The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

A few days later, Stephen engaged a young Creole, a son of a distinguished family, to manage Harrow during his absence. This business finished, he and Aurore took their leave of the Le Blancs and engaged a stateroom aboard a packet bound upriver. By this means they could travel in great comfort all the way to New York via the new Erie Canal. Etienne became a member of Andre’s household for the duration of the honeymoon, and set about a career of such extravagant misbehavior that his hosts were many times tempted to write Stephen to cut short his journey and come to their rescue.

  For the rest of the summer, the Foxes stayed at a fashionable hotel at Saratoga Springs, making, of course, trips into Philadelphia and New York. And behind the fans of the matrons at the great watering place, the whispers ran. All the old stories were dusted off, repolished and brought out with new and original twists, for among the many guests not a few were Louisianians and, of these, fewer still had been nodding acquaintances of Stephen’s in New Orleans.

  But slowly, to his own astonishment, Stephen was being forced to the realization that he was actually happy. Aurore made an enchanting wife. Her own joy laid a glow upon her, so that her soft loveliness became vivid and men looked at her as they had once gazed upon Odalie.

  “Prettiest woman here—Madame Fox,” the young blades declared. “ ‘Pon my honor she is!”

  Even more marked was the change in Stephen. The lines in his face relaxed. He smiled often and freely. And people who, fearful of his scowling countenance, had avoided him in the beginning of the season, now went out of their way to meet him at its end.

  Aurore teased him, played with him, laughed at him, and loved him with all her heart.

  “Stephen,” she said. “Let’s pretend I’m your mistress instead of your wife.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “What on earth gave ye such an idea!”

  “Men love their mistresses better than they do their wives.”

  “Not when they have such a wife as ye,” Stephen laughed. “Ye’re wife and mistress and good angel and plaguing imp au rolled up in one package. A very sweet package at that.”

  “Did you,” she teased, “say package—or baggage?”

  “Aurore! What a word for ye to use!”

  “But I am a baggage. I’m your baggage. And I like it very much!”

  “Well, so long as ye confine your activities to me,” Stephen said, “I shan’t mind, too much!”

  In the fall, they returned to Harrow, and the great house came alive. There were endless parties and soirees and entertainments. And the gentry of New Orleans came: after all one could not hold flouting convention against such a charming couple as the Foxes. There was one convention, however, that Aurore did not disregard. She waited almost two years, until the fall of 1841, before presenting Stephen with an eight-pound daughter, delivered without the slightest fuss or bother. They called the child Julie.

  XXI

  IN MAY of 1853, Stephen Fox rode through the broad fields of Harrow on a tour of inspection. These trips were frequent, for, although he now had no less than five competent overseers, still he loved the sights and sounds of his own lands. Etienne had been in France for almost three years now, studying in Paris. Behind Stephen, on a shaggy, fat Shetland pony, but little bigger than a large dog, rode his daughter, Julie. From time to time, Stephen turned to look back at her, and each time his hard blue eyes softened and warmed with pleasure.

  At eleven, Julie was already a beauty. The heritage of her father had lightened her hair to a coppery gold, but her eyes were as black as Odalie’s had been. Her face, however, had the shape, the softness, and the general expression of her mother’s, although there was a look of gentle mischief about her that came more, perhaps, from Stephen.

  The whole plantation, while it had grown only slightly in acreage, and was rivaled in this regard by three or four others in Louisiana, was producing almost triple its yield of ten or twelve years before. Stephen had had it completely re-equipped, employing the new multiple-effects process invented by the same Robert Rilleux who had been for a time in his employ, and the even more revolutionary centrifugal machine which separated in minutes more sugar from molasses than the cone drip method had done in days. The sugar produced at Harrow was now pure white and finely powdered, thanks to the fact that Stephen extensively employed bisulphate of lime for bleaching purposes. His white sugar, as a result, commanded a much higher price on the market than the brown hard lumped product of most of his conservative Creole neighbors.

  The land was good to look upon. The cane grew up in the fields and the cloudless blue sky crowned the earth with a dome of sapphire. Stephen looked down upon his daughter and smiled.

