House Divided (83 page)

“Yassuh!” Tony saw the whites of the Negro's eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Sun two hours high.”

“Well, damn it, hustle my breakfast. Get my horse, too. Tell Fiddler I'll be right along.”

“Yassuh, he heah waitin'.”

Waiting? For Fiddler to be waiting was outside the normal pattern. The overseer always found things to do till Tony was ready to join him, or till Tony decided not to ride that day. “Waiting?” He repeated the word aloud.

“In de office, suh. I git you some breakfus'.” Joseph stumped away.

Tony dressed slowly, and he ate slowly; he put off as long as possible going down to the cool pleasant room on the ground level where the plantation books were kept. But in the end, fortified by another glass of brandy, his head high as became that of a master going to meet his underling, Tony went to face James Fiddler.

The overseer was at the desk; he rose when Tony appeared. Tony yawned with some elaboration. “Slept late and I'm still sleepy,” he commented. “Kept you waiting, I'm afraid.”

Fiddler nodded. “I just wanted to hand you these things,” he explained. “This is the duplicate bill of sale you signed last night. Mr. Darrell left it for you. He said to tell you he'd return in a few weeks to make an accounting.”

“Put it where such things go,” Tony directed. “We ought to be on our way.”

“I must have a word with you, Mr. Currain.”

“Eh?” Tony's anger stirred. “Well, damn it, go ahead.” He sat down, slapping at his boots with his riding crop. “Go on, out with it, man.”

James Fiddler hesitated. “I've been all my life at Chimneys, Mr.
Currain. Born here. Grew up here. My father and mother are buried here.”

“You've told me so before. Don't repeat yourself!”

“I've decided to go into the army, Mr. Currain.”

“The army? Good God, what for?” And Tony urged, suddenly alarmed: “See here, Chimneys can't go on without you. You're needed here.” His eyes narrowed. “The enrolling officers won't touch you, Fiddler. You're exempt. Both of us are. One white man for twenty slaves!”

“I prefer the army, Mr. Currain.”

Tony understood the other's tone, and a venomous rancor filled him. He tipped back his head, said in a jeering drawl: “Why, I thought you were devoted to Chimneys!”

The other bit his lip, seemed to grope for words. “It can't do any good talking about it, Mr. Currain.”

“Go on, talk about it,” Tony challenged. “Don't pretend it's because you love the South. It's because you don't like me. Come, out with it!”

“Why—well, sir, we've never sold slaves from Chimneys, not in my time here.”

“How about that wench of 'Phemy's?”

“That was to please Mrs. Currain.”

“I've brought her back. I suppose you know.”

Fiddler looked absently at his right hand, looking into the palm, then closing the hand and looking at the knuckles. “Yes, sir,” he assented.

Tony was furious, yet the overseer's tone was so mild it was hard to find cause for offense. Prod the man a little; prod him into speech and then slash your riding crop across his face, teach him his place. “Come, come,” he drawled. “You'd have stayed here with Trav.” Fiddler did not answer. “Wouldn't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then, what's the matter with me? Speak up!”

Fiddler answered in a low tone, almost gently. “Something has changed you, Mr. Currain. You've gone to pieces.” His own thoughts warmed his words. “You're drunk most of the time, prowling around the quarter like an old goat, bringing your wenching——”

Tony scrambled to his feet with lifted hand. “Why, God damn you, Fiddler, are you——”

Then James Fiddler's eyes met his like a blow, cutting off his word; and Tony hushed, and Fiddler asked very gently: “What did you say, Mr. Currain?”

Tony felt a trickle of fear along his spine, and his knees turned to wax. You did not with impunity God damn a white man; not even an overseer.

“I said ‘God damn it.' ” His voice shook.

“Really? Is it possible that I misunderstood you?”

“I'm sorry if—what I said—could be misunderstood.” Tony sat down hurriedly, for to be seated offered some security. He even dropped the riding crop. Let Fiddler see that he was helpless, unarmed. He wished Fiddler would step back a little, would not stand so threateningly near.

He was relieved to see the battle light fade in the other's eye. The overseer looked at the ledgers on the desk, the letter press on its stand in the corner, all the familiar objects here. “Is there anything you want to ask me, Mr. Currain?” Tony hastily shook his head. God almighty, no, no questions. Let the man go!

So he shook his head, and Fiddler nodded. “Then I'll bid you good-by,” he said.

