by Day Taylor
Tom felt as though Edmund were staring at his innermost thoughts. "Thanks, Edmund, I'm very—happy 'bout it." Suddenly he wanted to be away from the house, away from this room and Edmund that very minute. "I hate to leave so soon, but I've got an afternoon appointment. I hope you'll understand."
He left the study red to the ears, feeling like a youngster caught in wrongdoing. He went down the rows of white-
washed cabins to Ullah's. Two women stood talking by the cabin door. Their talk stopped abruptly. With wary, anticipatory looks they eyed him and moved off. Tom did not notice their unusual behavior; he was too anxious to be on his way.
Smiling again, he entered the cabin. Ullah sat dispiritedly on her cot, her hands folded limply on her lap. A golden-haired three-year-old child shrieking, "Mas' TomI Mas' Tom!" grabbed him around the shins and hung on, giggling in delight. He swooped down, taking Angela in his arms, raising her squealing and laughing until her small hands could touch the ceiling. Ullah sat unmoving, her head turned away.
Tom put the child down. "Honey, you go play. Pretty soon we're goin' for a ride in the carriage." Tom watched her fondly as she scampered into the bright patch of sunlight just outside the door.
He looked uncertainly at Ullah, huddled in the dimness. "You're not sorry to be leavin' here, are you?"
"Ah could never be sorry 'bout you, Tom," she whispered.
"Then what?" Gently he turned her face toward him. She jerked away, but he had seen. He said harshly, "What happened?"
Her eyes were fearful. "Ah . . . Ah fell."
His arms went about her. His tenderness should have thawed the awful feeling of cold shame. But Ullah had never felt soiled as she did now. She had been resentful, hurt, and humiliated other times when she had been used by Edmund's guests, but Mastah Ross had dirtied her in a way none of the others had—all because Tom had showed her what it was to be clean and purely loved.
Always before she had been able to ignore these dark thoughts or hide them away in some deep recesss of her being. But before, she had never believed there could be a better life.
"Ullah, tell me what's wrong," Tom pleaded. "We can't start this momin' with secrets and private hurts. What happened to you?"
Ullah said nothing, unable to tell him how his friend had abused her, afraid of what Tom might do.
But he had her by the hand, leading her over to the light. He slipped off her shift. As his shocked eyes darted over her body, she saw the veins in his temples swelL
"Keep Angela with you. I'll be back soon," he said hoarsely. He saw his daughter standing in the doorway, looking curiously at her beloved Mas' Tom. "Go stay with your mama now."
He knew it hadn't been Edmund. Edmund was simply too arrogant and fastidious for this particular method. It had to be Ross. It was like Ross to do this, to think it a great joke, never seeing the hideous cruelty of it
As Tom strode up the rise that separated the slave quarters from the house, Ross was on his way to the stables. Tom shouted, "Hey, wait a minute I I'll ride with you."
Ross stood waiting. "Edmund tells me you're leavin' already."
Tom managed a smile. "I've got time enough for a ride."
"Sure you won't stay? The Quadroon Ball's tonight."
"I've iready got my quadroon."
The grooms led out the horses, and the men mounted. "It isn't the same," Ross said. "Now those quadroons . . . they're taught to please a man. They know!"
"UUah is pleasin'."
Ross grinned at him, his look slyly knowing. '*Yeah," he drawled, "but a good mount isn't all there is to a woman."
Tom urged his horse to a full canter. As Ross caught up with him again, Tom turned shortly. "You liked UUah?'*
"Slow down a little. Sure I liked her. You angry?'*
"Why should I be angry?" Tom asked indifferently.
"WeU, you could be a little riled. Where's the fun if you don't care who has her?" He laughed. *'We had you wrong. Edmund and I thought you wanted her all to yourself. Looks like the joke's on us."
Tom dismounted at a grove of live oaks, festooned with lacy gray Spanish moss. "Let them cool down a bit" The horses headed for the stream that divided the grove from Edmund's fields. Several blacks stopped their plowing to stand silently watching. "Got a bottle with you, Ross?"
"Sho'ly." Ross sprawled comfortably against the tree. He drank, then handed the bottle to Tom.
Tom swallowed deeply and set the bottle between them. "Don't ever come near Ullah again, Ross."
