Deep Summer (28 page)

The door-boy shrugged. “Ole massa Caleb, he done been dead dese two years. What de matter wid you, ’oman?”

“There’s nothing the matter with me except I’m so wore out from walking I can’t hardly stand up,” Esther exclaimed. “I want to see Mr. Roger Sheramy because I’m married to his brother and he’s gonta be hanged if Mr. Sheramy don’t do something. I’ve got to—”

“You get outen my sight,” said the door-boy. “You married to de massa’s brudder! He ain’t got no brudder. He swat yo’ backsides. Get out. Trash!”

“Damn your black hide,” cried Esther.

At that moment the back door opened and there stood the lady Esther had seen with Mr. Roger Sheramy on the wharfs. Esther instinctively thought anybody who was so pretty must be sweet too. The lady was small and frail-looking, with a fluff of golden curls bound by a fillet of blue ribbon. Her gown was made of cool white muslin, and a ruffle stood crisply around her shoulders. She led a little boy by the hand.

“Lem,” she exclaimed, “what on earth is all this noise? Haven’t I told you darkies not to quarrel?”

Her eyes fell on Esther, standing against the gallery rail with her sunbonnet askew and her face distorted with anger. “Who is this woman, Lem?” she asked.

The door-boy shrugged. “Miss Martha, she just came and pounded on de do’. I ’spect she’s plumb crazy. She says her husband’s gonta get hanged—”

Miss Martha glanced at Esther. “What was it you wanted?” she asked with remote condescension.

Esther started forward. “Please ma’am, ain’t you Mrs. Sheramy?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Sheramy. What are you doing here?”

“I got to see you,” pled Esther. “Please ma’am, let me see you! I done told this nigger and he said it was a lie. It ain’t no lie. I’m named Upjohn and my husband is brother to your husband and they’re gonta hang him—”

The lady’s mouth tightened. Her eyes tightened too. Her hand holding the little boy’s tightened. She said:

“Come inside.”

Esther followed her. Mrs. Sheramy opened the door of a big cool room with white curtains and pictures on the walls. She pulled an embroidered cord and a Negro woman came in.

“Mammy, take Master Cyril to the nursery,” said Mrs. Sheramy. “And don’t let any one disturb me until I ring again.”

His mammy led the child out. The lady sat down in a big chair by a table on which there was a bowl of flowers. “Now what are you talking about?” she asked.

Esther dropped into a chair. She hadn’t been told to sit down but she was too tired to stand up any more. Her clothes felt sticky and her tongue was thick with thirst. She told her story. It was blundering and disconnected. The words came out before she had time to form them. Mrs. Sheramy listened, her chin on her hand.

“I don’t know whether you’re lying on purpose or simply out of your mind,” she said at last, and her words were slow and cool and distant.

“I ain’t neither one!” Esther cried desperately. “Please ma’am, ain’t your husband ever told you his ma married a man on the docks?”

Mrs. Sheramy gave an adjustment to one of the roses in the bowl. “My husband never knew much about his mother,” she said after a moment. “There was some vague yarn about her having taken up with a man on the docks. But I have no way of knowing whether or not your husband is her child—and even if he were, I don’t know what you want of me.”

“I want you to help me,” said Esther weakly.

“But my good woman, how can I?” Mrs. Sheramy smiled gently. “I’m sorry for you, but you say your husband killed a man and was legally condemned to execution. There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s deplorable that you and your children should be left unprovided for—here.” She opened a drawer in the table and took out a purse. “This will help you until you can find work.”

Esther stood up slowly. Her hands clenched. “I think,” she said, “you are the meanest woman I ever saw.”

Mrs. Sheramy came to her and put the purse into her hand. “You’d better go,” she said soothingly.

“I won’t go.” Esther threw the purse on the floor. “I don’t want none of your money. My husband can make a living for me and my young uns if he gets out of jail. I want you to go down and tell them judges he knifed my pa ’causin’ pa was drunk and kicked my little girl.”

Mrs. Sheramy sighed. “But if that’s true, Mrs. Upjohn, why didn’t you tell them?”

