The Family Greene

by Ann Rinaldi

  There was a simple service in the church. I glanced at Mama and thought she might not have the mettle to make it through. I heard little Louisa whimpering, saw her passed from our nurse, Emily, to George, then I reached out my arms and she was passed to me and I held her in my lap.

  She nestled close to me, sucking her thumb. Poor child, I thought. She doesn't even know what is going on.

  Thank heaven, the service was over soon, for it had nothing to do with Pa. Pa was gone, lost to us forever. Where? Into some indifferent density? Or was there really a heaven, a God waiting for him? I shuddered at my blasphemous thoughts and hugged little Louisa's warm body.

  They locked Pa's casket in a vault for future burial, and we went back to the Pendleton estate for the night.

  ***

  GENERAL WAYNE stayed for another week after we got home. He seemed loath to leave Mama, for she was lost in the house, not knowing which way to turn.

  We were all lost. The house was an echoing memory of Pa. Phineas Miller attempted to take his place with us, but he failed miserably, so he went about his business of managing the plantation.

  In the first day or so, Mama had her hands full with the children.

  George did nothing but tramp the fields, like he used to do with Pa. And Mama was terrified with him out there in the noonday sun. Finally, General Wayne had to go out and fetch him in sternly from its noontime rays, for the sake of his mother.

  Louisa continually sucked her thumb now, instead of just when she was tired. And because she'd been told Pa was up in heaven, she wanted to stay out on the back veranda where she could "see heaven" and where she would point her little finger up to the sky and say, "Papa."

  Nat went missing all the time. General Wayne soon discovered his hiding place. It was under Pa's desk, in Pa's study. He would huddle there, wanting to be left alone.

  "Let the children act out their mourning as they will," I heard him advise Mama, "so long as they don't hurt themselves, or anyone else. Don't be so severe with them, Caty. Relax the rules a bit."

  Martha, as far as anyone could see, was not acting out her mourning at all. As for myself, I found Pa in every corner of the house. In his jackets that hung in the hallway, his hats on the pegs, his boots that stood ready near the mats by the back door, his gray gelding, the pipes and ledgers on his desk.

  These things all held bits of his life in them. They all sat waiting for him to return and pick them up.

  And his horse, Tommy, was restless in the stable. What of Tommy? I went to the stable to pat him, talk to him, give him some sugar.

  "Don't try to buy him off. He knows." George came to the stall, dressed for riding. "General Wayne says I'm to care for him, ride him. And Mama says if I do well, he's mine."

  George had always been a good horseman. With Pa for a father, how could he be anything else?

  The groom saddled Tommy, and George mounted him. I watched them argue it out for a few minutes. The horse was accustomed to no one but Pa, and he was persnickety. But George had good hands with the reins, and he leaned over Tommy's neck, spoke into his ear, and the horse settled down. Soon they were as one, galloping off. And I knew that Tommy belonged to George now.

  That very afternoon, when we were in the flower garden having an afternoon tea, Martha showed me where her true feelings were. She started in on me.

  Phineas Miller was playing a game of chess with Nat. George was languishing in a nearby chair. Louisa was upstairs napping. General Wayne and Mama were sitting near the rosebushes. She was telling him that she wanted to take us children and travel to Newport, Rhode Island, this summer, where she planned to meet with the executors of Pa's estate.

  Right in front of everyone, General Wayne took both of Mama's hands in his own and said, "Please, Caty, don't go. My spirits break when you aren't here."

  Mama said nothing.

  Martha caught my eye, smirked, and, taking my arm, pulled me out of earshot of the others. "Why were you allowed to stay when the rest of us were sent to the Elbridges'?" she demanded.

  "To be with Mama," I said. "General Wayne said she needed me."

  More smirking. "So you see, then? How what I said means something? And look at him now, begging her not to go. And did you know that he's given Eulinda money so she can leave here immediately if she wants to? Why do you think he did that? So she'll stop talking about it."

