Child of the River

by Wanda T. Snodgrass

  Grinning sheepishly, the man raised both hands defensively. ‘It’s against my better judgment, but you may have your school. You can be most persuasive, young lady…persuasive, as well as decorative. I need you to brighten up the gloom.”

  All her defenses melted. She felt a warm glow. Benjamin needs me. He thinks I’m pretty. He wants me to stay. She smiled up at him. “It’s settled then. School starts on Monday as scheduled.”

  Chapter 9

  Crisp autumn days passed rapidly while pressing repairs were made at Larkspur. Gold, red and yellow leaves fluttered softly to the ground. Negroes scrambled in the bottomland for nuts to sell before the Christmas holidays. An abundance of pecans that season lowered prices drastically. It was almost fruitless to market them commercially. Alpaca fur skirts and coats were the rage that fall, but the fur was imported from South America, and few could afford it. Women were happy to get any kind of fur. The freedmen trapped small game for both food and hides. Squirrel, fox, rabbit and raccoon brought fair prices.

  Mississippi winters are generally mild, but Indian summer was interrupted rudely by a cold, Arctic blast that plummeted temperatures. A cold, north wind whistled through the trees, promising snow flurries. So deep in thought and trouble, Benjamin was oblivious to the cold. The man was at the end of his rope. He didn’t know what to do. The money Logan saved was gone. He sat down on the dock and folded his arms around his knees. The spotted hound sensed his master’s unhappiness. He snuggled down against Benjamin and nuzzled his head under his arm.

  Benjamin gazed at the rippling water while tired, dry leaves rustled in the wind with an urgency to undress the trees and float downriver to die. An occasional laugh or shout could be heard in the distance where the Negroes crawled through dry leaves, gathering pecans.

  All the money is gone without a dime coming in, he worried. How can I make it through the winter without…? Glancing around at the scene, refusing to think about the dismal undertaking, he forced an array of happier memories.

  He could almost hear the darkies singing as they rolled huge sacks of cotton down the rolling road and loaded them on the barge…the pickaninnies straining under the weight of bushel baskets filled with peaches and melons to be shipped north. He remembered fishing off the dock with Josephus, Solomon and Tony when they were lads.

  The creaking trolley in the blowing wind reminded Benjamin of sliding down the slope from the tree house. He walked the distance and climbed up the plank steps. Reaching upon the roof, he came up with a key inside a rusty tin box nailed there. He worked for some time before the rusty lock opened. Once inside, he opened the shutters on three sides. Looking down, he saw old Duke waiting patiently at the base of the gnarled tree. As memories flooded his conscience mind, he swept the thick coat of dust away. The tin soldiers he played with as a child were still lined up the way he left them on a shelf. He picked up the slingshot and stretched the rubber. He caressed the bottle horses, his books. He thumbed through the yellowed pages of David Copperfield’ his favorite. He opened the rusty tea can still filled with dried cedar bark and matches.

  I used to hide up here, he reminisced, and smoke grapevine or cedar bark or coffee cigars…whatever was handy. He chuckled softly, remembering how he and Morgan made up ghost stories to frighten the colored children. What was that game? Ah yes…Morgan named it. He called it “Raw Eyes and Bloody Bones”. We put our thumbs in our mouths and pulled our lower eyelids down and made awful noises. That got them on the run fast.

  Imogene Quincy. I sure did look forward to the Quincy carriage coming down the lane. I could hardly wait to get her in this tree house. I received a pretty good education in the ways of the world up here playing doctor.

  Benjamin marveled that Union soldiers didn’t bother the tree house. He took the telescope out of its case, mounted it on a tripod and gazed out over the river. The rope still dangled over the swimming hole. His long-dead father seemed to call to him, “Sink or swim, son!” Thought for sure I’d drown that day I learned to swim.

  Molly…Sweet, beautiful Molly. A waft of her perfume came to his memory. He remembered the girl’s squeals and laughter when he tried to kiss her in the canoe and it over-turned. They had to swim to shore. His mood changed abruptly to hurt and anger as the present time surfaced. Why did Molly leave Vicksburg without a word for me, without a word to anyone? He could hear her melodic voice at the train station the day he went away to war. “I’ll wait for you, darling, however long it takes. I’ll wait. When this old war is over, I’ll be waiting.”

