The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  “Well,” he said. “I take it that you have something to say to me.”

  Phillippe looked around the studio.

  “You’ve done well, monsieur,” he said. “Louisiana has been kind to you. I’m afraid we pay too much attention to this democratic rot to have so enriched and honored the son of a penniless, worthless dauber!”

  “My father was France’s greatest painter in his day,” Paul said. “I cannot permit you to insult his memory.”

  “And your mother? A barmaid? Or a can-can dancer? Or simply a daughter of joy?”

  Paul shrugged wearily.

  “I had expected a challenge,” he said. “But since it pleases monsieur to provoke me into challenging him— Very well. I’ll meet you at any time and place you set.” He smiled a little.

  “About weapons—you had no need to go to so much trouble; I would have granted you your choice anyway.”

  “The east bank of the river—ten miles below the city for the place—”

  Paul nodded in agreement. “This afternoon—about five—”

  “Very well—and the weapons?”

  Phillippe smiled thinly, and his face was no longer that of a Parisian gentleman. It had the lean, controlled hardness of the Texan frontier.

  “Bowie knives,” he said flatly, “across a handkerchief, at three paces.”

  Paul’s face paled. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he inclined his head toward Phillippe.

  “Very well,” he said hoarsely, “I’ll meet you.”

  “You’ll provide me with seconds, ‘Tienne?” he said. “I really don’t know anyone well enough . . .”

  Etienne nodded. He did not trust his voice. It might have a quaver in it, if he spoke; it might reveal something of the sickness spreading in cold waves through his middle. Damn Ceclie anyway! Yes, damn her and Desiree and all manner and condition of women!

  Riding away from the city with Phillippe, he was silent. From time to time he glanced at the older man. Phillippe’s face was bland, as though he were returning from a business trip. Paul was my friend, Etienne thought; and, whatever happened, Ceclie started it. A duel with the clochemardes or rapiers could be a beautiful thing—all grace and skill. Even with the pistols there was a certain éclat to it. Besides, duels between Creoles seldom terminated fatally. That was an American idea, this cold, deadly insistence upon killing one’s opponent. But Phillippe had been too long in Texas. Knives—good God!

  Phillippe half turned in the saddle.

  “You seem troubled,” he said gravely.

  Etienne cleared his throat.

  “I am,” he said. “This that Paul did was a great wickedness, but, sir—knives! Indians or Mexicans might fight thus, but you are a gentleman, and so is Paul . . . I can’t see . . .”

  Phillippe laughed drily.

  “Oh, I shan’t kill the boy,” he said. “I’ll just notch his nostrils and his ears like a sow. Then we’ll see how he’ll fare as a seducer!”

  Etienne said nothing. The sickness in his middle was a physical thing. He had a horrible fear that in another moment he was going to vomit there before Phillippe’s eyes. But at last there was the fork where their roads separated. He half rose in the saddle.

  “Au revoir, monsieur,” he murmured.

  “Au revoir, Etienne,” Phillippe Cloutier said, “ ‘til five!”

  “ ‘Til five,” Etienne echoed. Then he touched spurs to his borrowed horse, and galloped off in the direction of Harrow. For the first time in his adult life, he felt the need for council. He had a strong desire to lay the whole thing before his father. But what could he say to Stephen?

  As he rounded the drive into the courtyard of the house, he saw Stephen’s big palamino coming toward him. He pulled up abruptly, licking his dry lips.

  “So early, lad?” Stephen smiled, “and that horse—where did ye get so ugly a beast?”

  “At the Cloutiers. My own was spent. Father . . .”

  “Yes, ‘Tienne?”

  “Father . . . Today there’s going to be a duel . . .”

  Stephen’s white brows bristled.

  “Ye young fool!” he said. “The day for that sort of folly is gone forever. Who is it that ye’re to fight? I’ll go to him and convey your apologies.”

  “Even if he were wrong?”

  “Aye. There are few quarrels worthy of so high a price as a man’s life. Who is he, ‘Tienne?”

  “You didn’t always think so, Father. I understand that you made damned sure of Hugo Waguespack!”

  “I always thought so. And if that fat fool hadn’t thrown himself into the path of my ball, he’d be alive today. But I’ve explained my past to ye far too often now. Tell me the name of this man!”

