Drinking from a small creek, the two decided to rest in the shade of a big pecan tree. “Look.” Benjamin pointed upward. A squirrel chattered at the intruders who invaded its domain. For a minute or two, both forgot the desolation and chuckled at its lecture.
A wisp of Dayme’s auburn hair had fallen down on her forehead. Her face was flushed and damp, clothing snagged and torn. Benjamin leaned against the tree watching the girl toss pebbles into the water like a child. Watching the sway of her curvaceous hips brought lustful thoughts. It had been so long since he'd held a beautiful woman. Then he recalled the promise and brushed the thoughts aside.
“Do you like custard pie?” Dayme asked out of the blue.
“Never met a pie I didn’t like,” he replied. “Why?”
“Thought perhaps I’d make you one.”
He grinned. “Servants do the cooking at Larkspur. I doubt Mums even knew how. There was no need.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure of what?”
“That they’re still there…the Negroes.” She hoped the freed slaves would be gone so the two of them could be alone together in that big old house. She glanced at him dreamily. Then, she thought, you’d want me to cook for you.
He wasn’t certain of anything and told her so. He wasn’t even certain the mansion would be standing. While they rested, the sound of silence was deafening. Crickets screamed mating calls. Frogs croaked at the water’s edge. Songbirds fluttered in the trees. Few birds put forth the effort to sing. It was just too hot.
“We must go on,” he told her. “Still a long way to go.” They waded the creek, finally reaching a trail more familiar to Benjamin. The man stopped abruptly and sniffed the air. “Something or somebody is dead over there.”
Dayme was the first to see it looming before them, hanging in a tree. A dead Negro deputy sheriff, his brand new star glistening in a streak of sunlight cutting through the trees. The face of the rotting, bloated corpse was contorted into a gruesome, grotesque mask. The tongue hung out. It was naked from the waist down and had been mercilessly mutilated. The body was covered with buzzing green flies and crawling maggots. The sightless eyes stared at a patch of trampled violets.
Dayme shuddered and retched. “How awful!”
“Don’t look.” Benjamin placed a protective arm around the girl and they hurried onward. “Poor devil. He didn’t have much chance as a lawman in Mississippi.”
In spite of the intense heat, her teeth chattered, and she trembled. “Vigilantes did this. The Order of the White Rose.”
“There’s no telling what that colored boy did, flaunting that deputy badge.
Perhaps he insulted a white woman. He should have known better.”
“Shouldn’t we go back and report this?” Dayme whimpered.
“Definitely not! It’s best not to know in these troubled times. It was a cruel way to die, true, but he will be an example for the other renegade Yankee-loving slaves. What choice do we have? We either turn our country over to the damn Yankees and the coloreds, or fight back. They must know the consequences.” His fingers dug into her soft shoulders as he searched her frightened eyes. “Don’t go hysterical on me. We didn’t see anything, young lady. Understand? Nothing! Just try to forget it.”
“But…but, Benjamin,” Dayme sobbed. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “It’s not right. They didn’t have to do that to him.”
“Hell no, it’s not right,” Benjamin replied doggedly. “But that’s the way it is.”
Hurrying onward, the couple crossed winding Big Black River on a railroad bridge that had been crudely repaired with makeshift material, even cotton bales. Farther down the track, they discovered why a train was stalled. The track ahead had been blown up. A smile spread across Benjamin’s face. “My hat is off to the gentlemen who blew that track.”
Not wanting a confrontation with the Union officers who supervised the Negro work crew, the couple walked closer to the river to avoid them. Finally, the exhausted couple arrived at Farrington’s private wharf late in the afternoon. One southern-engineered log raft was tied there. The big steam-powered barge used for hauling cotton and other produce to market was missing. So were the canoes and the cabin boat the family used for outings. Benjamin harked and spit into the river in disgust as he surveyed the thievery.
Dangling her aching feet in the cool river water felt so good that Dayme almost forgot about the itching mosquito bites. She looked a mess, her hair tangled and wet with sweat. Her dress was halfway ripped off at the waist. The humidity was so heavy they could hardly breathe. There was no breeze.
Forcing his bone-weary body up, Benjamin went upstream to check on the springhouse for food. There was none. When he returned, Dayme had plucked the last of the wild grapes the bees hadn’t quite finished from the arbor over a picnic table.
