Love and War nas-2 Page 12

  "Who?"

  "Justin! I know it's — shameful — to feel like this. He —" she gripped her sides, rocking back and forth — "was a human being —"

  Only by the broadest definition, Orry thought. "You're not mistaken?"

  "No, no — one of the housemen saw Dr. Lonzo Sapp on the river road. Dr. Sapp had just come from Resolute. My husband — " calming, she wiped away tears, gulped, and spoke more coherently — "drew his last breath this morning. The gunshot wound somehow spread an infection that poisoned his whole system. I'm free of him." She flung her arms around Orry's neck, leaning back in a great arch of joy. "We're free. I am so unbearably happy, and so ashamed of it."

  "Don't be. Francis will mourn him, but no one else." He began to feel a mounting elation, an urge to laugh. "God will have to forgive me, too. It's funny in a grim way. The little peacock fatally shot in the ass — excuse me — by one of his own men —"

  "There was nothing funny about Justin." Her back was toward the window and the burst of red light, making it hard to see her face. But he had no trouble imagining it as her voice dropped. "He was a vile man. They can fling me into hell, but I won't attend his funeral."

  "Nor I." Orry leaned his right palm on the list for Fraser's; it no longer seemed important. "How soon can we be married?"

  "It must be soon. I refuse to wait and play the grieving widow. After the wedding we can organize matters so you can accept that commission."

  "I'm still determined to find an overseer before I decide." She glanced away as he went on. "Things are too unsettled around here. Geoffrey Bull came over from his place this afternoon very upset. Two nigras he considered to be his most loyal and trustworthy ran away yesterday."

  "Did they go north?"

  "He presumes they did. Read the Mercury and you'll see it's happening all the time. Fortunately, not to us."

  "But we don't lack for problems. I can think of at least one — the young man you chose for head driver when Rambo died of influenza last winter."

  "Cuffey?"

  She nodded. "I've only been here a short time, but I've noticed a change. He's not merely cocky; he's angry. He doesn't bother to hide it."

  "All the more reason to put off any decision till I locate an overseer." He drew her against his side. "Let's go to the house, pour some claret, and discuss a wedding."

  Long after Madeline went to sleep that night, Orry lay awake. He had minimized the problems with the slaves because he hated to admit a plantation as humanely run as Mont Royal could be experiencing difficulties. Of course Cooper would have scoffed at his naïveté, arguing that no practitioner of slavery could rightly think of himself as kind, just, or morally clean.

  Be that as it may, Orry felt a change in the atmosphere on the plantation. It had begun a few days after the start of hostilities. Supervising field work from horseback, Orry heard a name muttered and later decided he was meant to hear it. The name was Linkum.

  Serious trouble had struck not long after Madeline's arrival. The trouble had roots in an earlier tragedy. Last November, Cuffey, in his middle twenties and not yet promoted to head driver, had become the father of twin girls. Cuffey's wife, Anne, had a hard confinement; one of the twins lived thirty minutes.

  The other, a frail, dark little thing named Clarissa after Orry's mother, had been buried on the third of May this year. Orry had learned of it when he and Madeline returned from a two-night stay in Charleston, where shops and restaurants were thriving and spirits were high in the wake of the fall of the fort in the harbor. Orry drove their carriage back to Mont Royal in a thunderstorm, along a river road almost impassably muddy. They arrived at nightfall to find candles and lamps lit throughout the great house and Orry's mother wandering the rooms with a lost look.

  "I believe there has been a death," she said.

  Learning some of the details from the house help, he set off to walk the three-quarters of a mile to the slave community. The whitewashed cottages showed lights in the rain, but there was a noticeable absence of activity. Soaked, he climbed to the porch of Cuffey's cabin and knocked.

  The door opened. Orry was shocked by the silence of the handsome young slave and by his sullen stare. He heard a woman crying softly.

  "Cuffey, I just learned about your daughter. I am terribly sorry. May I come in?"

  Unbelievably, Cuffey shook his head. "My Anne don't feel good right now."

