Caleb (22 page)

“Yield!” he demanded, adding as an afterthought, “Sir.”

“I think I just might,” said Jardine, dropping his blade, “before you separate my head from my body. You know, it’s a good thing that Nat Turner didn’t have you on his side back in ’28.”

“More, Mr. Jardine?” Caleb asked.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Rivers,” Jardine said. “I’ve sort of got used to being in one piece. If you get any better with that pigsticker, the county will be up in arms claiming I’m raising a free-black insurrection here.”

Most of the county didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to what Jardine was doing at Three Rivers. But when Martha Bentley heard from Bart Conroy that not only had Jardine allowed Caleb to purchase his freedom, but that the black was still at Three Rivers, she took the first opportunity to pay a call. When she arrived unannounced, Jardine and Caleb were in the big dining room and the Persian carpet was rolled back. Little Boyd was sitting in his high chair to one side chewing on a rusk and watching intently.

“You’re just in time, Martha,” Jardine said, coming out onto the veranda to greet her. “I’m trying to teach Caleb how to waltz and damn me if I can remember how to do it myself.”

“You’re teaching him to
what
?” Martha asked.

“Waltz. But we’ve got no music. Jeff—the fiddler down in the quarter—doesn’t know a waltz from a fandango. I believe you’re a dab hand yourself at dancing that sort of thing, Martha. Maybe you can give us some pointers.” He turned toward the door to the house, calling, “Mr. Rivers! Get yourself out here.”

Caleb, who had been lurking in the hall, stepped out on the veranda reluctantly, greeting Mrs. Bentley awkwardly.

“Martha,” Jardine said, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Caleb T. Rivers, the newest free black in Kershaw County. Mr. Rivers—Mrs. Rafe Bentley.”

Caleb bowed low—but not too low—as Jardine had taught him and said, “Mrs. Bentley, my very great pleasure.”

Martha did not extend her hand. Caleb hadn’t expected her to. Instead, she looked at him as if he were a monkey in clothes and said with cool politeness, “Mr. Rivers, would you mind if I had a word with Mr. Jardine—alone?”

Caleb bowed again, saying “Mrs. Bentley,” and went back into the house.

When the door had closed behind him, Martha wheeled toward Jardine.

“Boyd Jardine, have you gone completely out of your mind?”

“Possibly, Martha,” Jardine said. “It’s long been rumored in these parts, but what did you have in mind particularly?”

“Can’t you guess? It’s what you’ve been doing with that baboon. Rafe told me about you taking him all over creation during the summer beating up on darkies—
and
a white man! That was bad enough. I reckoned I had to make some allowances what with Nancy dying like that and all.”

“Very kind of you, Martha,” Jardine said. “I appreciate it.”

“Even after you spurned my cousin,” Martha added.

“Lovely girl,” Jardine said.

“That’s beside the point,” she said angrily. “But now I find that you’ve not only freed this . . . this . . . but you are teaching him how to
waltz
, for pity’s sake. What
else
are you teaching him?” she demanded, not really expecting an answer.

“Oh,” said Jardine casually, “not much. Just hunting, table manners, etiquette—what did you think of that bow?—shooting, fencing. Say, Martha, you ought to see that boy with a saber. I’m lucky to be wearing all my limbs.”

“Saber!” Martha Bentley looked alarmed. “Shooting? What are you trying to do, Boyd, raise a slave revolt?”

“Slave revolt? Of course not, Martha,” Jardine said. “Caleb’s as free as I am.”

“Well, won’t either of you be free or even alive, Boyd, if it gets out what you are doing here at Three Rivers. With war just around the corner, people are not going to be too understanding about you arming and training regiments of free blacks.”

“I hadn’t considered that angle,” said Jardine.

“Well, you had better consider it, and in a hurry,” Martha Bentley said, “if you want that darkie of yours to live to enjoy his freedom. And you had better get him out if this county and out of this state.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Jardine. “But we were just going to sit down to lunch. Won’t you join us?”

“Us?” said Martha frostily. “Who are
us
? You and that trained monkey?”

“Well, yes,” Jardine confessed. “You see, after nearly five years eating with field hands and then here in the kitchen with the house slaves, Caleb’s table manners were a little rusty, so I—”

“If you think I am going to sit down anywhere within five miles of a nigger at a dining table, Boyd, you are as crazy as everyone thinks you are.”

