Dreams of Glory

by Thomas Fleming

  Captain Tracy, deciding Flora was beyond his charms, pursued this idea with gusto. “I can see myself now, sitting on my plantation house veranda, a black wench on either knee, as drunk as Sir Toby on his wedding day.”

  “And what will your wife be doing meanwhile?” Lieutenant MacKenzie said. “Selecting some black stallion from the slave quarters, like as not.”

  “He’s right, Tracy,” Lord Gore said. “From what I heard in Virginia, there’s many a husband wearing black horns.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Tracy said, draining his wineglass.

  For a moment Flora was swept by blind blazing hatred of their confidently smiling white faces. She wanted to kill them, to kill every white man in America, in Caesar’s name. They were all the same, King’s men or rebels, they saw black men and women as animals to be used for their convenience and pleasure.

  A jingle of sleigh bells interrupted the exchange between the two officers. “Dear God,” Flora whispered to herself, springing up and rushing into the hall. Opening the top half of the Dutch door, she saw the dark hulk of Cato’s sleigh and horses outlined against the snowy landscape. With him was the Reverend Caleb Chandler, twelve hours ahead of schedule.

  “Gentlemen,” Flora said, having hurried back to the dining room, “I fear we must interrupt our feast. A chaplain from the American army is at the door. I invited him from Morristown at Major Beckford’s orders. He was supposed to arrive tomorrow.”

  She rang the bell, which summoned Nancy from the kitchen. “Clear the table at once,” Flora said.

  Flora found herself enjoying the discomfiture of her uniformed guests. Captain Tracy grabbed a slice of beef he had intended to consume at leisure and stuffed it into his pocket. Lord Gore forgot he was a peer and imitated him. Lieutenant MacKenzie almost choked himself trying to finish his wine and simultaneously cram down a mouthful of Nancy’s rabbit pie. As they fled through the kitchen and across the yard to the cold barn, Flora thought: May Caesar’s ghost haunt your filthy, slave-owning dreams.

  The front door opened; footsteps and voices echoed in the hall. Flora quickly mounted the back stairs and waited in her bedroom until Cato knocked on the door and informed her that the Reverend Chandler was in the parlor. “He’s a fine young man, mistress,” Cato said. He shared Nancy’s hope that the minister could heal her troubled soul.

  The word young surprised her. She had pictured the Reverend Caleb Chandler as a gray-haired, angry-eyed divine, not unlike the Reverend Jacobus Demarest, pastor of the Dutch Reformed Church in Bergen. Descending to the parlor, she found Cato’s adjective an understatement. The man standing before the fire had a face that was better described as boyish. The blue eyes had an innocent shine to them. The forehead was high and noble. The rather long, delicate nose was matched by a wide, mobile mouth. It was an unfinished face, remarkably unblemished by vanity or vice. Flora could not help contrasting it to the stylish arrogance of Congressman Hugh Stapleton, the comfortable egotism of the just-departed British officers. Mr. Chandler’s clothes were as unassuming as his face. His cloak was patched and threadbare, his tan breeches and blue coat devoid of decorations and lace and in a style at least a decade old.

  Then Flora remembered Wiert Bogert and John Nelson in the barn. She remembered that she had invited this boy-man to her house to become their victim.

  “How do you do, Mr. Chandler,” she said with a tremor in her voice that she quickly controlled. “You’re just in time. I was about to sit down to supper.”

  “My stomach agrees that would be most timely, madam,” the chaplain said with a smile.

  “First a warm drink to thaw you out.”

  “I’ve seldom been so comfortable in a sleigh,” Chandler said. “Your lap robes are worthy of royalty. I marvel that you haven’t had such things looted by the enemy, living where you do.”

  “We keep them well hidden, along with the silver,” Flora replied.

  She rang for Cato and asked him to heat some Madeira. Chandler looked around the sitting room and remarked on the beautiful furniture.