  “Molly lied,” he muttered bitterly. “I must find out why.”

  Benjamin’s thoughts continued to drift from one subject to another. Thoughts of money he quickly pushed to the back of his mind. He thought about Dayme, cannon shells exploding and the noise of many rifles firing. Once again he cradled his dying friend in his arms. “I will, Lawrence,” he whispered. “I give you my solemn promise. I’ll take care of Dayme until a good man comes along to marry her.” The next picture to float into Benjamin’s mind was that of Dayme in his mother’s long, flowing white nightgown. He remembered the softness of her lips and the feel of her soft breasts against his bare chest, and he ached to hold her. “I’m just a fool,” he muttered for the second time. “A damn, stupid fool! It wouldn’t have been her first time. No. I haven’t the right. I can’t take advantage. I must try to clean up her reputation and hope people forget. I wish she didn’t excite me so.”

  He felt guilty for all the times he left Dayme at the mansion while he attended Starvation Parties at the homes of his friends. But how could I explain her? We are not a twosome. People would talk. Anyway, she simply isn’t ready to be introduced to society. She wouldn’t fit in.

  He clinched his fists, reliving the fight with the soldier and muttered, “Get up, you lowdown son-of-a-bitch!” I should have strangled the man. Then Benjamin was twelve again and distinctly heard his mother calling him. “Ben-ja-min, come ho-ome. It’s din-ner time.” He was so distressed and miserable when reality returned that he buried his face in his hands and wept. Old Duke looked up from the base of the tree. He whined soulfully as if he understood the pain his master was going through.

  It was time to face facts. Benjamin climbed wearily down from the tree house, his countenance glum and resigned. He sat down on the ground beside his dog and hugged him. “Can’t continue without funds, Duke,” he said huskily. “How on earth can I bear to…? But I must. Mums, oh, dear sweet Mums…I must. Please forgive me. I’ve tried. There’s no other way.”

  Once the awesome decision was made, he trudged up the slope to the mansion, bearing the weight of a troubled world on his shoulders. Most of that night, he lay awake staring into the darkness and dreading what must be done while the former slaves were still sleeping.

  At first light, Benjamin and Logan gently lowered Mrs. Farrington’s casket back into its resting place. The wind had slacked some, but it was a brisk, cold morning, and a light mist was falling. The sky was overcast and gray, looking much like the expression on Benjamin’s face. Clods from Logan’s shovel fell in dull thuds onto the coffin. Only one shovel was brought to the site, and it fell Logan’s lot to use it.

  Benjamin’s hands trembled while he untied the small metal box that was neatly tucked under the rope around the trunk. His eyes were strangely dry. All the tears had finally been shed.

  The north wind droned through the wrought iron fence while the black man finished mounding the grave. Both men strained under the weight of the heavy marble tombstone marker. They took it from the wagon and loaded it onto a wheelbarrow to take to the gravesite. In lieu of flowers, Logan broke an evergreen branch and tenderly placed it on the mound. With his battered hat in hand, he respectfully bowed his head while Benjamin flipped through the pages of his mother’s worn Bible to a place she had placed a marker…John 14:27 was circled. Benjamin’s voice was barely audible as he read the verse, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let
it be afraid.”

  Cassie and Dayme watched the scene at the cemetery through a window. Logan struggled with the heavy trunk on the wheelbarrow as he pushed it upgrade to the mansion. Not once did Benjamin offer to help. “Into the library,” he commanded. “I’ll look over the contents and read Mum’s letter in the privacy of the library as soon as I get warm.”

  “Got yo’ breakfast nearly cooked,” Cassie cooed. “This coffee is fresh ‘n hot. It’ll take the chill off you.”

  “Might’s well throw that Confederate money away if any o’ that is in the trunk. It ain’t no good nohow,” Logan blurted.

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Benjamin replied crisply. “It will be good again when we get our country back from the damn Yankees.”

  After breakfast, Benjamin closed the library door. He opened his mother’s last letter first. He tucked the wedding ring inside a vest pocket, vowing he’d give it to Molly if ever he found her.

