If only she could somehow disguise his body from her own eyes, so that she would not have to imagine his touch, as gentle as the touch of air on her skin as she moved across the room.
16
Property
THE BLACKS STARTED in a-howling before the roosters got up. Cavil Planter didn’t get up right away; the sound of it sort of fit into his dream. Howling Blacks figured in his dreams pretty common these days. Anyway it finally woke him, and he bounded up out of bed. Barely light outside: he had to open the curtain to get light enough to find his trousers. He could make out shadows moving down near the slave quarters, but couldn’t see what all was going on. He thought the worst, of course, and pulled his shotgun down from the rack on his bedroom wall. Slaveowners, in case you didn’t guess, always keep their firearms in the same room where they steep.
Out in the hall, he nearly bumped into somebody. She screeched. It took Cavil a moment to realize it was his wife. Dolores. Sometimes he forgot she knew how to walk, seeing how she only left her room at certain times. He just wasn’t used to seeing her out of bed, moving around the house without a slave or two to lean on.
“Hush now, Dolores, it’s me, Cavil.”
“Oh, what is it, Cavil! What’s happening out there!” She was clinging to his arm, so he couldn’t move on.
“Don’t you think I can tell you better if you let me go find out?”
She hung on tighter. “Don’t do it, Cavil! Don’t go out there alone! They might kill you!”
“Why would they kill me? Am I not a righteous master? Will the Lord not protect me?” All the same, he felt a thrill of fear. Could this be the slave revolt that every master feared but none spoke of? He realized now that this very thought had been lingering at the back of his mind since he first woke up. Now Dolores had put it into words. “I have my shotgun,” said Cavil. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m afraid,” said Dolores.
“You know what I’m afraid of? That you’ll stumble in the dark and really hurt yourself. Go back to bed, so I don’t have to worry about you while I’m outside.”
Somebody started pounding at the door.
“Master! Master!” cried a slave. “We need you, Master!”
“Now see? That’s Fat Fox,” said Cavil. “If it was a revolt, my love, they’d strangle him first off, before they ever came after me.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked.
“Master! Master!”
“To bed,” said Cavil.
For a moment her hand rested on the hard cold barrel of the shotgun. Then she turned and, like a pale grey ghost in the darkness of the hall, she disappeared into the shadows toward her room.
Fat Fox was near to jumping up and down he was so agitated. Cavil looked at him, as always, with disgust. Even though Cavil depended on Fat Fox to let him know which slaves talked ugly behind his back, Cavil didn’t have to like him. There wasn’t a hope in heaven of saving the soul of any full-blood Black. They were all born in deep corruption, like as if they embraced original sin and sucked more of it with their mother’s milk. It’s a wonder their milk wasn’t black with all the foulness that must be in it. I wish it wasn’t such a slow process, turning the Black race White enough to be worth trying to save their souls.
“It’s that Salamandy girl, Master,” said Fat Fox.
“Is her baby coming early?” said Cavil.
“Oh no,” said Fat Fox. “No, no, it ain’t coming, no Master. Oh please come on down. It ain’t that gun you needing, Master. It’s your big old buck knife I think.”
“I’ll decide that,” said Cavil. If a Black suggests you ought to put your gun away, that’s when you hang onto it tightest of all.
He strode toward the slave women’s quarters. It was getting light enough by now that he could see the ground, could see the Blacks all slinking here and there in the dark, watching him, white eyes watching. That was a mercy from the Lord God. making their eyes white, else you couldn’t see them at all in the shadows.
There was a passel of women all outside the door to the cabin where Salamandy slept. Her being so close to her time, she didn’t have to do any field work these days, and she got a bed with a fine mattress. Nobody could say Cavil Planter didn’t take care of his breeding stock.
One of the women—in the darkness he couldn’t tell who, but from the voice he thought it was maybe Coppy, the one baptized as Agnes but who chose to call herself after the copperhead rattler—anyway she cried out, “Oh, Master, you got to let us bleed a chicken on this one!”
