Rhett Butler's people (58 page)

"Then, Andrew Ravanel, you will remain free on bond to prepare an entreaty that will move our hearts. Tomorrow at ten." The judge's gavel fell.

Being convicted felt no different than unconvicted. He was no better or worse.

When Ellsworth tried to precede him, Andrew pushed ahead through a throng of glaring negroes, and whites' sly winks.

Rosemary was in the lobby, where Custer's soldiers kept the crowd at bay. "Andrew, I'm sorry."

Why was Rosemary sorry? No jury of black apes had convicted her of anything. She hadn't been insulted by a Yankee judge in front of all Charleston.

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"Can I come home?" Andrew said.

Rosemary frowned. "No," she said.

Before the War, this courthouse lobby would have been scrubbed every day. Before the War, Low Country planters came here to settle boundary disputes and contracts. Andrew's shoulders drooped. He'd been fighting so long, so very long. There was nothing left. "Give my best to the boy."

"To your son."

"Yes, to Valentine."

Andrew's lawyer hustled him out a side door into a closed carriage. Ellsworth lit his pipe. It took him three tries to get it going. "You hadn't a chance," he said.

"Oh, I don't know," Andrew said lightly. "I was hoping some jurors remembered me from before the War."

The lawyer puffed furiously. "I did my best. I got the charges reduced from murder. I got you released on bond."

Andrew slid his window open.

Late-morning sun fluttered into the carriage as they turned onto King Street past the post office. They edged around a beer wagon. Two men rolled barrels down a ramp. Behind their iron fences, the city's gardens flourished. The scents of decay and rebirth made the air shimmer.

"You must prepare a plea. Convince Judge Boyd you've seen the error of your ways."

"What does it matter?"

His lawyer's face was sour as an unripe pippin. "Judge Boyd has considerable sentencing leeway. He's gone easy on Klansmen who repented. President Grant doesn't want martyrs."

Andrew's mind drifted on the lawyer's sea of

ifs, huts,

and

maybes.

"We cannot contest what you did...."

A Unionist nonentity before the war, Ellsworth had been a reluctant advocate, torn between his desire to be counted among the Old Gentry while never condoning nor

appearing

to condone the Klan. That same gentry had been glad when the Klan frightened Republicans out of the legislature, provided they didn't have to know how the frightening was done.

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Andrew said, "Can't make a cake without breaking niggers."

"What? What's that you say?"

Andrew Ravanel hadn't been afraid to get his hands dirty. Josie Watling, Archie Flytte -- maybe they didn't scrape off their boots before they walked into the drawing room, maybe they didn't care where they spat, but they weren't afraid to get their hands dirty. Andrew's palms itched. "What...?" Ellsworth asked.

"I said," Andrew repeated, "here we are."

Ellsworth's office was three doors down from the Unionist lawyer Louis Petigru's. Petigru hadn't survived the war. While he was alive, everybody had reviled Petigru for his Unionist views. They praised him after the man was safely dead. That's how things were.

Andrew stepped down from the carriage.

"Come into my office. We have work to do."

"I thought I might see a minstrel show."

"You'd what?" Ellsworth gaped.

"The Rabbit Foot Minstrels are at Hibernian Hall. A matinee."

The lawyer removed his glasses and pinched his nose.

Andrew asked, "Is Rhett Butler paying you to defend me?"

"Why shouldn't I defend you?"

"You might get your hands dirty."

"Colonel Ravanel, I already have!" Ellsworth snapped. "Charleston's better homes are no longer open to me. I don't know when we can return to St. Michael's. My wife and I cannot hold our heads up in decent company."

"Sir," Andrew said, "you'd hold your head higher if you emptied the rocks out of it."

"Eh? What did you say?"

"I said there's a matinee."

"What are you talking about? We've got to work on your plea."

"What made you think I wanted to plead?"

"You'd rather face ten years at hard labor?"

Andrew snorted a harsh laugh. "Sir, I have faced worse."

"Be here, at the office, tomorrow by eight. We'll prepare your statement then." The lawyer spoke to Andrew's back.

370

Andrew rented a bay gelding at the Mills Hotel livery. He'd stayed at the Mills since the trial opened. He hadn't asked who was paying his bills or who'd put up his bond.

A decent horse under him, beautiful Charleston at his feet, and a fine day! What more could any man ask?

Andrew tipped his hat to white and black alike. The negresses turned away; some ducked into doorways. Ladies pretended they didn't see him. Poor whites and prostitutes waved or blew him a kiss. The comedy amused him.

Charleston's rice trade was finished -- reduced to fading signs on boarded-up businesses: JAMES MULROONEY: RICE FACTOR; JENKINS COPERAGE: RICE CASKS, A SPECIALTY.

The harbor was full of bustling steamers. Andrew dismounted, tied his horse, and leaned on the rail.

A negro boy, eight or nine years old, came along, pressed his skinny buttocks against the rail, and rutched. His shirt was out at the armpits, his trousers were belted with rope, and he was barefoot. "Plenty boats," he ventured.

When Andrew looked at him, the boy slid away.

"I won't hurt you," Andrew said. "You needn't be afraid of me."

"I ain't scared of you nohow," the boy said, but came no nearer.

"These ships go everywhere in the world."

"Naw, not them li'l things!"

"Some mighty little boats have crossed the ocean."

"I know 'bout boats," the boy said scornfully. "My Daddy works in the fish market."