  Nineteenth, December

  Year of our Lord, 1864

  My Dearest Benjamin,

  I take my pen in trembling hand to enlighten you once more before I go home to my Lord. I wanted so desperately to live to see you come home but I hear my Savior calling me. My breath is labored and I know I’m not long for this world. When you read this letter somehow I will know that you have returned safely to Larkspur from this horrible war.

  As you already know, Son, part of the Farrington fortune went into Confederate bonds to help our soldiers at the front. Alas, the Confederate money is now worthless. That invested money is gone forever. The bulk of my estate, however, is safe in the Bank of England in London. The bankbook is enclosed.

  When your father was just a lad, he starting investing in gold. He collected valuable gold coins. He buried them beneath the flagstones on the east end of the veranda. Count back a few stones from the end and you will find them. I have no idea how many glass jars are there, but there should be a goodly number. God has been good to the Farrington family, and there was never a need to disturb John’s treasure. It awaits you, my son. Most of my friends sold their jewels to support the Southern cause. I couldn’t bear to part with mine, and now I feel ashamed. But perhaps the cause was lost from the beginning. The Union was so much better prepared. The war is over here in Vicksburg and the North has won. Life must go on, my son…for you, not me.

  I bequeath you the family silver, my jewels and the gold coins ($20 and $100 denominations) that were in my possession, along with thousands in Confederate money. Although it has no value here in Vicksburg, I still hold faint hopes the Confederacy will recapture the city. You will find my Last Will and Testament with deeds to Larkspur and other properties both in the United States, England and Ireland. Stocks, bonds, investments and mementoes are also included.

  I would choose that you never sell Larkspur. Keep it, as we have kept Shannon, the old family home in Ireland. John’s British ancestor stated in his Will that Shannon was to be handed down through the generations, and so it has been.

  Thank you, my son, for having the courage to touch my casket. You’ll be all the stronger (and richer) for it. I can rest in peace, knowing you are safe. I trust you will keep the faith, and when your journey on earth has ended, we will be together again with God, the father, Jesus, the son and the Holy Ghost in heaven.

  God bless and keep you. I am glad you are home.

  Your loving Mother

  Benjamin decided then and there to keep the vast fortune a secret to protect his mother’s image in the community. So many friends and associates were pauperized by the war. He decided not to embarrass them by lauding his good fortune.

  “Even in death, dear old Mums came through for me,” he murmured. He planned to make improvements gradually so nobody would know for the time being. And he planned to go back to Harvard to get his degree. He needed financial clout to achieve political power to accomplish his goal of reestablishing white supremacy in the South.

  Curious as to what Benjamin found in the trunk and why it was taking so long, the two servants and Dayme were in the hall outside when the library door suddenly burst open. Benjamin was beaming. “Cassie, fetch the bourbon.”

  “Yes Suh, Mista Ben,” the old woman replied. “I’ll get you a glass.”

  “Get four. We’ll all drink a toast to dear old Mums.”

  “How much was in there?” Dayme could contain her curiosity no longer.

  “Remind me sometime to teach you that asking ‘how much’ is in poor taste. But since you don’t have the manners God gave a goose and I’m in a good mood, I’ll tell you this. There was barely enough to plant the fields next spring and hire work hands, buy a half-dozen cows.” He took the glass Cassie offered and lifted it high. “To my Mother, the queen matriarch of Larkspur and now a jewel in heaven.”

  Benjamin was stricken with a sudden twinge of conscience at the sincerely pleasant expression on the servants’ faces. He was well aware that were it not for them, he would have nothing. “I almost forgot,” he said teasing them. “I saw the names of Logan and Cassie in Mum’s will. Anybody know those folks?”

  “That’s us,” Logan said quietly, puzzled that Benjamin didn’t know that.

  “Mums left me all the slaves and their increase. She named each of the original brood. I don’t know why. All are gone except this handful….”

  Logan was worried. “Since Mr. Lincoln done freed the slaves, ain’t we still “mancipated?”