“No heathen abominations shall be practiced on my plantation,” said Cavil sternly. But he knew now that Salamandy was dead. Only a month from delivery, and she was dead. It stabbed his heart deep. One child less. One breeding ewe gone. O God have mercy on me! How can I serve thee aright if you take away my best concubine?
It smelled like a sick horse in the room, from her bowel opening up as she died. She’d hung herself with the bedsheet. Cavil damned himself for a fool, giving her such a thing. Here he meant it as a sign of special favor, her being on her sixth half-White baby, to let her have a sheet on her mattress, and now she turned around and answered him like this.
Her feet dangled not three inches from the floor. She must have stood on the bed and then stepped off. Even now, as she swayed slightly in the breeze of his movement in the room, her feet bumped into the bedstead. It took a second or two for Cavil to realize what that meant. Since her neck wasn’t broke, she must have been a long time strangling, and the whole time the bed was inches away, and she knew it. The whole time, she could have stopped strangling at any time. Could have changed her mind. This was a woman who wanted to die. No, wanted to kill. Murder that baby she was carrying.
Proof again how strong these Blacks were in their wickedness. Rather than give birth to a half-White child with a hope of salvation, she’d strangle to death herself. Was there no limit to their perversity? How could a godly man save such creatures?
“She kill herself. Master!” cried the woman who had spoke before. He turned to look at her, and now it was light enough to see for sure that it was Coppy talking. “She waiting for tomorrow night to kill somebody else, less we bleed a chicken on her!”
“It makes me ill, to think you’d use this poor woman’s death as an excuse to roast a chicken out of turn. She’ll have a decent burial, and her soul will not hurt anyone, though as a suicide she will surely burn in hell forever.”
At his words Coppy wailed in grief. The other women joined in her keening. Cavil had Fat Fox set a group of young bucks digging a grave—not in the regular slaveyard, of course, since as a suicide she couldn’t lie in consecrated ground. Out among the trees, with no marker, as befit a beast that took the life of her own young.
She was in the ground before nightfall. Since she was a suicide, Cavil couldn’t very well ask the Baptist preacher or the Catholic priest to come help with it. In fact, he figured to say the words himself, only it happened that tonight was the night he’d already invited a traveling preacher to supper. That preacher showed up early, and the house slaves sent him around back where he found the burial in progress and offered to help.
“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” said Cavil.
“Let it never be said that Reverend Philadelphia Thrower did not extend Christian love to all the children of God—White or Black, male or female, saint or sinner.”
The slaves perked up at that, and so did Cavil—for the opposite reason. That was Emancipationist talk, and Cavil felt a sudden fear that he had invited the devil into his own house by bringing this Presbyterian preacher. Nevertheless, it would probably do much to quiet the Blacks’ superstitious fears if he allowed the rites to be administered by a real preacher. And sure enough, when the words were said and the grave was covered, they all seemed right quiet —none of that ghastly howling.
At dinner, the preacher—Thrower, that was his name—eased Cavil’s fears considerably. “I believe that it is part of God
’s great plan for the Black people to be brought to America in chains. Like the children of Israel, who had to suffer years of bondage to the Egyptians, these Blacks souls are under the Lord’s own lash, shaping them to His own purposes. The Emancipationists understand one truth—that God loves his Black children—but they misunderstand everything else. Why, if they had their way and freed all the slaves at once, it would accomplish the devil’s purpose, not God’s, for without slavery the Blacks have no hope of rising out of their savagery.”
“Now, that sounds downright theological,” said Cavil.
“Don’t the Emancipationists understand that every Black who escapes from his rightful master into the North is doomed to eternal damnation, him and all his children? Why. they might as well have remained in Africa as go north. The Whites up north hate Blacks, as well they should, since only the most evil and proud and stiff-necked dare to offend God by leaving their masters. But you here in Appalachee and in the Crown Colonies. you are the ones who truly love the Black man, for only you are willing to take responsibility for these wayward children and help them progress on the road to full humanity.”