“I tried to. But I couldn’t make ’em understand no ways. They was all jabbering at once and half guinea-talk anyhow. They’d listen to folks like you!”

“But I didn’t see the murder. I couldn’t testify,” said Mrs. Sheramy patiently, as if explaining something to a child. She picked up the purse. “You’d better take this and go, Mrs. Upjohn. Screaming like this won’t do you any good.”

“I ain’t going,” said Esther. “I’m gonta stay and tell Mr. Sheramy his self. I ain’t going no place.”

“Oh yes you are,” said Mrs. Sheramy, and even through her exhaustion Esther wondered that any one could speak with such sweet gentleness when you could see she was burning up with rage. “And I’m afraid,” Mrs. Sheramy added evenly, “that if you continue to shout and make a scene I shall have to ask the servants to take you out. Now will you go quietly, or shall I ring?”

She put her hand on the bellcord. Esther felt her own hands making vague movements in front of her. Mrs. Sheramy’s pretty, pitiless face seemed to get further away and then very close, then Esther felt a strange lightness in her head and she knew she was falling but she couldn’t help it.

When she opened her eyes she was lying on a soft clean bed with a blue counterpane. Standing at the foot of the bed was Mr. Roger Sheramy, and his wife was sitting nearby. Mr. Sheramy looked a little bit like Gideon. He had the same whimsical dished-in nose and the same heavy eyebrows growing almost together.

“So then what did you do, Martha?” he was asking.

“Why, I started to pull the bellcord, and she fainted.”

Mr. Sheramy’s hand tightened on the bedpost. “Martha,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Good heavens, Roger!” she exclaimed. “That tale has been scandal enough already—are you going to take in any illiterate convict who claims to be related to you? You’ll have them in droves at the back door.”

He sighed, and after a moment he glanced at Esther. “I think she’s coming to. Will you have one of the girls bring some brandy?”

He sat down by the bed. Esther looked up at him in speechless gratitude.

Roger was in a good deal of a quandary. Esther’s story, recounted to him when she had been fed and rested, sounded entirely true. Caleb had never told him very much about his mother. Roger thought now that perhaps if his father had really wanted to find her other children after she died he might have been able to do so. Though in one detail Martha might be right—if the story was given public credence there’d be no end to the paupers and convicts who would demand his bounty on the ground of possible relationship—still Esther roused his natural sense of justice. Whether or not Gideon Upjohn was the son of Dolores, if he had killed a man under the circumstances Esther described he didn’t deserve to be hanged for it. Roger told Martha so when he found her in tears that afternoon.

“There’s no reason for your being so distressed,” he said to her, “just because I want to help a man in trouble.”

Martha’s tears trembled on her lashes as she looked up at him. One of her ringlets had escaped the ribbon and lay like golden floss on her forehead. “Roger, darling,” she murmured, “it’s not myself I’m distressed about. It’s Cyril.”

“Cyril?” he repeated, puzzled.

Martha sat on his knee and put her arms around him. “Of course, dearest. Don’t you see what will happen if you acknowledge any relationship with people like that? That woman’s filthy brats yelling ‘Hello, cousin!’ every time they see Cyril on the wharfs! And you know what a scandal gossipy women can make out of it once it gets started. Oh, don’t do that to him! Our darling baby that we love so much—please don’t, Roger!”

She laid her cheek on his and held him tight. When she wept he was always helpless, and he felt unable to cope with her now. But he tried to.

“Martha, you’re asking me to be quite heartless. Do you really want to let a man be hanged when he doesn’t deserve it, without even trying to get a fair hearing for him?”

“But you aren’t responsible for anything that’s happened to him,” she pled, lifting her head again. He felt one of her tears trickle down his cheek. “And neither am I—”

“I wonder,” said Roger thoughtfully. “Did Mrs. Upjohn tell you she’d been evicted for non-payment of rent?”

“Yes, and I offered her money.”

“Well—doesn’t your family own that property below the wharfs?”

“I believe so. That was part of the original St. Clair grant from the king. But is it my fault some people can’t pay rent?”

