“Brent and I used to play some in—”
“I know,” Jardine said, “in the kitchen. What did you play for? Matchsticks? Buttons?”
“Mostly,” Caleb admitted, “but sometimes Brent had a few pennies.”
“Well,” Jardine said, “your poker skills are about to face a severe test. Why don’t you run upstairs and get some of that fortune you’ve got hidden away, and we’ll play a few hands?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Jardine. I’m going to need all the money I’ve got.”
“You’re going to need more than you’ve got, Mr. Rivers,” Jardine said. “And this is your last chance to get it. Why, I’m famous as the poorest poker player in the county. Ask anybody. Ask Rafe Bentley. Go get your money, Mr. Rivers.”
When Caleb got back, Jardine had cleared the round leather-topped table and placed several oil lamps around it. He was sitting at the table behind a stack of gold coins, shuffling a deck of cards. “You’re just in time, Mr. Rivers,” he said. “Five-card draw, jacks or better to open. Nothing wild. Just real poker.”
“That sounds good, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said, sitting down opposite him and putting his money on the table. He held out his hand. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just cut those cards a little.”
Handing Caleb the deck, Jardine said, “You’re learning, Mr. Rivers. You’re learning.”
An hour later, Jardine was beginning to regret suggesting this final addition to the skills Caleb would need in his new life as a free man. After winning a few small hands, Jardine found the tide had begun to turn. Caleb, playing very tight poker and drawing strong hands, was beginning to win. He was just over a hundred dollars up. This had not been Jardine’s idea. He hadn’t planned to take much of Caleb’s money, but he had hoped that Caleb would leave with a healthy respect for the white man’s skill at cards. It wasn’t working out that way.
“Well,” Jardine said, shuffling the deck, “it’s getting late, and I imagine you have some packing to do and some good-byes to say, so shall we make this the last hand, Mr. Rivers?”
“That’ll be just fine, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said. “Same limit?”
“Oh,” Jardine said nonchalantly, “since this is the final hand, why don’t we just say table stakes. You know what that means don’t you?”
“Well, I believe it means that you can bet all the money you have on the table.”
“Exactly, Mr. Rivers,” Jardine said. “You’re catching on. Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
Jardine dealt the cards, and when he picked up his hand he found that he had two kings, the queen of hearts, and a six and seven of clubs.
“I’ll open,” Caleb said, pushing fifty dollars out to the center of the table.
“Will you?” said Jardine, glad to see some of his money back on the table. “Well, I’ll see your fifty and raise you twenty-five. Just to keep you honest.”
After Caleb had pushed out the twenty-five, Jardine asked him, “Cards?”
“Oh,” said Caleb as casually as possible, “I think I’ll just play these, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” said Jardine. But he did mind. To keep all five cards meant that Caleb must have at least a straight, and that hand would beat Jardine even if he drew a third king. “I think I’ll take two cards.” He discarded the two low clubs, hoping that Caleb would think that he had trips and was going for a full house or four of a kind.
Dealing himself two cards, Jardine looked at them—another king and the four of diamonds. He tried to look pleased but not too pleased. “Shall we say another fifty dollars?” he said, pushing his bet to the middle of the table. This was just to lure Caleb out of his depth.
To Jardine’s surprise, without hesitation, Caleb said, “Oh, let’s make it two hundred,” and threw the coins into the pot carelessly. He looked at Jardine calmly.
Forgetting his imaginary full house or four of a kind, Jardine stared at his hand of three kings, queen high, and then at Caleb. Christ! Another two hundred dollars! He saw that Caleb’s left hand was already reaching for his pile of money to increase his bet. Jardine reached out for his own money but then stayed his hand and threw his cards face down into the pot. “Go ahead, take it,” he said, trying to keep bitterness out of his voice.
“I will, sir, thank you,” Caleb said, reaching toward the pot, but Jardine stopped him with a motion.
“I’ll just trouble you for sight of your openers for that last hand, Mr. Rivers.”
“Of course, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said. He flipped over his hand, revealing two aces, the other king, and two small cards.
“You black bastard!” Jardine exclaimed involuntarily. “You bluffed me with a lousy pair.”
“That’s what Brent always used to say.” Caleb raked in his winnings.
When Caleb was upstairs packing, Drusilla knocked on his door.
“I’ve come to say good-bye,” she said.
“Come in.”
“That’s not much,” she said, looking at the few belongings Caleb was packing into a worn carpetbag that Jardine had given him.
“There’s not much I want to remind me of this life,” Caleb said.
“Is it that bad? Seems to me like you and Marse Boyd ’most like brothers these days. Ridin’, eatin’ at the same table, foolin’ around with those silly swords.”
“That’s only because I bought my freedom, and I’m leaving,” Caleb said. “Otherwise, I’d be just like any other slave—a piece of property.”
“Like me?”
“Like you,” Caleb said.
“You so sure it’s going to be better up north?” she asked. “I’ve heard stories that they don’t exactly love niggers up there, despite all this abo . . . abo . . .”
“Abolition.”
“Abolition talk. They say that folks are killed every day, just for being black.”