“You may be a Presbyterian, Reverend Thrower, but you know the true religion.”
“I’m glad to know I’m in the home of a godly man, Brother Cavil.”
“I hope I am your brother, Reverend Thrower.”
And that’s how the talk went on, the two of them liking each other better and better as the evening wore. By nightfall, when they sat on the porch cooling off, Cavil began to think he had met the first man to whom he might tell some part of his great secret.
Cavil tried to bring it up casual. “Reverend Thrower, do you think the Lord God speaks to any men today?”
Thrower’s voice got all solemn. “I know He does.”
“Do you think He might even speak to a common man like me?”
“You mustn’t hope for it, Brother Cavil,” said Thrower, “for the Lord goes where He will, and not where we wish. Yet I do know that it’s possible for even the humblest man to have a—visitor.”
Cavil felt a trembling in his belly. Why, Thrower sounded like he already knew Cavil’s secret. But still he didn’t blurt it out all at once. “You know what I think?” said Cavil. “I think that the Lord God can’t appear in his true form, because his glory would kill a natural man.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Thrower. “As when Moses craved a vision of the Lord, and the Lord covered his eyes with His hand, only letting Moses see His back parts as he passed by.”
“I mean, what if a man like me saw the Lord Jesus himself, only not looking like any painting of him, but instead looking like an overseer. I reckon that a man sees only what will make him understand the power of God, not the true majesty of the Lord.”
Thrower nodded wisely. “It may well be.” he said. “That’s a plausible explanation. Or it might be that you only saw an angel.”
There it was—that simple. From “what if a man like me” to Thrower saying “you saw an angel.” That’s how much alike these two men were. So Cavil told the whole story, for the first time ever, near seven years after it happened.
When he was done, Thrower took his hand and held it in a brotherly grip, looking him in the eye with a fierce-looking kind of expression. “To think of your sacrifice, mingling your flesh with that of these Black women, in order to serve the Lord. How many children?”
“Twenty-five that got born alive. You helped me bury the twenty-sixth inside Salamandy’s belly this evening.”
“Where are all these hopeful half-White youngsters?”
“Oh, that’s half the labor I’m doing,” said Cavil. “Till the Fugitive Slave Treaty, I used to sell them all south as soon as I could, so they’d grow up there and spread White blood throughout the Crown Colonies. Each one will be a missionary through his seed. Of course, the last few I’ve kept here. It ain’t the safest thing, neither, Reverend Thrower. All my breeding-age stock is pure Black, and folks are bound to wonder where these mixup children come from. So far, though, my overseer, Lashman, he keeps his mouth shut if he notices, and nobody else ever sees them.”
Thrower nodded, but it was plain his mind was on something else. “Only twenty-five of these children?”
“It’s the best I could do,” said Cavil. “Even a Black woman can’t make a baby right oft after a birthing.”
“I meant—you see. I also had a—visitation. It’s the reason why I came here, came touring through Appalachee. I was told that I would meet a farmer who also knew my Visitor, and who had produced twenty-six living gifts to God.”
“Twenty-six.”
“Living.”
“Well, you see—well, ain’t that just the way of it. You see, I wasn’t including in my tally the very first one born, because his mother run off and stole him from me a few days before he was due to be sold. I had to refund the money in cash to the buyer, and it was no good tracking, the dogs couldn’t pick up her scent. Word among the slaves was that she turned into a blackbird and flew, but you know the tales they tell.”
“So-twenty-six then. And tell me this—is there some reason why the name ‘Hagar’ should mean anything to you?”
Cavil gasped “No one knows I called the mother by that name!”
“My Visitor told me that Hagar had stolen away your first gift.”
“It’s Him. You’ve seen Him, too.”
“To me he comes as—not an overseer. More like a scientist—a man of unguessable wisdom. Because I am a scientist, I imagine, besides my vocation as a minister. I have always supposed that He was a mere angel—listen to me, a mere angel—because I dared not hope that He was—was the Master himself. But now what you tell me—could it be that we have both entertained the presence of our Lord? Oh, Cavil, how can I doubt it? Why else would the Lord have brought us together like this? It means that I—that I’m forgiven.”
