“You got no dog,” said Arthur Stuart.
«Yes! Le gar‡on noir comprend! I cannot shoot the bird in the air because how do I collect the bird? It falls, the wing breaks, what good is it to me now? I shoot on the water, then splash splash, I have the goose.»
“Very practical,” said Alvin. “If you were starving, and needed the goose for food.”
“Food!” cried Audubon. “Do I look like a hungry man?”
“A little lean, maybe,” said Alvin. “But you could probably fast for a day or two without keeling over.”
“I do not understand you, Monsieur Americain. Et je ne veux pas te comprendre. Go away.” Audubon started downstream along the riverbank, the direction the geese had gone.
“Mister Audubon,” Arthur Stuart called out.
“I must shoot you before you go away?” he called out, exasperated.
“I can bring them back,” said Arthur.
Audubon turned and looked at him. “You call geese?” He pulled a wooden goose call from his the pocket of his jacket. “I call geese, too. But when they hear this, they think, Sacre Dieu! That goose is dying! Fly away! Fly away!”
Arthur Stuart kept walking toward him, and instead of answering, he began to make odd sounds with his throat and through his nose. Not goose calls, really, or not that anyone would notice. Not even an imitation of a goose. And yet there was something gooselike about the babble that came from his mouth. And it wasn't all that loud, either. But moments later, the geese came back, skinuning over the surface of the water.
Audubon brought the shotgun to his shoulder. At once Arthur changed his call, and the geese flew away from the shore and settled far out on the water.
In an agony of frustration, Audubon whirled on Arthur and Alvin. “When did I insult you or the cauliflower face of your ugly mother? Which clumsy stinking Philadelphia prostitute was your sister? Or was it le bon Dieu that I offended? Notre Pere Celeste, why must I do this penance?”
“I'm not going to bring the geese back if you're just going to shoot them,” said Arthur.
“What good are they if I don't shoot one!”
“You're not going to eat it, you're just going to paint it,” said Arthur Stuart. “So it doesn't have to be dead.”
“How can I paint a bird that will not stand in one place!” cried Audubon. Then he realized something. “You know my name. You know I paint. But I do not know you.”
“I'm Alvin Smith, and this is my ward, Arthur Stuart.”
“Wart? What kind of slave is that?”
“Ward. He's no slave. But he's under my protection.”
“But who will protect me from the two of you? Why could you not be ordinary robbers, taking my money and run away?”
“Arthur has a question for you,” said Alvin.
“Here is my answer: Leave! Departez!”
“What if I can get a goose to hold still for you without killing it?” asked Arthur Stuart.
Audubon was on the verge of a sharp answer when it finally dawned on him what he had just seen Arthur do, summoning the geese. “You are, how do you say, a knack person, a caller of gooses.”
“Geese,” Alvin offered helpfully.
Arthur shook his head. “I just like birds.”
“I like birds too,” said Audubon, “but they don't feel the same about me.”
“Cause you kill 'em and you ain't even hungry,” said Arthur Stuart.
Audubon looked at him in utter consternation. At last he made his decision. “You can make a goose hold still for me?”
“I can ask him to. But you got to put the gun away.” Audubon immediately leaned it against a tree.
“Unload it,” said Arthur Stuart.
“You think I break my promise?”
“You didn't make no promise,” said Arthur Stuart.
“All right!” cried Audubon. “I promise upon the grave of my grandmother.” He started unloading the gun.
“You promise what?” demanded Arthur.
Alvin almost laughed aloud, except that Arthur Stuart was so grim about it, making sure there were no loopholes through which Audubon could slip once Arthur brought the geese back.
“I promise, I shoot no gooses! Pas de shooting of gooses!”
“Not even powder shooting, whatever that is. No shooting any birds all day,” Arthur said.
“Not 'powder,' you ignorant boy. J'ai dit 'pas de.' Rien! No shooting of gooses, that's what I say!” In a mutter, he added, “Tous les sauvages du monde sont ici aujourd'hui.”
