by John Jakes
“Maum Isabella, may I ask you a question that might not be any of my business?”
“You can surely ask, Mr. Jeremiah. I’ll decide about a reply when I hear the question.”
“Where’d that buck come from? Price, I mean. Has he always been on the plantation?”
“No. The colonel bought him five years ago in a batch of half a dozen niggers Mr. Samples owned. Mr. Samples had the next farm over from this one. He went to his reward very suddenly. Had no kin to take over the property, so the colonel picked up part of the acreage and some of his people too. All good people except that Price. He came from Louisiana when he was young. He was raised by a man who treated him bad. Maybe that explains why he acts mean. But it doesn’t excuse it. I’ve always had a queer feeling about Price.”
“What sort of feeling?”
“He could have been raised in a pig lot or a palace and he’d still have come out mean.” She smiled. “The Yanks don’t have a corner on meanness, you know. Fact is, there ain’t a single group in all God’s creation dares claim their baskets are free of bad peaches.”
“Price sure strikes me as one.”
Maum Isabella didn’t disagree. “Most of the niggers on the place can’t abide him. There are a few who encourage him on the sly. They like to see him get away with being uppity. Miz Catherine should have sold him off long ago. Well, I got things to do. I expect the mistress will be here soon. We’ll have dinner tomorrow afternoon, late. In the morning there’s to be a memorial service in the parlor. For the colonel. Most everybody’ll be there.”
The sentence implied a question about his presence. Jeremiah nodded, his dark eyes shining in the candle glow. The toddy had warmed and relaxed him. The scent of roses and dahlias drifting in from the bluish dark was like a balm after the stenches of war: pus, dirt, offal, powder, blood—
“So will I. The colonel was a good man. He saved my life.”
At last Maum Isabella looked as if she approved of him.
“I’m happy to hear you’ll be able to pay your respects,” she said as she opened the door. She marched out as Jeremiah reached for the toddy.
He was incredibly content. He savored not only the drink but the comforting feeling of being halfway well again. Well, clean, and in a safe haven.
A temporarily safe haven, he reminded himself. Out there in the Georgia dark, Sherman’s soldiers were marching relentlessly. Rosewood might lie directly in their path.
He finished the toddy. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t frightened by the possibility of Sherman’s approach. But the idea brought a touch of pleasure as well. After too long a time, he might again be called to do something worthwhile in this war.
ii
Catherine Rose looked in about twenty minutes later.
She was dressed more formally than when he’d first met her. She’d changed from her faded gingham to a full-skirted black gown with rustling underlayers that bulked the skirt into the fashionable hooped shape.
Her bodice looked different than before. Her breasts were pushed up higher, more pointed and prominent. He assumed she was wearing one of those steel-boned corsets. The kind he’d seen in his mother’s empty room in Lexington one time, and stolen in to touch with a feeling of experimentation and acute embarrassment.
Even though Jeremiah was eighteen, his knowledge of the intimate details of a woman’s life were limited. In the army he’d often bragged about visiting a lady of easy virtue when he was only fifteen. It was the typical young soldier’s lie. He was totally innocent—and ashamed of it. Now the sight of Mrs. Rose’s figure generated a lewd excitement all the more thrilling because it was shameful.
Clad in black as she was, the widow’s only concession to her duties as mistress of a household was a lace-edged apron of white lawn. Even the heavy crocheted net holding the large chignon at the back of her head was black. She’d dressed her hair since he’d last seen her.
“Corporal Kent.” She greeted him with a small, strained smile.
“Evening, ma’am.”
“Maum Isabella reports you’re feeling somewhat better.” She stood at the foot of the bed, composed but pale.
“Thank you, I am. Please call me Jeremiah.”
“Of course. I’m truly sorry you had to suffer so much to bring that letter to Rosewood.”
“Why, that’s all forgotten, ma’am,” he fibbed. “You’re the one who—” Caught in an awkward trap, he didn’t want to finish.