“Forgiven?”
At Cavil’s question, Thrower’s face darkened.
Cavil hastened to reassure him. “No, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want.”
“I—it is almost unbearable to think of it. But now that I am clearly deemed acceptable—or at least, now that I’ve been given another chance—Brother Cavil, once I was given a mission to perform, one as dark and difficult and secret as your own. Except that where you have had the courage and strength to prevail, I failed. I tried, but I had not wit or vigor enough to overcome the power of the devil. I thought I was rejected, cast off. That’s why I became a traveling preacher, for I felt myself unworthy to take a pulpit of my own. But now—”
Cavil nodded, holding the man’s hands as tears flowed down his cheek.
At last Thrower looked up at him. “How do you suppose our—Friend—meant me to help you in your work?”
“I can’t say,” said Cavil. “But there’s only one way I can think of, offhand.”
“Brother Cavil, I’m not sure if I can take upon myself that loathsome duty.”
“In my experience, the Lord strengthens a man, and makes it—bearable.”
“But in my case, Brother Cavil—you see, I’ve never known a woman, as the Bible speaks of it. Only once have my lips touched a woman’s, and that was against my will.”
“Then I’ll do my best to help you. How if we pray together good and long, and then I show you once?”
Well, that seemed like the best idea either of them could think of right offhand, and so they did it, and it turned out Reverend Thrower was a quick learner. Cavil felt a great sense of relief to have someone else join in, not to mention a kind of peculiar pleasure at having somebody watch him and then watching the other fellow in turn. It was a powerful sort of brotherhood, to have their seed mingled in the same vessel, so to speak. Like Reverend Thrower said, “When this field comes to harvest, Brother Cavil, we shall not guess whose seed came unto ripeness, for the Lord gave us this field together, for this time.”
Oh, and then Reverend Thrower asked the girl’s name. “Well, we baptized her a
s ‘Hepzibah,’ but she goes by the name ‘Roach.’”
“Roach!”
“They all take animal names. I reckon she doesn’t have too high an opinion of herself.”
At that, Thrower just reached over and took Roach’s hand and patted it, as kindly a gesture as if Thrower and Roach was man and wife, an idea that made Cavil almost laugh right out. “Now, Hepzibah, you must use your Christian name,” said Thrower, “and not such a debasing animal name.”
Roach just looked at him wide-eyed, lying there curled up on the mattress.
“Why doesn’t she answer me, Brother Cavil?”
“Oh, they never talk during this. I beat that out of them eariy—they always tried to talk me out of doing it. I figure better to have no words than have them say what the devil wants me to hear.”
Thrower turned back to the woman. “But now I ask you to speak to me, Roach. You won’t say devil words, will you?”
In answer, Roach’s eyes wandered upward to where part of a bedsheet was still knotted around a rafter. It had been raggedly hacked off below the knot.
Thrower’s face got kind of sick-looking. “You mean this is the room where—the girl we buried—”
“This room has the best bed,” said Cavil. “I didn’t want us doing this on a straw pallet if we didn’t have to.”
Thrower said nothing. He just left the room, pretty quick, plunging outside into the darkness. Cavil sighed, picked up the lantern, and followed him. He found Thrower leaning over the pump. He could hear Roach skittering out of the room where Salamandy died, heading for her own quarters, but he didn’t give no never mind to her. It was Thrower—surely the man wasn’t so beside himself that he’d throw up on the drinking water!
“I’m all right,” whispered Thrower. “I just—the same room—I’m not at all superstitious, you understand. It just seemed disrespectful to the dead.”
These northerners. Even when they understood somewhat about slavery, they couldn’t get rid of their notion of Blacks as if they was people. Would you stop using a room just because a mouse died there, or you once killed a spider on the wall? Do you burn down your stable just because your favorite horse died there?
Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Page 25
