by Jana Petken
A few of his slaves who had been shading themselves under tall oaks ran after his horse, squealing with delight at the sight of the master riding home. Jacob smiled through his agony and wondered how many had left the plantation in a bid for freedom. He wasn’t concerned about how many slaves he’d lost. He was far too happy to worry about plantation business. He was alive and home, and in a few short moments, the woman he loved would be in his arms.
He struggled to dismount. What if he couldn’t stand on his own two feet? he wondered. He would hate to be found by Handel, lying stupidly at the foot of the porch stairs. Clinging to the balustrade, he climbed the wooden steps like an old man, almost bent double and unable to hold his head up. The house seemed deathly quiet, and for a second, he panicked, wondering if Dolly had made a mistake about Mercy being here. Finally, he reached the door and turned the doorknob.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Mercy and Jacob took a stroll in the garden, holding hands and savouring every moment together. After Jacob’s arrival home, his health had taken a turn for the worse. Mercy was convinced that his body had given up its prideful fight to survive a Yankee prison and had instead given itself unashamedly over to loving hands that were sympathetic to his defenceless state.
Mercy had scarcely spoken two words to him before he’d collapsed and had to be carried to bed, where he had lain for over a week with a fever. He had not seen the worry in her eyes, nor had he heard her sobbing at night as she sat by his bedside. He had not kissed her hello or told her about his experience. He looked like a pale shadow of his former self. At night, his eyes flickered with memories of battle, and in the morning, they were dull and lifeless. It was a miracle he had made it home at all, the Portsmouth doctor had told Jacob this morning, after cussing the Yankees to hell.
She looked up at his face, seeing his eyes shining with life for the first time in almost a week as he breathed in the sweet sultry air and cast his eyes over his precious land. The fields looked dull and lifeless. There had been no ploughing or cotton planting this year, and there would be no harvesting in September. The dry deep brown dirt land was barren and brightened only by the majestic bright green leafy oaks that stood clumped along the fields’ perimeters. Jacob didn’t seem to mind a bit about the state of decay, for all Mercy could see was his contented smile, interrupted at times with a peaceful sigh.
She walked at a snail’s pace with him, linking one arm in his and laying her free hand on her belly. She smiled to herself and felt a surge of sheer joy. It was not yet time, but soon she would tell him she was carrying his child. “Are you sure you don’t want to go inside, darling?” Mercy asked him. “It’s so warm out here, and I don’t want you to tire yourself out. Look at you – you’re skin and bone. We’re going to have to feed you up on that cornbread you love so much.”
Jacob laughed softly. “I’m fine, honey, but you’re right: I would like to sit in the shade awhile. I’ll get my strength back soon, and when I do, I’ll plant yams, sweet potatoes, and maybe some watermelons.” He sighed again and then squeezed her fingers. “I love this land so damn much, Mercy, but if the Yankees confiscate it, we’ll be thrown out with just the clothes on our backs,” he told her. “They will take it, I reckon. They’re spittin’ mad we kept them out of Richmond, and they’ll find a way to hurt us. The thought of losing all this crushes me, but you are my home, darling, and my anchor.”
Mercy put his hand to her lips and laid a soft kiss on them. “Let’s not think about war or leaving here, not today, not when we are so happy,” she said.
He held her to him, and she felt his beating heart next to her own. This was quite possibly the most wonderful day of her life, she thought. She found herself thinking about her father, Thomas. He gave up on life in a moment of despair, but she had not allowed herself the luxury of death to block out her anguish and, at times, utter hopelessness. Her father was a coward, just as Grandpa Carver had declared. Her experience had taught her that after every deep misery came a brighter day. If only her father had realised that life was all about the promise of calm after a storm, joy after sadness, and reaping rewards after loss, not about giving up on it in a moment of panicked despair.
“Jacob, my entire journey has been worth it – every failure, mistake, and thrashing has led me here to this moment. Life is not always easy, but it is an extraordinary experience, don’t you think?”
Jacob kissed her soundly. “I’m going to make sure your adventures don’t end here, darling. We have a lot of living to do, and I aim to make your life even more exceptional, no matter where we end up living.”