  “ ‘Tis something, this land,” he said.

  Julie looked all around her, her black eyes dancing.

  “You know, Papa,” she declared, accenting the second syllable of the word French fashion, “I think Harrow is the prettiest place in all the world!”

  “Aye,” Stephen smiled. “So it is; but ‘twas not alone of Harrow that I spoke. I mean the whole land—all of it.”

  “You’ve seen it all, haven’t you, Papa?”

  “No—not nearly. I’ve never been west of Texas. ‘Tis said that the territories of New Mexico and Utah are something to be seen, and the state of California beggars description. And in the Northern states there are great forests and mighty rivers and cities bigger than New Orleans.”

  Julie’s eyes grew round.

  “But the people—they’re so strange,” she said. “And they hate us so.”

  Stephen looked at his daughter.

  “Ye’ve been talking to the Le Blancs,” he said. “In that ye wrong the Northerners. Some of my best friends live in Philadelphia and New York. They don’t hate us, Julie—’tis only slavery that they hate.”

  “Why?” the girl asked. “Stephen Le Blanc says it’s a holy systern ordained by God. Why should they hate it?”

  “My young namesake and godson echoes his father. I call that statement extravagant. But if I were to try to explain the reason why the North hates slavery, I should only confuse ye. It goes a long way back, even into the mentalities of the two regions.”

  “But I’d like to know.”

  Stephen frowned.

  “I’m not sure I know myself, truly,” he said. “But the difference lies in the minds of men. In the North, Julie, the climate is cold and that makes much of the difference.”

  “The climate?”

  “Aye. The blood flows briskly through the veins in a cold land and work is a pleasure. ‘Tis uncomfortable only to be still. Therefore, no prejudice ever arose against a gentleman’s working.”

  “But Stephen says there are no gentlemen in the North.”

  Stephen laughed.

  “My godson is no oracle, Julie. Ye must not accept his views without question. In fact, I think ye should see less of him. ‘Twill be many years before the two of ye can marry.”

  “So long? To hear Monsieur Le Blanc talk, you’d think we were already married.”

  “ ‘Tis Andre’s pet dream. But I want to be sure that the two of ye are really suited. Marriage is not to be taken too lightly.”

  “But you and mother are so happy.”

  “Aye. But then your mother is an angel, and ‘tis to be doubted that ye are!”

  “Now you’re laughing at me again,” Julie said. “But I don’t mind. Go on, tell me more about the North.”

  “The North? I thought ye’d forgotten that. Well, since no objection to labor exists in the genteel classes, it follows that labor is honorable. Then, too, because of the climate, the North is no place for blacks. They die of the cold. Much of it is devoted to industry, to factories . . .”

  “Stephen says—” Julie began, but her father looked at her. She halted abruptly.

  “Go on,” Stephen said kindly. “What does the lad say now?”

  “That the Northern factory workers are far worse off than the Nigras.”

  “In that, he is not far wrong. But the point is,
Julie, that since slavery is unprofitable in the North, ‘tis easy for them to oppose it. They do so on moral grounds—that ‘tis wrong to buy and sell men like cattle. But if they made money from it, ye’d see how fast they’d change their tune. Their workers live almost in starvation, and when they become old and weak, out they go to die.”

  “We’re good to the Nigras,” Julie observed. “I just love Tante Caleen!”

  “Aye. Caleen is a wonderful woman. Ye should have known her when she was younger. Here in the South, Julie, we find the system to our profit, so we deify it. And that, too, is wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “There is much that is wrong with slavery, Julie. Ye’ve never seen the wrongs, because they are not practiced at Harrow. Here we do not whip the Negroes, or sell them away from the plantation or separate families. But those things are done—not so very often, yet they are done.”

  “Then it is wrong to hold slaves, Papa?”

  “That I don’t know. If the Negro had the mentality of the white race, I should be forced to say aye. But he seems quite happy and contented with his lot. There have been only the fewest insurrections in this country. Your Anglo-Saxon and your Frenchman on the other hand would gladly starve in freedom than live in comfort as a slave. But perhaps it would be only the greatest unkindness to free the Negro—he would be helpless without a kindly, guiding hand. But enough of this—we’re wasting time.”