  “Easy, father . . . I’m not to fight. The quarrel is between Phillippe Cloutier and Paul.”

  “Phillippe would go so far as to fight a boy?”

  “Yes, Father. The provocation is great, though. Paul . . . dishonored Ceclie . . .”

  Stephen looked at his son.

  “While ye were running pell mell after Desiree, your Ceclie turned to other consolations. How little ye know of women, lad! Was that quadroon witch, beautiful as she is, worth this?”

  “No. But what should I do now? Monsieur Cloutier has his choice of weapons . . . and he chose bowie knives, Father, across a handkerchief at three paces!”

  “Holy Mother of God! When is this butchery to take place?”

  “This afternoon . . . at five.”

  “Good. ‘Tis thinking I am that I had better deal myself in. Paul is a fine lad. I won’t have him slaughtered because ye were a fool and your Ceclie a spiteful minx. Go up to the house and try to rest. Any word yet of Inch?”

  “No—the ungrateful scoundrel seems to have gotten away clean. But I’ll have his hide if ever I do catch him!”

  “About that, too, ye’ll have to think twice. I’ll join ye at two. Tell Georges to have fresh horses ready.” He turned the big palamino’s head toward the fields.

  At half past four in the afternoon, Stephen and Etienne were already at the appointed place. Etienne dismounted and walked back and forth through the muddy bank.

  “What are you going to do, Father?” he demanded. “And how?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Twill depend upon the circumstances. But I won’t see the lad hurt. Now will ye stop that damnable pacing?”

  At a quarter of five, Paul Dumaine arrived with his seconds. They were Henri Lascals and Pierre Aucoin. Paul was perfectly composed, but his face was very white. Stephen went to him at once.

  “Ye’ll apologize,” he said. “This is nothing to die over!”

  “I’m afraid Monsieur Cloutier won’t accept an apology,” Paul murmured. “I’ll do my best. ‘Tis all I can do now.” Stephen took his arm and the two of them walked a little apart from the others. Etienne could see his father talking earnestly.

  At precisely two minutes of five, Phillippe arrived with his seconds and the surgeon. Under his arm he carried a case. Dismounting, he opened it and walked over to Paul. The great blades of the knives gleamed like silver in the sunlight.

  “Your choice, sir,” he said.

  “Wait,” Stephen said. “The lad has a statement to make.”

  “This is none of your affair, Stephen Fox!” Phillippe declared.

  “Aye. But I’m making it my affair. In this business of the knives the lad has no skill, and, damn it, Phillippe, I’ll not see him murdered!”

  “You want to take his place?”

  “If necessary. But hear him out, Philippe.”

  The little group of men gathered closer around Paul.

  Paul looked at Stephen, then at Etienne. He cleared his throat.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “This duel was occasioned by the accidental discovery of a painting which I made of Mademoiselle Cloutier. The painting was of such a nature as to place grave implications upon Mademoiselle’s reputation. I want only to say that Mademoiselle is entirely blameless. I painted the picture as a
jest to plague my good friend Etienne Fox. It was done without Mademoiselle’s knowledge or consent. She posed only for the head, thinking that I intended it for a miniature which she had promised Etienne as a gift. The figure was posed by an octoroon. I say this to clear Mademoiselle Cloutier’s reputation of any hint of stain. As for myself, I do not attempt to justify my gross error. I place myself at monsieur’s pleasure.”

  “You lie!” Phillippe spat out.

  “Softly, Phillippe,” Stephen said. “If ye say that the lad lies, ye yourself impugn your daughter’s honor. ‘Tis most ungentlemanly of ye!” He turned to Paul. “Now, lad,” he said sternly, “ye’ll apologize for this folly or, by heavens, I’ll have your hide as though ye were my own son!”

  Paul smiled slowly.

  “I do apologize,” he said. “I freely and humbly apologize to Monsieur Cloutier and to all the other gentlemen present for my misconduct.”

  “Do ye accept it, Phillippe? Or do ye wish us all to take the contrary view that ye have no faith in your own?”

  Phillippe’s face was mottled with rage.

