American Dreams (7 page)

"Why is that wrong?" It sounded logical to Eliza that the yearly monies from a treaty should go to the people.

"Would you travel two hundred miles to receive fifty cents?" Will asked. "That is approximately the amount per individual. This is unquestionably a deliberate attempt by Jackson to deprive us of the necessary finances to pursue our case in court. Our only choice is to pool our resources to raise what funds we can and appeal to outside sources for the rest."

Eliza stared at the china plate before her, the silver cutlery, the mounds of food on the table, the people seated around it dressed in finer clothes than she owned. She was confused. Everything she had heard since she had arrived at Gordon Glen—the depredations of the Georgia Guard, the confiscation of Cherokee gold mines, the law against testimony by a Cherokee in a Georgia court, and now the actions taken by the federal government in Washington—could not all be lies.

"I fail to understand this." She frowned. "Why are they trying to force you to leave?"

"It is simple, Miss Hall," The Blade replied. "The Georgians have seen the richness of our land—the gold, the fields of cotton and corn, the fertile valleys, the comfortable farms. They want it for themselves."

His smile took most of the sting from his words. But in Eliza's mind she heard the ironic question that could have easily followed his statement: why should an Indian have it? She experienced a faint twinge of guilt. Not long ago, when she still considered all Indians to be savages, it might have been her attitude, too.

"Ignorance is a terrible thing." She was speaking of herself when she said that.

"Maybe now you understand our confusion, Miss Eliza Hall,"

Shawano stated. "Long ago, the white men told the Cherokees to lay down their bows and arrows and take up the plow and hoe. They said we must learn the ways of the white man so we could live together in peace. This we did. Now they say we must join the western Cherokees in Arkansas and hunt deer again."

"How ridiculous," Eliza blurted, glancing at her employer, who was impeccably dressed in a frock coat, white shirt, and blue cravat. "Can you imagine Mr. Gordon in moccasins stalking a deer with a bow and arrow in a forest?" She tried, and failed miserably.

When The Blade began to chuckle heartily, Eliza was mortified. Then his father joined him. Soon everyone at the table was laughing, including Eliza, albeit self-consciously.

Even Victoria joined in the spirit of the moment. "My husband has not touched a bow of black locust wood since he was the age of Kipp. I fear he would no longer remember how to hold it, or notch his arrow."

Her comment produced another round of laughter.

 

The sound of merriment drifted through the dining room's open windows to the detached kitchen outside. Phoebe stopped scraping at the fat drippings burned onto the iron skillet and glanced at the tall, lank black man leaning in the doorway of the kitchen.

"What you reckon they be laughin' at, Deu?"

"Hard to say." He straightened slowly, then turned and wandered into the kitchen. "Master Stuart, he loves to laugh. And Master Blade, he's always smiling about something."

But Phoebe was convinced there wasn't anyone who had a finer smile than Deuteronomy Jones. He was smiling at her now, and his whole face shone with it. It made his eyes dark and soft like that velvet dress Miss Victoria sometimes wore. Deuteronomy Jones wasn't just the proudest, smartest, handsomest Negro she had ever seen; he was the nicest, too. He didn't strut around like a big rooster, crowing about hisself all the time. And he never talked down to anybody.

"Master Will, he don't hardly never smile," Phoebe admitted. "His mouth do once in t'while, but his eyes, they all the time be so sad."

"He treats you good, doesn't he?" Deu studied her closely, not liking the things he was thinking. He had never seen whip marks on her, but masters had different ways of abusing their female slaves. Phoebe was too young for a man to take her. The thin dress she wore showed a body that was just maturing.

But she had the prettiest face of any woman he knew. Her big eyes were dark and shiny like the river at night with the moon full on it. Her cheeks were round as apples, and her mouth was about as perfect as a mouth could get.

Deu had been watching her for a long time now, waiting for her to grow up. Still, she belonged to Will Gordon. Likely as not, she would marry one of his field Negroes. Two or three of them were already old enough to have a wife. He couldn't sleep at night when he thought about her with one of them. It twisted him all up inside worse than that time he had the cholera.

"He treats me fine. Miz Vi'toria too. She be sickly, tho'. That cough she got, my mama say it ain't good. Course, this be the sickly season now. Reckon when the hot days goes away, she be better."