  They rode on through the fields where the gangs of Negroes sang as they worked, and the Spring breezes whispered through the cane. Julie looked at her father, splendid on the palomino that he had bred, one of the many descendants of the original Prince Michael. Her face shone with admiration.

  “Papa,” she said. “Tell me about what you did in the war.”

  Stephen frowned.

  “I rode endless miles,” he said. “I ate bad food and drank foul water. And finally I came home to your poor, dear patient mother.”

  “Oh, Papa!” Julie wailed. “That’s all you ever say about it. You must have been brave—they made you a major. Tell me about the battles.”

  “I remember the morning we landed at Vera Cruz,” Stephen said, one white eyebrow settling wickedly down over an eye. “We went ashore in boats—under the guns. The ships had bombarded the town for days. When we hit the shore we charged up in the sand with bayonets fixed, and fingers so tight on the triggers that some poor fellows fired off their muskets and had to rely on the bayonets alone for the charge.” He stopped and drew out a short pipe of white clay from his pocket. Then he searched for tobacco while Julie waited breathlessly. Finally he found it, filled his pipe and lit it with a sulphur match. The fragrant blue smoke swirled upward around his head.

  “Please, Papa!”

  “Eh, what? Oh, yes, when we got to the top what d’ye think happened?”

  “You fought the Mexicans,” Julie said, “and beat them, didn’t you, Papa?”

  “Well—not exactly. Ye see, Julie, when we got to the top, there wasn’t a soul in sight—not a greaser to Moses. So we just stood there leaning on our guns and cussing and panting like the devil. And there before us lay the whole of Mexico without a Mexican in it!”

  “Oh, Papa!” Julie said. “You’re mean.”

  “So I’ve often been told.”

  “But you were brave. I know you were. Stephen Le Blanc told me that his papa said you fought at Monterey, Contreras, Churubusio, Chapultepec, and Mexico City!”

  “Aye, and I suppose I dictated the terms of Guadalupe Hidalgo? Yes, Julie, I fought at all those places and more—though ye couldn’t recognize them from your pronunciation. But there is this to be remembered about war—’tis a bloody, nauseating, murderous business—with no chivalry in it, and no glamor. And that war was outrageously unjust.”

  “Papa!”

  “So it was, little Julie. The Mexican government invited American settlers into the province of Texas on condition that the new immigrants be either Catholic or be willing to submit to conversion. The whole time I was there, Julie, more than two years, I met not one person of our faith. They chased away the good Spanish priests, and abused the Mexican police. When they went in they had no other purpose than to steal the land from Mexico in order to further slave territory. Our army was miles inside of Mexican territory when we were attacked. And I have my doubts as to who fired the first shot.”

  “But Monsieur Le Blanc says that the treaties—you know, I can’t remember all that—that Texas was a part of Louisiana and that Mexico took it!”

  “Another example, my dear Julie, of our Southern faculty for perverting the truth. That is one thing about the Northerners, they lie to others, but never to themselves. Your Southerner sits like a Hindu and fascinates himself with his own mislogic before he applies it to others.”

  “But we’re a very honorable people. You know that, Papa.”

  “Aye—we talk honor until ‘tis like the refrain of a musical ditty. But what city of the North would put up with the municipal corruption of New Orleans, which hasn’t had an honest election since the French left? Who else would stomach our sewer system? Who else would hush up yearly epidemics because they are bad for business?”

  “Papa—why did you fight in that war—then?”

  Stephen laughed. “I didn’t know all the facts, Julie, and at forty-five I was still young enough to be touchy on the questions of patriotism and national honor. And everybody else was going. Now I wouldn’t go.”

  Stephen half rose in the stirrups and looked out over the fields. “We’d best be going back now,” he said. “Your mother will have dinner ready.”

