North and South Trilogy Page 18

  “He’s right,” said a black woman. “The buck was already drunk when he came sashayin’ over here.”

  Other house slaves nodded and murmured agreement. For a moment Priam couldn’t believe his own people would do this to him. He looked as if someone had driven a spear into his side.

  Righteous and wrathful, Greene shook a finger at Priam. “Don’t you go tellin’ any more lies to get me in trouble, nigger.”

  “No,” Tillet said, reaching for his slave’s arm. “Don’t do that. You’re in enough trouble already.”

  Priam jerked away from Tillet’s hand. The watchers gasped, a sound like a great wave breaking. Tillet lowered his eyes and studied his hand, as if he couldn’t believe what Priam had done.

  Salem Jones appeared then. He slipped up next to his employer, barely able to suppress a smile. Priam stood slightly hunched, his hands fisted and sweat streaming down his cheeks. Orry and George joined the spectators. If Tillet couldn’t see that Priam was dangerously out of control, they could.

  “We had best leave,” Calhoun said. “Nathanael, if you will—”

  “No,” Tillet said. “It isn’t necessary for you to do that, John. The fault is Priam’s.” Orry recognized signs of an unusual anger building within his father. “You go to your cabin, Priam. Do it now or it will go hard with you.”

  Priam shook his head. Tillet stiffened as if slapped. “I’ll order you one last time,” he said.

  Again the slave wagged his head from side to side. Tillet’s face grew purplish. Hoping to prevent more trouble, Orry started to speak to his father. Before he could, Tillet made a quick, hooking gesture with his left hand. Jones caught the signal. He whisked his hickory truncheon from under his fancy coat, waved several of the house men forward.

  “You, Jim. You, Aristotle. Take him.”

  Priam bellowed and started swinging. The men closed in. Priam retreated three steps and fell backward over a table. Bowls of food crashed to the ground and broke or spilled.

  Jones let his two black helpers subdue Priam. Then the overseer leaned forward across the shoulders of Jim and Aristotle and whacked Priam with the truncheon. He did it several times. On the last blow, Priam sagged to his knees. A line of blood ran from a gash in his forehead. With hate-filled eyes he looked at his master, who had stepped in front of him.

  “I told you it would go hard, Priam. I surely do wish you’d listened.”

  Standing close by his father, Orry said, “Don’t you think he’s had his punishment?”

  Tillet’s color was still high. He was breathing hard. “No. Priam disrupted the celebration and embarrassed me in front of my guests. I treat my people well, but I will not tolerate ingratitude or a rebellious spirit. I’m going to make an example of this nigger.”

  That last word was one Tillet never used in reference to his slaves. It told Orry he had better not try to stop his father from doing whatever he planned.

  Priam, too, recognized the master’s uncharacteristic rage. He wept silently as he hobbled away in the grip of the other two slaves.

  At Resolute, Madeline turned in her bed for the twentieth time. When she had put on her nightgown and blown out the lights an hour ago, she had known sleep would be slow to come. Too much had happened. Too much was yet to happen, if she were brave enough—or foolhardy enough—to let it.

  The bedroom windows stood open in the darkness, but no air was moving. Directly underneath her room, someone was padding through the house, securing it for the night. Outside, the barely perceptible stir and hum of night creatures formed a background for the sound of her own breathing.

  Justin wasn’t in the house, thank heaven. He had ridden off to Charleston with his brother, presumably feeling that she needed time by herself to contemplate the enormity of her sins and the punishment that would be hers if the sinning continued.

  Bastard, she thought as her husband’s self-righteous face glimmered in her imagination. It was becoming astonishingly easy to call him vile names. How she wished she could do more than that. How she wished she could confront him with the confession her father had made just before his eyes closed for the last time. How she yearned to smile at Justin and say:

  “My dear, it is my painful duty to inform you that you are married to a woman with Negro blood.”