 

When the other was gone, it was some time before Tony risked rising and going quietly upstairs. Through the open front door he saw his horse at the hitch rail there; but he would not ride today. Fiddler might bushwhack him on some woodland trail. He called Joseph. “I've sent the overseer to Martinston,” he said. “Let me know when he's gone.”

He stayed in his room till Joseph came to say Fiddler had ridden away. At once then, he felt loneliness press down on him. He would miss James Fiddler. It was something, among so many dark faces, to have a white man around. Self-pity swept him, and a profound sense of loss. Now there was no friend near to whom he might turn; no friend except that familiar bottle.

But he found reassurance in the bottle, and at length inspiration too. He shouted for Joseph, bade the Negro send 'Phemy. When she came,
speaking curtly to remind himself that despite the fright James Fiddler had given him he was still master, he said:

“ 'Phemy, I'm getting tired of that peg leg of Joseph's thumping around me all the time. It makes me nervous. That girl of yours, can she wait on table?”

“Yassuh.” He saw the spark in 'Phemy's dark eye. You couldn't fool a nigger. They always knew. But what difference did that make? They were his, body and soul, the lot of them. They knew that, too. They did what they were told.

“Good,” he said. “Keep Joseph out of my sight, then. Send that girl of yours in here. Let her wait on me.”

September, 1862

 

 

D
ARRELL, though his detail to the Quartermaster's department protected him against conscription, seldom appeared in Richmond. To do so was to invite hostile glances from every pretty girl he met, jeering outcries from small boys on the streets, an occasional slur from men. To enter the army would have silenced his critics, but he had no intention of doing so; there were so many less dangerous and more profitable ventures to which he might turn. He and his father were partners, united by a common greed. If their business affairs required on Darrell's part an occasional trip to Richmond, he came without ostentation and seldom showed himself in public places.

Mr. Pudrick's purchase of surplus slaves at Chimneys involved such a trip. The whole transaction, since Darrell did not trust the slave dealer and meant to deceive his father, was devious and involved. Field hands were worth from fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars, and other Negroes in proportion; but the price which Tony drunkenly agreed to accept was calculated on a basis of twelve hundred and fifty dollars for an able-bodied hand, and the total was just under fifty thousand dollars. By the bill of sale which Darrell drew, the slaves became not Pudrick's property but his. In Raleigh he sold the slaves to Pudrick for sixty-five thousand dollars; but, not satisfied with this, he required Mr. Pudrick to accept a bill of sale at sixty thousand, to give him a draft on the Farmer's Bank in Richmond for that sum, and pay the difference in currency. The dealer said resentfully:

“If your father finds out you're lining your own pocket at his expense, he'll take it out of your hide.”

“If he finds it out I'll perforate yours,” Darrell pleasantly assured him.

“That's a game two can play,” said chubby little Mr. Pudrick, a cold light in his blue eyes.

Darrell chuckled. “Now, now; there's enough for all of us. No need to fight over the carcass, man.”

The draft, when Pudrick handed it to him, was payable to Streean; and Darrell grinned when he saw this, but he accepted it. In Richmond he made Streean agree to divide the difference between the amount of the draft and the fifty thousand due Tony.

“Don't be small about it, Papa,” Darrell smilingly warned the older man. “After all, you've undertaken to turn Uncle Tony's money into diamonds for him. You can make a profit there and charge him a commission besides.” He added cheerfully: “And I may meet highwaymen before I can deliver the stones to Uncle Tony; so it's not a bad bargain, take it all in all.”

Streean laughed. “Darrell, my boy, you're too grasping! I'll keep his stones in safekeeping here till he can come for them, and thus avoid the hazards of the road.”

 

Darrell stayed a week or two in Richmond. The city was jubilant over the overwhelming defeat of the Yankees in two or three days of heavy fighting on the familiar ground at Manassas. The change in the public temper since April and May, when even government officials were fleeing from the threatened city, was complete. Then McClellan's great army had been at Richmond's very gate; now there were only scattered and inconsiderable forces left anywhere on the Peninsula, and the last Yankees in northern Virginia were racing headlong, a shattered mob, back to the Potomac and to Washington. With a ready optimism Richmond forgot its fears, and just as a year before after First Manassas, so now again everyone was sure the war was won and independence near. Those who in April and May had fled came trooping back, the streets were full of brawling soldiers and of those who preyed upon them, the gambling houses were at full blast again. Everyone seemed to know that Lee would march into Maryland, the people there would flock to join his ranks, Washington must fall. Before the year's end the North would be prostrate.