  Angered, Orry wondered whether it was because of her loss or something else. He had heard rumors that Cuffey mistreated his wife. Exercising restraint, he said, "I'm sorry about that, too. In any case, I did want to express —"

  "Rissa died 'cause you weren't here."

  "What?"

  "None of them uppity house niggers would fetch the doctor, an' your momma couldn't understand I needed her to write a pass so's I could go get him. I argued and begged her most part of an hour, but she just shook her head like a crazy person. I took a chance and ran for the doctor myself, no pass or nothing. But when we got back it was too late; Rissa was gone. The doc took one look an' said typhoid fever and went away lickety-split. I had to bury her by myself. Little Rissa. Gone just like her sister. You'd been here, my baby would be alive."

  "Damn it, Cuffey, you can't blame me for —"

  Cuffey slammed the door. The rain dripped from the porch roof. The night pressed close, sticky and full of a sense of watching eyes.

  Somewhere a contralto voice began a hymn, barely heard. Orry regretted what he must do but couldn't let the defiance pass, not with so many observing him. He knocked hard the second time.

  No answer.

  He pounded the door. "Cuffey, open up."

  The door creaked back an inch. With his mud-slopped boot, Orry kicked it. Cuffey had to jump to avoid being struck.

  "You listen to me," Orry said. "I am deeply sorry your daughter died, but I refuse to have you defy me because of it. Yes, if I'd been here, I would have written the pass instantly or gone for the doctor myself. But I was not here, and I had no way of knowing about the emergency. So unless you want to be replaced as head driver, curb your tongue and don't ever slam a door on me again."

  Still silence, filled with rain sounds. Orry grabbed the door frame. "Do you understand me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Two lifeless words. By the pale gleam of an interior lamp, Orry saw Cuffey's raging eyes. He suspected his warning had been wasted; he only hoped Cuffey would come to his senses quickly. If he didn't, his bad example could cause more trouble. That was why Orry had taken such pains to warn him loudly.

  "Extend my condolences to your wife. Good night." He stomped off the porch, sad about the child's death, angry about Cuffey's interpretation of it, guilty about performing as he had for the unseen audience. The part didn't suit him, but he had to take it to preserve order. Cooper had once remarked that the masters and the slaves were equally victimized by the peculiar institution. On this foul night, Orry understood.

  And that was the start, he thought, lying with Madeline's thigh soft against his. That was the first card yanked from the house. That set the others tumbling.

  Four days after the confrontation at the cabin, Cuffey's Anne came to the office at twilight. A nasty welt showed beneath one eye, and the brown skin around it was turning black. She came to Orry hesitantly with a plea: "Please, sir. Sell me."

  "Anne, you were born here. So were your mother and father. I know the loss of Rissa has —"

  "Sell me, Mr. Orry," she broke in, taking hold of his right wrist, crying now. "I'm so scared of Cuffey, I want to die."

  "He hit you? I'm sure he isn't himself either. Rissa —"

  "Rissa got nothing to do with it. He hits me all the time. Done it ever since we got married. I hid it from you, but the people know. Last night he whipped me with a stick and his fist, then he hit me with the skillet."

  Six feet two, the lanky white man towered above the frail black girl and seemed to grow an inch from anger. "I ran out and hid," she said, still crying. "He would have
broke my head open, he was so crazy mad. I tried to take it like a good wife should, but I be too scared any more. I want to leave this place."

  The sorry tale done, she let her eyes continue the pleading. She was a good worker, but he couldn't see her destroyed. "If that's your wish, Anne, I'll accept it."

  Her face alight, Anne exclaimed, "You send me down to the market in Charleston?"

  "Sell you? Absolutely not. But I know a family in the city — good, kind people — who lost their house girl last autumn and are too hard pressed to buy another. I'll simply give you into their care in the next week or two."

  "Tomorrow. Please!"

  Her fear appalled him. "Very well. I'll write a letter immediately. Go collect your things and be ready."

  She fell against him and clung, her face against his shirt. "I can't go back there. He kill me if I do. I just need this dress, that's all. Don't make me go back there, Mr. Orry. Don't."