  “My late husband was very indulgent,” Flora explained. “He bought these pieces in New York just as Congress banned such importations. He wanted to make me feel at home.”

  “You’re English-born?” Chandler said in a suddenly harsh tone. His face relapsed into a disfiguring frown.

  “No,” she said. “I was born under the flag of France.”

  “Ah,” he said, his smile returning. “I’m an admirer of the French language. I studied it at Yale College. I can’t speak it, but I’ve read with rapture the poets of France.”

  “François Villon?” Flora said. “He’s my favorite.”

  Chandler closed his eyes and recited with the most atrocious accent Flora had ever heard the first lines of Villon’s famous “Ballad of the Ladies of Days Gone By”:

  Dites-moi où, n’en quel pays Est Flora la belle Romaine . . .

  She smiled and finished the verse in French, seeing and hearing her father reciting the words, with an accent that made her mother laugh. Now you must tell me what it means, her father would say with that sad smile, and she would eagerly translate it:

  Tell me where or in what country

  Is Flora, the fair Roman girl?

  Archipiades or Thais?

  Who was her only equal?

  Or Echo, replying whenever sound is made

  Over river or pool?

  Echo who had more than human beauty.

  But where are the snows of yesteryear?

  Ah, yes, her father would sigh, where are the snows of yesteryear?

  “Madam?”

  Flora stared dazedly at Caleb Chandler. He was smiling at her, his face aglow with pleasure, “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “I asked if you would please recite it again. Both verses.”

  She obeyed.

  “It sounds so beautiful on your lips,” he said. “In my mouth it’s like the scrapings of a wretched violinist.”

  “Your accent does need improvement,” Flora said. “But you overcome it, I think, with the sincerity of your sentiments.”

  “You’re very kind,” Chandler replied.

  No, she thought, I’m nothing of the sort. I’m your murderer.

  “You haven’t told me where you were born. Was it Paris?”

  “No another part of France, here on your continent. New Orleans.”

  Why not tell him the truth, or part of the truth? She was tired of ingenious lies.

  “Ah,” he said. “Was it there you learned to speak English so well?”

  “Yes,” she said, “My father was a merchant who did a great deal of business with England.”

  “But how did you reach this part of the world and marry Mr. Kuyper?”

  “I came to New York with my father on a trading voyage. He fell sick and died there. Mr. Kuyper took pity on my distracted, penniless state.”

  “Indeed, madam, I would say, without knowing your late husband, that he was a very fortunate man.”

  “Now you are being too kind.”

  “By no means, madam. I’m now your admirer twice over.”

  “Why twice, sir?”

  “I’m all but struck speechless by your beauty, now that we’re face to face. Before, I was an admirer of your goodness of heart.”

  The irony of these words almost made Flora blurt a denial. “I . . . I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I had time for extensive conversation with your servant Cato as we rode here tonight. He’s most extravagant in his praise of you, madam.”

  “I’ve tried to treat him - to treat all my slaves - well.”

  “He says you’ve promised to give them their freedom as soon as it’s possible for you to do so.”

  “That’s true. As long as the war lasts, I can borrow nothing on this property. It’s too close to the British in New York. The state of New Jersey requires a bond of two hundred pounds to free a single slave. I have seven of them.”

  Caleb Chandler strolle
d over to the painting of Caesar and Henry Kuyper. “That’s a picture of my husband and Caesar,” Flora said. “He - Caesar - was born a slave here on the farm. They were raised together.”

  The chaplain shook his head and turned to face her with a rueful expression. “I’m almost ashamed of myself.”

  “Why, for goodness’ sake?”

  “For one of the motives that brought me here. Suspicion of you, madam.”

  “For what reason?”

  “There are some people who think you’re a British sympathizer. I see already the notion is ridiculous. A woman who despises slavery cannot possibly be serving the nation that wants to make slaves of us all.”

  How naive, how sincere he is, Flora thought. He believes the Americans’ self-serving political slogans.

  “Who’s accusing me?”