  “You’re a clever bastard, Fox!” he got out. “What else can I do now?” He whirled on his heel and strode back to his waiting horse. Paul turned to Stephen.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “Think nothing of it, lad. Life seems to be made up largely of hellish scrapes. But if ye’ll take my advice, I’d suggest that ye leave the state—for a while at least—until this blows over. Go North; there are many people of wealth and distinction who would delight in being portrayed by so skilful a hand.”

  Paul half turned in the direction that Cloutier and his party were riding.

  “I should hate having anyone think I ran away,” he said slowly.

  “To hell with what people think,” Stephen told him. “I’ve lived all my life without bending an inch to public censure. Your pride is one thing, but to intensify such a bitterness is quite another.”

  Etienne was staring at the retreating back of Phillippe Cloutier.

  “He’ll hate you forever, Father,” he declared.

  “So? There’s never been much love lost between us. Come, lads, we’d best be getting back.”

  Paul Dumaine turned to Etienne.

  “ ‘Tienne,” he began, and half extended his hand.

  Etienne’s black brows bristled, and his eyes were as pale as water.

  “There is nothing to be said between us, Paul,” he growled. “Ever!”

  Stephen looked at the two of them standing there facing each other, drawn up very stiff and proud.

  “Young fools!” he snorted, and threw a lean leg across the palamino. Etienne mounted in his turn, but Paul stood very still, watching his friend. Stephen turned in the saddle and saluted the young painter gravely. Paul returned the gesture, his eyes fixed upon Etienne, who sat like a statue in the saddle, staring out over the river. Stephen looked from one to the other of them; then he shrugged.

  “Come, lad,” he said, and the two of them turned their horses’ heads northward, toward New Orleans.

  XXVII

  SPRING came late that year in the upper reaches of the Ohio Valley. The river itself was still half choked with ice, and a thin miserable drizzle whined earthward toward the snow-covered ground. It was composed about equally of sleet and rain, with a few feathery flakes of snow drifting down at long intervals. On the South bank of the Ohio, not three hundred yards from the river, the farmhouse stood, so shrouded in Winter white that from the packets, butting their way westward through the floes toward the Mississippi, it was all but invisible.

  Inside the house, the logs blazed on the hearth. Beside it, the farmer dozed in a big rocker. His grey beard, cut square at the bottom, rose and fell gently on his ample bosom. His wife sat in the other chair, her knitting needles clicking busily. Her steel-rimmed spectacles were pushed far up on her thin forehead, but the keen old eyes with the thin humorous lines at the corners followed easily the rapidly moving points of the needles. Suddenly the needles were still, and the old woman leaned forward, her thin, pinched nostrils flaring. The logs crackled upon the hearth. But outside, the silence was frightening. The rain and sleet drifted down past the window with a faint whispered whining. The farm woman sighed. Her hands took up their busy movement.

  Then again she stopped. The whole world crashed into stillness. But this time she did not hesitate. She stretched out her hand and shook her husband firmly.

  “Silas!” she whispered.

  He came awake at once without even blinking. It was a faculty born of long practice, this ability to pass from deep sleep to the most acute awareness. Many times in the past it had saved their lives.

  “Yes,” he grunted. “Yes, Hope?”

  “There’s somebody outside . . . in the snow. I can’t even swear I heard him, but I know he’s there!”

  Silas got up and crossed the room, as silent as a cat for all his great bulk. He drew on his sheepskin-lined jacket and a coonskin cap. Then he took the ancient flintlock rifle down from above the mantle. 1-le stopped for a moment to change the priming. Stepping to the door, he drew it open cautiously, standing well to one side of the opening. Many were dead or imprisoned who had forgotten to be careful. The wind came in the doorway crying. Silas stood there waiting. Then at last he pulled his cap down over his ears and strode out into the storm. The moment the door closed behind him, the world disappeared. He took a cautious step forward, then another. Fifty yards forward he went. There was nothing. He retraced his steps and started out again at an oblique angle to his first path. Still nothing. The third time he set out again, on the other side of his first path. At the end of his counted steps, he stood for a moment in the empty waste; then shrugging, he turned back toward the house.

