Benton's Row

by Frank Yerby

  FRANK

  YERBY

  Benton’s

  Row

  BENTON’S ROW

  Frank Yerby

  “IN the past twenty years English curiosity about the Deep South has been rightly sated by American novelists, and to many readers the description of Mr Frank Yerby’s new work of fiction as ‘a four-generation novel about the South’ may act as a sharp deterrent. More kindly Negroes, more camellias, more gracious living in Grecian Mansions, more Spanish moss? Here they will be wrong . . . The South of Mr Yerby in this lengthy novel, stretching from 1843 to 1920 and covering the singular misfortunes of the Benton family during this extensive period of time, rings a very authentic note . . . But apart from a wealth of suggestive fact to be gleaned by reading Benton’s Row, and even apart from the tumultuous succession of incidents of love, sex, violence, more violence, murder and sudden death, this novel raises wider and more disturbing issues for the critic . . . How . . . are we to explain why it is so hard to put Benton’s Row down? A best-seller who has since 1946 sold more than twelve million copies of his novels in the United States alone, Mr Yerby perfectly understands the mixture of episode needed to keep alive interest in a tale . . . He believes in his characters’ sentiments, as well as in their sentimentality, he believes in their bouts of violence; and by doing so he carries us panting along behind him, so that we believe in it too.”

  The Times

  Frank Yerby was born in Augusta, Georgia, in 1916. He studied at Fisk University in Tennessee and at the University of Chicago where he gained his M.A. degree. During the war he wrote his first novel and has since had twenty-three others published. He now lives in Spain.

  NOVELS BY

  FRANK YERBY

  The Foxes of Harrow

  The Vixens

  The Golden Hawk

  Pride’s Castle

  Floodtide

  A Woman Called Fancy

  The Saracen Blade

  The Devil’s Laughter

  Bride of Liberty

  Benton’s Row

  The Treasure of Pleasant Valley

  Captain Rebel

  Fairoaks

  The Serpent and the Staff

  Jarrett’s Jade

  Gillian

  The Garfield Honour

  Griffin’s Way

  The Old Gods Laugh

  An Odour of Sanctity

  Judas, My Brother

  Goat Song

  Speak Now

  The Man from Dahomey

  The Girl from Storyville

  The Voyage Unplanned

  William Heinemann Ltd

  15 Queen Street, Mayfair, London W1X 8BE

  LONDON MELBOURNE TORONTO

  JOHANNESBURG AUCKLAND

  First published 1955

  Reprinted 1955, 1967, 1971, 1974

  Printed Offset Litho and bound in Great Britain

  by Cox & Wyman Ltd,

  London, Fakenham and Reading

  Book One

  BENTON’S ROW

  1

  TOM BENTON, the man himself, came into Louisiana in 1842, riding out of Texas, out of the sunset, out, in fact, of the myths and legends already enshrouding his past; becoming, by that simple act of appearing at the end of the San Antonio Trace, for the space of years, a man living, breathing, thinking like other men, differing from them only in the minor peculiarities by which each man differs from his fellows.

  But only for a space of years. Because, given the opportunity, and having as one of his points of variation a certain intensity, a driving force rather superior to that granted to the commonalty of men, he came to found a dynasty, becoming, as far as the back country and bayou people were concerned, the first of that line of Bentons who were for so long to trouble their little portion of earth.

  So it was that after his death, perhaps even before, he was to slide back again into myth and legend, his stature augmented in the minds of his progeny to that of a folk-hero—more, even into demi-god, princely in his valour, sage-like in wisdom, strong beyond the possibility of mere humanity, fair with that commanding male beauty attributed always to the offspring of the dim, ancestral gods.

  He, the man himself, was none of these things. It was merely that he gave the legend shape, force, direction, by believing implicitly of himself all the things that were afterwards said of him. Thereby he convinced others of the verity of that which in actuality had little or no verity, being thus, in minuscule, the very type-form of the South, a region about which more lies have been solemnly told and believed than about any other comparable section of earth.