“That’s possible,” said Jardine.

“I may be very hungry when I get home, but I’ll still be able to say that I never ate lunch with a nigger.” Mrs. Bentley turned toward her carriage, but at that moment a child’s cry came from inside. Spinning around, she rushed into the room and picked up little Boyd.

Following in her wake, Jardine said, “I forgot. You haven’t seen Boyd Junior for some time. What do you think?”

Examining the child as if he were a blue-ribbon winner at a livestock show, she said, “I’m shocked and amazed that you seem to have a healthy and normal boy here.”

“Thank you,” said Jardine modestly. “We do our best. The house girls all call him Birdie, but I won’t have it. I’m thinking ahead when he’s forty years old and a local magistrate. How would it look?”

At that moment, Rose, the child’s nurse, appeared in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Martha,” Jardine said, “but Junior has to go eat his lunch.”

Mrs. Bentley reluctantly surrendered the child and turned back toward the veranda.

“I’ll give you credit, Boyd,” she said. “You may be losing your mind, but you’ve turned out to be a half-decent father.”

“You’re too kind, Martha.”

Without another word, Mrs. Bentley climbed back in her gig, ignoring Jardine’s efforts to assist her.

“I could at least have made her a sandwich,” Jardine said to himself as the gig disappeared up the drive.

43

That evening, Jardine called Caleb into his study. “Sit down,” he said. “We have to talk.”

When Caleb was settled, Jardine asked, “Any idea what about?”

“Mrs. Bentley’s visit,” Caleb said. “She didn’t look happy.”

“That’s putting it mildly. She thinks I’m crazy and that you’re a murderous black likely to assassinate the quality folk of Kershaw and nearby counties in their beds. Are you?”

“No,” said Caleb without hesitation.

“Thank God for that. But I’ve been doing some thinking since she was here, and I think Martha is right about one thing. You have to get out of this county, this state, and this region. It’s time to go north. Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

“Even without knowing how to waltz?” Jardine asked. “You’ll never be able to travel in the best circles, Mr. Rivers.”

“I’ll make do, Mr. Jardine.”

“I hope so. How’s Caesar coming along training for the dining room?”

“Okay, but slow. The boy has the will to learn, but his energy rushes so far ahead of his abilities that he trips over himself. But with Drusilla managing him, he’ll be all right. She’s a good woman.”

Jardine looked at him with a slight smile. “How’s her reading and writing coming along?”

Caleb was startled, but he answered, “Pretty good, especially the reading. Drusilla reads almost as well as I do. She can write, but she’s slow.”

“And her arithmetic?”

“Very good. She’s been doing the accounts now for over a month.”

“I know,” said Jardine. “And you know that I told you not to go teaching any of my slaves to read and write.”

“You didn’t mean to include Drusilla,” Caleb assured him. “Who’s going to read your newspapers to you when I’m gone? Do you know how much it would cost you to buy another slave with her abilities?”

“More than five hundred and fifty dollars, that’s for sure,” Jardine said. “How soon can you be ready to leave here?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“That soon?” Jardine said with surprise.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Jardine said. “Be ready right after breakfast. If we hurry, we can catch the noon boat to Great Falls.”

This took Caleb by surprise. “We?”

“Sure. I’m going with you. I’m your ticket to freedom. On your own, you wouldn’t even get out of sight of Three Rivers. But we’ll talk about that in the morning. On the way. In the meantime, I’ve thought of one more skill necessary to every free man—black or white. You play much poker, Mr. Rivers?”

“Brent and I used to play some in—”

“I know,” Jardine said, “in the kitchen. What did you play for? Matchsticks? Buttons?”

“Mostly,” Caleb admitted, “but sometimes Brent had a few pennies.”

“Well,” Jardine said, “your poker skills are about to face a severe test. Why don’t you run upstairs and get some of that fortune you’ve got hidden away, and we’ll play a few hands?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Jardine. I’m going to need all the money I’ve got.”

“You’re going to need
more
than you’ve got, Mr. Rivers,” Jardine said. “And this is your last chance to get it. Why, I’m famous as the poorest poker player in the county. Ask anybody. Ask Rafe Bentley. Go get your money, Mr. Rivers.”