Catching the sound of footsteps on the brick path to the kitchen, Phoebe hurriedly turned back to the iron skillet and began scraping in earnest at the burned-on drippings. Deu crossed to the water bucket and lifted the drinking gourd as Black Cassie appeared in the doorway. She shot a dark look at Deu. He had the uneasy feeling she knew exactly why he was in the kitchen and it wasn't to fetch himself a drink. He drank down the water and wandered back outside.

"What you two be doin' in here while I's gone?"

Phoebe hunched even lower over the skillet, trying to avoid her mother's suspicious eyes. "Nothin', Mama. We jus' be talkin'."

"Was you shinin' up t' him?"
 

"No, Mama." She flushed.

"That man be trouble, girl. Don't you be messin' 'round wid him. Does ya hear me?"

"Yes'm." But she couldn't help wondering why he was trouble. Deu wasn't bad. She had never heard him talking about running away. He liked the Stuarts. He'd said so lots of times.

 

The sun hung heavy above the ridge top, setting the horizon aflame with its dull red light, when Deu drove the buggy up to the front entrance of the plantation. Stopping close to the veranda steps, he wrapped the reins around the standard and climbed down to assist his crippled master.

Shawano Stuart waved him aside and hauled himself into the buggy. He dragged his dead leg into position and propped his silver-headed cane against the seat beside him. Will Gordon came over to stand next to the buggy.

Shawano smiled at him. "It was good to speak with you again, old friend."

"You and your son are always welcome in my home, Shawano."

Shawano nodded and watched as The Blade mounted his horse and rode over to the young woman waiting on the white-columned veranda. "It is good you feel this way, Will Gordon," Shawano said, noting the way young Temple gazed at his son, her expression full of a woman's invitation. "I think you will see much of one of us in the days to follow."

Shawano was pleased by what he saw. It had long been his wish that his son would want the daughter of his friend Will Gordon to be his wife. In his heart of hearts, he believed a union between these two young people would make fine sons and daughters. Each was keen of mind and possessed of a proud, strong will. Wisely, Shawano had not voiced his desire.

"It would seem so," Will Gordon replied, casting a sharp look at The Blade. "She is still young, though."

"She is a woman. You have only to look to see this."

"Perhaps." Will Gordon released a troubled sigh. "Perhaps the eyes of a father always see the child in his daughter."

"Perhaps." Shawano smiled gently. "But that does not make it so."

"I know."

Shawano looked at his son and recalled the days when his loins had burned for a woman with the same fever. But those days were long ago. Time had shriveled more than just his lame leg. With a lift of his hand in farewell, Shawano gathered the buggy reins and slapped them smartly on the horse's rump. It trotted eagerly for home.

 

 

 

6

 

 

Up, down, up, down. Methodically, Phoebe lifted the dasher and plunged it back into the butter churn, pausing now and then to swat at a buzzing fly or wipe the sweat from her face. It was hot, with no whisper of a breeze, not even in the shade. Sweat rolled from her, making her dress cling to her skin like a tick on a dog.

Something rustled in the azalea bush near the detached kitchen. Phoebe stopped her churning, glad for an excuse to give her aching arms a rest. She spied her younger brother crouched next to the bush, careful to keep out of sight of the house.

"Ain't you done yet?" Shadrach whispered with an impatient frown.

Phoebe slid a cautious glance at the big house, then shook her head. "Hot as it be, I reckon it'll be a spell," she whispered back, careful not to look at him.

"Jus' leave it," he urged. "Ain't nobody gonna know. Miz Vi'toria be layin' down and Mama be cleanin' de parlor. Come on fo' we miss the whole mornin'."

She hesitated, knowing how much trouble she would be in if she did leave her work. But the temptation was too great. Watching the house, Phoebe left the butter churn and stole silently to the azalea bush to join her brother. Together, they ran across the prickly, dry grass, crouching low and dashing from bush to tree on a roundabout route to the schoolhouse. At its corner, they stopped. Phoebe struggled to quiet her breathing, conscious of the quivers of excitement that trembled through her, then followed Shadrach as he crept up to the open window.