“No, honey, it’s not your fault. But if I’m a landowner who helps make the laws I ought to be interested in seeing that they’re administered fairly. Besides, Gideon Upjohn is very likely to be my half-brother, and if I don’t help him out of this I’ll never have any peace of mind again.”

“Suppose that man is your half-brother,” urged Martha. “You aren’t responsible for that. And you
are
responsible for your own child. Do you want Cyril to have a family skeleton tied to his heels everywhere he goes? I couldn’t
bear
it, Roger!” She put her hands to her eyes and began to sob again, softly and helplessly.

At last Roger left her. In desperation he sent the carriage to Ardeith. The coachman bore a note to his Aunt Judith, asking her to come to Silverwood at once. He had to talk to somebody who knew more about his mother than he did.

Judith appeared just before dark, followed by a maid carrying a parcel. “That,” she said to Roger, “is a bedgown. I’m not going back along that lonesome road at midnight. Now what’s the trouble, child? Your letter was half illegible and entirely frantic.”

Roger laughed with relief. He was so glad to see her. He knew she had small respect for Martha and in less drastic circumstances he would have hesitated asking her to settle one of their disputes, but Judith was at least definite in her thinking, and would understand his conviction that he must help the Upjohns in spite of Martha’s tears.

“It’s like this, ma’am,” he began, when they had gone into the parlor. “I’m not exactly frantic, but I do need advice. You knew my mother.”

“Oh,” said Judith. “I was sure this had to come up again. What’s happened, Roger?”

Roger told her about Esther’s coming to Silverwood.

“I see,” said Judith finally. “You want me to suggest a compromise that will be just to Gideon and yet pacify Martha.”

“Exactly. Aunt Judith, is Gideon Upjohn my brother?”

“Yes,” said Judith. After a moment she asked, “Where is the wife?”

“Here. She wasn’t fit to be sent home today. I talked to her. All she wants is a chance to live in peace, and in spite of Martha it seems to me the least I can do is give it to her.”

Judith watched a feather of smoke above the candle. “Then Roger, why don’t you do it? I know you don’t want to quarrel with Martha. I won’t pretend I ever got along very well with her, but I won’t pretend either that I think it’s any sin for a man to be in love with his wife. Get a smart lawyer and have Gideon Upjohn tried again. And if anybody wants to know why you did it, say the poor fellow’s wife came begging at your door and you heard her story and took pity on her. The name Upjohn doesn’t mean anything to the parlor gossips Martha is so afraid of.”

“Fine!” Roger exclaimed gratefully. “Thank you, Aunt Judith. Martha can’t possibly object to that.”

The next morning, after she had talked to Esther Upjohn, Judith went down below the wharfs and paid a year’s rent on decent lodgings for Esther and her children. Roger engaged a notable lawyer who obtained Gideon’s release. Before the case was over Roger considered that he had been an extremely generous and chivalrous young man. He had not laid eyes on Gideon Upjohn, but he had spent a great deal of money on the lawyer. Not many men would have done as much, Martha said, and this, Judith admitted, was quite true.

Martha said it lying pale and pretty against her pillows, for the morning after Roger decided to defend Gideon she woke feeling so weak that she could not possibly get up, and she remained an invalid throughout the proceedings. Roger worried, for Martha was ordinarily as healthy as a colt. But Martha, languidly inhaling the perfume of roses lying in the curve of her arm—for the perfume of roses eased her nausea a little—murmured that with what she was going through it was hardly surprising that her health had broken down. When she got no better physicians were summoned from New Orleans. They said it was a strangely prolonged case of the nervous vapors, and recommended that she be bled.

The day she was to be bled Roger summoned Judith to be with her, and Judith, in a state of exasperation, brought Emily along. Emily had never had the vapors, and though she was less pretty than Martha she was considerably easier to have around.

Judith sat by Martha and held her hand, and after it was over and Martha lay in an exhausted sleep, ravishingly white and lovely, Judith left Roger to sit by the bedside and went out to the parlor where Emily was waiting.

“Here’s a glass of sherry,” said Emily. “You probably need it. How is she?”