  But that spring afternoon when he appeared on the edge of the Tyler plantation in the back-bayou country near the Red River he was not concerned with creating legends. His concerns were at that moment very simple: putting as many miles as possible between him and a determined group of Texans bent upon hanging him upon the nearest tree for the crimes of which he was indisputably guilty, finding food to fill a belly empty now for three days, discovering at last a place to hide—and rest.

  He pulled up the horse atop the little rise and shifted his weight in the saddle, looking behind him. Looking back, westward towards Texas, had become a habit with him. But now, when he looked forward again, he saw the cabin.

  Grey smoke plumed upward from the chimney. He smelled the smoke, and another smell, too: side meat and greens cooking; and the hunger inside his belly was a knife suddenly, twisting. He kicked in, touching the rowels of his spurs against the roan mustang’s sides, and went on down the little slope until he came to the door.

  The mustang’s hoofs made a clatter on the hard clay of the yard; and, hearing them, the woman came out. She stood there, gazing up at him. He pushed his hat back on his head and looked at her, his lips forming a soundless whistle, for this one was a woman, much woman, as the Greasers said, and the sight of her eased the torment of all the endless, sunbaked miles he had ridden, all the cold nights shivering, half asleep, his fingers clamped around the gun-butt, until, getting up in the morning, he had to force them open with his other hand—right out of him, and he smiled.

  His face was teak-coloured from the sun, the jaw blurred with a week’s growth of beard, so that the smile flashed like light out of darkness, and was gone.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” he said.

  She didn’t answer him. She was a big girl, and her bones were big. She didn’t have much flesh, but he liked them like that. Be a screeching wildcat in bed, I reckon, he thought; and the thought pleased him. Her hair was a dark honey blonde; and her eyes were the grey of hickory wood smoke, slow-burning. Standing there like that, she was something.

  Her eyes had no fear in them; but something else—curiosity, interest, appraisal, something more, something that she herself did not yet realise she had, a facet of her personality of which she was still unaware, a part, a basis of her being which would have horrified her had she recognised it. But he, being at the same time simpler than she and more complicated, saw it at once, and smiled. He wondered how long she was going to stand there without saying anything; and he didn’t know what to do about it; but, as it turned out, he didn’t have to do anything at all. An old negro appeared in the door behind the woman, a shot-gun in his hands, pointing straight at the rider’s chest, its muzzle shaking with fear and with fury.

  “Git away from here, white man!” the negro said. “Marse Bob done told me not to let no poor white menfolks light! You git, I tell you!”

  Tom Benton grinned at him, and reined the mustang in closer.

  “Now, Uncle . . .” he began.

  “I said git!” the negro shouted; but Tom Benton moved easily, smoothly, without any perceptible haste, swinging down from his horse, letting the reins trail downward over the beast’s head, and starting towards th
e negro with the calm deliberation of a man embarking upon a casual stroll. Except that there was something else in it: a grimness almost tactile, a purpose so sure, final, confident, that the frail old man could stand but five seconds of it, the shaking growing like an ague all through him, until, while Tom was still two yards away from him, he dropped the gun and ran wildly back into the house.

  Tom started after him; but the girl stretched her arm across the doorway, barring his way.

  “Leave him be,” she said.

  “Mighty uppity for a nigger,” Tom said. “ ‘Pears like I better learn him not to go round pointing guns at white men—specially not Texas white men.”

  “My husband told him to do that,” the girl said.

  “Then that makes somebody else I got to learn something,” Tom said mildly. “Tell your nigger to come back out here.”

  “No,” the girl said flatly.

  He stared at her. Then, very slowly, he smiled. “I won’t hurt him,” he said. “I promise.”

  She searched his face. Then, quite suddenly, she was sure.

  “Jonas!” she called. “Come out here!”

  “Miz Sarah!” the old negro quavered, “I dasn’t! I just naturally dasn’t! I plumb scairt of that there white man.”