Inside, the young mistress Xandra uncertainly mumbled the alphabet.
"A ... B ... C... D ... F... G—"

"She forgots the Shadrach hissed at Phoebe, then picked up a stick and started making marks in the red dirt. "It go this way.
A . .. B . . . C.. . D .. . E ... F..."
He paused and frowned intently. "What do a
G
look like?"

But Phoebe couldn't show him the mark for a
G.
She didn't have as many chances to slip off as her little brother did. With him being so young and puny, he never had much work to do. But she hardly got to listen at all before her mammy or Miz Vi'to-ria yelled for her. She wished she knew how to make the marks like Shadrach did and what letters they stood for. But the
A,
the
B,
and the
C
were the only ones she knew, and those only because her brother had showed them to her at night.

Shadrach poked his head above the windowsill to peer inside. Phoebe grabbed his arm and yanked him down. "What you doin'? If we's caught, we be whupped sure."

Impatiently, he pushed her hand off. "I does this all the time. Ain't never been catched yet. Now leave me go. I gots to fine out which a
G
is." More cautiously this time, he rose up to look in the window.

Whispers. Eliza heard the telltale sound coming from the back of the room. She turned away from young Tom Murphy, who was reading aloud from the hornbook, and covertly scanned the cluster of pupils in the rear, looking for the culprit. Not that she could entirely blame them for letting their attention stray. The heat was stifling. She had difficulty concentrating herself. Her mind kept conjuring up images of the cool brook.

With her linen handkerchief, she dabbed at the beads of perspiration pearling above her lip, and then glanced to the back window. A dark head appeared above the sill and a pair of dark eyes looked in. It was the young Negro boy Shadrach, and it wasn't the first time Eliza had noticed him lurking outside the school-house. Curious, she wandered over to the window.

The boy bobbed from sight before she reached the open window. She paused to one side of it and looked out, half expecting to see him racing away. But he was still outside the window, squatting down and writing in the dirt with a stick. His sister Phoebe was beside him.

"This be a
G,"
he whispered proudly and drew a crude likeness of the letter. Surprised, Eliza stepped closer and watched Phoebe's clumsy attempt to copy the letter.

The drum of hoofbeats broke across the morning's sweltering stillness. Eliza glanced at the road that wound past the school-house. Below her, there was a wild scurry of movement. When she looked back, the two black children were racing for the main house as if the devil himself were after them. She watched them go and thoughtfully considered the incident she had just witnessed.

"Miss Hall."

Eliza turned from the window, conscious again of the oppressive heat. Temple stood before her. "May I be excused? A visitor has arrived. Father is in the fields and Mother is resting. I should be on hand to welcome him in their place."

Eliza guessed the visitor was The Blade. In the past month, he had made frequent visits to Gordon Glen. Instead of responding directly to Temple's request, Eliza clapped her hands to command the attention of all her pupils. "No more lessons this morning," she announced.

 

Holding her skirts well clear of the ground, Temple ran across the lawn, then slowed to a sedate walk as she approached the front of the house. She rounded the corner, conscious of the heavy thudding of her heart and aware that it wasn't caused by exertion. She stopped to watch The Blade dismount, admiring his tall, whipcord-lean body.

His servant noticed her first. He said something, and The Blade turned. As she went to greet him, Temple could feel his gaze travel over her, heating her skin with its invisible touch. She felt a tingling excitement, and an odd sense of power.

"Welcome to Gordon Glen."

"The daughter of the house greets me herself. I am a fortunate man," he declared in a voice all husky and warm.

His intent gaze challenged her to come even closer. Temple started to, then stopped and turned when she heard the front door open. Black Cassie stepped onto the veranda. Smoothly, Temple turned back to The Blade. "You will be staying for dinner, won't you?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Stuart will be sharing dinner with us, Black Cassie. Make sure a place is set for him at the table."

"Yes'm, Miz Temple." She continued to stand by the door. "Shall we go inside?"

At his nod, Temple led the way into the house. Again, she felt the strain of his presence—of being with him and not being held by him. Not once during his recent visits had she been able to manage more than an unsatisfying minute or two alone with him. Either her mother was there, or her father, or her sister and brother, or the tutor, Miss Hall.