"If we put you niggers in those ships, we could send you back to Africa. Would you like that?"

The boy shook his head vigorously. "I never been to no Africa." So not to disappoint the friendly white man, he added, "I been to Savannah onct."

As he mounted, Andrew flipped the boy a dime.

He rode down Anson Street, past Miss Polly's old sporting house. What a time they had had! Lord, Lord, what a time! Edgar Puryear, Rhett

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Butler, Henry Kershaw -- what a time! And Jack Ravanel. What would his father advise him? Andrew muttered in Old Jack's tones, "Ride like hell, boy! Don't waste time lookin' over your shoulder."

Miss Polly's was roofless and shell-pocked. A yellowed muslin curtain dangled from a second-story window. How eagerly they had sought life. They couldn't wait for life to come to them; they must meet it halfway.

Rhett Butler had been his particular friend. Andrew had gambled with Rhett Butler, drunk with him, and they'd galloped breakneck into the sunrise. Dear God, Andrew thought, I've lost everyone.

He drew up before the East Bay Inn and waited until Jamie Fisher came out, a white apron around his waist. "Ah," Andrew cried, "the boldest scout in the Confederacy."

Jamie's apron was spattered with what looked like tomato pulp.

"I didn't come to the trial. I thought you wouldn't want me there. Judge Boyd?"

"Pronounces sentence tomorrow. My lawyer thinks I'll get off light if I grovel, but" -- Andrew grinned -- "if the Pit Bull is out of sorts or Mrs. Pit Bull quarrels with the judge over the breakfast table, he might give me ten years. You know how I thrived in the penitentiary."

"Andrew!"

He shook his head. "Jamie, don't worry. It won't come to that."

"Andrew, won't you come inside? Juliet would love to see you."

"I bear my dear sister no animosity. I forgive everyone. I forgive the Yankees, the niggers, even that nigger-loving President Grant. But... some other time. Jamie, you and I have somewhere to go."

"Andrew, I'm preparing -- "

"No buts, Jamie. We're attending a matinee at the Hibernian Hall -- the Rabbit Foot Minstrels, direct from Phila-damn-delphia. The headliner is?" Andrew applauded. "Why, none other than my nigger, Cassius!"

"Andrew, my guests ..."

"For old times' sake, Jamie."

Jamie had moisture in his eyes, "On the day before your sentencing, Andrew? Are you mad?"

Andrew Ravanel grinned. "Why yes, Jamie. You know I am."

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The wooden-legged veteran selling tickets snapped to attention. "Colonel Ravanel, glad you come, sir. These boys put on a great show. You won't be disappointed."

"Where'd you lose the leg?"

The man smacked his wooden leg like a soldier slapping a rifle stock. "Sharpsburg, Colonel. Let me get the manager. You and Mr...."

"My scout, Jamie Fisher."

When Andrew made to pay, the man wouldn't take his money. The manager arrived, apologizing that the audience wasn't so high-toned as Andrew was used to, and escorted Andrew and Jamie to the best seats in the house. The men they displaced were inclined to dispute until told for whom their seats were required. They doffed their caps and one man saluted, saying, "God bless you, sir" and "You taught those Yankees a thing or two" and "Ten more like you and, by God, we'd have won the war," at which sentiment, the house broke out in rebel yells.

The manager cordoned off their chairs with a rope. Men seated beyond the rope offered them flasks, cigars, and plugs of tobacco. Andrew's eyes fixed on the curtain, where painted nymphs and cherubs frolicked.

The audience was rough. The women were bawds and whores. A handful of Federal soldiers sat in the last rows.

That Patriotic Ball, so long ago, when he'd first tried to seduce Rosemary Butler -- Lord, she'd been gangly and fresh as a newborn filly -- that ball had been in this room. Andrew wondered if that Confederate eagle was still painted on the floor, entombed beneath layers of dirt and spit and trampled cigar butts.

Rosemary bore no resemblance to that leggy girl who had enchanted him. Andrew said, "Don't fidget, Jamie. Everybody loves us here."

There was rustling behind the painted curtain before a banjo clanged, frailing the notes. Andrew elbowed Jamie. That'd be Cassius.

The curtain opened on a stage and a semicircle of empty chairs. As the offstage banjo plunked "Old Dan Tucker," white men in blackface pranced in to stop before each chair, eyes front, still as statues. Tambo and

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Mr. Bones had the end chairs, and the armchair center stage was the Interlocutor's.

Jangling his tambourine, Tambo took his seat. The Interlocutor marched in, bowed and froze halfway through his bow. In blackface like the white players, Cassius ambled across the stage, grinning and mugging, until he reached Mr. Bones's chair, where he, too, froze.

The Interlocutor revived from his frozen bow and strolled past his company, miming astonishment, as if he'd never seen any of the performers before. He prodded them as a child might if loosed in a wax museum.

INTERLOCUTOR: Gentlemen, be seated.

[

Tambo's tambourine and Cassius's banjo made a crossfire.}

BONES: Music makes me feel so happy!

TAMBO: Well, you ain't goin' to be happy no more. You're going to be a 7

th

Cavalry soldier and I'm goin' to train you. I'm a first-class soldier trainer, I is. I'm a lion trainer, I is.

BONES: You is a lion trainer?

TAMBO: That's what I said. I'ze a hard-boiled lion trainer, I is.