  "You lie!"

  "Ask him, why don't you."

  There was nothing for it. Somebody had to slap her. I drew my arm back all the way to Savannah and did so, on the spot.

  All blue hell broke loose then. Martha screamed. Mama came running, to find her holding the side of her face, tears streaming down. General Wayne, right behind Mama, saw the whole affair for what it was, observed me standing in front of my sister, dug into the brick walk like a stubborn weed. He glowered at me.

  Martha ran to Mama, bawling like a stuck pig.

  "What have you done?" General Wayne demanded of me.

  I scowled up at him. Then I started to run, right around him, past him, but he grabbed my arm and held me.

  "Tell your sister you're sorry."

  "It would be a lie."

  "Then lie."

  "Pa hated lying. And liars."

  He grabbed my arm and dragged me along the brick walk into a side door that led into the sunroom. Then he drew back his hand and slapped my face.

  "How do you like it?"

  It scarce hurt. He did not hit hard. But he was counting on the shock of it paining me. He knew that such treatment would injure not my face but my heart.

  "I don't," I said.

  He nodded, satisfied, as tears came down my face. And I knew two things right off. That he was sorry that he had done it. And that he would never let me know he was sorry.

  "Why did you hit your sister?" he demanded.

  "She was making sport of you, of what you said to Mama, about how your spirit would break into pieces if she wasn't here. She thought it was funny."

  "It is funny," he said. "I laugh myself to sleep every night over it."

  He brushed some hair away from my face and touched my jaw where he'd slapped me. "You see? You wouldn't want me for a father. I'd be too strict."

  I just looked down at my shoes. "Can I ask you something, sir?"

  "Always."

  "Did you give Eulinda money? So she could leave?"

  He scowled. "Martha told you that, too, eh?"

  I nodded yes.

  "Yes, I did. She's trouble, that woman. And your mother agreed. So she'll soon be away from here. Tomorrow, I assume. Yes, she leaves tomorrow."

  There was silence between us. We both wanted—no, needed—to say something more, but neither of us had the courage.

  "Now behave yourself," he told me severely, "and don't make me have to punish you again." Then he went outside to the others.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WHEN PA and Mama first came to Mulberry Grove, one of Pa's "extravaganzas," as he used to refer to it, was the carriage he'd had made. Oh, it was not a fancy affair, not gilt and cherrywood, like some people hereabouts have, and you could not rightly call it a brougham, for the driver's seat was not on the outside. But Pa had an extra-large extension built on the back, a place where baggage could be stored, or quilts and other extras, because Mama always had to bring so much along when we traveled. And it had air ducts, because Mama often brought along food and she did not want it to go bad.

  "You could fit a person in there," Pa had once teased her.

  His words rang in my head the next morning as I watched Priam, the man who drove for us, put Eulinda's possessions into the front of the carriage, then go to secure the harnesses of the two horses it took to pull it.

  I never knew Eulinda had so many possessions.

  He was taking her to the docks at Savannah, where she was boarding a ship to go north.

  The rest of the house was not yet up. It was not yet six o'clock. But I had planned to go on this trip with Eulinda, to
sneak myself into that baggage compartment behind the carriage. For I knew she would not want me with her, knew Priam would not take me without permission, and knew Mama would never allow it.

  But it was my last chance to get the information I needed from Eulinda, whom I knew I would never see again. And I calculated that she would be in a good humor, finally going home, and would tell me what I wanted to know. Then, on the dock at Savannah, I would present myself to Priam and he would have to take me home.

  I was all ready, even to the buns and cookies I had wrapped in a napkin to take along with me in case I got hungry. Only two things might have hindered me this morning: If Priam had put Eulinda's possessions in that baggage compartment. And if General Wayne had come to see her off.

  Neither had occurred, thank heavens. So I tiptoed downstairs, stood waiting as quietly as I could in the deserted hall by the front door, and then, at the last minute, when Priam closed the door of the carriage on Eulinda and stepped inside himself, I ran outside, opened the latch of the baggage compartment, and got inside.