“Thanks, darling. I do need it. Oh, she groaned quite pitifully.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Emily. “Let’s go home.”

“Do you think she’s likely to need us again?”

Emily shrugged. “I think she’ll sleep all night. And after this Cousin Roger won’t dare own the existence of his lowly relations.”

Chapter Twenty

G
enerally Philip and David shared responsibility for the plantation, Philip supervising the cotton and David the cane. Emily was as enthusiastic about the sugar as David. Even after she had children to occupy her attention Emily rode into the fields often, and could discuss the possibilities of the harvests as competently as he. Judith admired her for this. David would have tired easily of a woman who confined her conversation to clothes and babies, and she was glad Emily had sense enough to know it.

About the time of David’s marriage Philip had bought a tract of sugar land west of the river and shipped a boatload of Negroes across to work it. David and Emily sat on the steps talking about the crop on this land one evening when Judith brought her knitting out to the gallery.

“I was telling David he should send a white overseer across the river,” Emily said when Judith joined them. “The Negroes aren’t likely to do much work without supervision.”

“I thought the same thing at first,” David put in, “but they seem to be turning out pretty good crops. Father wanted to try out a Negro overseer, and he sent the best sugar man we’ve got as head of the gang.”

“Did he? Who?” asked Emily.

“Fellow named Benny. He’s young, but he’s smart as a whip. His mother used to work in the big house when I was a little boy, till father put her in charge of the day-nursery in the fields. Benny’s nearly white, and he’s got a lot more sense than the average slave.”

Emily nodded thoughtfully. “If the other Negroes respect him enough to mind him, it may be a good idea.”

“It seems to be working all right,” David told her.

Judith went back into the house. In her own room she stood drumming her fingers on the mirror. So that was what Benny was doing. She had not mentioned Benny in years, and had not seen him since the afternoon little Philip was stricken with yellow fever. But when she heard David speak his name she knew she had not forgotten and that she still resented him. Evidently Philip had bought that extra sugar land for Benny’s sake, and she told herself she ought to be glad the problem presented by his existence had been solved so nimbly. But she was not; she could not be glad of anything that reminded her of the agonizing period preceding Benny’s birth. However, she added grimly, if the years had left her undisciplined within they had at least taught her to hold her tongue. And she did hold it. She did not speak of Benny, not even when David mentioned him one night a year later while they sat at supper.

“Father, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you about that cane-patch across the river.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Philip asked.

“Nothing’s wrong with the cane—yet,” said David. “But that fellow Benny we sent across as overseer—we’re going to have to bring him to this side.”

“What’s he been doing?” Emily asked, when Philip said nothing. Judith did not look up. She made herself sip her wine quietly, and buttered a biscuit.

“He’s making trouble,” said David shortly. “Benny’s smart, but he’s nearly white and that sort always seems to get obstreperous in the fields. He’s started a lot of fool talk over there about how the Negroes do all the work and get nothing for it, and he’s making them discontented.”

“Good heavens,” said Emily. “And everybody says the Negroes at Ardeith are pampered like children.”

“Ours have always been contented,” David answered, “but it just takes one big-talker like that Benny to start rebellion. If he can’t learn to keep quiet I’m in favor of selling him—then he might learn what it means to belong to a master who doesn’t indulge his Negroes.”

Judith had split her biscuit and buttered it too thickly. She scraped off the surplus, and heard Philip ask:

“What’s he telling them?”

“Something about their being free and getting land of their own in the West. A lot of nonsense, but dangerous.”

Emily laughed a little. “Will you pass me the marmalade, David? You’d think an intelligent Negro would have more sense than that. Doesn’t he know anything about the laws relating to freedmen?”

“Of course not,” returned David. “Negroes think being free means they’d be white. Benny’s been a slave all his life and thinks such things as food and shelter are free as sunshine. What do you think of selling him off the place, father?”

“I don’t want to sell him, David,” said Philip tersely. “But I’ll attend to him. How’s the cane on this side?”

But David would not be put off the subject. “But look here, father. I don’t want Benny in the cane, this side or the other. If I’m to be responsible for the sugar I’ve got a right to have workers I can control. If you want to put Benny in the cotton that’s none of my business, but he’s never been a cotton hand.”