The mole beside her mouth lifted as she tried to smile with greater warmth. Her eyes were puffy. Otherwise she was in perfect control. He admired her courage.
She finished the sentence for him. “Who has suffered? I’ll admit I did let down for a little while. But the truth is, even before you arrived, I was beginning to think something had happened to Henry. He usually forced himself to write a letter every three or four weeks. A few lines. But I hadn’t received one in two and a half months.”
She drew a cane chair to the bed and sat down. He smelled the fruit wine again, strongly.
“Besides, there’s no time for excessive indulgence in grief. With all those stories of Yanks loose around Milledgeville, we must get busy. I need to make a list of what we should hide—food, furnishings, valuables—in case Sherman does come this way.”
“I want to help any way I can,” he said, suddenly self-conscious about being alone with a woman in this flower-scented bedroom. It hardly mattered that the woman was at least twice his age. “I’ll be out of bed before you know it.”
“Very kind of you, Jeremiah. I appreciate your willingness. I’ll feel free to call on you. Some of the bucks on the place may not stay.”
“Not stay? Why?”
“Judge Claypool’s boy, Floyd—he came over yesterday—he told me a great many nigras are running away from their masters to travel with Sherman’s army.”
An awkward pause. Jeremiah felt compelled to say something more about her husband. He struggled—not at ease with sentiments appropriate to such a moment.
“Whatever happens, you must let me help. I wouldn’t be drawing a breath if it wasn’t for the colonel. I’m truly sorry he—”
A red-knuckled hand lifted. “Not necessary, Jeremiah. Your feelings for him are evident. And your loyalty. You got here.”
Her eyes focused on the gallery, and the dark. “Henry was an excellent husband. I liked him from the first time he came to tea at Christ College. That’s where I was teaching when we met. I was an instructor in the classics. I’m originally from Connecticut.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“I came down to Georgia to accept a position at the female institute at Montpelier when I was twenty-two. Henry had recently—had lost his first wife—” Her voice trailed off. “His aunt was also on the faculty at the institute. She introduced us. She was an Episcopalian, but Henry was a Congregationalist as I am. I never regretted my decision to marry him. Or to bring up his child.”
Another pause. Then she asked how Henry Rose had died.
He described the circumstances in a guarded way, emphasizing the colonel’s heroism and omitting the more gruesome details. He made no mention of the blood, the filth, the brutality of the field hospital—nor of Rose’s despair about the course of the war. Catherine nodded from time to time. Once he thought he saw tears in her eyes.
She asked about her husband’s body. Again he resorted to partial honesty. He cited the confusion that always followed a battle and took the blame for not keeping track of Rose’s remains. He avoided any reference to the heap onto which those canvas-covered bodies were dumped one after another. He tried to finish with something positive.
“He was thinking of you right to the end, ma’am. Never a word about himself. Just about you. How you’d need assistance—”
A small sigh. “It appears we will. It pains me to say it, but over the last few months I’ve noticed a change in the attitude of a few of the nigras. They still do their duties, but they’ve become”—she searched for the proper term—
“impudent.”
He saw no reason to skirt the issue any longer. “Is Price one of them?”
“The worst, I’m afraid.”
“Well, then, I should tell you what I really think happened to my musket.”
Before he could begin, the door opened. A girl walked in.
Her dress was as black as her stepmother’s. But her bright, red hair framing pale cheeks shone a fire, so that like she hardly seemed in mourning.
The girl was taller than Catherine, with pale blue eyes and a splendid figure. There was an astonishing perfection about her features. Together with her delicately white skin, it gave her an almost angelic air. But the liveliness of her eyes flawed the effect.
She came quickly to the bedside, her skirts gathered up in her hands. The older woman turned. “I thought perhaps you’d forgotten us, Serena.”
“No, not at all,” the girl answered, ignoring the hint of criticism in Catherine’s remark.
Serena Rose studied Jeremiah. She was a lovely creature, but plainly not the older woman’s child.
“I do hope you’re comfortable, Mr. Kent,” she remarked with a smile that struck him as sweetly polite rather than sincere.