“See that tree house yonder in the big oak? It was my favorite place as a lad. Where I went to be alone, nurse a hurt or conjure up mischief. Larkspur is just over the slope.” The orchard had suffered severe neglect throughout the war years. Broken limbs and dead branches, rotting peaches splattered all over the ground were covered with ants, gnats and wasps. The waste angered Benjamin. He gathered a couple for them to eat along the way.
Irregular patches of dried purple larkspurs still lined the lane. All had gone to seed, promising to bloom again next spring. Some distance to the west of the lane was a heap of burned rubble where once the stables stood. All the fine horses were gone. Stock pen fences were broken. Half the big red barn had burned. Not a hoof of livestock anywhere. A few speckled chickens scratched in the dirt and chased after bugs. Honeybees dipped deep into the sweet honeysuckle blooms on the latticework of the summerhouse, and a hummingbird drew nectar from the fading rose garden. Petals covered the ground in defeat from the blistering heat and the strangle hold of weeds choking their thorny stems. Uneven hedges were once trimmed square. Flowerbeds were full of waist-high weeds and grass. Some of Mrs. Farrington’s marble statuettes and Grecian benches were chipped and broken from gunfire. The grass was more than knee high.
“It’s so quiet,” Dayme said as they approached the mansion.
“Somebody’s here,” he told her. “One of the darkies made the raft.”
The imposing three-story home was pockmarked with bullet holes and badly in need of paint but it had been spared cannon fire. Pillows and rags were stuffed in numerous broken windowpanes and some were completely boarded up. Otherwise, the Farrington home was intact. Benjamin’s grandfather, Atwood Farrington, built the dignified old mansion in 1822, patterning it after the family home in England. He set it on a four foot foundation to protect it from flood water, and as far back as Benjamin could remember, roaring Big Black River had filled the basement only once. A spacious portico supported by huge white columns had marble steps on three sides. Benjamin’s parents remodeled with several additions, including a roofed double veranda across the entire front. The ground level was floored with flagstones. This was a sitting place with wood slatted swings, ornate wrought iron tables, chairs and settees. The house faced south, so the veranda was almost always cool and shaded. Flowering magnolia trees, weeping willows, evergreens, lilac bushes and cottonwood trees were scattered throughout the landscaped grounds.
The spotted hound, Duke, was the first to spot the pair. The dog was twelve years old and didn’t hear well. Else he would have announced them sooner. Heralding their arrival with a series of loud barks, he ran to meet his master. Wagging his tail vigorously and panting, the dog reared up and licked Benjamin in the face.
“Glad to see you, too, fellow.” He smiled and rubbed the dog’s head with affection.
Logan came running down the portico steps to greet them as other black faces peered from the windows. “Mista Ben!” he cried. “It’s so good you come home. We been waitin’ for you like we promised yo’ mama.” He grasped Benjamin’s hand and smiled, revealing two gold teeth. Logan worked in the cotton fields until about the time the war started. Bess Fa
rrington transferred him to the servant staff when he got older. His job primarily had been to park carriages, run errands and do odd jobs. Cassie did the laundry and anything else the housekeeper asked her to do.
“How many coloreds stayed?”
“Jes’ me an’ Cassie an’ my two boys, Luke an’ Ike. Lazarus an’ Josephus an’ their fam’lies. Old Rufus an’ Mose stayed on, too. Just too lazy to go, I reckon. Them an’ Josephus is down at the quawters makin’ wild grape wine.”
“It figures,” Benjamin replied with sarcasm. “Rotten peaches all over the ground and them making wine. Why in the hell didn’t ya’ll gather the peaches?”
Logan shrugged uncomfortably. “Had all we could eat. Didn’t think about it.”
“You damn fool! What about this winter?” He dropped the issue, deciding to pursue it further later. “Just eight able-bodied adults out of more than two hundred… a few pickaninnies and some old and decrepit slaves with one foot in the grave? That’s all?”
Logan nodded. “Yes, Suh. Rest of ‘em run off when the Yankee soldiers come in a-yellin’ ‘you’s free!’ Even Uncle Henry an’ Ain’t Fern. Uncle Henry as deaf as a stick. They didn’t have no more idy than old Duke what them soldiers said or where they ’s a-goin’. Just foller’d the pack like two old sheep dead with old age. Pore old Ain’t Fern was a-limpin’ along leanin’ on a stick with the miseries in her hip ‘n heels an’ me an’ Cassie a-beggin’ ‘em to stay put. She crippled along ‘bout a half a mile b’hind. The damn fools.”