Alvin chuckled. “No shooting savages, either, if you don't mind.”
Audubon looked at him, furious and embarrassed. «Parlez-vous fran‡ais?»
«Je ne parle pas fran‡ais,» said Alvin, remembering a phrase from the few halting French lessons Margaret tried before she finally gave up on getting Alvin to speak any language other than English. Latin and Greek had already been abandoned by then. But he did understand the word sauvage, having heard it so often in the French fort of Detroit when he went there as a boy with Ta-Kumsaw.
“C'est vrai,” muttered Audubon. Then, louder: “I make the promise you say. Bring me a goose that stand in one place for my painting.”
“You going to answer my questions?” asked Arthur Stuart.
“Yes of course,” said Audubon.
“A real answer, and not just some stupid nothing like adults usually say to children?”
“Hey,” said Alvin.
“Not you,” said Arthur Stuart quickly. But Alvin retained his suspicions.
“Yes,” said Audubon in a world-weary voice. “I tell you all the secret of the universe!”
Arthur Stuart nodded, and walked to the point where the bank was highest. But before calling the geese, he turned to face Audubon one last time. “Where do you want the bird to stand?”
Audubon laughed. “You are the very strange boy! This is what you Americans call 'the brag'?”
“He ain't bragging,” said Alvin. “He really has to know where you want the goose to stand.”
Audubon shook his head, then looked around, checked the angle of the sun, and where there was a shady spot where he could sit while painting. Only then could he point to where the bird would have to pose.
“All right,” said Arthur Stuart. He faced the river and babbled again, loudly, the sound carrying across the water. The geese rose from the surface and flew rapidly to shore, landing in the water or on the meadow. The lead goose, however, landed near Arthur Stuart, who led it toward the spot Audubon had picked.
Arthur looked at the Frenchman impatiently. He was just standing there, mouth agape, watching the goose come into position and then stop there, standing still as a statue. “You gonna draw in the mud with a stick?” asked Arthur.
Only then did Audubon realize that his paper and colors were still in his sack. He jogged briskly to the bag, stopping now and then to look back over his shoulder and make sure the goose was still there. While he was out of earshot, Alvin asked Arthur, “You forget we were leaving Philadelphia this morning?”
Arthur looked at him with the expression of withering scorn that only the face of an adolescent can produce. “You can go anytime you like.”
At first Alvin thought he was telling him to go on and leave Arthur behind. But then he realized that Arthur was merely stating the truth: Alvin could leave Philadelphia whenever he wanted, so it didn't matter if it was this morning or later. “Verily and Mike are going to get worried if we don't get back soon.”
“I don't want no birds to die,” said Arthur.
“It's God's job to see every sparrow fall,” said Alvin. “I didn't hear about him advertising that the position was open.”
Arthur just clammed up and said no more. Soon Audubon was back, sitting in the grass under the tree, mixing his colors to match the exact color of the goosefeathers.
“I want to watch you paint,” said Arthur.
“I don't like having people look over my shoulder.”
Arthur murmured som
ething and the goose started to wander away.
“All right!” said Audubon frantically. “Watch me paint, watch the bird, watch the sun in the sky until you will be blind, whatever you want!”
At once Arthur Stuart muttered to the goose, and it waddled back into place.
Alvin shook his head. Naked extortion. How could this be the sweettempered child Alvin had known for so long?
Chapter 2 – A Lady of the Court
Peggy spent the morning trying not to dread her meeting with Lady Guinevere Ashworth. As one of the senior ladies-in-waiting to Queen Mary she had some influence in her own right; more importantly, she was married to the Lord Chancellor, William Ashworth, who might have been born the third son of a schoolteacher, but by wit, dazzle, and enormous energy had clawed his way to a fine education, a good marriage, and a high office. Lord William had no illusions about his own parentage: He took his wife's family's name upon marrying her.
