Somerset (34 page)

T
here began a period whose events would not make it into Jessica's latest diary for over a year. The elegant, red-leather volume of her first recordings had been followed by black-faced utilitarian journals that gave way to commonplace notebooks when they were available. A stack of her musings, impressions, experiences was arranged chronologically on a shelf in her secretary, begun the first months of her marriage to Silas. Her last recording ended in June of 1865. No other entries followed. The final page read:

Years later Jessica would read “The Bustle in a House,” a poem by Emily Dickinson, that described her activities after Silas's death and accounted for the long period between her writings. When she finally took pen in hand again, she went back to the blank pages of June of that year and inscribed in her diary the poet's immortal words:

Silas lay in the parlor for the last hour of viewing when a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation was put into Thomas's hands from the telegraph office. The order was backed by the arrival of Union general Gordon Granger and 2,000 federal troops in Galveston to see that the order was enforced. Thomas read it and, without a word, passed it to the other planters in the room, then he went to his father and pressed a hand to his cold forehead. “It has come, Papa,” he said.

Jessica hoped the memory of the day her son read the proclamation to the slaves never dimmed. From all over the plantation, they gathered for the burial, a sea of black faces, many streaming with tears. The last dirt had been shoveled over Silas's grave and flowers laid before the headstone. It was a mercifully cool day because of a hilltop breeze and an overcast sun.

“Let there be silence,” Thomas said, raising his hand and lifting his voice to the assembly. “I have something of importance to read to you.”

All tongues ceased and every face turned to fix upon him. He began to recite the contents of General Order No. 3:

The slaves looked at one another. A ripple of anxiety curled through the gathering. Jasper and his sons had expected the announcement and been alerted to its contents.

“What does this mean?” somebody asked.

“It means youse is free,” Jasper said.

“Mister Thomas ain't my master no more?”

“He's your
employer
if youse stay.”

Most stayed. Thomas availed himself of the contracts the agent at the Freedmen's Bureau had prepared for former master and slave, and by the end of the month, Somerset had been parceled into fifty-acre units rented to families under a system that came to be known as tenant farming. Once again, a Toliver had led the way in anticipating the inevitable, and the transition for Thomas from master to proprietor and his slaves from bondsmen to paid workers was relatively painless.

But the Toliver family was not without criticism. Most of the planters had not wanted to inform their slaves of their emancipation until the harvest was in, but Thomas's preemptive disclosure of the freedom act had dashed those hopes. Word spread from cotton field to cotton field, and black workers walked off by the hundreds, leaving their hoes where they dropped them.

“Well, Jessica, you must be happy now,” Lorimer Davis said.

“You would assume that so shortly after Silas's death?” Jessica said.

“You know perfectly well I'm talking about the abolishment of slavery.”

“I am always happy when justice is done,” Jessica said.

Lorimer's slaves had left his cotton to dry unpicked in the fields, and no promise of better treatment had lured them back. Without sufficient manpower, the Davis plantation, like many others in the region, stood on the verge of financial ruin.

General Granger's troops were followed by fifty thousand more that surged into Texas to occupy towns in accordance with the martial law policy imposed by the U.S. Congress upon the “conquered provinces” of the Confederacy. Union occupation was the first phase of a period congressional leaders had officially termed “Reconstruction.” Federal officers were to replace civil authorities, protect the freed blacks from oppression, and ensure the safety of the agents of the Freedmen's Bureau, a relief organization set up by the U.S. government to help former slaves adjust to freedom. The citizens of Howbutker, furious at the insult when hometown blood had been spilled to defend Texas borders successfully against invasion, held their collective breath over what occupation would mean.

One afternoon in early July as Houston Avenue snoozed in the heat of high summer, a clatter of horses' hooves striking the brick street broke the somnolent silence. Jessica was upstairs at the heart-rending task of storing away Silas's clothes in a cotton sack when she heard the commotion. Except for the servants, she was alone in the house. Thomas, as usual, was at the plantation, and her daughter-in-law had taken Vernon to see his other grandmother. Jessica paused in the folding of Silas's shirt. She knew at once that the feared occupation force had arrived. Word had gone before their advance that they were on the way. Citizens had hidden their valuables when they heard reports from communities already occupied that private homes were being used to quarter the men, and speculation was rampant that the Yankees would bivouac on Houston Avenue and its officers commandeer the mansions.

Within minutes, there was a scurry of feet up the stairs as the doorbell reverberated throughout the house. The door flew open. Petunia had not bothered to knock. “Miss Jessica,” she said, out of breath, “they's some Union soldiers on the porch.”