  Justin had deceived her during the courtship, so it was poetic justice that he be told, even if belatedly, that she had deceived him. Of course it was unintentional; she hadn’t known or even suspected the truth that her father breathed out through pale lips while she sat at his bedside in the heavily draped room that smelled faintly of candle wax, and sweat, and death.

  All his life, Nicholas Fabray had done his best to smooth his daughter’s way, and those last moments were no exception. He cushioned the shock as best he could, spoke slowly but eloquently about Madeline’s mother: how fine she was, how considerate and loving. Only then did he reveal that his wife, to all outward appearances a white woman, was in fact one-quarter Negro. Madeline was an octoroon.

  “Why—” She fisted one trembling hand and pressed it against her knee. “Why are you telling me now?”

  “Because you would curse my memory if you ever learned the truth from anyone else.” Unspoken was the harsher thought: Because you are vulnerable to this truth, regardless of my efforts to veil it, unlikely as it is ever to be exposed.

  He and his wife had wanted a better life for Madeline than she would have had if she were acknowledged to be of mixed blood. Fortunate quadroons and octoroons could enjoy the favors of white gentlemen and even be the recipients of some of their wealth. But those boons were always temporary because a woman of mixed blood could never be anything better than a mistress, never anything better than a white man’s elegant whore.

  Nicholas Fabray had refused to play out that sad little drama so prevalent in New Orleans. He had married the woman he loved, something that took enormous courage. He did not say that, of course. But Madeline understood it and bent over the bed and embraced his frail, half-paralyzed body while tears filled her eyes.

  No, Fabray went on, there was nothing to be lost by concealing certain facts about Madeline’s background, and everything to be gained. It was not difficult to maintain the deception, he said, because Madeline’s mother was almost unknown in the twilight world of the city’s quadroons and octoroons. And the dust of time had enhanced concealment. Now Madeline must join the conspiracy of silence and preserve the safety he had so long sought for her.

  Finally, he revealed one dominant reason he had wanted his daughter to marry Justin LaMotte. Not only was Justin a kind, decent man—here Madeline averted her head while her mouth convulsed in a sardonic smile—but he also lived far from Louisiana. In South Carolina there would be virtually no chance of her ever being confronted with the truth about her lineage. In New Orleans the possibility, however remote, was present. His voice faltering, Fabray muttered something about a picture of Madeline’s mother.

  “A picture, Papa? Do you mean a painting?”

  “Yes—a painting.” His eyes were closed again; speech seemed difficult.

  “There’s a portrait of her somewhere?”

  “Was.” The tip of his tongue inched across dry lips. Then he opened his eyes and tried to clarify his answer, but his voice was so weak, his words so vague, she could make little sense of his statements. She got the impression that the painting had disappeared. When and how, he didn’t say.

  Then the thread of the thought was lost as light convulsions began to shake his wasted body. She held his hand and pressed her other to her own cheek, as if that way she could hold back her grief. She called out and told a passing servant to summon the doctor at once. Ten minutes before he arrived, Nicholas Fabray died.

  The shock didn’t hit her until the next day, after she had taken care of the last detail of the funeral arrangements. Then she broke down and wept for nearly an hour, stricken by Fabray’s death and by the loathsome secret with which he had burdened her. For a brief period she
hated him for telling her; in the South, having even one drop of black blood was the same as having skin the color of ebony.

  A great many of the city’s leading politicians and businessmen, Catholic and Protestant, attended the funeral. They brought their white wives, and when Madeline noticed that, she appreciated the skill with which her father had carried off the deception. The last vestiges of ill feeling left her; she mourned and blessed him at the same time.

  Lying in the dark, Madeline wondered how she could have brought herself to say yes to Orry’s whispered plea for a secret rendezvous. Her conscience was already torturing her about that, and yet she knew she would go through with this one meeting if she could. Her willingness was a natural reaction to Justin’s cruelty, but it was also a clear violation of the code of behavior she had practiced all her life. Even given Justin’s character, how could that happen? Many women endured similar mistreatment, or worse, till the day they died. What made the difference in her case?