“They say that,” Caleb agreed, “but if I can’t be free down here, I guess I’ll have to try being free up there. If I die, I’ll die free.”
“Is it that important?”
“I guess so.”
Drusilla didn’t say anything.
“Oh,” Caleb said. “You be glad to hear that Mr. Jardine’s going to keep you in my job. At least until Caesar gets a grip on it.”
“Then I haven’t much to worry about,” Drusilla said. “That boy will have a beard as long and gray as Uncle Ebenezer’s before he get a grip on very much.”
“That’s not what Caesar thinks. He thinks he’s only that”—Caleb snapped his fingers—“far from running this plantation all by his self.”
“I’ll cure him of that by letting him serve Marse Boyd and his guests dinner just one time. He’ll be out choppin’ cotton so fast.”
“You’re a hard woman,” Caleb said, smiling.
“It’s a hard life.”
“Another thing,” Caleb said. “Mr. Jardine knows that I’ve been teaching you to read and write.”
“I know,” Drusilla said. “The hardest thing to keep at Three Rivers is a secret. What he say?”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly pleased,” Caleb said, “but when I pointed out that you could read his papers to him nearly as well as I can, he cheered up a little bit. But I don’t think he’d like it much if you spread it around.”
“Even to Caesar?”
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself,” Caleb said. He snapped the carpetbag shut. “That’s it.”
Drusilla held out her hand. “Well, good-bye, Caleb,” she said.
Caleb took Drusilla’s hand and pulled her close. “You sure you wouldn’t like to stay the night, just for old time’s sake?”
“I’m sure,” Drusilla said, breaking free. “I’ll remember you, all right, without no little Calebs tugging at my skirt to remind me.”
“You know I’ve always been careful
.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve always been careful. And I’m staying that way. Good-bye, Caleb,” she repeated.
“Well, okay,” Caleb said, “but aren’t you a little bit curious what it’s like to sleep with a free man?”
“No,” Drusilla said, opening the door, “but if I ever am, I’m sure that this won’t be my last chance.”
“You know best,” Caleb said, “but not even a little good-bye kiss?”
“I guess I can manage that,” she said, kissing him lightly and then dancing away when Caleb tried to grab her. “You free niggers sure get up to some tricks.”
“We sure do,” said Caleb as he watched her walk down the narrow hall.
Caleb got up early, heated water for a bath, and dressed carefully in the best of old Master Jardine’s clothes that Gabe, the tailor in the quarter, had cut down for him. Looking in the cracked mirror, he thought he was a pretty good example of a free black. He was downstairs supervising Caesar as he laid the breakfast table when Jardine came down.
Jardine took one look at him and exclaimed, “Caleb, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
“Mr. Jardine?” Caleb said.
“If you think I am going to travel with you looking like a black Beau Brummell, you’re crazy.”
“Bo who?” Caleb asked.
“Never mind,” Jardine said. “There has to be something I know that you don’t. You remember those old clothes you wore the first time I took you to Cassatt and you fought Pompey? Where are they?”
“I threw them in a pile in the barn,” Caleb said.
“After we eat,” Jardine said. “You go throw them on yourself. You’re supposed to be traveling with me as my slave, not an entry in the Easter Parade. You think some good old boys wouldn’t throw you in the river looking like that? And me, too?”
Caleb knew he was right, but looked down at his clothes regretfully.
“You pack those,” Jardine ordered, “and you can put them on again where it’s not an insult for a nigger to wear shined shoes. Now, let’s get moving. That boat isn’t going to wait for you even if you are free. And neither am I.”
In less than an hour, Drusilla, Caesar, and the house girls were out front to wave Jardine and Caleb good-bye. Behind them in the doorway, Birdie’s nurse held the child up so that he could see. Caleb sat in the back of the wagon wearing the outsized old clothes, which had not improved by being thrown in a heap. Drusilla managed to keep a straight face, but Caesar and the house girls kept covering their mouths and giggling.
“Take a last look, Caleb,” Jardine said. “You won’t be seeing Three Rivers no more. That is, unless you come back some day wearing a Yankee uniform.”
Caleb took a look. Now that he was leaving, it didn’t seem quite so bad.
Jardine cracked the whip over the team’s heads. “I’ll be back in a week or three, Drusilla. You try to keep that Caesar under control. If he acts up, you tell me.” Caesar didn’t look happy. Everybody waved as the wagon rolled down the drive.
As they neared the Three Rivers gates, Caleb heard a noise. Big Mose and the cotton crew were shouting and waving their hats. He raised his own floppy hat and waved it back.
44
Jardine and Caleb got to the river landing with time to spare. After they stabled the horses and boarded the steamboat to Great Falls, Jardine met some county people he knew and retired to the cabin, escaping the thin mist that had begun to fall. Caleb, shuffling in shoes several sizes too big, joined half a dozen slaves who were huddled amid bales of cotton and hay, a couple of cows, and a big pen of chickens. Two of the men held a piece of canvas over their heads, and the water that gathered on it kept running down Caleb’s neck.
