierre fairly lived at Harrow.

  Etienne was undeniably a striking child, though no one but his mother thought him beautiful. He had reached far back among his swarthy Mediterranean ancestors for a complexion that was as dark as a mulatto’s, and inky hair that curled in great masses above his forehead. It was only when he turned and fixed a visitor with his long, level glance that the gasps of astonishment and the excited comments about his beauty began; for Etienne had Stephen’s eyes, and their pale blueness was doubly set off by the darkness of his skin. Even as a baby, he was a quiet child, little given to laughing and cooing. He cried seldom, too, and seemed to live always in a world apart.

  As soon as the babies could crawl, Andre and Stephen brought the two heirs of their respective fortunes together. Little Stephen Le Blanc, oddly enough, was as fair as Etienne was dark, and the two of them made the same sort of pleasing contrast, in reverse, as their fathers had before them. But babies, the new fathers soon discovered, are individualists. Any toy picked up by the one became the instant target of the other’s affections, to be yanked away at the earliest possible moment.

  Amelia and Odalie, too, found themselves bound together by the common experience of motherhood. On the part of Odalie, the friendship was warm and genuine; she grew to depend upon the levelheaded judgment of this odd American girl and to admire and cultivate her ways. Amelia, however, recognized that her own feeling toward Odalie was one of sympathy much more than it was of liking or of friendship. To her, the lovely Creole was no less enslaved than the meanest black woman on the plantation; and the chains that bound her were no less firm for all their being the intangible links of tradition, custom, and age-old habits of thought. Stephen, Amelia concluded, with the peculiar sense of guilt that came when she permitted herself to think of him at all, was such a man as any woman should be eternally grateful to have as a husband; yet Odalie’s relationship toward him seemed to be that of a dutiful wife rather than a vibrantly loving one. Dutiful—ye Cods! How could anyone be dutiful toward Stephen?

  And, although her contacts with Aurore were far fewer, Amelia liked the younger girl better than she did her cold, imperious sister. Half a glance sufficed to let her know what Aurore’s trouble was and her heart went out to the lovely young girl whose face held the sad sweetness of an angel. Amelia went out of her way to cultivate Aurore, with some success; for soon Odalie was complaining that her sister spent more time at La Place des Rivières than at Harrow.

  Thus matters rested when Mike Farrel chose to put in his appearance one more time at the big plantation.

  “The trouble is, yez ken,” he said to Stephen, “that nobody wants an old flatboatsman any more. The packets kin do the job almost as cheap and twice as fast. And they kin go it upstream as well as down. I’ve lived too long. ‘Tis the drydocks and dryrot for me, me lad.”

  “Nonsense,” Stephen told him. “Ye’ll make as fine a boat captain as ever was seen upon the river. ‘Tis high time we started upon that business anyway.”

  Then, having assigned Mike quarters at Harrow, the two of them rode down to New Orleans to consult with Tom Warren. By the early spring of 1832 there was a fast new steamer upon the river. Odalie was present at her launching, christening her the Creole Belle. She was a swift packet, with high twin stacks at the front and palatial appointments.

  Mike avidly undertook the business of learning steam navigation. His knowledge of the river was superior to that of most
of the river captains, but his ignorance of machinery was an obstacle to be surmounted. He fretted under the restraint of taking instructions from young whippersnappers, but doggedly he studied and applied himself until the steamboat men were forced to admit grudgingly that here was a formidable rival. On her first trip under Mike’s full command, the Creole Belle came within minutes of breaking the upriver record to Cincinnati.

  While in port, Mike continued to live at Harrow. No longer did he feel humiliated to accept Stephen’s bounty. He was a person of importance now, a river captain; and he dressed and lived the role to the hilt. He felt freer than ever to indulge himself in his fondness for good liquors and mulatto wenches. This, Stephen found it necessary to check, for Mike was in a fair way toward demoralizing the entire plantation. He suggested with quiet good humor that it would be better if the big Irishman indulged in his peccadillos elsewhere and the whole thing would have ended there if Odalie had not chosen this moment to interfere.

  “I won’t have him here!” she stormed. “He is a great beast, this friend of yours! Why cannot he leave the girls alone?”

  “Softly, Odalie,” Stephen said. “This thing is a matter for my handling. ‘Tis unseemly of ye to concern yourself with it.”

  “Unseemly! There are two near-white babies in the infirmary now and Harrow is becoming the talk of every great house for miles around. There are some who would say that some of these children are yours, Stephen . . .”

  Stephen stood up, his fair brows coming together over his nose.

  “That’s enough,” he said quietly. “If I choose to have Mike stay at Harrow ‘tis my affair, and, by all the saints, he stays!”

  “Oh, you!” Odalie exploded, and marched from the room. She went up the stairs to her bedroom, and picked up the sewing she had laid aside. Her head ached abominably. A glass of ruby port chilled with ice would help that. Ma foi, how hot it had grown already! Although it was scarcely midsummer, the heat was unbearable. She pulled the bell cord. Zerline was uncommonly long in coming. When she came into the room, Odalie looked up with an expression of annoyance.