“Fine, thank you.”
He knew the girl was two years older than he was: twenty. The difference seemed an abyss. And even before he’d spoken his three-word answer, she glided to a wall mirror to study her hair. Somehow that angered him.
iii
“You could be a bit more cordial to our guest, my dear.” Serena spun around, her smile still ingenuous. “Was I being otherwise, Catherine? I’m so sorry.”
She was hard to read: reserved, every move studied. While Catherine’s politeness masked feelings she felt it might be unseemly to reveal, Serena’s behavior apparently concealed a lack of any feeling whatever. Or, if she did have feelings, she kept them deeply hidden. He began to suspect she’d come up to the bedroom solely because it was an obligation.
“I apologize if I was rude to you, Mr. Kent,” she said. “The news about Papa, and all this talk about the Yankees—it’s quite upsetting.”
“I can certainly understand—”
“But now we have a trustworthy man to help us,” Catherine said.
“That’s reassuring,” Serena replied, though a flicker of her eyes suggested she doubted man was an appropriate term for Jeremiah. He was both repelled by the girl’s cool manner and attracted by her physical beauty—of which she was quite conscious. She stood so that he had a clear view of her figure—her bosom—in profile. In a perfunctory way, she asked, “Where do you come from, Mr. Kent?”
“I was serving with the Sixty-third Virginia until I was reassigned as your father’s orderly on the division staff.”
“Virginia,” Serena repeated. “That’s a mighty long way from Georgia.”
He decided he might as well get some of the details out of the way. He told them a little about his family. First his mother, still in the endangered Shenandoah. Then his brother Gideon, captured in the firefight that slew Jeb Stuart at Yellow Tavern.
No, he replied in response to a question from Catherine, there was absolutely no word of Gideon’s whereabouts, and he was worried. Men were known to be dying by the hundreds in the Northern prisons, now that Grant had put a stop to the exchange of prisoners in order to further deplete the South’s manpower.
The account of his middle brother was only slightly less grim. For a few moments he spoke glowingly of Matt’s sunny nature, his fondness for games, the memorable quality of his drawings. Then he told them Matt had been—and presumably still was—on a blockade runner, a fast, Liverpool-built steam vessel slipping back and forth between the Bermudas and Wilmington on the Cape Fear River. But Matt’s last, badly spelled letter had been delivered to Lexington over eight months ago. There’d been no news since. Either Matt hadn’t written again, or a letter from Fan with news of him had failed to reach Jeremiah. Whatever the circumstances, there was a question mark after Matt’s name nearly as ominous as the one after Gideon’s.
Jeremiah concluded with a brief mention of the other branch of the family: his father, Jephtha, from whom his mother was divorced, and who was now a Methodist pastor again—this time in the Northern wing of the divided church up in New York. Jephtha had originally been an itinerant parson in Virginia before the Methodists split over the slave issue. Then he’d been a newspaperman on the New York Union.
“There’s at least one more in the family up north, but I know even less about him. His name’s Louis. He has a wife and a small boy, and he’s a rich man. Owns that newspaper Jephtha worked for, plus part of a steelworks, some kind of cotton factory, and a publishing company in Boston called Kent and Son. I saw a book from the company in your office, Mrs. Rose.”
Serena’s blue eyes showed greater interest. “So the Northern relatives are the ones with money, Mr. Kent?”
“Yes, Miss Serena. I’m afraid that’s true for the present. Eventually, though, my brothers and I—”
Before he could finish, and tell them he and Matt and Gideon might one day be wealthy in their own right, Catherine interrupted. “I think we’ve taxed Jeremiah quite long enough.”
Serena pouted. He’d piqued her curiosity. She was gazing at him as if trying to guess the ending of his unfinished sentence.
“He was kind enough to describe how your father died,” Catherine said.
There was no response. If the girl felt any emotion she never showed it. Jeremiah was fascinated by her good looks, but he began to think he didn’t like her much as a person.