Calmly, Jessica finished folding Silas's shirt. “Very good, Petunia, I'll go see what they're about.”

She could not calm the accelerated beat of her heart as she descended the stairs. There had come reports of incidences of vicious abuse by the occupation troops. In Gonzales, a group of Union soldiers had taken offense at a doctor's comment and dragged him from his office by his feet, then shot and killed him in the street. Homes and stores had been ransacked, personal treasures stolen, property damaged, and liberties taken with women. Jessica had months ago stored away a pistol in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe.

She could see the crown of a federal officer's hat through the fanlight and a series of others bobbing behind him. She opened the door. “Good afternoon. May I help you?” she said.

The officer, a tall man who appeared to be in his early thirties, was in the act of brushing dust from the road off his dark blue, gold-piped jacket. But for his uniform, his boyish looks would have been engaging. Jessica was sympathetically drawn to those cursed with her coloring, but in the major's case, his red-brick hair and fair skin with its sprinkling of freckles were more favorable to a man and further compensated by regular features and white, even teeth. When he saw Jessica, he tipped his hat and bowed slightly.

“Major Andrew Duncan, madam. Forgive the intrusion and my dusty appearance, but may I come in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I regret not.”

Pointedly, Jessica glanced down at his boots, and the officer grinned and scraped his feet on the porch mat. “Will that do?”

Jessica stepped back from the open door, and the major motioned that his men were to stay outside. He entered, bringing in the smell of a man who's spent hard days in the saddle. The officer's eyes swept around the magnificent, mirror-lit foyer reigned over by the portrait of the Duke of Somerset. “Every bit as beautiful as he described,” he said.

Jessica's gaze narrowed. “As who described?”

“My cousin,” the major said. “Guy Handley. I'm sure you remember him.”

“G
uy?” Jessica echoed. “Of course I remember him.”

“I came here myself a number of years ago, but only to your backyard. I came to enlist you to spy for the Union army in case of war, but your maid said you were not home. It was wash day, I remember.”

Jessica thought back, vaguely remembering a sneering reference Stephanie Davis made about the presence of a strange man skulking out the back gate—“not one of us,” she had said, implying that the man was an abolitionist come to engage her in nefarious activities. Jessica had wondered about it for a while afterwards. For once, Stephanie's suspicions had been on the mark.

“I wouldn't have done it,” Jessica said, feeling a flush of indignation. “My sympathies with the abolitionist cause did not include committing treason against the country I knew my son would sign up to defend.”

“Guy had warned me of such, and that is why I never returned.” The major looked around him. “I would ask to sit, but the condition of my trousers might soil your chairs. Perhaps you could conduct me to a place for a chat where I will do the least damage to your fine fabrics.”

“There are leather chairs in my husband's study.”

“Lead the way, if you please, and how is your husband?”

“He is dead.”

The click of the major's boot heels on the polished hall floor came to a halt. “Oh, I am sorry,” he said in a timbre of deep regret. “Guy thought the world of him.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to Ezekiel and his wife?” Jessica asked.

“They live in Massachusetts on a dairy farm. They are proud parents of twin boys.”

“And Guy?”

“A casualty at Bull Run.”

Jessica uttered a cry of sorrow. “Oh, no!” Guy had been killed in the first major battle of the Civil War.

The major took her elbow. “Shall we sit?” he suggested gently.

Jessica led him into the study and gestured to a chair in front of Thomas's desk that had replaced Silas's old one and took a seat behind it. The major ran his hand admiringly over the desk's smooth pine surface. “What fine workmanship,” he said.

“It was made for my son by Robert Warwick, a friend of the family especially gifted in carpentry.”

The major had spotted
James Toliver
etched discreetly in flowing script on a corner of the desk. “I understood your son's name to be Thomas.”

“It is,” Jessica said, wondering how the major was acquainted with that fact. “James is my son's middle name. Robert had the strange propensity to write backwards. He never finished carving the name by which my son is referred.”

“Why not?”

“A Union cavalry officer shot him in the head.”

Major Duncan looked slightly discomfited. “It seems an occasion for exchanging mutual condolences for our war dead.”

“Please tell me what else is the purpose for this occasion, Major.”

Andrew Duncan crossed one leg over the other and set his cavalry hat on his knee. Trail dirt clung to the sole of his boot. “As you undoubtedly know, this is not a social call. My men and I are here to put Howbutker under the guardianship of the United States Army—”

“A euphemism for military rule, I believe,” Jessica interrupted.

The major inclined his head. “If you wish, but in any event we are here to maintain order and in doing so will comply with the established rules governing military occupation. Unless challenged, we will respect all persons and private property. Pillage is prohibited. Severe punishment will be inflicted on any man under my command who abuses the restrictions of his power. You have my word on that.”