Through a window looking into the cabin, Caleb could see Jardine and the other white men sitting around a table playing cards. He thought of the money in the belt around his waist, and he knew that he could increase it if he were in that game. But he didn’t have to wonder what they would say if he went back there and asked if he could sit in.
An old man who looked at least ninety years old asked Caleb pleasantly, “Who do you belong to, boy?” Caleb felt like telling him, I belong to me, Caleb T. Rivers, that’s who, but he knew he couldn’t.
“Mr. Jardine of Three Rivers,” he told the old man.
“Is he a good massa?”
“He all right,” said Caleb. Just then, two of the white deckhands, without a word to the slaves, began shifting the cargo to get ready for the next landing. The black passengers scattered like pigeons. Caleb moved with the rest, but he did not do it gladly. He wondered idly where a free black would have ridden, but he thought he knew.
In Great Falls, they had a couple of hours to wait for the train. Jardine, who had won more money than he had lost to Caleb the night before, was feeling good. “I like the way you walk in those shoes, Caleb,” he said.
“Thankee, Massa,” Caleb said with an exaggerated slur. “Mos’ kind.” In a quieter voice he asked, “How was the game?”
“Like taking candy from a baby,” Jardine said. “Those old boys are paying for our trip. I hope you’re grateful.”
“Sure is, Massa.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Jardine advised him. “I’m going over to the hotel to get something to eat. You find something and meet me right here”—he glanced up at the clock on the town hall—“at six o’clock.”
“Yassa.”
Jardine started to turn toward the hotel but saw that Caleb wasn’t moving. “Well?” he asked.
Caleb just looked at him and held out his hand.
“What?” Jardine exclaimed. “Why, you,” but he dug into his pocket and pulled out two quarters, dropping them carelessly into Caleb’s hand. Caleb didn’t move an inch. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded.
“I hear food comes costly hereabouts,” Caleb said.
“Why, you rascal,” Jardine said. “If I still owned you, I’d sell you for dog meat.” But he reached back into his pocket and pulled out another quarter. “Will this do you?”
“Yassa.” Caleb pocketed the coins, touched the water-soaked brim of his hat, and turned away.
“Six o’clock,” Jardine called after him, “and don’t stuff yourself on that caviar.”
Caleb stopped a black man leading two horses and asked where he could buy something to eat. The hostler directed Caleb down an alley and told him to keep walking until he came to a bend in the river, then look for a house with a big red tin sign. After trudging through the mud for ten minutes, Caleb found the house. It was a rickety affair with a sharply sloped roof and an entrance through a lean-to. Inside, an old woman looked up at him from a big cast-iron range.
“You got a toilet here, ma’am?” Caleb asked, badly in need of one after the long boat ride.
“You eatin’?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lemme see your money.”
Caleb showed her the coins.
“We got the backyard,” she said, waving her ladle toward the other door. “It go right down to the river, and I suggest you do jus’ the same.”
When Caleb returned, he found that the food was a lot better than the facilities. After the old woman piled a second helping of fried fish on Caleb’s plate, cut him another big chunk of bread, and filled his cup with chicory coffee, she said, “You’re not from these parts.”
“No, ma’am,” Caleb said. “Down river a piece. Kershaw County.”
“What you doing up here?”
“Catching a train. My master’s over at the hotel eating.”
“Poor him,” she said. “All the darkies works at the hotel come here to eat. That cook over there can’t even boil water without scorchin’ it. Where you going?”
“North,” said Caleb. “Can you keep a secret?”
“If I couldn’t, there be some niggers aroun
d here in a heap of trouble,” she said. “What is it? I hope it’s a good one.”
Caleb leaned toward her. “I’m going to be free.” He wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell her that he already was free.
“Hmm,” she said. “You think you’ll like it?”
“Of course,” said Caleb indignantly. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Well,” said the old woman, “I been free these fifty years and more, and I haven’t noticed all that much satisfaction from it. I have to keep this place goin’ fifteen to sixteen hours a day just to stay alive. And that includes Sundays. If I didn’t have a niece who comes in Sunday morning and Wednesday evening, I wouldn’t even get to church.”
“You’ve never been tempted to leave?” Caleb asked.
“For where, son?” she asked. “For where? You want more fish? I got some apple pie.”
“Just the pie, ma’am,” Caleb said, “and some more of that terrible coffee.”
The old woman slapped his shoulder with her wiping cloth. “Mouthy as you are,” she predicted, “you goin’ to last about six minutes up north.”
Jardine came out of the hotel to find Caleb waiting at the bottom of the steps. “Well,” he said, spitting to get a bad taste out of his mouth, “I hope you got your belly full.”
“Yassa,” Caleb said, “but they ran out of caviar.”
At the train station, Jardine bought two tickets to Charlotte, North Carolina. When he walked Caleb to his car, it turned out to be a boxcar with narrow benches running lengthwise on each side. On the benches were black passengers who were trying to sleep away the journey. Others sprawled on the plank floor, using bags for pillows and coats for covers.
“Well,” Jardine said, “it’s not exactly first class, but it’s only a few hours until we change.”
“I’ll manage,” Caleb told him.
Caleb Page 19