  He held her, smoothed her hair, calmed her as best as he could. "If you're that fearful, find Aristotle in the house. Tell him I said to give you a place for the night."

  Weeping again, this time happily, she hugged him, then drew back in horror. "Oh, Mr. Orry, I was forward. I didn't mean —"

  "I know. You did nothing wrong. Go on now, up to the house."

  Except for five minutes next morning, when he wrote out the pass for the slave who was to deliver her to the Charleston family along with the letter, it was the last he saw of Anne. She thanked him and blessed his name repeatedly as she drove away down the lane.

  The following afternoon, Orry rode out to inspect the squares being prepared for June planting. When Cuffey heard the horse, he raised his head in the glaring summer light and gave his owner a long, penetrating stare. Then he turned and began to badger a buck who wasn't working to his satisfaction. Cuffey hit the buck, making him stagger.

  "That will be enough," Orry called. The driver glared again. Orry made sure he didn't blink. After ten seconds, he yanked his horse's head so hard, the animal snorted. The look between slave and master had been explicit. Cuffey had been killing someone, and each man knew who it was.

  Orry said nothing about the incident to Madeline, for the same reason he had spared her details of Cuffey's defiance that rainy night. Of course Madeline knew Anne had been sent to Charleston at her own request, and why. She was also chief witness to the fall of the next card.

  It happened early in June. Cuffey had taken crews out for the summer planting, put in each year in case the ricebirds or salty river water destroyed the early crop. 'High embankments separated each square of cultivated land from those around it. Wood culverts, called trunks, permitted water to flow from the Ashley and from square to square, and drain again when the trunk gates were raised on an ebbing tide. Madeline rode along the embankments, approaching the square where the slaves toiled. The day was clear and comfortable, with a light breeze and a sky of that intense, pure hue she thought of as Carolina blue. As usual when she rode, she wore trousers and straddled the horse; unladylike, certainly, but did it matter? Her reputation in the district could hardly be worse.

  Ahead, she saw Cuffey moving among the bent slaves, hectoring and waving the truncheon he carried as his symbol of authority. An older black man working near the embankment did something to displease the driver as Madeline drew near.

  "Worthless nigger," Cuffey complained. He hit the gray-haired slave with the truncheon, and the man toppled. His wife, working beside him, cried out and cursed the driver. Losing his temper, Cuffey lunged at her, raising his truncheon. The sudden wild motion frightened Madeline's horse. Whinnying, the gelding side­stepped to the right and would have fallen off the embankment had not another black about Cuffey's age scrambled up the slope, seized the headstall, and let his legs go limp.

  The slave's weight and strength together kept the horse from tumbling into the next square. Madeline quickly got control of the skittish animal, but the rescue displeased Cuffey.

  "Get back down here an' work, you."

  The slave ignored the order. He gazed at Madeline with concern rather than servility. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

  "Fine. I —"

  "You hear me, nigger?" Cuffey shouted. He had climbed half­way up the embankment and pointed his truncheon at the other black, whose large, slightly slanted eyes registered emotion for the first time. Not hard to tell how he felt about the driver.

  "Be quiet while I thank this man properly," Madeline said. "You caused the incident; he didn't."

  Cuffey looked stunned, then enraged. At the sound of snickering, he spun, but the black faces below him were blank. He stomped down the embankment, hollering louder than ever.

  The blacks resumed work while Madeline said to her rescuer: "I've seen you before, but I don't know your name."

  "Andy, ma'am. I was named for President Jackson."

  "Were you born at Mont Royal?"

  "No. Mr. Tillet bought me the spring before he died."

  "Well, Andy, I thank you for your quick action. There could have been a serious accident."

  "Glad there wasn't. Cuffey didn't have any call to torment —" With a little intake of breath, he stopped. He had spoken his heart, but it wasn't his place to do such a thing; the realization showed.

  She thanked him again. Giving a quick nod, he jumped to the bottom of the embankment; smiles and murmurs from some of the people showed they liked him as much as they disliked the driver. Fuming, Cuffey tapped his truncheon on his other palm. His eye fixed on Andy as he kept tapping.