Ross stared at him. "You back on that? I thought you didn't care."
"Did I say that?" His eyes met Ross's coldly.
Ross, reaching for the bottle, stopped. "Wait a minute,
Tom," he said, edging away. "It was just a lark . . . you know me ... it didn't mean a thing."
Tom stood up, towering menacingly over Ross. The Negroes in the field crowded closer to the edge of the stream. "Stand up, Ross old friend. 1 don't like kickin' the shit out of you while you're still on the ground."
"Look . . . Tom!"
"You heard me."
"I'm not goin' to do any such damned thing," Ross whined. "My God, Tom, Ullah's been with damn near every man we know. Why me? What'd I do? You goin' after aU of 'em?"
"No. Just you." Tom grabbed Ross by his lapels, jerking him to his feet, his face only inches away. Ross stood like a stunned rabbit as Tom's fist crashed into his mouth. Ross's punches were wild. Tom, cold with rage, found every target: Ross's chin, his eyes, the pit of his stomach. As Ross doubled over, Tom's knee lifted viciously into his groin.
Ross groaned and fell to the ground, his stomach and vitals paining sickeningly. Tom leaped on him, reaching in blind fury for the bottle they had shared. He hit it against the tree, showering liquor and glass. In his hand was the neck, jagged and sharp.
Ross looked up, terrified. "Tom, no! Please! For God's sake, I didn't mean anythin'—she didn't mean a thing to me! Please! Oh, God, please—Tom!'*
Tom, straddling him, let the bottle come down almost to Ross's horrified eyes. After a long moment he shuddered and tossed it away. He hardly recognized his own voice when he spoke. "Don't ever come near her again, Ross. I'll kill you."
He left Ross lying on the ground, moaning. The black faces stared across the stream at him, approving yet sullen. He mounted his horse, riding toward Ullah's cabin.
Her eyes widened with fear when she saw him spattered with blood, one eye reddened and already turning dark. "Tom!" She reached out for him, but he brushed her away.
"I don't need any help. Gather up your belongin's!" He stalked out of the cabin to get the carriage.
Ullah hurriedly bundled up her ruined shift, the rough blanket that had been folded neatly on her tick, and a small battered wooden box.
Tom returned holding Angela frightened and clinging to
his neck. "Is that all? Leave it. You won't need any of it'*
Slyly Ullah kept the battered box under her arm.
"Leave it!"
Tears came to her eyes. "It's mah things."
Tom shut his eyes for a moment. He said gently, "Let's go, Ullah."
In minutes he was driving through the outer gates of Gray Oaks. He would never again return to the welcome he had so long enjoyed or to the life he had led so casually until this morning.
Ullah sat quietly beside him, while the blond child on her lap bounced and giggled with the novelty of a carriage ride. Held tightly between Ullah's bare feet, was the scarred box that held her things.
Tom Pierson touched Ullah's arm, and they smiled at each other, more in hope than in certainty that everything would be all right
Chapter Three
In New Orleans, Tom stopped on Rue Royale and, blushing, bought shoes, stockings, gloves, and petticoats. He selected for Ullah a shaded-silk dress of blue and green, with a matching bonnet For Angela he found a flounced dress of gold muslin. Last he bought Ullah a veil and a fine cassimere shawl.
He drove to an abandoned shed, standing guard wh
ile Ullah and Angela made their transformation. Tears came into his eyes at the sight of his handsome woman and child.
Ullah, knowing they were unobserved, kissed him on the mouth. She said softly, "Tom, you the onliest person ever make me feel so feelsy. Ah gwine do for you the bes' Ah ever did."
Tom took UUah, primly veiled, along the streets of the city he had always loved. They passed through the Vieux Carre, resplendent with lushly flowering plants, dignified in its fine brick homes with glimpses of intimate courtyards and lacelike ironwork balconies, safe and settled in the rich, joy-filled life of the Creole.
He wanted Ullah to see it as he did, to feel the soft.
tender air, to sense the blue sky and its thick creamy clouds that moved swiftly ahead of the Gulf breezes. He wanted her to know the odors of the waterfront, its faint fishiness, its heady smells of molasses and coffee beans. He stopped the carriage by a huge Negress in a white apron and tignon, calling, "Belles calas, Madame! Tout chauds, Madame!" and bought them all the thin, hot Creole fritters.