“The butler? The other house servants?”
“They’s the ones leadin’ the pack.”
“That surprises me. They had it so easy. Mums taught the unappreciative bums to read and write even though it was illegal. I hope they starve to death!”
“Benjamin! Shame on you,” Dayme interrupted.
“I meant every word.” His face scowled as if he’d just fallen into a vat of pickle juice.
Logan shuffled his feet and his face possessed a guilty expression. “Me an’ Cassie, we took care o’ Miss Bess, but she died, Mista Ben. We…we kinda stayed on in the big house.”
“In the servant’s quarters, I presume.”
The old Negro swallowed hard. “No, Suh. Kinda moved in ‘cross the hall from Miss Bess. The rest of ‘em---they kinda moved in, too.”
Benjamin shook his finger in the man’s face. His commanding words shot out like bullets. “Get this straight, Logan. Nothing has changed at Larkspur! Nothing! Nobody takes over Larkspur but a Farrington. Get those good-for-nothing niggers out of my home and back down to the slave quarters where they belong. Now! You and Cassie move your things into the house servant’s quarters immediately. You have an hour. Move! I don’t want to see one black track when I enter.”
After Logan scurried back into the house with Benjamin’s orders, Dayme stretched out in a swing and admonished Benjamin. “You didn’t have to be so tough on the poor old fellow. He didn’t have to stay and tend your mother. Those people are free. And in my opinion, they should be. It’s not right for people to own people.”
Ignoring her last remark, Benjamin sneered sarcastically. “What do you know about working slaves? A man can’t be easy, or they’ll take him in.”
“They nursed your mother,” the girl insisted.
“Of course, they did. It was their job. The ‘old South’ remains on Larkspur. Nothing has changed. Black is black and white is white.”
The girl chuckled, teasing him. “We lost the war, Benjamin. They’re bound to catch on sooner or later.”
“I’m the master of Larkspur Plantation,” he replied doggedly.
“Why are you mad at them?”
Benjamin shrugged. “I’m not mad at them. Just had to put them in their place.”
Sometime later, Logan shook his hoary head and explained the situation at Larkspur during the war. “Lost our boy, Solomon. He died at Shiloh. Jeremiah an’ Tony ain’t come back. Don’t know if they’s dead or alive." The old fellow stood up erect with a look of pride. “All my boys was Confederate soldiers.”
Awed by the imposing, stately old mansion, Dayme could hardly wait to see inside, but they waited while the Negroes moved out. She listened in silence to the two men talk.
“Confederates are being processed every day,” Benjamin told Logan. “I’m sorry about Solomon.”
“Elly growed up. Married after you left f’ war. Her an’ her man, Tom, they run off, too. Shamed me an’ Cassie, but ain’t nothin’ we could do. Sure do miss ‘er. I asked ‘em what ‘mancipated means, and they say it means free.” The Negro chuckled but it was mirthless. “I asked ‘em free f’ what? Free t’ starve? Lawkspur’s our home, I said. Ain’t noplace else to go. But no. Them two didn’t pay ole Pap no ‘tention.” Tears swam in Logan’s eyes and his voice choked. “I told ‘em I’s free enough. Be downright lost if I ever left Lawkspur. I’s borned here.”
Out of breath from the sudden move to the servant’s quarters, Cassie came running outside, stopping once to fasten a shoe. “Praise the Lord! You’se come home!” she cried as her plump black arms embraced him. “We lost your mother, child. We lost Miss Bess.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of an apron. “The Missus died whilst you was gone. Her little ole heart give out. Oh, Mista Ben, I’m so sorry for you. It just breaks my heart.”
“I heard, Nanny,” Benjamin said softly. “Cassie, you remember Miss Dayme O’Malley, the storekeeper’s daughter? Her folks are all dead so she’ll be living here for awhile.”
The woman nodded. “I ‘members.” Having heard the town talk, she wondered why he had brought common folk to Larkspur. She chose to ignore the girl. “Them Yankees come a-chargin’ in here an’ tore up the place lookin’ for hid valuables. They cut up yo’ mama's feather beds, an’ I had t’ patch 'em. Hauled off the horses an’ mules an’ stole the boats. Them devils caught an’ wrung the necks o’ all Miss Bess's chickens, an’ butchered the breedin’ hogs an’ milk cows right befo’ our hungry eyes… even that po’ little old crippled red hen named Pet. They et ‘em all ‘ceptin’ one old speckled settin’ hen what stole out her nest.”