  “He won’t bother you,” Sarah said. “Come on.”

  Jonas put his head through the door, his black face ashen with fear.

  “Come on out, Jonas,” Tom Benton said.

  Jonas slid sidewise half through the door. Tom moved then so fast that his arm stretching out blurred with the speed of the motion, his big fingers closing into the front of Jonas’s shirt, jerking the old man out of the door, holding him up so that only his toes trailed in the dirt.

  “Please, suh, Cap’n,” the old negro wept, “don’t.”

  “I promised your lady I wouldn’t hurt you,” Tom said. “And I won’t. But get one thing through your thick skull, old nigger: don’t care what nobody tells you, don’t you go pointing guns at no white men, you hear me?”

  “Yassuh,” Jonas quavered. “Please, suh, Cap’n . . .”

  Tom released him.

  “I don’t aim to whip you,” he said; “leas’ways long as you don’t rile me. You and me’s going to get along just fine, Jonas. I’m plumb, downright easy to get along with. I talk, and niggers jump. That way, I’m fine.”

  “Yassuh, Cap’n,” Jonas said.

  Tom turned to the girl.

  “He’ll behave hisself from now on, I reckon,” he said. “Now if it ain’t putting you out, ma’am, I’d shore appreciate a little hot water and the loan of one of your husband’s razors—mighty tired of hiding under this brush.”

  “All right,” the girl said. “Come this way.”

  “Ma’am,” Tom chuckled, “I hope you won’t think I’m pushing or forward, or anything like that; but I got a powerful hankering to know yore name.”

  “Sarah,” the girl said. “Sarah Tyler.”

  “Mighty proud to make yore acquaintance, Miz Tyler.”

  Tom said. “My handle’s Tom Benton. But you just call me Tom. I don’t believe in standing on ceremony.”

  “You sure Lord don’t,” Sarah said.

  Tom sat in the kitchen and waited, watching her deft motions as she heated the water for him. Good-looking woman, he was thinking, moves so soft and easy-like. Spirited, too; I kin tell that. Take a bit of gentling to git next to.

  “Here’s your hot water,” Sarah said.

  She didn’t go anywhere. She sat there, watching him hack off the wiry black beard, watching his face emerge out of concealment, her mind working slowly, maddeningly, the thoughts crackling slow like a brush fire starting.

  Young—not old like Reverend Tyler. (She called her husband that, even in thinking.) Good-looking—bad, wicked good looks. Cruel, tormenting mouth. And those eyes.

  He smiled at her, seeing her stare.

  “What you looking at, Sary-gal?” he mocked her, laughing at her out of those eyes of his, crazily, impossibly blue in the burnt teak of his face.

  “At fire’n’ brimstone,” Sarah said, hearing her own voice far off, strange, a husky whisper in the oppressive stillness of the room.

  He put the razor down carefully, and wiped his face before he came over to her. There was that about him too—the deliberation of his motions, the dreadful sureness with which he moved. Like a storm a-brewing, Sarah thought; like he knows there ain’t nothin’ or nobody what can stand agin him.

  But there wasn’t any more time for thinking, because his dark face was above hers, blurring out of focus with the near-ness, shutting out what was left of the light. When time came jangling back into existence again, she hung there still, staring at him.

  “You hadn’t ought to of done that,” she said.

  “Why not?” he mocked. “ ‘Cause you got a husband? The more fool he for runnin’ off and leaving you alone like this. Finders, keepers, where I come from.”

  “I know where that is,” Sarah whispered. “Out of night and darkness where the damned souls lie a-moaning and a-screeching, and even the fire what burns them don’t give no light.”

  Tom laughed again, clearly.

  “That’s Bible talk,” he said; “and you don’t look like no Bible-reading woman.”

  “I am, though,” she said defiantly. “My husband’s a preacher.”

  “And an old man,” Tom added quietly.

  She stared at him, her grey eyes opening wide.

  “How’d you know that?” she got out.