  They turned their mounts in a circle and headed back toward Harrow. For several minutes Julie was silent. Then no longer able to resist the temptation to converse with her beloved parent, she began again:

  “Papa, do you think I’ll ever be as beautiful as Mother?”

  “That—aye. Almost ye are now. I only hope that ye develop her character.”

  “Mother is so wonderful,” Julie sighed. “I remember the Sauve Crevasse. You were in Philadelphia at the time, and Mother rode all day and all night directing the Negroes who were working on the levee. Of course it didn’t do any good—we were flooded just the same, but Mother was so brave!”

  “Aye,” Stephen said softly, “I am the most fortunate of men to have such a wife.”

  They trotted briskly up to the oak alley, but the short legs of Julie’s pony limited their speed. When the house came in sight, gleaming whitely among the trees, Julie exclaimed for the thousandth time with pleasure.

  “Our house is beautiful—isn’t it, Papa?”

  On the gallery, Aurore waited.

  “Stephen,” she called, as her husband dismounted. “A letter just came from Etienne! He’s on his way back. He should be here within the week!”

  Julie bounced down from her pony and began to dance up and down like a plump, pink-cheeked doll.

  “ ‘Tienne’s coming!” she cried. “ ‘Tienne’s coming! Oh, Mother, how nice!”

  Stephen strode up the steps to kiss his wife, and his eyes were filled with joy.

  “So,” he said, as his lips brushed the soft cheek. “ ‘Twill be good to have the lad back again.”

  They went in together into the great hall. Inside, Caleen waited. Now so old that she herself had forgotten her years, she had changed but little; she was thinner, and a little more stooped. All the Foxes confidentially expected her to live forever. Now she was smiling, a wide, toothless smile.

  “Ah, Caleen,” Stephen said. “We will see our lads again. Ye had a message from Inch, of course?”

  “Yas, maître,” the old woman said. “He wrote me, him. Maîtresse read it to me. He writes beautiful, like a white!”

  “Indeed he does,” Aurore said. “Do you know, Stephen, that Inch’s letter was actually freer from error than ‘Tienne’s? He writes a lovely, fluent French.”

  “The lad has a head. ‘Tis true of many blacks, I’m told. We did not make the same er
ror as the French did in Haiti and Saint Domingue of attempting to enslave those intelligent ones. We chose our Negroes more wisely.”

  The dinner went by rapidly, paced by Stephen’s gently cynical talk. He poked sharp fun at Aurore and Julie and also the Le Blancs.

  “He has become a fanatic, that Andre,” he laughed. “Always ‘tis politics, politics, politics! A man grows weary of it. The crime of admitting California as a free state. The tardiness of carving up Texas to equal the Northern electoral votes. He is resigned to Oregon because it lies so far North, but when ye mention the District of Columbia, he foams at the mouth! He calls it a direct slap at the South that the capital of the nation should be free soil.”

  “Well,” Aurore said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Ye too? After all, my dearest, we’ve gained many advantages. Slavery can be made legal all over the nation.”

  “Only if the people permit it,” Aurore observed.

  “Ye’re a sharp one! There lies the weakness. They won’t permit it. Ye see what their reaction is to the Fugitive Slave Law. Violence. Naked and ugly violence. And it will grow. This system of theirs which aids escaping Negroes—the Underground Railway, I think ‘tis called—is but a symptom.”

  “Then what is the answer, Stephen—secession?”

  Stephen frowned, his silver-white brows, from which every trace of the gold of his youth had completely disappeared, knitted together over his nose.

  “That—no. The Union must be preserved.”

  “An unpopular notion, nowadays, my husband. We don’t need the North—and they do need us.”

  “That is typically Southern, Aurore, and typically wrongheaded. They could continue to flourish if we perished tomorrow. While we . . .”

  “They have no cotton.”

  “Aye—but the lands to the South, Mexico, the central Americas, the Argentine have climates in which it would grow as well as here. And already the English are planting it in Egypt and India. But we cannot exist without the products of their industry of which we have almost none. We depend upon England to support us, but England has long ago freed her slaves, and her abolitionists are outspoken and respected. Then, if it comes to that, the North will go into woollens.”