Tall Tail

by Rita Mae Brown

“Garth also grew peaches and pears, the old varieties. If I ever get rich, I am going to devote myself to growing the old varieties.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say that. They usually say if they get rich they’ll buy a new car, pay off debts, vacation in Hawaii.”

  Harry looked toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. “What could be more beautiful than that?”

  “That’s the truth,” Mignon enthusiastically agreed.

  Another attractive woman came out the front door. “Mignon, he’s asking for you.” She then looked up at Harry.

  “Harry Haristeen,” Harry introduced herself. “I promised Mrs. Holloway I’d deliver some mulch, and so I have.”

  Relief crossed her face. “Good. I’m Rebecca Colman. I’m here part-time since Barbara Leader’s unfortunate accident. I’m learning what a good nurse she was,” Rebecca said.

  “Penny finally told the governor,” said Mignon. “He was so upset. Rebecca, he’ll warm to you. Just tell him he’ll outlive us all.” She smiled.

  As Harry drove out, she passed Sheriff Shaw and Cooper arriving in Rick’s squad car. She figured they had received the medical examiner’s report on how Barbara Leader had died. These tests and reports often take weeks. This report was quickly done, no doubt because the deceased had been tending to an ex-governor.

  Harry expected the news wouldn’t be good.

  Sunday, September 19, 1784

  Twilight shrouded the mountains, the rolling hills in light blue darkening to a deeper blue. The last streaks of pink, gold, and flame faded to soft purple.

  Catherine, John, Rachel, Charles, Ewing, and Piglet sat in the big house’s back gardens. The graveyard was in the near distance and over to the right, in two neat rows, stood the slave cabins, logs chinked tight. Some, like Bettina’s, boasted true brick fireplaces with chimneys. Others used charred logs for a fireplace, as had been used at The Barracks. Usually it worked. Sometimes, though, it caught fire. Karl Ix convinced Ewing to replace those charred log fireplaces with stone or brick. In the long run, it would save money. One by one, new fireplaces were being built. The hope was to have every cabin refurbished before hard winter.

  Piglet snored at Charles’s feet.

  “I wonder, are the spirituals remembered songs from Africa?” Charles mused as he listened to the distant singing.

  “Perhaps, although the captured spoke different languages.” John knew a little bit, as he had learned from an old fellow who kept three slaves back home in Massachusetts. Much wealth in Boston derived from the slave trade, from rum and molasses carried from the Caribbean. “So many Africans were already enslaved by other tribes. Maybe they brought their music with them.”

  Catherine knew that certain spirituals communicated information between estates. “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” meant someone was dying. Could be the master or could be a slave all loved. “March on Down to Jordan” meant someone was moving through, hoping for freedom. She paid attention, because no one had sung that lately. This would have tipped off others, the news would have filtered to other places. This would endanger Moses and Ailee.

  Catherine wasn’t the only white person to understand the various meanings of spirituals. The constables probably knew more about slave life than the people who owned the slaves, since they were charged with finding runaway slaves. Few white people wanted the job. It was considered low, very low. The only thing lower was actually transporting slaves from Africa. Yet the need for labor was so great in the raw land that captains brought more and more men and women to the New World. Fortunes were made. Many of the men who made them chose to live and retire in seaport towns. Boston proved a most hospitable place, a thriving city, a good port with music, dancing, libraries, and Harvard. Its great appeal drew slavers, traders, and the ever-present and growing number of lawyers. But Providence, New York, and Portsmouth also had their allure.

  Once their fortune was secure, other blackbirders sold their ships and moved inland. No one knew how they had made their fortunes as they slid into western Georgia or eastern Alabama. A few brave souls pushed into the Ohio territory. If their new neighbors eventually found out how they made the money, generous donations removed the scandalous odor. A few ex-slavers even founded great colleges. Most all gave generously to hospitals, churches, and places for the poor. Then, as always, any dubious trade was justified by saying business is business.