Elizabeth and her father sat stony-faced and waiting impatiently in Jacob’s drawing room. From the moment Elizabeth caught her parents talking about Jacob’s return, she had wanted to come here and confront him and the bitch he had living under his roof. Her father had not allowed her to leave the house in Portsmouth, however, and at the time he had vexed her no end. Now she was glad he’d refused her, for after her return from North Carolina, she had not looked her best, and it had taken her some time to recover from her ordeal. Yes, she was glad Jacob had not seen her gaunt face and prune-like skin, for in the past week, she had recovered splendidly.
She saw Jacob and Mercy through the window, walking towards the house, and planted a thunderous look on her face. She repeated the words she had uttered for months in that dark filthy cell: I am staying in Stone Plantation, and the whore is leaving. Jacob is my husband, and he will remain so.
Her fingers fidgeted with the pale pink purse which sat atop the folds of her cream and gold gown. Inside were release papers stating Mr Jacob Stone as her husband and Stone Plantation as her address. The judge in North Carolina had made it quite clear that she was to go straight home to her husband, and this day would see her do just that. She had waited for this for so long, and oh, how she looked forward to pouring scorn on Mercy Carver when she ordered the bitch to leave and never come back. She’d have the niggers carry in her trunks, and that mealy-mouthed whore’s would be carried out and thrown onto the lawn. “Pa, they’re coming.”
“Are you sure this is what you want, daughter?” Mr Coulter asked her.
“Why, of course it’s what I want. I declare, anyone would think you were afraid of that Carver woman and a broken-down soldier. I heard Jacob looks like an old man. You just do as I say, Pa, and we’ll be in here before lunch is served. I’m famished.”
Abby ran towards Jacob and Mercy, panting with exertion, hands gripping her long skirts and lifting them up to her knees. Mercy tightened her grip on Jacob’s arm at the sight of panic on Abby’s shiny black face. She looked towards the house and saw a cart loaded with trunks and bags parked at the foot of the porch steps. She looked at Jacob with a heavy frown. Her hand, palm clammy with perspiration, slid into his, and she squeezed his fingers.
She’d thought for a while that this confrontation with Elizabeth might come. She had dreaded the day her life would once again be disrupted by Elizabeth’s obsessive need for revenge. But it had been inevitable and in a way necessary to get the bloody fight over with.
She looked at Jacob and felt her anger boiling. He was poorly enough without having to face Elizabeth, she thought. The least Elizabeth could have done before barging in and ruining his homecoming was to wait until he was properly healed.
Mercy and Jacob stood their ground in the doorway, taking not one step towards the Coulters, sitting prim and proper on the couch. Mercy noted that Mr Coulter did not seem to share his daughter’s enthusiasm for causing mischief. His eyes were downcast, staring at the wooden slatted floor beneath his feet. He clearly did not want to fight any more than she or Jacob did. He was probably mortified at his daughter’s behaviour, for Jacob had paid for her release, seen to the Coulter’s comforts, and had been kindness itself.
“Jacob, you can stand there for as long as you want or you can come over here and kiss your wife,” Elizabeth said, eyes blazing. “As you can see, I’ve come home – and I’m not leavin
g. She has to go. It’s time you threw her out with the trash.”
Jacob tightened his grip on Mercy’s hand and walked tiredly into the drawing room, Mercy beside him. His eyes flashed dangerously, first at Elizabeth and then at her father. “As you can see, my wife is already home with me. You’re not welcome here – y’all are not welcome here. Whatever there was between us ended over a year ago, and I refuse to allow you to continue with this farce. We’re done, woman! You have your freedom and your life, and now I insist you sign the damn divorce papers and get the hell out of our lives.
“You’re not mad, you’re not in jail, and there is no earthly reason why you can’t uphold your end of the bargain.” Jacob looked at Mr Coulter with a cold and calculating stare. “As for you, we agreed to end this nonsense the moment she was released. Jesus, I mourn your son, George. I miss him every day. He was the best of you. He told me all about your whoring and gambling, Coulter, yet instead of being with your wife, who’s grieving for George, you choose to stand here with your foolish daughter and make an even bigger fool of yourself , you son of a bitch. You gave me your word that you would convince her to let me go if I paid her legal fees.”