Dolly was as exuberant as anyone; but Darrell and his father were not so well pleased at the prospective early end to the war. Darrell said frankly: “Hope the Yankees don't quit yet, Papa. Every month the war lasts is money in our pockets.”

Streean scowled. “You talk too much, Darrell. Think what you like, but keep such thoughts to yourself.”

Tilda said chidingly: “Yes, dear! You musn't talk so, when so many of our men have been killed, and everyone's so sad and grieving.”

Darrell laughed in open derision. “You don't fool anyone, Mama. You know darned well you enjoy it!”

“Why, Darrell, what a thing to say!” She bridled indignantly.

“Oh I've seen through you since I was a boy. You hate the lot of them, from Aunt Cinda down! I don't blame you, either, the way they've treated you.”

“You're simply horrid.” She appealed to her husband. “Redford, don't let him say these dreadful things!”

Streean made an irritated gesture. “Oh hush, Tilda. That damned family of yours has always treated us like dirt and you know it. I'd like to see them get their deserts—and so would you.”

Tilda made a helpless sound; and Darrell drawled: “If they keep on being heroes, there won't be many of them left. Clayton and Julian and that husband of Vesta's——”

“Oh, dear little Julian is alive,” Tilda reminded him. “In a hospital in Washington. Cinda's gone to be with him.”

“I know. Anne Tudor went with her, damn it! I called to pay my respects to her the other day.” Darrell grinned. “Her father seemed delighted to report she was not at home.” He rose, yawning. “This house smells,” he said. “I'm going out to get some air.”

He had when he left the house no particular goal in mind. For a while he walked aimlessly—and his thoughts moved at random too. They touched this recent business of the slaves from Chimneys, and remembering Tony made him think of Nell Albion. He had not seen her for years; he had been then a reckless youngster, had thought of her as an old woman to whom—for the fun of annoying Uncle Tony—he had paid some flattering attention. Yet she had been, in a mature way, sufficiently attractive so that he sometimes forgot she was old enough to be his mother. Probably by this time she had become a
draggled drab or a silly old woman trying with paint and powder to seem younger than she was. It would be amusing to watch her antics. Doubtless she was lonely enough to welcome any visitor.

So he was surprised, on being admitted, to find that Nell was not alone. When the door opened, he heard masculine voices in the drawing room; he gave his name, and a moment later she came into the hall to greet him.

“Why, Dal!” she cried, in frank pleasure. “I haven't seen you for ever so long.”

She looked younger than he remembered, and she was beautiful, no doubt of that; richly beautiful, her cheek and throat smooth, her hair warm and heavy about her face, her eyes the eager eyes of a happy girl. “Too long,” he echoed; and clapped his hand to his brow in pretended despair. “Heavens, what a fool I've been!”

She laughed easily. “Same charming Dal, aren't you? Come in and meet these gentlemen.” He followed her, and she said: “Congressman Means, and Captain Pew, this is Mr. Streean.”

Darrell bowed with a cold formality to a fat little man with a dyed mustache and a small pointed beard, on whose bald brow veins crawled like worms in the gutter after rain, and to a tall calm man with a steady eye. The tall man said easily: “I believe I have the honor of your sister's friendship.”

Darrell stared at him in sudden anger. For any man to speak of Dolly in this house was an affront to her; and Darrell was on the point of stiff rejoinder; but something in the Captain's manner made him decide he did not wish to quarrel with Captain Pew.

“Ah, indeed?”

“Yes, Miss Dolly has sometimes given me the pleasure of her company.”

Darrell thought Dolly must be even cleverer than he had supposed if she could keep such a man as this one dangling. Nell crossed to the couch. “Sit down, do, gentlemen,” she urged; and she told Darrell: “Mr. Means has just announced to us that General Lee is about to invade Maryland.”

Darrell caught the faint amusement in her tone, and he looked at the fat little man. “Ah, Mr. Means. Then you have the General's confidence?”

Means flushed, and Nell explained: “Congress has assembled, you know, Darrell. Mr. Means——”

Darrell grinned. “Ah, they've come out of their holes again, have they?” There was something daunting about Captain Pew, but to Mr. Means, obviously, you could say what you chose. “I thought McClellan's army made you all run so fast and far you'd never find your way back.”

Mr. Means harumphed with embarrassment, but Captain Pew said mildly: “I presume, Mr. Streean, you helped drive the enemy away from Richmond?”

Darrell felt the impact of that question. “I'm detailed to the Quartermaster's department,” he explained, damning himself for his own apologetic tone. If Captain Pew took Mr. Means's quarrels upon himself, then the fat man was no longer fair game; yet he ventured a counter question. “What is your service, sir?”