  “A person of no consequence. A grog seller who drew certain conclusions from Caesar’s talk.”

  “Caesar’s talk?”

  “I’m not sure exactly what he said. Perhaps he admired you as much as Cato does. No doubt you promised him his freedom, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Such is the perversity of some minds, you might be suspected or, more precisely, slandered, simply to silence you. The Reverend Jacob Green of Hanover, not far from Morristown, was mobbed for preaching a sermon against slavery not long ago.”

  Flora hesitated, wondering whether to pursue a dangerous subject. The sincerity of Caleb Chandler’s face proved irresistible. “You feel strongly about slavery yourself, I gather? Your comments in your letter-”

  “The conviction grows on me with every passing day. I begin to see the very idea as monstrous, a crime.”

  He was either sincere or a superb actor. His face blazed with indignation. The boyishness vanished. He was a strong, angry young man.

  “You’re the first American I’ve met with such a delicate conscience,” Flora said, letting sarcasm steady her voice.

  He nodded mournfully. “Everyone I know considers it an oddity. Or, to be more precise, considers me an oddity. I come from Connecticut, you see. It’s known as the land of steady habits. Odd notions are frowned upon severely.”

  “Where did you get this - odd - notion?”

  “It started with my dissatisfaction with the faith into which I was born, and am now licensed to preach. I have - secretly, I assure you, because it would give my mother and father pain - explored other creeds. A Quaker friend gave me some books, among them a tract by a Friend from New Jersey, John Woolman, condemning Negro slavery. I thought his arguments were irresistible. What was it that led you to your convictions about the matter, madam?”

  “I?” she said, dismayed by the perfectly natural question. “I . . .”

  “I believe it is sanctioned by the French in New Orleans, as it is in their West Indies islands, is it not?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  The truth. How blessed it would be to tell him the truth, as he had told it to her. But it was not possible. The truth would destroy her. But a lie would destroy him. A lie had brought him here. More lies would hold him here until Wiert Bogert and John Nelson delivered the British officers to New York and returned to kill him.

  For a moment Flora remembered Nancy’s words: “You got to find forgiveness for yourself and Caesar now.”

  No, it was not possible.

  “In New Orleans it’s not at all uncommon for kind masters to free their slaves in their wills. There are many free blacks and mulattoes.”

  Cato appeared in his livery to serve the mulled wine. “I understand you and Mr. Chandler have been conversing about a good many things,” Flora said.

  “There were some points of doctrine I welcomed a chance to ask him about, mistress,” Cato replied.

  Dear Cato, Flora thought, your wish to save your soul and mine will lead us both to destruction. “As Cato probably told you, he preaches on Sunday to our blacks and many from other farms. He’s rather famous among his people.”

  “He knows his Old Testament,” Caleb Chandler said.

  The chaplain waited until Cato withdrew to take up another topic. “He seems reluctant to talk about Caesar.”

  “He wasn’t especially close to him. Cato is much older, at least ten years. Caesar was a field hand.”

  “Did Congressman Stapleton discuss Caesar’s death with you when he returned his body?”

  “No.”

  “I feared his interest in the matter was slight. He owns twenty slaves and apparently regards them as little more than cattle.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Flora said. “The congressman strikes me as a man interested in little but his own pleasure.”

  “There are puzzling aspects to Caesar’s death. The money in his pocket, for instance. Ten sovereigns. Where would a private soldier get those? Also, he was absent without leave for a week. Not the first such absence. Did he usually come here? When was the last time you saw him?”

  Flora found herself suspecting Mr. Chandler’s innocence. She did not know what Cato had told him but if she contradicted it, she was caught. “Caesar came here now and then,” she said warily. “He was always welcome.”

  “You saw no reason to wonder at these appearances? Or to reproach him?”

  “I knew, and still know, nothing of the army’s regulations. I thought he had leave to come. He never stayed long.”

  “And the money? You have no idea where he might have gotten it?”

  “None,” she lied.