“Pa, how could you!” Elizabeth yelled. “You know my heart is set on making it work with Jacob. How can you betray me after all I’ve been through? Tell Jacob I should come back here to live, and tell him she has to leave! Tell him!”
Mr Coulter shook his head. “Hush, daughter. Jacob’s right. I shouldn’t have brought you here; there ain’t no changin’ his mind.”
Jacob softened his tone. “Elizabeth, go make a new start and forget what’s done. You will never get me back and you won’t set foot in this house again. Are we clear? I have no more to say to you – or you, Mr Coulter. Best you be taking your daughter home. I’m in no mood to entertain you or listen to you insult the woman I love.”
Elizabeth stood and walked shakily to stand in front of Jacob and Mercy. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror which sat on the wall behind them. What a fright she looked. She was a shadow of the beautiful woman she once was. Jacob Stone and his whore had ruined her. Her life was over, a shambles, an embarrassment. She was a laughing stock and wasn’t being received by anyone she knew. No one would ask for her hand. No gentleman would ask her to dance. Folks called her a murderess, a madwoman. They were ghastly, treating her this way.
She had suffered so much in that jail, pawed at by guards, spat on my other inmates, pushed around by everyone, jealous of her because she was a Southern belle and they were low-class criminals. She had not belonged there – she belonged here, in this house!
Jacob Stone had brought all these calamities to her door, and he was standing there happily holding Mercy Carver’s hand, basking in her love! She wouldn’t stand for it. She would rather die right now than let them throw her out like an unwanted cat. She would rather kill them than see the contented smirks on their faces!
She opened her purse and pulled out a small pistol. She cocked it and pointed it at Jacob’s head. It wavered in her hand, and she steadied it with her other hand, fingers on top of fingers. If she couldn’t have what she wanted, Mercy Carver wouldn’t have her happy ending either. No, she would not! That white trash prostitute would suffer for the rest of her damn life and would regret the day she ever set foot on Virginia’s soil.
Gasps were heard around the room.
“Elizabeth, put that gun away at once!” her father shouted. He stood and moved quickly to stand beside her. “Daughter, please …”
“Shut up, Pa,” Elizabeth told him. “Shut up and don’t try to stop me.” She stared at the fear on Jacob’s face and then flicked her eyes to Mercy. The whore was scared too. Margaret Mallory had worn that same expression just before she died. “Not smiling now, are you?” she said to Mercy. “You’ll see what it’s like to lose everything. Just you wait. You stole Jacob from me, and now I’m going to steal him from you!”
Jacob shielded Mercy with his body. “Put the gun down, you little fool!” He shouted at Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth, let us help you,” Mercy choked. “We can make your life a little easier. Jacob can give you money if you just put down the gun.”
Elizabeth laughed like a hyena, her body shaking, the gun waving about in the air at the end of her outstretched arm. “Money – what good is money here in the South? I don’t care about money anymore. I want you both to suffer. I hate you, Jacob Stone. Oh, God help me, I do. I hate you! I hate you!” She steadied the gun and aimed it at Jacob’s chest. She sighed with contentment. Revenge was a sweet, sweet feeling.
“Don’t, Elizabeth!” Jacob shouted.
Mercy saw the determination on Elizabeth’s face and felt sheer terror. She knew the look of a person who was just about to shoot, the crazed eyes and reddened face. She too had felt that second just before pulling the trigger. She pushed Jacob. “Dear, God, no...No!” she screamed, throwing herself in front of Jacob’s body just as the gun went off.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
The hand carried a bunch of blood-red roses across the field and into the graveyard, which was surrounded by a splintered wooden picket fence. The figure’s legs moved as slow as a snail and were as heavy as a ton, weighed down and reluctant to reach the grave and look at the tombstone. But it trudged on regardless, as though driven by madness and an insatiable need to speak to the dead.