Knowing full well that once Cassie had the floor, she’d talk until somebody shut her up, Logan butted in, “Cleaned out the smokehouse, too, an’ took all the feed an’ grain we’d saved when the barn caught fire. Lost half the barn when we burned up the cotton. Miss Bess told us t’ burn the las’ crop. Ain’t planted no more.”
“So I notice,” Benjamin replied dryly. “From the looks of things, nothing’s been done since I left. That’s just come to a whoa-halt. I don’t want to see another peach fall to the ground. The grounds are a disgrace. The land must be plowed for planting next Spring. What have you people been doing?”
“Ain’t got no mules, Mista Ben,” Logan cried. “All them field hands gone. Ain’t enough o’ us to….”
“Make do.” Farrington’s voice was firm and commanding. “Larkspur must regain her pride.”
“An’ what them Yankees didn’t git, the damn niggers took,” Cassie said angrily. “They’d a-took it all iff’n there’d been any mules left to pull a wagon. Them black hussies took all Miss Bess’s good town-goin’ things. We seen ‘em a-struttin' down the road in ‘em. They cleaned out your chiffonnier, child, lookin’ for fancies, but the Missus stored your good stuff in the attic when you joined the army.” The old woman pursed her lips in an uppity manner. “Them servant’s clothes, they’s still here. Didn’t none of ‘em want ‘em. Oh, no. They’s too good t’ wear work clothes.”
“I’m thirsty," Dayme said, rising from the swing. “I need….”
“Cassie, bring us some….”
“Water? Ain’t got no lemonade, Mr. Ben.” She pushed her heavy body into a near trot to get it. As she poured the water, she had an all wise “I know something you don’t know” expression. “Them Yankee soldiers---they didn’t find ever’thing.”
“Don't play games, Cassie. What didn’t they find?”
“Me an’ my Logan w
e buried it, that’s what.”
“Hesh up, woman!” Logan glared at his wife, rolling his eyes in the direction of Dayme. “Yo’ tongue's always waggin’ when it best be shut up.”
“Speak up,” Benjamin demanded. “Miss O’Malley is on my side.”
“Nobody knows about it ’ceptin’ just us. Buried it long time ago, late one night whilst….,” Logan explained.
“The rest o’ the servants was sleepin’,” Cassie finished the sentence. “Miss Bess didn’t trust….”
“I’m a-tellin’ this,” Logan told his wife sharply. “Yo’ mama swore me an’ Cassie to secrecy, before the Good Bein’ on the Holy Bible, not to tell nobody ’cept you.”
“That’s right,” Cassie confirmed. “She swore the Good Bein’d strike us down dead if we tell a soul.”
“What did you bury?”
“Well,’ I'm gettin' to it,” Logan replied uncomfortably. “If Cassie’ll shut her mouth. First time….”
“You buried it more than once?”
“Yes, Suh, first time in the corner o’ the rose garden. Musta been ‘bout six months ‘fore the Battle o’ Big Black. It was rose plantin’ time, and I set out a few cuttin’s to cover my tracks. Miss Bess, she worried all the time ‘fraid them Yankees gonna find it. When she got to ailin’ real bad, few days ‘fore she passed on to her rewawd, she made me promise t’ move it.” The sad look on the servant’s face revealed that he really didn’t want to tell Benjamin where he finally buried the trunk. His husky voice cracked with emotion, and his eyes pleaded for understanding. “Mista Ben, we…we didn’t have no choice. Night she passed through them pearly gates, I dug it up.” His voice lowered to almost a whisper for he still didn’t trust the girl. “Buried it in the bottom o’ Miss Bess’s grave ‘fore them church folks come an’ buried her.”
“Good heavens! Under Mum’s casket?”
“Yes, Suh…it is.” Logan twisted his battered hat in his hands. “Put her weddin’ ring ‘n Bible In anotha box an’ buried it, too. It’s down there just waitin’ to be dug up.” The man wiped away an instant tear with his bare hand, his countenance still pleading for approval. “Didn’t want to but Miss Bess said to.”
Child of the River Page 3