When Caleb got back, Jardine had cleared the round leather-topped table and placed several oil lamps around it. He was sitting at the table behind a stack of gold coins, shuffling a deck of cards. “You’re just in time, Mr. Rivers,” he said. “Five-card draw, jacks or better to open. Nothing wild. Just real poker.”

“That sounds good, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said, sitting down opposite him and putting his money on the table. He held out his hand. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just cut those cards a little.”

Handing Caleb the deck, Jardine said, “You’re learning, Mr. Rivers. You’re learning.”

An hour later, Jardine was beginning to regret suggesting this final addition to the skills Caleb would need in his new life as a free man. After winning a few small hands, Jardine found the tide had begun to turn. Caleb, playing very tight poker and drawing strong hands, was beginning to win. He was just over a hundred dollars up. This had not been Jardine’s idea. He hadn’t planned to take much of Caleb’s money, but he had hoped that Caleb would leave with a healthy respect for the white man’s skill at cards. It wasn’t working out that way.

“Well,” Jardine said, shuffling the deck, “it’s getting late, and I imagine you have some packing to do and some good-byes to say, so shall we make this the last hand, Mr. Rivers?”

“That’ll be just fine, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said. “Same limit?”

“Oh,” Jardine said nonchalantly, “since this is the final hand, why don’t we just say table stakes. You know what that means don’t you?”

“Well, I believe it means that you can bet all the money you have on the table.”

“Exactly, Mr. Rivers,” Jardine said. “You’re catching on. Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

Jardine dealt the cards, and when he picked up his hand he found that he had two kings, the queen of hearts, and a six and seven of clubs.

“I’ll open,” Caleb said, pushing fifty dollars out to the center of the table.

“Will you?” said Jardine, glad to see some of his money back on the table. “Well, I’ll see your fifty and raise you twenty-five. Just to keep you honest.”

After Caleb had pushed out the twenty-five, Jardine asked him, “Cards?”

“Oh,” said Caleb as casually as possible, “I think I’ll just play these, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Jardine. But he did mind. To keep all five cards meant that Caleb must have at least a straight, and that hand would beat Jardine even if he drew a third king. “I think I’ll take two cards.” He discarded the two low clubs, hoping that Caleb would think that he had trips and was going for a full house or four of a kind.

Dealing himself two cards, Jardine looked at them—another king and the four of diamonds. He tried to look pleased but not too pleased. “Shall we say another fifty dollars?” he said, pushing his bet to the middle of the table. This was just to lure Caleb out of his depth.

To Jardine’s surprise, without hesitation, Caleb said, “Oh, let’s make it two hundred,” and threw the coins into the pot carelessly. He looked at Jardine calmly.

Forgetting his imaginary full house or four of a kind, Jardine stared at his hand of three kings, queen high, and then at Caleb. Christ! Another two hundred dollars! He saw that Caleb’s left hand was already reaching for his pile of money to increase his bet. Jardine reached out for his own money but then stayed his hand and threw his cards face down into the pot. “Go ahead, take it,” he said, trying to keep bitterness out of his voice.

“I will, sir, thank you,” Caleb said, reaching toward the pot, but Jardine stopped him with a motion.

“I’ll just trouble you for sight of your openers for that last hand, Mr. Rivers.”

“Of course, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said. He flipped over his hand, revealing two aces, the other king, and two small cards.

“You black bastard!” Jardine exclaimed involuntarily. “You bluffed me with a lousy pair.”

“That’s what Brent always used to say.” Caleb raked in his winnings.

When Caleb was upstairs packing, Drusilla knocked on his door.

“I’ve come to say good-bye,” she said.

“Come in.”

“That’s not much,” she said, looking at the few belongings Caleb was packing into a worn carpetbag that Jardine had given him.

“There’s not much I want to remind me of this life,” Caleb said.

“Is it that bad? Seems to me like you and Marse Boyd ’most like brothers these days. Ridin’, eatin’ at the same table, foolin’ around with those silly swords.”

“That’s only because I bought my freedom, and I’m leaving,” Caleb said. “Otherwise, I’d be just like any other slave—a piece of property.”

“Like me?”

“Like you,” Caleb said.