He was looking for a particular man, one he had frequently seen on the busy fringes of Circus Square. At last he saw him, a wizened, smiling black man in a tattered cast-off green coat. He stood on Rampart Street, clapping two grimy blocks of wood to punctuate his joyous singsong invitation.
"An' breth'en an' sistahs {tap, tap), if yo wants to git to heb'n (tap, tap), yo got to heed de Gospel (taptaptap) an' yo gotta do good (tap, taptap, tap, taptap, tapppp!)!"
Tom made his arrangements. In a few minutes they were in the formal garden behind a church, facing a fragrant riot of blooms. On the old man's face was a look of intense pride as he married the lovely dark-eyed quadroon girl and the obviously enamored ruddy-faced man. Tom had never given thought to weddings, but he knew his own was beautiful.
He had no ring to place on Ullah's finger. No one bore witness to their marriage. It was an event important only to those two and having no legality.
Their marriage was a vow taken against the Black Code, a law already one and a quarter centuries old. Tom Pier-son became a felon liable to be hanged by the righteous for marrying the only woman he ever loved.
After they left the church, Tom turned into the American section where he lived. Here, street sounds and familiar faces seemed more sharply drawn on this momentous day. To those who called greetings from the banquettes, Tom nodded, acutely aware that he had made himself an alien to all he had ever known and loved. While he spoke to these welcoming faces with a smile stretched on his own, beside him, shawled and veiled, he hid his wife to protect her from them.
It was impossible for him to live in New Orleans now. He would have to leave without saying any farewells to these people he had called friend. With the awful clarity of a thought vaguely considered but largely ignored, Tom now foresaw he could not, even for a night, bring UUah
into his house as his wife. His own servants would mutter in the corridors where he could hear them; they would spread word of his deed; they would take their subtle revenge on Ullah for thinking herself above her natural station.
He made another stop, another purchase. In the bam behind his house, Ullah changed once more. When she emerged, she wore the servant's full-skirted calico dress. Her only visible nod to vanity was a striking seven-pointed tignon that covered her head. Until he could get them safely away, Ullah would be his new servant, barred from him in every way he wanted her to be near.
Their most serious threat, while they remained in New Orleans, came from Angela. At three, she was too young to be drawn into the deception.
As they approached the front porch, Ullah hesitated, then dropped behind them and walked around to the servant's entrance. Tom went on, Angela hanging onto his finger, pointing and, in her peculiar darky patois, commenting on everything she saw.
Tom's butler, William, grinned when he saw the blond, pale-skinned child, whom Tom introduced as his sister's daughter. William's expression flickered. Mercifully, Angela did not call for mama or try to find Ullah when he lifted her into Bessie's arms to be entertained, coddled, and cosseted as she had never been in her life. She would be safe, kept busy and away from Ullah.
Tom told his housekeeper. Jewel, of Ullah's arrival and outlined her duties. He had never felt so dishonorable or so much a sneak as he did in that moment
He went to bed that night, minutely aware that UUah slept in his slave quarters, separated from him, and too near the male servants, who did not know she was married at all, much less to their master.
By dawn he hadn't slept at all. Miserably he stared at the ornate ceiling. His eyes felt like sand grating along the shore. But slowly the cherubs embossed on the ceiling had their hypnotic effect. Tom's eyes closed.
He was sound asleep by the time Angela awakened to a strange room, hearing strange sounds. The smells and feel of the i5lace were different, and Ullah was not there, warm and close beside her. Frightened, Angela began to whimper, then to cry in earnest for her mother.
Downstairs, Ullah could hear her daughter. Preparing
Tom's breakfast, she listened anxiously for the sounds that would tell her Tom had gone to Angela. Nothing broke the quiet of the house but Angela's small, frightened cries. Nervously Ullah started toward the staircase, only to turn back, knowing if she walked up those stairs to her daughter now, it would end their secret.
It was too late. Angela was peering down the staircase. At the bottom she saw Ullah. "Mama! Mama!"
Ullah looked around anxiously. From the dining room came the round, jowled, curious face of Jewel, the housekeeper. Ullah stammered, "Po' li'l thing . . . she misses her mama." She scooped Angela up into her arms and held her fast as she cooed and comforted, trying to make it sound as though the child cried for a mother who wasn't there at all. Ullah had only to glance back at Jewel's face to know it was a matter of minutes before every slave on Tom's property would be speculating about Masta Tom's new servant and the child.
She took Angela upstairs and knelt by her, drying her tear-stained face. "You be a good li'l gal now. You let Bessie dress you, then mebbe they'll be somethin' special happen to you today. Mebbe they's a pony cart for you to ride in . . . that right, Bessie?"
New tears formed in Angela's eyes. Her hand clutched at Ullah's bodice.
Tom, immobilized, viewed the scene. "Bessie! What's goin' on here?"
Bessie's eyes widened as she mouthed words. "Ah doan know, Mastah Tom."
"Does it take both of you to manage one small child?'*
"No suh, but—"
"But nothin'. Come here, Angela." He lifted her into his arms. "Go back downstairs, Ullah. Bessie can manage now. You can, can't you, Bessie!"
"Oh, yassuh, Ah sho' kin. Yassuh!" She nodded vigorously.
Tom took Angela with him, making her laugh as he showed her her own image in the mirror, then lathered her small face as he shaved his own. Once he had Angela content, he gave her back to Bessie.
"We'll have to leave here immediately," he muttered to Ullah in the dining room. She bustled around serving him breakfast.
"You shou'n'ta brung us heah. They knows, an' what
they knows eve'y darky in Nawlens is gwine know afore the evenin' pinks up tonight. Won't be long till yo' white flien's knows too."
"No one knows!" Tom looked at her in alarm, then frowned. "Not for sure . . . everythin' will be all right."
Ullah smiled at him, removing his coffee cup from his hand to refill it before he. absentmindedly drank the dregs. "It gwine be all right, 'cause you say so." She looked mischievously at him from the corner of her eye. "But they knows. Ain't no darky gwine be bamboozled by a ragtaU story like our'n."
He'd hardly finished breakfast when William came to announce Josiah Whinburn. "My God, I'd forgotten!"
"My apologies for bein' so early, Tom," said Josiah.
"It's fine, Josiah, fine. I'm glad you came early."
"I . . . got an offer to sell Marsh House." Josiah looked miserable.
"Who made the offer?" Menta
lly, Tom put his money on Edmund.
"Mr. George Andreas, the lawyer. He wants to move to the country."
"Are you goin' to accept?"
"I've got one hundred dollars cash. Edmund won the money I was countin' on to see me through the roUin* season. I can't let my people starve."
"You were a God-damned fool, not thinkin' of this until now."
Josiah nodded, his head down. "I'm gonna lose mah daddy's plantation."
"Guess you don't know George Andreas is my attorney.**
Josiah's head jerked up. "What does that mean, suh?"
"He's Edmund Revanche's attorney too. That's what it means."
"Why, the low-down . . . you think he's actin' for Edmund?"
Tom put his hand up. "I can't answer for Edmund. But I know you need money, and I'm offerin' to lend it to you. Twenty-five thousand ought to carry you through the year.**
Josiah's face seemed to dissolve. "My—God, Tom! I knew you for a kind man . . . but"—he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
Tom squirmed uneasily. "Think you might get it paid back in ten years?"
"Yes . . . yes, I can." He wiped his eyes. "You're a blessin' straight from the Lord, Tom, an' Him willin', I'll pay you back."
"There's one condition on this money, Josiah." Josiah's eyes never wavered from Tom's face. "There'll be no more gamblin'."
Josiah's voice caught on the laughter of relief. "You got my word, suh." He thrust out his hand to Tom.
"Good! Let's go down to the bank and get this drawn up."
Later that day, about fifteen miles northwest of New Orleans, Tom found the Welkins holding nestled in tree-shrouded isolation, its back against the bayou. The land around it was owned by poor whites, Arcadians of a forgotten past eking out a living by their own independent code in the lengthy shadows of the great plantations.
Mr. Welkins's bayou farm was sixteen acres, and perhaps not that.
"Watah changes the face of the land sometimes," Welkins drawled. He spat at a huge cypress, hitting its trunk dead center with a wash of tobacco juice. "Bes' I recall, that tree marked the east boundary." He grinned at Tom. "Never know for sho'. Trees grow. Change."