Philip was silent.

“You know,” said Emily after a pause, “if I were running a plantation I’d either sell bright-skin Negroes to townspeople or make house-folk of them. They’re almost never any good in the fields. They put on so many airs. Always pretending to be related to the big house—”

“That will do, Emily,” Philip exclaimed. “There’s no sense in making a speech. I’ll attend to him.”

It was the first time he had ever spoken sharply to her. Emily stopped and colored. David was too well-bred to rebuke his father in the presence of other people, but he glanced at him indignantly, and Emily said:

“I—I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be meddling.”

Philip put his hand on hers. “Forgive me, honey. But it’s been pretty hot today, and I’m tired.”

Judith managed to get through supper, and she tried not to think about Benny. He was none of her business, she told herself over and over, and she had no right to object to Philip’s attempt to be just to him. Philip was quite right to keep him at Ardeith where he was sure Benny would receive good treatment instead of selling him to an unknown master who might or might not be kind. She wished he could be set free, but this was an easy escape that she knew Philip would not take. The condition of freed Negroes was pitiable and nobody could pretend otherwise; hedged about with all sorts of legal restrictions, they were in worse state than the poorest of the poor whites. She said nothing about Benny to Philip, and knew he was grateful for her silence. But she could not help thinking of him. David did not know who he was—half the bright-skins on any plantation claimed to be related to their owners, and if Benny knew his origin and spoke of it David would regard it as more big-talk. But David was still concerned about him. Judith heard him say so to Emily.

“What did your father do about that bright-skin in the sugar?” Emily asked one day.

“He put him in the oranges for the present. But that’s not full-time work, and he’ll have to go into the cotton. Father won’t take my word for it that Benny’s a born troublemaker. If I were master of the plantation I’d get him off it in double-quick time.”

Judith went out, and got rid of her tense nerves by scolding the girls for not polishing the brass knocker on the front door. She was glad David talked politics at dinner instead of plantation affairs.

She was glad too that politics were assuming unusual interest, because she could fill up her mind with the state of the country and so crowd Benny out of it. For a long time the residents of the Dalroy bluff had virtually ignored their political affiliations, taking them as something changeable but uncontrollable like the weather, but now they were in a state of uncertainty that hampered their development. Dalroy was growing fast. All the Louisiana country was filling up with population since the purchase by the United States, but Dalroy was in the subdivision that had been West Florida. The province at one time, when it was under English rule, had been completely separated from the rest of Louisiana, and whether or not West Florida was part of the Louisiana Purchase nobody seemed to have decided. She asked David to explain it to her.

“It’s rather funny,” he said. “The Americans assume that we’re American, but the Spanish governor is still here. And meanwhile we obey whatever American laws we like and whatever Spanish laws we like and nobody seems to pay much attention.”

He was so casual that Judith was amazed when the men of the bluff suddenly decided they were going to do something about it.

It was a day in late summer. Judith sat on the gallery embroidering a dress for Emily’s little boy Sebastian when Emily came down the staircase by the front door. “Please ma’am,” she exclaimed, “are all those gentlemen going to be here for dinner?”

Judith turned around. “What gentlemen, Emily?”

“I saw them from upstairs.” Emily gestured toward the front, and Judith caught sight of Philip and David riding into the avenue followed by about twenty others. She gasped. On pleasant days she generally ordered dinner for ten, for Philip and David were likely to bring in two or three guests apiece, but she had not prepared a banquet.

“I can have the girls scramble eggs,” she said to Emily, “but I wish they’d told me they were planning a party.”

“It doesn’t look like a party,” objected Emily. “They aren’t bringing any ladies.”

Judith went to the steps to greet the guests. There were the three young Purcells, and Louis Valcour, Roger Sheramy, Christopher and several men of the Durham family, Carl Heriot and his two brothers, and several more. “Can you feed us?” Philip called as he dismounted.