  The answer lay in something that could not be fully reduced to logical explanation. Something in the young cadet’s eyes, in his courtly bearing and his shy demeanor, called out to her, spoke to her on a deep and primitive level. That was true despite her fear that, because of his age, he could not possibly be what he seemed.

  She laid the back of one hand against her cheek and uttered a small, sad sound. Her life, so carefully and conscientiously put in order by her late father, was growing hopelessly tangled. She was thankful Nicholas Fabray didn’t know.

  She imagined Orry’s face. He was young. That was a dire risk, and it was just one of several she intended to accept. Another was the risk she’d take when she left Resolute for the rendezvous. Keeping her hand where it was, she closed her eyes and concentrated on a plan to avert suspicion when she rode away tomorrow. She was still lying in that position when she fell asleep and dreamed of Orry kissing her.

  Like Madeline, the slave girl Semiramis was unable to fall asleep easily that night. Jones was going to do something terrible to her brother. Quirt him, most likely. Priam had caused a big fuss at the picnic. After it happened, the Mont Royal slaves talked of nothing else for the rest of the day.

  Most of the slaves thought her brother was going to get what he deserved. They said mean things about him because they were jealous of his courage. He was always whispering about the North, about fleeing to freedom. The others called him a boaster. Said he’d never do it, just because they knew he might, and they wouldn’t. Of course, he’d never go if his temper got him killed first.

  Semiramis wanted to sleep, to forget the beating Priam was going to get. She turned one way, then the other on her thin, sour-smelling pallet of ticking. She couldn’t lie still; she was too tense.

  Flickering light showed around the edge of the closed door. Torches had been lit in the barnyard behind old Jones’s house. The punishment would begin soon. The torches told her, and so did the stillness of the night. Up and down the slave street, no one laughed or spoke.

  A furtive knock startled her. She bolted upright.

  “Who’s that?”

  A shadow blotted some of the flickering light. “Cuffey.”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” she called. “Not this evening, boy.” She had started pleasuring herself with Cuffey several months ago, although he was quite young; too young, some of the jealous old women said. But they had never seen him without trousers, nor did they know what he could do with his remarkable—

  Before she could finish the thought, the boy was inside and kneeling by the pallet.

  “I din’ come for that. I came ’bout Priam.”

  “Jones going to whip him.”

  “Uh-uh. Worse. Jones brought the old mouser down from the great house. They going to cat-haul him.”

  Stunned silence. Then Semiramis said, “Oh, Jesus, sweet Jesus. It’ll kill him.” She clutched her stomach.

  Her brother had angered Mr. Tillet worse than she had imagined. How Priam must have strutted and fought! She hadn’t seen it, only heard about it; she had been working elsewhere at the time. Now she wanted to run to the great house to plead for mercy.

  Cuffey dissuaded her. He stayed with her, murmuring empty comforts as they waited for the sound of the first scream.

  Torches planted in the ground lit the barnyard brilliantly. Priam lay spread-eagled on his stomach.

  Jones had assembled an audience of twenty male slaves because, done properly, this night’s work could benefit the plantation for years. It could leave a powerful and lasting impression on any other niggers who might be feeling rebellious. The impression would come not only from Priam’s suffering but from his humiliation beforehand. He had been forced to disrobe, kneel, and bow his head while ropes were tied to his ankles and wrists. These ropes, pegged into the sandy soil, kept his limbs extended.

  Animal and bird cries rose in the darkness beyond the barnyard. The slave cabins were abnormally quiet. Good, Jones thought. Many others were watching or listening. The lesson would not be lost on them, and the reports of the witnesses would reinforce it.

  A big buck named Harmony held a burlap sack at arm’s length. The sack jumped and writhed with a life of its own. Jones regarded the sack pleasurably as he took his time donning thickly padded gauntlets. Before this, he had had no occasion to use the gauntlets at Mont Royal, but he had kept them in his trunk, just in case. He was both surprised and delighted that Tillet Main, whom he secretly scorned, was actually able to order a cat-hauling.