  “Hope must be daft,” he muttered. But before he had gone three yards, he stopped. Something had moved. Out there in the drifted snow, a few feet to his left, something was moving in the snow. He must have passed it by scant inches on his first trip. He turned and floundered toward the moving object. When he was close, he bent down.

  It was a Negro clad only in a rude shirt and trousers, shivering in the snow. His feet were bare, and where they had rested, the snow bore a dark stain. Silas shook him, bending down his ear.

  The black lifted his trembling, cold-greyed face, and his lips moved briefly.

  “Liberty!” he whispered.

  Silas smiled.

  “Lies northward!” he said, completing the password. Then he bent and picked the Negro up, holding him like a babe in his giant arms. He strode forward, step by measured step toward the house.

  Hope opened the door to his muffled knock. She looked down at the frozen black face.

  “Dead?” she asked.

  “Not yet . . . see what you can do.”

  Instantly the old woman was busy; her lean fingers flew, loosening the Negro’s clothes.

  “Got any tea?” Silas demanded.

  “Yes—there.” Silas put the tea leaves in an earthen pot, and set a small saucepan of water on the hearth to boil. Then he went to work chafing the thin wrists and arms that were a purplish grey from the cold, with handfuls of snow. A few minutes later, the water in the saucepan was bubbling merrily. Hope took it up and poured it into the earthenware teapot. She looked at Silas.

  “Yes,” he said. “Lace it with the rum.”

  “ ‘Tis the last,” she told him.

  “Use it!” Then tenderly as a woman, the big man lifted the black’s head. Hope poured a few drops of the fiery liquid between his clenched teeth. The adam’s apple moved in the thin throat, then the teeth parted. Instantly the old woman poured a huge draught of the tea down the Negro’s throat. Almost at once they could see life flowing back into the cold limbs. The grey left his cheeks and the rich black shone like velvet. Silas took cold water and began to bathe the frozen feet and hands. His wife poured drink after drink of the rum-tea down the Negro’s throat.

  Then the eyelids were flickering open, and th
e great brown eyes, surprisingly light for one so black, rested on their faces.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “Never before I started did I believe that there were white people who . . .”

  “Don’t talk,” Silas growled. “Save your strength.”

  “You’ll rest here ‘til you’re better,” the woman said kindly. “Some night—when the weather moderates. It really should be warm now, but the winter lingers.”

  “No,” the Negro said sharply. “No! They’re after me! You’ll get in trouble.”

  “Nonsense, boy. We’ve been through all that before. You can’t go now. Why, you wouldn’t even reach the river alive. What is your name?”

  “Inch,” the Negro whispered. “I am called Inch.”

  Two nights later, a dinghy slipped between the lessening ice floes and pushed its way to the other side of the Ohio. Inch stepped ashore. He was warmly clad, and on his feet were good, stout boots, many sizes too large for him. He sank down upon the frozen ground and kissed it.

  “Free soil!” he murmured. “Free!” He turned to Silas, who was sitting quietly in the boat. “Thank you,” he said. “The saints will bless you for your help.”

  “ ‘Tis little enough,” Silas said. “I could not live with myself if I didn’t strike a blow against this damnable traffic in human flesh. But you’re far from free, Inch. You’ve still got to be cautious. You remember the name of your next contact?”

  “Yes—William Walker in Cincinnati. I should reach him by tomorrow.”

  “ ‘Twould be wiser far to push on to Canada; but, since you insist, Boston will be safe enough. Milliken will put you in touch with a law office where you can get work. But I meant to ask you—why law?”

  “I read for the bar when I was in Paris with my master. If I can pass the Massachusetts bar I could be of great service to my people.”

  “Good! The best of luck to you, young Inch!”

  “Thank you. And to you and Madame, the blessings of God!”

  A month later, Inch climbed down from a railway car in the bleak and ancient city of Boston. As he edged his way through the great crowds in the station, he was conscious of an aloneness so vast that all of life seemed swallowed in it. He started walking. He had not the faintest notion of where he was going; but he did not ask directions. Later, when he had seen it all, and dragged in many more lungfuls of free air, he would ask; but not now. He had a strange desire to listen to the secret heart of this his chosen city. Here, men were free, black men as well as white. It was a thought to be savored long and quietly.