  Catherine and Rachel did not question the system. Their mother had prepared them for their responsibilities to the servants, never called slaves. The mistress ran the estate, especially the house. To her fell the burdens of keeping the various often large personalities working together. If a romance among servants proved difficult or disruptive, the mistress exercised her responsibility to untangle this before violence occurred. Not that the lady of the house could always succeed in matters of the heart, but she tried. Health was a major concern. Nursing was a primary duty. The labors of a good mistress could be seen by all. This was one of the reasons Maureen Selisse had no true standing among other women. All she had was money. Her treatment of people, as it was thought by others, was disgraceful.

  The story of how Moses killed Francisco was accepted by many. Others doubted it. People knew the Selisses had been brutal. Then, too, everyone who owned other human beings would have to confront, however briefly, the injustice of the system. The Selisses brought that injustice front and center. Some people whispered that Francisco deserved what he got.

  A few people made the connection between this peculiar institution and the practice of kingship. If you lived under a good king or queen, the country thrived. A bad one created endless pain, suffering, and often death. Removed from politics as she was, Catherine was beginning to make these connections. The condition of Ailee’s face made them for her. But then, too, working so closely with her father, Catherine began to look at the world the way men do. She understood profit. She also understood right from wrong.

  “What did you think of the German’s sermon today?” Ewing asked almost idly.

  “ ‘By their work alone ye shall know them,’ ” John spoke up.

  “It does make sense,” Charles chimed in.

  “It’s awfully Lutheran,” Ewing half grumbled.

  “Father, he was Lutheran.” Catherine laughed and the others laughed with her.

  “Progress in designing a church?” Ewing asked of Charles.

  “They are trying to raise the funds,” said Charles. “I’ve made some rough sketches. I’ve designed two quads, each at a different level, and, well, sorry, I don’t want to run on, but I do so hope they raise the money. Karl Ix is the engine behind this. He and Giselle”—he named Karl Ix’s wife—“are devout Lutherans.”

  “No Episcopal church?” Ewing wondered.

  “Father.” Rachel reached over and touched his hand. “So many Hessians live here in the west of the country. They’re Lutherans, and really, it’s not so very different from the Church of England. I mean the Episcopal Church. Charles and I would be happy to attend.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Ewing leaned back in his outdoor chair. “Ah, see how the last of the light outlines your mother’s lamb with the cross? Glows. Yes, it glows.”

  “It does,” Catherine enthusiastically agreed.

  “I must retire,” he said. “This week will be a busy one. Time to harvest the apples. Then time to put down some winter seed. I think I’ll allow tough rye and winter wheat to root for a month before winter, perhaps even buckwheat. Comes up early in spring, giving the other grasses protection.” He shook his head. “Paradise now, and yet it won’t be even a month before the first frost.”

  “But Father, I love October. The color, the cool nights, the pleasant days.” Rachel folded her hands together.

  “You like the fall colors on you,” Catherine teased her.

  Charles winked at Rachel. “My bride looks ravishing in any color.”

  Ewing rose and the men rose with him. He bid his family good night, kissing his daughters. The young
people sat there, chatting, dreaming, and then they, too, retired to their clapboard houses. Piglet lifted his head with a grunt to follow Charles.

  Little by little, the singing stopped. Everyone went inside, for the night was turning cool.

  —

  Catherine and John waited before they ventured out. Piglet joined them. Catherine carried some food from the kitchen. John brought an old coat for Moses, too big for the man, but better than nothing.

  Carefully, quietly, they made their way to the hideaway, the cool night air already causing a shiver.

  Father Gabe looked up, as did Moses, Ailee, and Bettina.

  Wordlessly, Catherine put down the food, as John did the coat.

  John asked Moses, “Do you feel well enough to travel?”

  “I won’t leave Ailee,” he stubbornly said.

  John’s deep voice reverberated against the cave walls. “Then you sentence yourself to death, and perhaps Ailee, too.”

  “I won’t leave her.”

  Ailee looked at him with her good eye, but did not speak.

  “Moses.” Catherine’s voice was soothing. “If captured, Ailee will be returned to Mrs. Selisse. She and Sheba will torture her. Ailee’s life will be hell on earth.”