A woman is a woman, regardless of her parents' rank or her husband's office, Peggy reminded herself. When Lady Ashworth's bladder was full, angels didn't miraculously turn it into wine and bottle it, though from the way her name was spoken throughout Camelot, one might have thought so. It was a level of society Peggy had never aspired to or even been interested in. She hardly knew the proper manner of address to a daughter of a marquis– and whenever Peggy thought that she ought to make inquiries, she forced herself to remember that as a good Republican, she should get it wrong, and ostentatiously so. After all, both Jefferson and Franklin invariably referred to the King as “Mr. Stuart,” and even addressed him as such on official correspondence between heads of state– though the story was that clerks in the ministry of state “translated” all such letters so that proper forms of address appeared on them, thus avoiding an international incident.
And if there was any hope of averting the war that loomed among the American nations, it might well rest on her interview with Lady Ashworth. For along with her lofty social position– some said the Queen herself consulted Lady Ashworth for advice on how to dress– Lady Ashworth was also leader of the most prominent anti-slavery organization in the Crown Colonies: Ladies Against Property Rights in Persons. (According to the fashion in the Crown Colonies, the organization was commonly called Lap-Rip, from the initials of its name– a most unfortunate acronym, Peggy thought, especially for a ladies' club.)
So much might be riding on this morning's meeting. Everything else had been a dead end. After all her months in Appalachee, Peggy had finally realized that all the pressure for maintaining slavery in the New Counties was coming from the Crown Colonies. The King's government was rattling sabers, both figuratively and literally, to make sure the Appalachian Congress understood exactly what abolition of slavery would cost them in blood. In the meantime, union between Appalachee and the United States of America was impossible as long as slavery was legal anywhere within Appalachee. And the simplest compromise, to allow the pro-slavery New Counties of Tennizy, Cherriky, and Kenituck to secede from Appalachee, was politically impossible in Appalachee itself.
The outcome Peggy most feared was that the United States would give in and admit the New Counties as slaveholding States. Such a pollution of American freedom would destroy the United States, Peggy was sure of it. And secession of the New Counties was only slightly more acceptable to her, since it would leave most of the Blacks of Appalachee under the overseer's lash. No, the only way to avoid war while retaining a spark of decency among the American people was to persuade the Crown Colonies to allow the whole of Appalachee, New Counties and all, to form a union with the United States of America– with slavery illegal throughout the nation that would result.
Her abolitionist friends laughed when Peggy broached this possibility. Even her husband, Alvin, sounded doubtful in his letters, though of course he encouraged her to do as she thought right. After hundreds of interviews with men and women throughout Appalachee and for the last few weeks in Camelot, Peggy had plenty of doubts of her own. And yet as long as there was a thread of hope, she would try to tat it into some sort of bearable future. For the future she saw in the heartfires of the people around her could not be borne, unless she knew she had done her utmost to prevent the war that threatened to soak the soil of America in blood, and whose outcome was by no means certain.
So, dread it as she might, Peggy had no choice but to visit with Lady Ashworth. For even if she could not enlist Lady Ashworth and her LapRip club in the cause of emancipation, she might at least win an introduction to the King, so she could plead her cause with the monarch directly.
The idea of meeting with the King frightened her less than the prospect of meeting Lady Ashworth. To an educated man Peggy could speak directly, in the language they understood. But Southern ladies, Peggy already knew, were much more complicated. Everything you said meant something else to them, and everything they said meant anything but the plain meaning of the words. It was a good thing they didn't let Southern ladies go to college. They were far too busy learning arcane languages much more subtle and difficult to master than mere Greek and Latin.
Peggy slept little the night before, ate little that morning, and kept down even less. The most acute nausea from her pregnancy had passed, but when she was nervous, as she was this morning, it returned with a vengeance. The spark of life in the baby in her womb was just beginning to be visible to her. Soon she would be able to see something of the baby's future. Mere glimpses, for a baby's heartfire was chaotic and confusing, but it would become real to her then, a life. Let it be born into a better world than this one. Let my labors change the futures of all the babies.