  Andy returned the stare. Cuffey looked away but managed to avoid humiliation by screaming orders at the same time. A bad situation, Madeline thought as she rode on — and that was how she characterized it when she described the incident to Orry later. At dark, he sent a boy to the slave community. Shortly after, a knock sounded at the open office door.

  "Come in, Andy."

  The barefoot slave crossed the threshold. He wore cloth pants washed so many times they had a white sheen, like his patched short-sleeved shirt. Orry had always thought him a good-looking young fellow, well proportioned and muscular. He knew how to be polite without fawning, and his posture now, straight but at ease, with his hands relaxed at his sides, showed his confidence in his standing with the owner.

  "Take a chair." Orry indicated the old rocker beside the desk. "I want you to be comfortable while we talk."

  This unexpected treatment disarmed and confused the younger man. He lowered himself with care, sitting tensely; the rocker didn't move an inch one way or the other.

  "You saved Miss Madeline from what could have been a grave injury. I appreciate that. I want to ask you some questions about the cause of the mishap. I expect truthful answers. You needn't fear anyone will try to get back at you."

  "Driver, you mean?" Andy shook his head. "I'm not scared of him or any nigra who has to push and curse to get his way." His tone and gaze implied he didn't fear that kind of white man either. Orry's favorable impression strengthened.

  "Who was Cuffey after? Miss Madeline said the man had gray hair."

  "It was Cicero."

  "Cicero! He's nearly sixty."

  "Yes, sir. He and Cuffey — they've had trouble before. Soon as the mistress left the square, Cuffey swore he'd make the old man pay."

  "Is there anything else I should know?" Andy shook his head. "All right. I'd like to thank you in some tangible way for what you did." Andy blinked; tangible was plainly incomprehensible to him, though he didn't say so. "Do you have a garden? Do you raise anything for yourself?"

  "I do, sir. This year I have okra and some peas. And I keep three hens."

  Opening a desk drawer, Orry drew out bills. "Three dollars will buy some good seed and a couple of new tools if you need them. Tell me what you want and I'll order it from Charleston."

  "Thank you, sir. I'll think on it and speak to you again."

  "Can you read or write, Andy?"

  "Nigras reading and writing is against the law. I could be w
hipped if I said yes."

  "Not here. Answer the question."

  "I can't do either."

  "Would you learn if you had the chance?"

  Andy estimated the danger before he replied. "Yes, sir, I would. Reading, ciphering — they help a man get ahead in the world." A deep swallow, then he blurted, "I might be free one day. Then I'd need it more than ever."

  Orry smiled to relieve the black man's apprehension. "That's a wise outlook. Glad we had this talk. I've never known much about you, but I think you can be of great service on this plantation. You will get ahead."

  "Thank you," Andy said, holding up the money. "For this, too."

  Orry nodded, watching the strong young man turn toward the door. Some would have whipped Andy for his admission; Orry wished he had a dozen more with similar initiative.

  Night had fallen while they talked. In the distance, big frogs made a sound like drums with cracked heads; the cicada obbligato was pleasanter. Andy wasn't tall, Orry observed as he watched the slave walk down the path, but his stride — and his nature — made it seem otherwise.

  In the morning, Orry rode to the day's work site to look for Cicero. He didn't see him. Cuffey curbed his ranting until Orry passed by, then doubled the volume. Orry proceeded to the slave cabins and dismounted before that belonging to Cicero and his wife. A naked, merry-faced boy of five was urinating against one of the tabby pillars. Cicero's wife heard Orry shoo the boy away and rushed outside.

  "Where's your husband, Missy?"

  "Inside, Mist' Orry. He, uh, not working today. He just a little sickly."

  "I'd like to see him."

  Her response — a burst of nearly incoherent statements amounting to refusal — confirmed that something was wrong. He pushed her aside gently and entered the clean, bare cabin just as Cicero groaned.

  Orry swore under his breath. The aging slave lay on a pallet of ticking, arms folded over his stomach, face contorted. Dried blood and matter showed on his closed, discolored eyelids. His forehead bore similar marks. No doubt Cuffey had used his truncheon.