  ***

  IT WAS A fourteen-mile trip to Savannah, and I got bumped around considerably. But God and the angels must have been with me, because somebody had left an old quilt in the compartment. It smelled of cinnamon and apples, which was not unpleasant in the least, and as best as I could manage, I bundled it up and put it under my head.

  Soon enough, bumping and all, I fell asleep and did not wake until I heard someone yelling, "Here, here, fresh oysters, get your fresh oysters, caught just this mornin'!"

  I jumped up, hit my head on the top of the compartment, then remembered where I was.

  In Savannah! At the docks! I must get out, now! Before Eulinda boards her ship!

  Easily enough I opened the door and slipped out, blinking my eyes in the bright sun of midday, adjusting them to the panaroma about me.

  First thing I saw was a lady with a dancing monkey and people gathered around her, dropping coins into a bucket. Then the man who had been shouting about his oysters. Another man was selling hot pretzels. All about me there was color to dazzle my vision, in one direction and in the other. On the waterfront huge vessels at anchor, so many vessels, some being unloaded, some being loaded, flags flapping, sailors running about, passengers going aboard, ladies in frocks of all the colors of the rainbow, gentlemen wearing fashions, some of which I had never seen before. Negroes following after them with baggage.

  I scanned the area for Eulinda and finally set my eyes upon her. There. There at the stall where a man was selling cold lemonade. She stood, sipping some.

  I ran to her. "Eulinda!"

  Her eyes made the adjustment to my presence. "What are you doing here? Did they have me followed? Do they want me back? My passage is paid for. I will not go back. They can't make me."

  "No," I said quickly. "Nobody followed you. I hid away in the baggage compartment in back of the carriage. Nobody wants you back."

  "You bad girl. You always were a bad girl. Gave your mama two days' travail when you were born. Since then you have been a bad girl. What do you want from me? Why have you come?"

  She was wearing her best dress, made of a colorful patchwork of greens and reds and browns. And over it, of course, she wore the sacred shawl.

  "I thought, since you were going away for good, Eulinda, since we would never see you again, that you might tell me now. The truth about who is my father."

  She sipped her lemonade. Took her sweet time about it, too. The last of it was gone, then she ran her pink tongue across her lips carefully, enjoying my suspense. She narrowed her eyes. "You think I'd tell you that now?"

  "Yes. I won't tell anyone you told me."

  "How much money will you give me for the telling?"

  Money again. "I have no money. Where would I get it? But you have money now," I reminded her. "General Wayne gave it to you. Didn't he?"

  Again she ran her tongue over her lips. "Never enough money," she said. "I don't give away secrets for nothing. Now I must board." She snapped her fingers and a Negro came forward and picked up her belongings and carried them as she walked toward her ship.

  "Eulinda!" I ran after her. "Tell me! Please! What difference does it make to you? Don't you understand? If you don't tell me, I'll go all my life without knowing! That isn't fair! Eulinda!"

  She never stopped walking except once, to turn around and point. "See? Priam is leaving. He doesn't even know you are here. How are you going to get home now? You thought of that, you bad little girl? You're in trouble now, all right. But no, all you think of is who is your father! When you've got everything!"

  Then she laughed, waved a derisive hand at me, and, with the Negro following, went aboard her ship.

  I stood there, mouth open, watching her as she boarded. I stood there after she was gone. Then I turned to see Pa's "extravaganza" of a carriage drive away from the docks and down the street, and I felt a sense of despair that I had never before known.

  What was I supposed to do now? I had it planned that I would tell Priam that I was here. But I'd become so agitated, thinking I had lost Eulinda, that I had forgotten to connect with Priam. And now I was abandoned here on the dangerous and confusing docks of Savannah, a place where ladies never went without a male companion. A place full of sailors on leave, drunks, people with no homes, doxies, and all sorts of undesirable personages.