  Somehow, the mention of the word emancipated irritated Benjamin even though he knew the bill was before Congress and would most certainly be ratified by mid-fall. “Is that so important to you?” he asked brusquely.

  “Naw, suh.” Logan shuffled his feet, embarrassed for asking. ‘Tsjust wonderin’.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun. It’s not official.”

  “It will’ be,” Dayme put in. “Slavery is over. It is wrong.” Benjamin just glared at her, saying nothing.

  “What did Miss Bess say about me an’ Logan?” Cassie blurted. “Did she…? You said you saw our names.”

  “Ah yes, so I did. Let’s see.” He was cheerful as he skimmed over the codicil, knowing full well the two were not mentioned in the Will. He ad-libbed the unwritten words. “To my faithful servants, Logan and Cassie, who nursed me throughout my long illness, I leave my peace and my love. Their deed will not go untold when I get to heaven. To those dear ones who buried my trunk, I leave the sum of one hundred dollars in gold to be paid directly to Logan.”

  “Glory be!” Logan jumped up and down with delight.

  “And to Cassie, I leave the ruby brooch in the round gold setting that she always admired.” He re-entered the library and came back with the brooch.

  “Oh…oh”! Cassie was so overcome with emotion that she was beyond words. Her eyes filled with grateful tears.

  Benjamin’s voice carried a new confidence. “Cassie, polish the silver and put it all back in its rightful place.”

  Chapter 10

  Winter wandered into spring, 1866. Mother Nature came out to play in early April, adorned with green leaves and colorful blossoms. A more cheerful atmosphere dominated the plantation. Fuzzy brown buds appeared on magnolia trees, giving promise of perfumed white flowers to come. The peach orchard was aflame with delicately scented pink blooms. Crape Myrtle, Easter lilies, lilac, honeysuckle, periwinkles and oleander added their fragrance to sweet smelling rosebuds. A carpet of wild flowers covered the countryside. Wild violets hid among the thorns in the river bottom, and mockingbirds proclaimed springtime with cheery melodies. It was mating season. Various species of wild birds built nests in preparation for the fruits of their love. The snowy, white blooms on the cottonwood trees heralded cotton-planting time.

  It was official. The Emancipation Proclamation had breezed through Congress last fall. Hearts of freedmen who had the dread that somehow southerners might block the measure were filled with hope in their newborn freedom. The old slave master days were indeed over. Farrington managed to retain rule ov
er Larkspur’s people but not in the forefront. That was Logan’s job. That way, he could play the good guy, present the appearance of acceptance of the law with little inexpensive gestures such as a sack of candy for the youngsters whenever he went into town. It was his cunning way of gaining the people’s confidence and blaming their woes on the Republicans… or Logan, one of their own.

  Larkspur’s four share-croppers: Joe Floyd, Lazarus Patson, and Ike and Luke Farrington were allowed to ‘straw boss’ the operation on their portion of the fields but always under the auspicious guidance of Logan. Under strict orders from Benjamin, he weeded out potential troublemakers and political activists from among the day laborers. Logan took his authority seriously and ran the plantation with an iron fist. He prodded the workers to work harder, hired and fired day laborers right and left, for there was an unlimited supply of workers begging for jobs in town. A lifetime of slavery had caused the man to be ardently loyal to Benjamin, a habit he was unable to break in his golden years. If a man was an agitator, mixed up with one of the secret black societies, Logan dismissed the man on the spot when he found out, regardless of how hard the man worked.

  Dayme dressed carefully in one of the prettiest frocks that Cassie had altered. Nathan Smythe was the first visitor since she arrived at the plantation. The dinner conversation was lively and fun. She exerted every effort to appear relaxed and charming. Benjamin asked her to play for the man after the meal, but after one number he excused her so the two men could talk in private. She felt disappointed. There was nothing to do but read.

  The two men spoke in hushed tones in the closed room. Smythe told him about the plan. “A political meeting is scheduled at the Nigger church in old town tomorrow night. We plan to fire a cross.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “The plan is to scatter those darkies and scare the daylights out of ‘em. Fear tactics is our only recourse. We don’t plan to hurt any of ‘em, but if we meet with resistance and defiance anything might happen. Those with weak livers should stay home.”