“You so sure it’s going to be better up north?” she asked. “I’ve heard stories that they don’t exactly love niggers up there, despite all this abo . . . abo . . .”

“Abolition.”

“Abolition talk. They say that folks are killed every day, just for being black.”

“They say that,” Caleb agreed, “but if I can’t be free down here, I guess I’ll have to try being free up there. If I die, I’ll die free.”

“Is it that important?”

“I guess so.”

Drusilla didn’t say anything.

“Oh,” Caleb said. “You be glad to hear that Mr. Jardine’s going to keep you in my job. At least until Caesar gets a grip on it.”

“Then I haven’t much to worry about,” Drusilla said. “That boy will have a beard as long and gray as Uncle Ebenezer’s before he get a grip on very much.”

“That’s not what Caesar thinks. He thinks he’s only
that
”—Caleb snapped his fingers—“far from running this plantation all by his self.”

“I’ll cure him of that by letting him serve Marse Boyd and his guests dinner just one time. He’ll be out choppin’ cotton
so
fast.”

“You’re a hard woman,” Caleb said, smiling.

“It’s a hard life.”

“Another thing,” Caleb said. “Mr. Jardine knows that I’ve been teaching you to read and write.”

“I know,” Drusilla said. “The hardest thing to keep at Three Rivers is a secret. What he say?”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly pleased,” Caleb said, “but when I pointed out that you could read his papers to him nearly as well as I can, he cheered up a little bit. But I don’t think he’d like it much if you spread it around.”

“Even to Caesar?”

“You’ll have to ask him that yourself,” Caleb said. He snapped the carpetbag shut. “That’s it.”

Drusilla held out her hand. “Well, good-bye, Caleb,” she said.

Caleb took Drusilla’s hand and pulled her close. “You sure you wouldn’t like to stay the night, just for old time’s sake?”

“I’m sure,” Drusilla said, breaking free. “I’ll remember you, all right, without no little Calebs tugging at my skirt to remind me.”

“You know I’ve always been careful.”

“No,” she said. “
I’ve
always been careful. And I’m staying that way. Good-bye, Caleb,” she repeated.

“Well, okay,” Caleb said, “but aren’t you a little bit curious what it’s like to sleep with a free man?”

“No,” Drusilla said, opening the door, “but if I ever am, I’m sure that this won’t be my last chance.”

“You know best,” Caleb said, “but not even a little good-bye kiss?”

“I guess I can manage that,” she said, kissing him lightly and then dancing away when Caleb tried to grab her. “You free niggers sure get up to some tricks.”

“We sure do,” said Caleb as he watched her walk down the narrow hall.

Caleb got up early, heated water for a bath, and dressed carefully in the best of old Master Jardine’s clothes that Gabe, the tailor in the quarter, had cut down for him. Looking in the cracked mirror, he thought he was a pretty good example of a free black. He was downstairs supervising Caesar as he laid the breakfast table when Jardine came down.

Jardine took one look at him and exclaimed, “Caleb, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

“Mr. Jardine?” Caleb said.

“If you think I am going to travel with you looking like a black Beau Brummell, you’re crazy.”

“Bo who?” Caleb asked.

“Never mind,” Jardine said. “There has to be something I know that you don’t. You remember those old clothes you wore the first time I took you to Cassatt and you fought Pompey? Where are they?”

“I threw them in a pile in the barn,” Caleb said.

“After we eat,” Jardine said. “You go throw them on yourself. You’re supposed to be traveling with me as my slave, not an entry in the Easter Parade. You think some good old boys wouldn’t throw you in the river looking like that? And me, too?”

Caleb knew he was right, but looked down at his clothes regretfully.

“You pack those,” Jardine ordered, “and you can put them on again where it’s not an insult for a nigger to wear shined shoes. Now, let’s get moving. That boat isn’t going to wait for you even if you are free. And neither am I.”

In less than an hour, Drusilla, Caesar, and the house girls were out front to wave Jardine and Caleb good-bye. Behind them in the doorway, Birdie’s nurse held the child up so that he could see. Caleb sat in the back of the wagon wearing the outsized old clothes, which had not improved by being thrown in a heap. Drusilla managed to keep a straight face, but Caesar and the house girls kept covering their mouths and giggling.