  I must get away from here. But go where for help? The only people I knew in Savannah were the Pendletons, Pa's friends. I would have to walk there alone. And I was not even sure I knew the way.

  Well, I decided, I'd best get away from the docks, anyway. So I started walking.

  I was just onto the street, at the end of the docks, when I was sensible of the fact that I was being followed. Someone was following me on a horse. No, two some-ones on two horses. I knew they were following me, because horses can go faster than I was walking and they were keeping pace behind me.

  My heart was racing. I felt sweat breaking out on my brow. My legs were shaking, but I knew I must keep walking. I would be kidnapped, I decided, wrapped in a filthy blanket and carried away someplace by some horrible thugs. Put on one of those vessels in the harbor and taken to a foreign land and sold into white slavery. I had read about it in books.

  Oh God, I prayed, save me.

  But I would not turn around. I kept walking for at least five minutes, and the two men on horseback kept following.

  Then, of a sudden, I stopped. My energies were spent. To what end, all this walking? I could not get away from my pursuers. I put my hands to my face and started to sob. What was the use in trying to get away? I might as well give up and get it over with.

  I turned around and looked up at my attackers.

  There was only one. A man on a horse, leading another.

  The man was none other than General Wayne. He sat his horse under a Mulberry tree, the leaves of which dappled his face.

  "Ohhh," I said. "Ohhh, I thought I was being kidnapped."

  He said nothing except "Get on your horse."

  His face was grim. To say his eyes were not kind would be a generous thing to say. I could not meet those accusing green orbs.

  I walked behind him and got on my horse and he gave me the reins. We did not talk at all for the first half-hour of the ride home.

  When he did deign to speak to me, we were outside of town and he did not turn to face me at all. "Don't tell your mother why you came here," he told me in an even tone. "Make up some lie."

  "So you know, then, why I came?"

  Now he did cast an eye in my direction. "Do you think me stupid, Cornelia?"

  "No, sir. Not you. Not ever."

  "Then do me the honor of not asking such a question. You are as stubborn as a jackass in the mud. And you are going to continue in your stubbornness until you hurt someone. You are bound and determined to do it. You've already hurt your mother. She was frantic this morning, not knowing where you were. Martha told us she saw you sneak off in the back of the carriage."<
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  Good old dependable Martha, I thought. But I did not respond. I took his scolding because I supposed I deserved it.

  "I did not mean to hurt Mama," I said.

  "Well, when we get home, you're going to have to come with me into the back parlor for a whipping."

  I stared at him, horrified.

  "I promised your mother I'd give it to you. Because she said she would. She's waiting for you with a riding crop. I said I'd do it." His eyes slid toward me, craftily.

  "I said it to spare you. I know what a temper she has, and there was no talking her out of it. So you come with me into the parlor, and we'll pretend that I've given you one, good and proper-like. You'll have to take on something fierce. Can you do that?"

  I stared at him as we rode along. And in that moment, he had my heart, this dear man, laying claim to such severity yet going out of his way to protect me so. While at the same time shielding his tenderness toward me so it would not be so obvious.

  "I can do it, sir," I said.

  "And can you lie to your mother about why you came to Savannah this morning?"

  I'd already considered that. "Yes, sir. I'll tell her Eulinda stole something from me. Something I treasure. And I went to get it back. But she wouldn't give it over."

  "What did she take?" he asked. "If you lie, you must be able to back it up."

  "A cornhusk doll she once made for me. She said it had spiritual properties, then she didn't want to leave it with me. She always said I was a bad girl because when I was born I caused my mama to be in labor for two days."

  When I told him that he presented me with a face of sadness and compassion. And having given me that sadness and compassion, he looked like a cat who had just spent one of his lives.

  "I hope your father forgives me for teaching you to lie," he said.

  "Sir, why did you not think I would come home with Priam?" I asked.

  "I had hoped," he said sadly, "to get to you before you even got out of the carriage."