“And we were discussing the attitude of some of the nigras when you came in.” Catherine swung back to Jeremiah. “I hate to tire you further. But you mentioned something about a musket?”
“The same one Price talked about in the office,” Jeremiah said, nodding. “I slept all last night on the creek bank where he found me. When I woke up, the musket was gone. My cartridge box, too. Your nigra claimed someone else must have come along and taken it. But I’m pretty certain he took it.”
Catherine frowned.
“I think he hid it,” Jeremiah went on more firmly. “I don’t believe it’s safe to have a nigra you call impudent hiding a gun when the Yanks are on the way.”
The discussion sparked a combative look in Serena’s eyes. “Now let me get this clear. Price claimed he didn’t take the musket?”
“That’s correct, Miss Serena. He said some nigras who fish down there must have pilfered it.”
“And you have no evidence one way or the other?”
He admitted that was true.
Catherine Rose chewed her lip. “I hesitate to make an issue without proof. If the Yanks arrive we’ll need the support of every nigra on the place. Price has a mean streak in him. But it’s usually directed at the other slaves.”
“He’s been saucy to you lately, Catherine,” Serena flared.
“I know. But I still don’t think he’d do us any harm.”
“Mrs. Rose, I beg to disagree.” Jeremiah struggled to sit up straighter in bed, ignoring the way his nightshirt hiked over his knees, much to Serena’s amusement. “I think that buck should be questioned until he admits the theft.”
“So do I!” Serena exclaimed, the candles putting little reflections in her pupils.
Again Catherine negated the idea with a shake of her head. “We have always conducted the affairs of Rosewood in a humane and Christian way. Right or wrong, we’ll continue to do so. At this difficult time, I won’t have the nigras losing their trust in me because of Price.”
“I heard most of them hate him,” Jeremiah responded.
Catherine sighed. “Maum Isabella’s been talking again. She’s right. But there are delicate balances on a plantation such as this one. If I accuse Price, he’ll never admit the theft because there’s no evidence against him. To force a confession, I’d have to punish him. Then the nigras might switch their loyalties—even if only briefly. I’d become their enemy. I don’t want to be their en
emy with Sherman on the loose.”
“But, Catherine—” Serena protested.
“Child,” the older woman broke in, her voice soft but strong, “I have the final say in this. Even granted Price is lying, I don’t intend to provoke more turmoil. We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and stay alert. That’s enough for the time being.”
Serena stamped her foot. “Stay alert till he breaks in one night and shoots us!”
“Serena, don’t argue.”
Red-cheeked, the girl blazed back, “Yes, I will! You’re too easy on the niggers! Mr. Kent’s warned us, but you won’t pay any attention. You’re always so blasted anxious to have everyone think you’re a saint!”
The color draining from her face, Catherine whispered, “I try to behave in a Christian way.”
“When the neighbors are here! They never see that blackberry wine you’re always—”
“Be quiet!”
Catherine stared at Serena until the younger woman looked away.
Jeremiah was embarrassed yet morbidly fascinated by the sudden display of hostility between the mother and stepdaughter. Sensing his discomfort, Catherine stood up.
“It’s no disrespect to Jeremiah if we don’t press the issue with Price. We’ll be careful.”
Careful isn’t enough, he thought. I saw that buck’s eyes down by the river—you didn’t.
Serena refused to surrender. “We should do more than that. We should force Price to admit he’s lying. Whip him!”
“I will hear absolutely nothing more on the subject.”
Catherine said it with such vehemence that Serena looked as if she’d been struck. She opened her mouth to retort, then noted the fierceness of Catherine’s gaze and whirled away. Jeremiah thought the older woman’s prudence was ill-advised. But it wasn’t his place to enter into a family feud whose nature and origins he didn’t understand.
Trying to take the sting out of the confrontation, Catherine walked over and reached for her stepdaughter’s arm. Serena turned again, drawing back. For a moment the women faced one another.
Finally Serena stepped aside, her cheeks pink, her face far from angelic.