  Ailee took Moses’s hand, kissing it.

  Bettina affirmed this. “It’s true, Moses.”

  Catherine sat on an upturned basket that Bettina had used to carry food. “You asked me to help you. Things happened so fast. I couldn’t keep Francisco away from Ailee, but I can help you now.” She paused. “The truth. Who killed Francisco?”

  He took a ragged breath. “The Missus.”

  Bettina moved beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “How?”

  Still weak, Moses’s voice was low. “He trapped her in the summer kitchen. He held her throat, he lifted her skirt, but this time she screamed.”

  Ailee began to cry. Father Gabe petted her head, a soothing touch, as one would comfort an animal.

  Moses continued. “The Missus ran out of the house. Sheba, too. I ran toward the summer kitchen behind them. The Missus, seeing what she did, picked up a big knife and stabbed him. Sheba grabbed a log from beside the fireplace and hit him over the head. Then she attacked Ailee. I pulled her off, grabbed her wrist so she’d drop the log. As I turned, the Missus slashed me with the knife. Sheba, she was crazy wild, and so was the Missus. Ailee’s face bled; I couldn’t even see her eye. So much blood.”

  “What then?” Catherine asked.

  “I don’t know. We ran. The Missus and Sheba stayed in the kitchen.”

  John asked Father Gabe, “Is Moses strong enough to travel?”

  “His wound is healing. He’ll regain his strength.”

  “Do you think he can get his strength back soon?” Catherine asked. “Enough to work, perhaps indoor tasks? Or tending horses? He can’t be disguised as a traveler. He will have to work.”

  Father Gabe thought, then opened Moses’s shirt. Healing from the inside out, the wound was still open. “I would have to bind it. He could tear it.”

  Catherine felt a knot form in her stomach. “The blood will give him away.”

  “I won’t leave Ailee.”

  “Moses, you must,” Bettina simply, firmly said.

  Ailee kissed his hand again, tears from her eyes falling on his hand. Seeing tears from her blind eye brought Catherine to tears.

  John changed the subject. “Do you need anything?”

  “Shoes, they need good shoes,” Father Gabe announced.

  “We can get warm clothing. Shoes are hard.” Bettina affirmed Father Gabe’s request.

  John studied Moses’s and Ailee’s feet. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Piglet growled. Father Gabe pinched the candle, cutting the light. All held their breath. Snuffling was heard outside, followed by the pungent odor of bear. Piglet growled louder, then shot out of the hidden cave. The bear ambled on, not terribly frightened of the dog. Puffed up, Piglet returned.

  “Bettina, best to walk back with us, just in case the bear returns,” John sensibly suggested. “Father Gabe, what about you?”

  “I’ll stay. I sleep here now, then go up at dawn. Some of the children come down.”

  “Can you trust them?” John questioned. “Little ones talk.”

  “Yes. Little they are, but they understand. They look at Moses’s wound, Ailee’s eye, they understand.”

  With the corgi, the three threaded through the woods, occasionally stumbling, emerging onto the high meadow, the stars brilliant.

  John softly said, “Even if people believed Moses innocent, he’ll still hang. Hiram and Dennis will see to that. Notches in their belts. They captured a dangerous runaway.”

  Bettina murmured, “God will show us the way.”

  “Bettina,” Catherine asked once they could speak, “what does a cross scratched on a tomb mean?”

  Eyes widening, Bettina inquired, “Whose tombstone?”

  “My mother’s. There’s a cross scratched on the back.”

  Walking, Bettina finally answered. “A square means asking for a curse. Those are put on the tombs of the evil dead. A cross on a tomb is a prayer, a request.”

  “For?” Catherine pressed.

  “Health. Success in love.”

  “So it’s not a curse?” Catherine was nothing if not shrewd.

  “Not on your mother’s tomb. A curse is marked by a square, like I said. Depends on whose spirit is being conjured.”

  “Conjured?” John had never heard of such a thing.