Her fingers were weak and trembly as she tried to fasten her buttons; she was forced to ask the help of the slavegirl who was assigned to her floor in the boardinghouse. Like all slaves in the Crown Colonies, the girl would not meet Peggy's gaze or even face her directly, and while she answered softly but clearly every question Peggy asked, what passed between them could hardly be called a conversation. “I'm sorry to trouble you, but will you help me fasten my buttons?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“My name is Peggy. What's yours?”
“I's Fishy, ma'am.”
“Please call me Peggy.”
“Yes ma'am.”
Don't belabor the point. “Fishy? Really? Or is that a nickname?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“Which?”
“Fishy, ma'am.”
She must be refusing to understand; let it go. “Why would your mother give you such a name?”
“I don't know, ma'am.”
“Or was it your mother who named you?”
“I don't know, ma'am.”
“If I give you a tip for your service, do you get to keep it?”
“No tips please, ma'am.”
“But if you were to find a penny in the street, would you be permitted to keep it as your own?”
“Never found no penny, ma'am. All done now, ma'am.” And Fishy was out the door in a heartbeat, pausing in the doorway only long enough to say, “Anything else, ma'am?”
Peggy knew the answers to her questions, of course, for she saw into the woman's heartfire. Saw how Fishy's mother had shunted her off on other slavewomen, because she could hardly attract the master's lust with a baby clinging to her thighs. And when the woman grew too slackbellied from her repeated pregnancies, how the master began to share her with his White visitors, and finally with the White overseers, until the day the master gave her to Cur, the Black foreman of the plantation craftsmen. The shame of being reduced to whoring with Blacks was too much for Fishy's mother and she hanged herself. It was Fishy who found her. Peggy saw all of that flash through Fishy's mind when Peggy asked about her mother. But it was a story Fishy had never told and would never tell.
Likewise, Peggy saw that Fishy got her name from the son of the first owner she was sold to after her mother's suicide. She was assigned to be his personal maid, and the senior maid in the plantation house told her that meant t
hat she must do whatever the master's son told her to do. What that might have meant Fishy never knew. The boy took one look at her, declared that she smelled fishy, and wouldn't let her in his room. She was reassigned to other duties for the months that she remained in the house, but the name Fishy stuck, and when she was sold into a household in the city of Camelot, she took the name Fishy with her. It was better than the one her mother had given her: Ugly Baby.
As for tipping, if any slave in this house were found with money, it was assumed that it had been stolen and the slave would be stripped and branded and chained in the yard for a week. Slaves might walk with their heads downcast, but in this house, at least, they saw no pennies on the ground.
The worst frustration for Peggy, though, was that she couldn't say to the slave, “Fishy, do not despair. You feel powerless, you are powerless except for your sullen contempt, your deliberate slothfulness, the tiny rebellions that you can carry out and still survive. But there are some of us, many of us working to try to set you free.” For even if Peggy said it, why should Fishy believe a White woman? And if she did believe, what should she do then? If her behavior changed one iota from this obsequiousness, she would suffer for it, and emancipation, when and if it came, was still many years away.
So Peggy bore Fishy's unspoken scorn and hatred, though she knew she did not deserve it. Her black skin makes her a slave in this country; and therefore my white skin makes me her enemy, for if she took the slightest liberty with me and addressed me with anything like friendship or equality, she would risk terrible suffering.
It was at moments like these that Peggy thought that her fire-eating abolitionist friends in Philadelphia might be right: Only blood and fire could purge America of this sin.
She shrugged off the thought, as she always did. Most of the people who collaborated in the degradation of Blacks did so because they knew no better, or because they were weak and fearful. Ignorance, weakness, and fear led to great wrongs, but they were not in themselves sins, and could often be more profitably corrected than punished. Only those whose hearts delighted in the degradation of the helpless and sought out opportunities to torment their Black captives deserved the blood and horror of war. And war was never so careful as to inflict suffering only where it was merited.
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