The family plots were dilapidated. Faded names etched into smooth stone, turned white with the elements, were barely recognisable. Sparse patches of grass and a headless statue of Madonna lying on its side had been unattended for years, and its sculptured body, cracked and without contours, looked like a long bulky lump of hardened granite.
The figure approached the newest headstone and stood before it a moment before bending to place the roses on top of the damp soil covering the grave. Looking at the grave, the figure wondered how it was possible to survive and carry on after such trauma and loss. The grief was unbearable, stifling air in lungs and leaving the mind stupefied with thoughts of murder and revenge.
Tears rolled down the figure’s face, wet already with sleet and rain lashing horizontally in the biting wind. In this graveyard, there were no other names but, Stone. The first family member, buried in 1794, had been followed by wife, children, and grandchildren. Only the Stones had been buried here – until now.
Jacob slumped to the ground and sobbed like a child. His wretched cries were not enough to empty him of the anguish and torment, but they spoke to Mercy the way his words could not. He knelt and stared at the writing on the tombstone, and every now and then, he wiped the words dry as they too cried with rain, which bounced off the top of the stone and down its face.
“Dear God, no, not my Mercy!” he cried out. “You should have taken me, not her. Damn you, God. Damn you for your cruel games and hand of fate!” He wiped the stone again and read the words chiselled into its surface.
Mercy Carver
1842–1862
At Her Journey’s End
The rain continued to lash him, burning his skin and streaming down his face, blinding him. He looked skywards. It was not water he saw but shards of glass raining down on him. He covered his face with his arms and screamed for the pain to stop. He looked down at the ground and found himself sitting in a pool of blood, turning his grey uniform red.
Jacob sat bolt upright in bed, panting loudly, disoriented and wide-eyed with panic-stricken thoughts. Touching his face, he felt a fine veil of perspiration and wiped his forehead with his forearm. His heart was thumping like a hammer against his breast wall. He pushed his fingers through his thick, damp chest hair and held his hand there, doing all he could to convince his breathing to steady its rhythm. He turned his head sharply and watched Mercy sleeping contentedly beside him. He sighed with relief and stroked her hair. When were these nightmares going to stop? It had been months since he and Mercy had seen Elizabeth and her father and weeks since they had been told that the Coulters had moved south, exiled in
shame and disgraced in the eyes of Portsmouth’s elite.
The day Elizabeth tried to kill him would live in his memory forever. Had it not been for Elizabeth’s father’s quick hands tussling with the gun a second before it went off, the bullet would have hit Mercy instead of the mirror. She would not be lying next to him – she would be in the grave he saw in his dreams at night. Throwing herself in front of him had been most foolish thing she had ever done, but thank God their only injuries were cuts from the mirror’s shattered glass. “Dear Lord,” he whispered softly, as he lay back down, “thank you for all your blessings.”
Marcy stirred and turned over to face Jacob. She smiled sleepily and then looked at him inquisitively. “Oh no, did you have another bad dream about Elizabeth?” she asked him.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Did I wake you?”
“No, the baby was kicking me. He’s impatient to get out – tell me about the dream.”
“Same as always. It was a bad one, but they’re becoming less frequent and nothing to worry about. This is the only dream that matters: you and me, right here, right now.”
“Well, look on the bright side – had Elizabeth not tried to kill you, you would never have persuaded her to sign those divorce papers and we wouldn’t be married. And then what would we say to our child when born?”
“Come here, Mrs Stone, and let me hold you till sunup. Let me kiss your sassy lips and tell you how much I love you and how damn relieved I am to wake up each morning to your beautiful face.”
Mercy smiled and snuggled into him. Life was indeed a grand adventure, she thought. It was filled with wonders and curiosities that one could never imagine in childhood, whether born in a deep well of sadness and poverty or into wealth and privilege. Destiny, fate, determination, despair, and hope carried a person along in a sea of storms, and that’s what made life remarkable. No one knew only happiness or a lifetime of despair. If it were so, she thought, how could a person appreciate one and prevail over the other?