  “The old faiths, the faiths from Africa, they believe you can communicate with spirits.” Catherine tried to frame this as neutrally as possible because she didn’t want to insult Bettina.

  “A doctor, a queen, they have great power,” Bettina enlightened him.

  “Father Gabe can conjure,” Catherine mentioned, which made Bettina stare at her. “Bettina, I know he can. I keep my mouth shut, but I do not deny the spirits.”

  On hearing this, Bettina relaxed. Most white folks mocked the old ways. “They are all around us.”

  “May I ask why my mother? She was no conjurer.”

  “Your mother was an angel. Your mother had power, yes, she did. She could see into the future. She knew when others would die or live. She knew when she was going to die. She was not afraid, but she didn’t want to leave you and Rachel. She made me promise to watch over you, to keep good spirits about you.”

  Catherine did not doubt this. Her mother, always sensitive, would speak to people in their own language, their own ways, if she could.

  John was mystified. “I mean no offense, but why would someone put a cross on Isabelle Garth’s tomb?”

  “To ask for her protection,” Bettina half whispered. “We need to protect Moses and Ailee, and the baby when it comes.”

  Catherine put her hands together. “Oh, no. Ailee is with child?”

  Bettina nodded. “We need kind spirits. We need the Old Missus. She would find a way.”

  Friday, August 5, 2016

  Piled against the inside wall of the equipment shed, the siding was held in place by vertical stakes so it wouldn’t slip. Although the boards and the metal sides weren’t heavy, they weren’t that light, either.

  Harry and Fair painted the woodwork on the shed July 31 as planned. However, taking down the siding took longer. Working outside in summer tired Harry more quickly than working outside in the other seasons, although a deep snow could wear her out.

  “We did a good job.” She admired it as she walked outside, followed by the barn swallows. “Hey, that’s too close.”

  A female flew right to her face, then darted away. “Zap.”

  Mrs. Murphy crouched down as the bird returned for another pass. The tiger cat launched herself straight up, hoping to catch the saucy bird between her paws. Thin air was her reward. She came down on all fours.

  “Barn swallows aren’t worth it.” Pewter, as always, generously gave of her opinion.

  Sit
ting on her haunches, licking her front paw as though this was of no concern, Mrs. Murphy responded, “Maybe not, but they taunt me.”

  On cue, Luciano flew over Pewter and turned upside down like a jet plane, joyfully screaming, “Fatty.”

  Huffed up, Pewter took a swat at the devilish bird.

  Paying no attention to the catcalling, Harry trudged back to the house.

  The two cats shot ahead of her, separated, ran in a beeline to each other, leapt straight up in the air, bumped chests, and fell back.

  “That’s a show!” Harry laughed, always delighted to see animals play.

  Asleep, Tucker didn’t lift her head when the three walked into the kitchen.

  Harry sat down in the house office, turned on the big computer that Fair had specially made for his work. He didn’t mind Harry using it. She actually liked looking at the big screen.

  The two cats followed her in.

  “Don’t bat at the screen. You’ll push her into a bad mood,” Mrs. Murphy warned the gray cat.

  Already next to the screen, Pewter called down. “Just words. Nothing good.” She then settled down, dozing.

  Harry read, then typed other things in. Read again.

  “Hmm. Leukemia first appears in the English language in 1873 in an English pathology text describing an overproduction of white blood cells, which the author, a Dr. Green, thought often attacked the spleen.”

  Mrs. Murphy jumped up to sit on the other side of the computer screen. Harry kept reading, clicking on more stuff.

  Pushing back in her chair, she rubbed her chin for a moment. “Leukos means white in Attic Greek. You know, Mrs. Murphy, we’ve known about many diseases for thousands of years. We can describe them. Physicians to the pharaohs described cancers, heart attacks accurately. But no one knew what to do. We still don’t. Here I’m reading about all kinds of new drugs. You can prolong life, ease the worst of the pain, but the truth is the stuff is going to kill you.”

  “You have to die of something,” the tiger cat sensibly said.

  Harry reached over, rubbed the cat’s cheeks. “Governor Holloway doesn’t have but so much time.”