  “That kiss,” Tom laughed. “That was a right pert hongry kiss for a woman what’s properly wed and bed.”

  “Confound you!” Sarah flared; “I’ll—”

  “You’ll kiss me some more when I git around to it,” Tom said. “But right now you’re looking at a starved and famished man. Don’t tell me Louisiana folks ain’t got no hospitality about them.”

  The food she had prepared for her own supper was still in the pan, pushed back a little from over the fire-pit of the clay firebrick stove the Reverend Tyler, her husband, had made for her with his own strong, tender hands. She hadn’t eaten it, not only because she hadn’t had time to eat the greens and side meat—if only she had begun to eat as soon as it was cooked—but because she hadn’t really felt like eating it at all.

  She had put that down to loneliness, but it was more. It was true that the cabin was far out, just beyond the edge of the bayou country, on the beginning of the flat-lands that stretched westward towards Texas and the setting sun, so that days ran together imperceptibly in the flux of time, melting into weeks, into months even, without her having seen another living soul except Jonas, and, at rare intervals, her husband. There were times when she found herself talking to herself aloud, merely, she thought, to hear the sound of a human voice. That was bad enough. What was worse were the nagging doubts that came in the night to plague her.

  He ain’t really got the call. He stays away like this—circuit ain’t really that big, he could come home more frequent—‘cause he’s afraid not to. Good man, big, fine-lookin’, but the strength’s goin’ out of him. Younger man would give up this preaching foolishness and tend to his land—and—and his wife. Dear Lord, I’m sick of sleeping alone!

  “All right,” she said to Tom Benton, “I’ll fix you some vittles.”

  She poked up the fire and brought the pan back over it. She could feel Tom Benton’s eyes upon her, and then, unbidden, naked, a thought that she had often had, more than a thought really, a need, a hunger, transfixed her motionless, paralysing her tall, good body under his eyes.

  A child. A big, bawlin’ young ‘un—wouldn’t be so lonely then. Sing it to sleep at night. Tend to it. Only he’s too old—too old—

  It was then, at that moment, that the shaking got into her hands, so that she had to take them off the handle of the frying-pan. She knew without turning that Tom had got up and come over to her, then his big hands closed over her shaking fingers.

  “Bad bein’ l
onely, ain’t it, Sary-gal?” he said, and his voice was curiously gentle.

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s bad.”

  She sat there watching him eat. There was no hunger in her, at least not any such simple hunger. The way he ate, wolfing down the food, was enough to warm the cockles of any woman’s heart. Reverend Bob Tyler merely picked at his food, too worn-out tired to eat, really—the burdens of poverty and of his scattered flock crushing down upon him so that his good, big, gentle mouth had forgotten how to smile.

  Tom finished, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he dug into his shirt pocket and came out with the battered stub of a cigar. She got a coal for him from the fire, and he lit it, sighing with satisfaction, rocking back in the rude chair, smiling.

  Home, he told himself, I’m home.

  He didn’t say anything. He just sat there, watching her clean up the kitchen, until, looking through the window, he saw that the light had spilled out of the sky suddenly, so that the edges had blurred away off everything, the big oak near the gate a ghost shadow now, darkness upon darkness, and far off and dim, to the east, a single star.

  He got up then, very slowly. He was was not a man to hurry about anything. Seeing him coming towards her, Sarah got up, too.

  “Come here, Sary-gal,” Tom whispered.

  She stood there, looking at him a long moment. Then, slowly, quietly, without any protest whatsoever, moving like a sleep-walker, she came to his waiting arms.

  He was asleep now—now at last that morning was greying the sky in the east, the light coming up so that she could see him lying there, the whole, lean, hard, clean-muscled length of him, one arm flung backward under his head, the black tuft of armpit hair showing, the silken mat of blackness covering his chest and belly, wide-shouldered, slim-hipped, hollowwaisted, and she sitting up looking at him shamelessly, worshipping his male-god’s body with her eyes, thinking: