The Black Swan

by Day Taylor

  Wolf rode toward the farthest field. He'd work himself back in toward the quarters and catch another nap. All was quiet. The sun peeped through the clouds, wiping away the threat of rain, and yet the feeling of something impending remained. When he reached the last field, he realized what was wrong.

  A hush had fallen over Mossrose like a smothering blanket. He scanned the field and saw the slaves, all with bent backs, diligently at work. It should have made his heart glad, but it was as unnatural as anything he'd ever seen. There was no noise, none of the buzzing undercurrent of talk and laughter. All was still, as it was when a storm was brewing.

  He rode down the rows, flicking his whip indiscriminately. None of them flinched, begged, or showed the customary fear of him. It was as if he weren't there at all. Uneasy, Wolf went to the end of the field. Neither Barney nor Dick was anywhere to be seen. "Where's your drivah?"

  'Simmon, a wizened old black man nearly at the end of his picking days, didn't stop his rhythmic bending motion. "Cain't say Ah knows who you talkin' 'bout."

  Angry at the insolence. Wolf brought his whip down across the old man's shoulders. A groan was forced from 'Simmon's lips and a line of blood showed through his shirt. As if on cue, one by one every slave in the field stopped work. Backs straightened. Faces turned toward Wolf. An ebony chain stretched out across the seven-acre field, their triumphant faces daring him to use his whip on 'Simmon again.

  In spite of the lightning-fast anger that struck him, Wolf shuddered. Visions of the Nat Turner rebellion flashed into

  his mind. A kind master, an intelligent slave with dreams of freedom and retribution festering in his animal mind, gone beserk, slaying women and children, men and boys indiscriminately, without cause or mercy. He remembered stories his daddy had told of people, white people begging for their lives.

  Wolf backed his horse a step, then two. He yelled at them, brandishing the whip, but far enough away that it touched no black back. It was show, now, a means of saying he wasn't afraid while his insides turned to water.

  In front of him a black twig of a woman, a dark stick covered with osnaburg that hung on her like a shroud, began to sing. The old woman, mate of 'Simmon, her voice quavering and tremulous, gazed up at him through old and rheumy eyes, and defied him-to strike her down. One by one the blacks took up her song. The words rolled out across the open fields, filling up the waiting air:

  De good time comin' is almost heah. It was long, long, long on de way.

  Their voices came at him like a physical presence. The sounds surrounded him as the Negroes in the other fields took up the singing. The plantation reverberated with the rumble of the black voices.

  Wolf no longer tried to hide his terror. He rode the perimeter of the field, lashing with the whip, screaming for them to go back to work. Slowly the black human chain began to move, walking with an untouchable courage away from him, away from their work, away from the fields. He couldn't stop them. He couldn't rekindle the fear he'd always been able to light in their eyes.

  By ten o'clock Jem couldn't bear remaining in bed any longer. He was unaccustomed to the inactivity and bored with the idea of making Patricia feel sorry for him. He was the master of Mossrose, and there'd be no more sniveling over his decisions by his wife, his daughter, or his darkies.

  "LuciusI Lucius!" His voice echoed in the empty house. "Lucius! You black bastard get your hind end up here!"

  By the time he'd yelled for Lucius several more times, the unnatural quiet of the house pressed in on him. "What in the devil?" he muttered, and began walking

  from one room to another. When he entered the kitchen and found no Violet standing at her cookstove, he knew something was afoot.

  He was headed for his study for his rifle and his whip, when Wolf burst in through the front door.

  "Since when do you bust into this house when you damn please?"

  Wolf's face was a pale, shining globe. He fought for words and breath to tell James Moran that there was an insurrection on Mossrose. "Oh, Gawd, suh. It's the niggers, suh. They's in a takin', and' ain't nothin' I do that can get 'em back to the fiel's."

  "What in thunderation are you talkin* about?" Jem had no sooner spoken than the sounds of their singing could be heard through the open door and windows. The sound was loud, jubilant. Jem looked warily from the window back to Wolf. "They in the chapel?"

  **Yes, suh. I lef 'em to come an' warn you."

  "Nothin's goin' to happen as long as they stay put." Jem leaned far out the window, still not willing to believe his ears or his overseer. "What they worked up for?" He knew the answer before Wolf swallowed hard, taking all his pride into his gullet with the word "Fellie.**

  "Sweet Jesus."

  "They're headin' for a real bust-out. What're we gonna do 'bout it, suh?"

  Jem wiped his forehead nervously. There wasn't a Southerner alive who didn't live in dread of something like this. "No way we can hold back four hundred niggers if they've a mind to come at us. Only thing we can do is fortify the house, protect the women, and warn the other planters. Ride to Saunders, warn him, and tell him to pass the word. Bring Miz Moran back here with you. Hurry, Wolf. Tell Saunders and the others to gather their dogs an' all the men they can. Meet here."

  "Yes, suh! You shore you want Miss Patricia back here?'*

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure. No tellin' how far this will spread. I want her home where I can look after her. She and Dul-cie can go to the root cellar. Nobody's gonna break in there—got a special door on it. Where the hell is Dulcie? She couldn't have slept through all this racket."

  "Can't say as I know, suh. Haven't seen her this

  Jem ran to the staircase, returning no more than a minute later.

  Wolf reached for him. "You all right, suh?'*

  "Ohhh, my God. She's gone," Jem moaned. "Goddamned nigger bastards have got hex. Took her."

  Wolfs skin tightened and prickled in fear. He knew better than to wait. He hurried from the house, riding fast on the River Road toward the Saunders plantation, shouting to all he passed, "Insurrection! Took Miz Moran captive! Meet at Mossrose! Bring hounds! Insurrection!"

  By the time he reined in at the Saunderses*, panic had spread across the county. Houses were barricaded against their own slaves. Overseers worked furiously, lashing at any suspected sign of insolence or rebellion.

  Cal Saunders tried to persuade Patricia to remain. Her face frightened and pinched, she refused.

  "Mah Dulcie may be lyin' dead this very moment, Cal. If Jem can fin' her, Ah'm goin' to be right theah in mah home when she needs me."

  Patricia mounted the narrow buggy, sitting beside Wolf and his loaded rifle. On the way she had him repeat every detail of the slaves' activity that morning and of Dulcie's disappearance. Finally, she asked, "But have they actually done anythin' threatenin'? Dulcie has always been a favorite of the blacks. She—"

  "I think they took Miz Dulcie off somewheres. Keepin' her there. One of the wagon's missin' an' four o' the horses. That good-fo'-nuthin' Fellie an' his woman is gone too. I'm thinkin' they took her off, so's we couldn't do nuthin* to stop 'em."

  Patricia's hands clasped at her breast and throat, but she said nothing. The distance to the house seemed interminable. Patricia jumped from the carriage as soon as Wolf reined the horses to a stop.

  "Jem, the men are comin'. Cal Saunders and Glenn are just behind me. She threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Jem, if weah goin' to be slaughtered. . . . Jem, Ah love you.'*

  "Aw, Patsy love, it'll be all right. No one's goin' to be slaughtered." Carefully he kept his betraying eyes from her sight.

  Patricia kissed him, then buried her face in his shoulder again. "We gonna get ouah Dulcie home again, Jem? Will that happen too?"

  "We'll get her back," he said grimly.

  "Free 'em all if you must. Promise me you will, Jem. Give 'em Mossrose itself if that's what they want to bring her back safe to us.'*

  "We'll get Dulcie back. Patsy, and there'll be no con-cedin' to the niggers."
Jem felt far stronger and more manly now that Patricia was once more depending on him.

  She moved away from him. "No, Jem, you can't do anythin' against them—not until Dulcie is safe. They . . . they could kill her. Nothin' is worth that. She's ouah daughtah, ouah only chil'."

  "Hush, Patsy. I said I'd take care of it." He took another rifle from the gim rack, methodically loading it as she watched.

  "You aren't gonna do this, Jem Moran.'*

  "Hide in the root celler, Patsy. Lock the door and stay there 'til I tell you it's safe to come out." He handed her a gun. "If things go wrong, don't hesitate, Patsy. Pull the trigger."

  The fear that had been held in abeyance now overwhelmed her. She pushed the gun away. "No! You talk to them, Jem. You go out theah to the chapel, an' you talk to them! Ask them what they want. Doesn't matter what it is. You give it to them if they bring ouah Dulcie homel You heah me, Jem!? You promise 'em the moon if they give you Dulcie alive and well!"

  "Calm yourself. Patsy. There's no reasonin' with a nigger. They don't understand reasonin', I hear the Saunderses comin'. Be my good love and go to the root cellar. You'll be safe there."

  Cal and Glenn Saunders's voices could be heard in the front hall as Patricia screamed, near hysteria, at Jem. "It's youah fault! You brought this on us with youah whippin' an' youah brutalizin' of Fellie! He took her 'cause o' what you did to him. Now youah gonna listen to me! We will promise them anythin'!"

  "Patricia!"

  "She's mah daughtah, an* Ah intend to fight fo* her, even if ifs you Ah have to fight, James Moran!"

  Glenn and his father stood in the study doorway, astonished. Glenn nudged his father.

  The older man nodded, then turned, looking toward the front door. "Those are the Biggs's hounds. I'd know that lead hound's bugle anyplace."

  The Chilcotes, Biggses, and Actons arrived in a group. The Matthewses, Carsons, and Redgraves rode in from the south across Jem's fields. The yard filled with pawing, nervous horses and the sounds of eagerly whimpering hounds. In the background was the melodious singing of the slaves.

  Glenn Saunders jumped onto the rail of the veranda, shouting above the noise for attention. He told the men of the situation at Mossrose, of Dulcic's capture, and of the threat to their own plantations.

  Inside the house Patricia had worked herself into a frenzy. Everything she had worried about over the years came tumbling out. "You nevah treated youah slaves bad 'til you began this breedin' business. Now look what it's done to us! Ouah Dulcie gone—maybe lyin' dead, 'cause o' you, Jem. Ah won't stan' quiet this time. Ah won't let you do anythin' to prevent her from bein' returned to us. You heah me, Jem!"

  "I can't help but hear you, Patricia, but I wish to God I couldn't. How can you blame me? I love you and Dulcie better than my own life."

  "Then you'll free the slaves? Let 'em go if that's what they want?"

  "No." He turned from her, ready to leave the room.

  "Fellie's got her," Patricia said flatly. "He'll kill her 'cause you took his sons. An eye for an eye."

  Jem shook his head, cold fear taking over. "He wouldn't . . . gentlest nigger on the place—" —

  "That gentle nigger nearly killed a man fo' those boys o' his. Ouah Dulcie's blood is on youah hands, Jem. Ah won't foahgive you fo' that. Set 'em free and get Fellie's sons back. Spig Hurd was gonna stop at other places before he went on South. You can still get 'em. Do it, Jem. I'm beggin' you!"

  But Jem had already walked out into the crowd of men and boys and hounds that cluttered his lawn. They had divided into two groups. Glenn was organizing one group. The tick from Fellie's cabin lay on the ground. Each man took a strip of it, giving their hounds the scent.

  Glenn divided the party. He gave them the signal for calling the others for help as well as the signal to indicate that the fugitives had been treed. One group would take the River Road to Savannah, another would ride toward

  the piney woods, the third to the coast, and the fourth heading south and inland. "No shootin' unless necessary. We don't want Miss Dulcie harmed by us."

  On the other side of the yard Dulcie's other suitor was talking with as much earnest vigor as Glenn. But Leroy Biggs had devised a much more direct and brutal scheme. The men with him marched in a mass, guns loaded, toward the small chapel with the blue door that had been meant to bring good fortune to the plantation. As they neared, the singing stilled, then rose again more thinly, marring the easy harmony.

  Leroy kicked at the blue door, sending it back on its hinges. Black faces, now silent, looked at him. He appeared a dark phantom, outlined as he was by the brilliant light. From Jem's ledger Jan Chilcote read the name of the lead man of each cabin.

  "Stand by the door when your name is called," Leroy ordered. The chosen formed a line. Leroy selected six of the best, the most popular or the biggest men. "Thafs how many hours you got, one hour for each man's life. Six hours to spread the word an' bxing Fellie an' Miss Dulcie back here. Each hour that passes an' you don't bring 'em back one man dies. He won't die kindly. I'll gut-shoot him."

  Keening and chanting rose and swelled, filling the chapel with lamentations and pleading. "We doan know Where's Miz Dulcie! Please, mastah, we'ns doan know! Doan hurt Hosea! 'Polio a good man, doan hurt nobody."

  Leroy's face showed no softening. "Six hours. One dies at the end of each until Miss Dulcie is back here safe and sound."

  The six men were herded into the yard, in plain view of the chapel. Each was tied to one of the trees lining the driveway. Leroy stood in front of them, his feet planted firmly, his legs spread. His rifle rested on his crossed arms. From his belt hung a pocket watch, which caught the sun and sent signals of the passing minutes to those in the chapel.

  As soon as Dulcie reached the outer boundaries of Mossrose, she left the River Road and jolted across the fields in the heavy wagon. "It's just eleven o'clock. I've often slept later than that. With'a little luck, Claudine, we can come in the back way, and no one will ever know I was gone."

  But Claiidine wasn't listening. She was looking all around as Dulcie tried to think her way into the house unseen. "Miss Dulcie," she whispered breathlessly.

  "Oh, what is it now!?"

  "Look 'roun' an* what you see? Where the fiel' niggers? Dey's not a one o' 'em in de fiel's. Oh, Miss Dulcie, Ah'm jes' 'bout as skeered as Ah kin be."

  Claudine's small hand on her arm transmitted the fear to Dulcie as she saw the eerie emptiness of the fields. She slowed the horses to a walk. As they neared the back of the quarters, they heard the baying of hounds, the lamenting in the chapel, the sounds of angry, excited male voices. "They know we're gone, Claudine," Dulcie whispered.

  "Yes'm. What we gwine do now?"

  At the rear of Wolfs cabin Dulcie stopped the horses. "We're goin' to run for the house, go up the back stairs, and come out just like we don't know what's happenin'.'*

  "Miss Dulcie! Ain't nobody gwine b'lieve dat!"

  "Nobody has to. They won't say a word—'til later, and that's all we need. Not a word about what we did—no matter what!"

  Dulcie sped through the servants' entrance. Outside she heard Leroy's voice. "Ten more minutes, you darkies, an' Tollo gets killed first. Any o' you got somethin' to tell me, or y'all jes' goin' to let these niggers die?"

  With trembling hands Dulcie changed into a fresh and pretty morning dress. "Look out the window. See what's goin' on."

  Claudine moaned. "Oh, Lawd, Miss Dulcie, we done it dis time."

  "Don't stand there groanin'. Tell me!"

  "Dat's a huntin' pahty. Mastah Glenn jes' rode off with the houn's, an' Mastah Leroy, he a-shoutin' at the niggers in de chapel. Lawd, Miss Dulcie, he say 'Polio gwine die!" Claudine began to cry. Dulcie remembered vividly the sleek brown body of the young man in the fields the day after her birthday party. "Mastah Leroy say he gwine shoot 'Polio in five minutes. He cain't do dat! Mastah Jem—"

  Dulcie spun Claudine from the window. "They'll hear you! Fix my hair. Hurry! You don't want anything to ha
ppen to him, do you?"

  "No! No, coon't stan' dat. Ah coon't."

  Dulcie ran down the stairs, remembering to slow her steps as she reached the door. Her father stood on the

  porch looking bewildered and unhappy. Tollo had been unbound from the tree, his arms tied behind his back. Jan Chilcote and Conroy Biggs dragged him in front of Leroy. They forced him to the ground, where 'Polio remained kneeling at Leroy's feet, in plain view of those in the chapel.

  Taking all her courage, Dulcie stepped onto the veranda. "Mornin', Daddy! Why, I declare! What's goin' on?" She smiled broadly, her eyes glowing in innocent wonderment as she scanned the clusters of men, all armed, all attentive to Leroy until Dulcie appeared in their midst. Jem stood rooted, looking as though he'd been struck unconscious. As the others cried or murmured her name, Dulcie greeted each as though it were a Sunday outing, but she made her way without faltering toward Leroy. She stood beside Tollo and looked up into Leroy's face.

  "Where have you been?" His voice was low with fury.

  "Why, I've been in my bed sleepin', Leroy, 'til y'all woke me up with your racket. What's goin' on? We havin' a party?"

  Leroy alone of the men in the yard was having no part of Dulcie's performance. "You can call it a party if you like. But it isn't one for a lady. Get back inside the house where you belong."

  Dulcie's eyes sparkled with all the angry things she'd like to say. Instead, she smiled sweetly. "Thought you'd come to see me, Leroy, wantin' my answer to your proposal. Here all you came for was to shoot poor 'Polio, who hasn't done anythin'."

  "I don't take to women interferin' with a man's business, Dulcie."

  "An' I don't take to bein* ordered. Your answer s no, Leroy!'*

  He laughed at her. "Dulcie honey, I don't need an answer from you now. I already got one." He glanced up and saw Jem headed toward them. "What you need is a man strong enough to break you to harness, an' I'm that man." He grasped her by her arm and took her to her red-faced father. Dulcie struggled. Leroy only laughed. "Here's one worry off your hands, Mr. Moran. She's safe enough, an' never was in any danger. Now all we got to do is stop these blacks from goin' on a bloody rampage. Soon's I shoot a couple o' these bucks— "