“Yes,” she called back, “if you aren’t particular about what you get.” She could not help laughing in spite of her annoyance. Philip’s expression was scampish like that of a little boy about to raid the pantry. Leaving them to pay their respects to Emily she drew Philip to the staircase, demanding, “Will you please tell me what you’re up to now?”

Philip grinned upon her. “We’re just before displacing the Spanish governor.”

“Philip, for heaven’s sake! How are you going to do it?”

He laughed and snapped his riding-crop. “We’re going to meet in the public square at dark, several hundred of us, and go to the palace and order him out.” He chuckled at the others. Philip’s hair was nearly white, but except for that he looked hardly older than David.

“But isn’t that sort of thing dangerous?” Emily was protesting. “Isn’t there an armed guard at the palace?”

“Why don’t you let the American government put out the Spanish officials?” Judith exclaimed.

“The American government,” said David, “has had seven years to do it, and they’ve never paid us any mind. So we’re doing it ourselves. Louisiana has been organized as a territory and before long it will be asking admission into the Union, and we’re part of Louisiana. Yet there’s that Spanish guard eating up our taxes, and the Americans either don’t know the Spanish are still here or don’t care. So—” He drew a document from inside his coat. “We’ve drawn up a declaration of independence for West Florida.”

Judith sat down weakly on a step. “I never heard of anything so absurd in my whole life.”

“Why absurd?” demanded Roger Sheramy. “By tomorrow morning either we’ll be locked up or you’ll be living in the nation of West Florida.”

“And then watch the Americans notice us,” finished Philip.

She caught sight of Emily’s dismayed face. Judith was frightened too, but she had lived with Philip and David longer than Emily had and knew the impossibility of stopping either of them when they had set out on some such wild scheme as this. So she only sighed, murmuring, “Try to keep your heads on your shoulders,” and went in to order dinner.

They ate hurriedly, all talking at once with such gusto that she found it hard to learn anything. Emily was quiet, as though no longer disturbed by revolutionary dangers, but toward dark as the men rode off to meet their friends at the square, Judith saw her drop tears on Sebastian’s head as she kissed him good night. Emily let him go off with his mammy, but as they went out she exclaimed:

“I’m scared! Anything might happen to them!”

Judith took her hand gently. “The Spanish governor really hasn’t any right to be here, honey.”

“I don’t see,” said Emily faintly, “how you can be so calm.”

“I was wondering how you could be.”

“Oh dear,” said Emily, “I was shaking inside. But I hated to get panicky in front of David.”

“I wish I had been as wise as you when I was your age,” Judith said smiling.

Emily did not seem to hear. She laughed shortly. “David thinks I’m so self-possessed. When he went off he said it was good to have a wife who wasn’t frightened—Martha Sheramy was half drowned in a cascade of tears.”

“Oh—Martha,” said Judith. “She looks so pretty when she cries.”

“I don’t,” said Emily shortly. “But I’m still scared they’re going to be shot.”

She took up some crochet and went to sit by the candle. After a while she looked up to add, “It’s very sweet of you not to pet me. I hate to be fussed over.”

It was late, but neither of them suggested going to bed. Emily went to see how Sebastian was and came back to report that he was sleeping in peaceful oblivion of the affairs of nations. Judith brought her embroidery to the candle. More concerned about the attack on the palace than she had confessed to Emily, she was too restless to sleep. For a long time they worked silently. It was nearly midnight when Emily dropped her work into her lap and sat up abruptly.

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” said Judith. But she stuck her needle into the muslin and listened.

“There it is—it sounds like somebody shouting a long way off.” Emily went to the window.

Judith followed her, remembering that she was older and must set an example of courage. “But my dear, if there was a battle it would be in town. They can’t possibly be fighting all the way out here!”

Emily had pulled back the curtain. Her hand caught Judith’s shoulder. Judith gave a gasp.

Far off in the fields, so far that they were tiny as stars, were moving torches. They were not advancing in a line, but in a confused huddle, and there was the faint sound of angry voices. Emily put her hand to her throat with a cry.

“That’s not soldiers!”

Jerking the curtains together Judith stepped back from the window. Her scalp felt prickly and the palms of her hands were suddenly wet.

“It’s Negroes,” she said.