Nell said quickly: “Captain Pew commands a blockade-runner, Dal.”

Darrell's interest quickened, and Captain Pew smiled and said: “So both of us are profitably occupied, Mr. Streean.” There was now a certain affability in his tone.

“Your duty carries the greater risk,” Darrell suggested, suddenly eager to be on friendly terms with this man.

“There's little risk.” Captain Pew seemed not at all reluctant to talk about himself. “The blockading squadron is kind enough to carry lights at each masthead, so it's easy enough to avoid the enemy ships. At Nassau they cruise off Abaco Light; so we approach by the Tongue of Ocean, or keep clear of the reefs around Eleuthera and come in from the east. Either way needs daylight and a man at the masthead to look out for coral heads; but there's two or three fathoms of water, and we draw less than eleven feet, so it's just a matter of taking care.”

Darrell knew nothing of reefs and fathoms, but he nodded wisely, and Nell said: “I suppose New Providence is a lovely island.”

Captain Pew smiled. “I don't know. From the sea it just looks like a flat desert of scrub brush and some sandy beaches. Of course it's hot in summer, a hurricane a year ago, and yellow fever every year, more or less. It's been bad this year.”

Nell shivered. “I wouldn't care for that.”

“The town is beautiful, in a way,” the Captain said thoughtfully.
“The houses are mostly white, sometimes even the roofs; and so are the roads and streets, and everyone dresses in white clothes.” He smiled. “It's hard on the eyes, with the sun glaring down; but of course there's lots of shade, banana and orange trees, and laurel. And the black faces. The negro women wear bright colors, the brightest they can find. They look like walking rainbows. And there are millions of humming birds and butterflies and flowers, so there's color enough. The flowers mostly open in the evening, so nights smell sweet.”

Darrell smiled. “Enough to make a man turn poet.”

Captain Pew seemed faintly embarrassed at this remark; he said casually: “Well, I'm only there on business, just long enough to move cargo and start for Wilmington. Coming into Wilmington's as simple as entering Nassau. We've the choice of two channels, New Inlet or over the western bar. We can come up or down the coast within a biscuit's toss of the breakers, too close inshore for them to follow us, and slip in as we choose.”

“Doesn't sound easy to me,” Darrell admitted. “But I'm not a seafarer.”

Captain Pew smiled. “The Yankee skippers might as well be landsmen. They stay on post where they're easily seen and dodged, when the same number of vessels cruising out in the Gulf Stream could hedge us in completely.”

Nell said thoughtfully: “The Northerners might welcome that suggestion, Captain.” She made a laughing gesture. “But they would doubtless ignore it, just as General McClellan refused to believe Jackson was coming till it was too late to save himself.”

Captain Pew remarked: “I had not heard that McClellan was informed beforehand.”

“He must have been,” she reminded him composedly. “Half Richmond knew it, and Richmond is full of spies.”

Darrell asked the Captain: “You spoke of profit in your enterprises?”

“To be sure. Even the common sailors are paid a hundred dollars gold, every month. Yes, sometimes more. And bounties.”

“Captains in proportion?”

“Five thousand gold,” Pew assured him. “And the captain can usually bring back a private venture in luxury goods on which his
profit is substantial.” He added: “Of course the big gains go to the owners and to the Nassau merchants. They need only take title to the cotton we carry off to them, ship it in a neutral bottom to England, and take their commissions. And the owner—” He laughed. “Well, if his ship makes three successful voyages before she is captured, he has made his fortune.”

Little Mr. Means cleared his throat. “Ah-hum!” Having caught their attention he said pompously: “All these private profits should accrue to the Confederate Treasury. Governor Vance assures me that as soon as he is inaugurated he proposes to urge the purchase by North Carolina of a blockade-runner. The Confederacy too has made a beginning in that direction. In fact I may say that vessels are now being purchased in England for this trade.”

“Of course, the trade is just starting,” Captain Pew told them. “But there will soon be a swarm of ships under private ownership. I contemplate the purchase of another myself. It excites my cupidity to see so many neglected opportunities.” He spoke to Darrell. “When you arrived, we were discussing the possibility that Mr. Means and Mrs. Albion might participate in my new venture.”

Darrell looked at Mr. Means, who colored in some embarrassment. “Ah-hum!” The little man cleared his throat again. “As a public man I advocate what seems to me the proper policy; yet if my counsel is ignored, I may surely take advantage of the opportunity left open.”