  “Cato hinted that Caesar had irregular habits and wild opinions. Did you know him well enough to hear about these things?”

  “I knew that he hated America and Americans. Can you blame him?”

  And so do I, she wanted to add, triumphantly, recklessly, in Caesar’s name.

  Instead of shock and anger, Flora was surprised to see sadness, regret on the Reverend Chandler’s face.

  “Madam, America is my country. I can’t justify such an opinion.”

  “Why not?” she said. “Believing as you do that slavery is wrong. There are a half-million slaves in America. Can a nation guilty of a half-million wrongs be worthy of admiration?”

  She was talking like a madwoman. Did she want him to find out the truth about her? All she had to do was plead ignorance. Reiterate that Caesar was a field hand, that she had barely spoken ten words to him. But her uncertainty about what Cato had said on the road coalesced with a need to speak the truth or some semblance of it to this innocent earnest young man.

  Her frankness drew a troubled response from the Reverend Caleb Chandler. “Those are dangerous thoughts, madam. Not entirely unwarranted, I admit. I’ve drifted toward them more than once. But what’s the alternative to fighting for America? Will our British enemies do any more for these poor people? It was their policy, their ships, that first brought the blacks among us in chains a hundred years ago.”

  This uneasy rationalizing obviously clashed with Caleb Chandler’s sympathy for Caesar, for his race, for the poor and friendless of this world. Flora saw that the chaplain was a divided spirit, part scholar and part something deeper and finer than creeds and formulas. She could not let Wiert Bogert and John Nelson kill him. She could not bear his death on her conscience.

  He would never know what she was risking for him. No matter. Perhaps there was such a thing as expiation. Perhaps a caring God, if He existed, would accept it as a part payment for her other sins.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Chandler,” Flora said. “Now, as to the time of the funeral. I had planned it for the day after tomorrow. But since you’re here so early, I see no reason why we can’t have it tomorrow and permit you to speed back to your duties in Morristown.”

  “Whatever you say, madam. I’m at your service.”

  It was all so bland, so indifferent. For another moment Flora was again assailed by the wish to tell him the truth, or at least the terrible part of the truth - her need, Caesar’s need, for prayers of forgiveness, for the mercy that she had once believed descended f
rom heaven with the Blessed Virgin’s smile. But she had become a stranger to the truth. Which meant that mercy must remain a stranger to her.

  “Finish your wine, Mr. Chandler,” she said. “It’s time for supper.”

  “Why do so many Americans dislike New England men?”

  “What, madam?” murmured Caleb Chandler.

  “This dislike of New England men. Are you not all Americans?”

  It was a question that ordinarily would have aroused Caleb to a torrent of rebuttal. But he found it hard to think about New England while he was sitting at the dinner table with Flora Kuyper. Her gown, worn low in the fashion that no doubt prevailed in that outpost of Paris, New Orleans, exposed most of her firm, full breasts. His eyes traveled from these lovely curves to her bare shoulders and perfectly proportioned neck, her naked arms. Never in his life had he seen so much female flesh, but there was not the least hint of sin or obscenity in the experience. It was all natural; the word beat in him again and again as he watched this woman turn her head, pick up a glass. All her movements had an innate grace, a flow that made him feel as if he were watching an accomplished actress gesture, speak, smile.

  She did not smile often. An undefinable sadness lay like a veil on her oval face, which was dominated by dark green eyes and a languorous mouth. Her skin had an incredibly smooth ivory luster. Her hair was undressed, in the country style, but it had no need of the hairdresser’s art. It was black as a winter night, falling to her shoulders in luxurious curls.

  “New England,” Caleb said. “Ah, yes. We’re much misunderstood, madam. The rest of America dislikes us because we persist in the faith of our fathers. We resist the luxuries of this world, with which the English are so eager to inundate and corrupt us.”

  “And you agree with this Puritan attitude?” Flora Kuyper said with a small smile. “Even when your favorite poet, Villon, writes so incomparably: ‘Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.”‘