  Jones strutted past Priam’s head to give him a good look at the gauntlets. He then repositioned all three buckets of heavily salted water he planned to dash on Priam’s wounds. The buckets of brine were a little touch Jones had added on his own.

  He gestured to the burlap sack, then extended his right hand above it.

  “All right, Harmony—now.”

  The nervous slave opened the top of the sack. Jones plunged his gloved hand down. By feel alone he caught and pinioned the tomcat’s rear legs. He lifted the furious, squalling animal into the light.

  The slaves gulped and stepped back. Jones kept his head half averted, fearing one of the slashing front claws might nick an eye. At last he got a firm two-handed grip on the tom’s rear legs.

  Breathing hard from excitement, Jones stepped up to Priam’s right side, planting one boot next to the slave’s hip and the other by his ribs. He fought the tomcat every inch of the way, but the result would be worth the risk. He swung the writhing cat by its back legs, almost the way a gentleman swung a club in the old game of golf. The fore claws struck between Priam’s shoulders, cutting and tearing all the way to the base of the spine before Jones jerked the cat up again. He smiled at the blood-daubed paws.

  Priam hadn’t cried out. But he had nearly bitten through his lower lip, Jones observed. Almost affably, he said, “We’re not finished. Not by any means.”

  George lay sleepless in the guest bedroom on the second floor. He had taken off everything except his cotton underdrawers, but he was still sweltering. His stomach ached. His head hurt.

  It hadn’t been a pleasant day. The trouble caused by that slave, Priam, had upset and embarrassed Orry. He had become self-conscious with George, speaking only when necessary. The incident had affected George, too. For the first time since his arrival he had been driven to ponder everything he had seen. He thought especially hard about the slaves, and what he read on their faces and in their eyes.

  He hated to think ill of people who had treated him so graciously. He hated to think ill of his best friend. But what he had encountered at Mont Royal—well, there was no way to avoid the conclusion. It was deeply disturbing. At last he understood comments at home, especially Virgilia’s.

  “Oh, my God,” he said suddenly, shooting up in bed and twisting toward the windows that opened on the piazza. Far off in the night, someone was screaming.

  He was sure it was the slave receiving his punishment. The outcries continued intermittently for about five minutes. When they stopped, he lay staring at
the ceiling. He doubted that he could go to sleep the rest of the night. He knew the sound of the screaming would stay with him forever.

  The screams sent Cooper hurtling downstairs, the hem of his sweaty nightshirt flying around his legs. For weeks he had been feeling that a crisis was brewing in his life, that the status quo had become intolerable. But it needed some major incident to propel him to action.

  Tonight he had it. The slaves lived three-quarters of a mile from the great house. When screams carried that far, it said a lot. Too much. He stormed into the library without knocking. “What in hell are they doing to Priam?”

  Tillet looked at his son through a. choking cloud of pipe smoke. Sweat glistened on his bald head. All the windows were closed. To shut out unpleasant noises?

  “I ordered him cat-hauled.”

  Cooper’s face hardened. “My God. That’s barbaric.”

  Tillet leaped up. “I’m not interested in your pious pronouncements.”

  “What about your own?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The other evening, very smugly, you told Orry’s friend that there are no scarred backs at Mont Royal. Would you care to explain Priam’s?”

  “I don’t need to explain it, you sarcastic whelp. Priam is my property, to do with as I please.”

  The men stood eye to eye. Cooper was suddenly overwhelmed with a sick sensation.

  “He’s a man. You call him property. This state and the whole damn South will fall to ruin because of that inhuman idea.”

  “I’ve heard this lecture before.” Tillet waved his pipe. The bowl left a smoke tracery in the stifling air. He turned his back on his son. “Be so good as to leave me alone.”

  Cooper slammed the door on his way out.

  Breakfast next morning was a dismal affair. George asked Orry about Priam’s condition. Orry seemed to resent the question and curtly told his friend that the slave was resting in the sick house. A few minutes later Orry said he’d be gone during the late morning and early afternoon. He offered no explanation, nor any apology for leaving his guest alone, and he acted nervous all at once. George wondered why.