Jessica nodded. “That sounds reasonable, and you seem a man whose word is not given or taken lightly, but why do I hear a
however
?”

“However,” he said, “we expect cooperation from the townspeople—no taunting, spitting, or otherwise outward act of provocation toward my soldiers. They fought as hard and bravely in this war as your soldiers, and…if you'll forgive the
reminde
r…​they won. In other words, Mrs. Toliver, there is to be no undermining of what we have been sent here to do, which is to keep peace and order and to see that the will of Congress is carried out.”

Befuddled, Jessica lifted her shoulders. “I have no intention of taunting, spitting, or otherwise provoking your soldiers, Major Duncan, so why are you telling me this?”

The major uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Not knowing of your husband's death, I have come to ask that he join his friends”—he consulted a sheet of paper he removed from inside his jacket and read—“Henri DuMont and Jeremy Warwick. Guy told me they are men of great influence in town. I was hoping I could enlist their assistance in convincing certain…recalcitrant groups that their opposition to our presence will only end in more bloodshed.”

“You are speaking about members of the vigilante groups who call themselves citizen patrols.”

“I am.”

“Our son Thomas has taken over his father's duties, and the sons of the gentlemen you mention are not without their own level of influence. In addition to Jeremy and Henri, I could have them speak with you. I am sure they will agree with your aims for peaceful coexistence.”

“I would be much obliged, Mrs. Toliver,” Andrew said, rising. “And now I'm afraid I must impose further on your goodwill.”

Here it comes, Jessica thought, wincing inwardly. The major intended to ask—demand—that he and his officers be put up in the mansion.

“I'd like my men to bivouac in the pasture behind this street, and I understand you have a room available over the carriage house. I will require that for my own use. Will you see to its preparation?”

Jessica expelled a secret sigh of relief. “If you insist, Major.”

“I'm afraid I do.”

From out in the hall came sounds of Priscilla returning with the baby from the visit to her mother's. Vernon was crying. He'd been denied his nap. Jessica heard Priscilla call her name urgently—response to the shock of finding a group of Union soldiers lounging on the front verandah.

“I am in the study, Priscilla,” Jessica called.

Priscilla rushed in, and for the blur of a few seconds, Jessica was mesmerized by her beauty. Heat and anxiety had brought a rosy flush to her cheeks and heightened the color of her blue eyes. Blond ringlets of naturally curly hair bounced about her heart-shaped face, setting off skin as flawless as the fresh petal of a Yorkist rose.

“Oh!” Priscilla said, stopping short when she saw the Union officer.

“Priscilla, dear, this is—” Jessica turned to the major and found him staring at her daughter-in-law in hypnotic awe. “Uh, this is Major Duncan,” she said. “He is the commander of the U.S. Army battalion that will be occupying Howbutker. Major, this is my daughter-in-law, the second Mrs. Toliver.”

Priscilla, dandling Vernon, whiney and fretful in his mother's arms, said, “How do you do?” in a stunned, captivated voice commensurate with the major's wonder-struck gaze.

Major Duncan recaptured his composure. He stepped forward and extended an upturned palm. Tentatively, Priscilla placed her fingers upon it, and he brought the tips briefly to his lips. “I do well, Mrs. Toliver. My apologies for the interruption in your life.”

Jessica felt a prickle of alarm. Priscilla retrieved her hand and looked at Jessica as if seeking a lifeline from a sudden spill into deep waters. “I must get Vernon down for his nap,” she said in a flustered voice.

“You do that, my girl,” Jessica said. “I'm sure the major will excuse you.”

“With great reluctance,” Major Duncan said with a gallant bow, “but also with understanding. The little boy must have his sleep.”

When Priscilla had left the room, Jessica asked, “Are you married, Major?”

“No, madam. I am a career soldier, and my avocation has not allowed it.” He replaced his hat and Jessica saw him to the door.

“When do you plan to take occupancy of the carriage house?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning, if possible.”

Jessica almost suggested that other lodging would be more comfortable than the one-room apartment but thought better of it. The major might agree and decide that a bedroom in the mansion would suit him better.

Jessica called Petunia to organize a cleaning crew for the carriage house then went back upstairs to sit among the items of Silas's strewn wardrobe. She felt his presence more when she was surrounded by his possessions. How she could have used his consolation at this moment! The physical current she'd felt between Major Duncan and Priscilla disturbed her. Perhaps, on the major's part, it was nothing more than a virile man's natural appreciation of a beautiful woman, and on Priscilla's, the pleasure of a handsome man's attraction to her, a thrill no doubt missing in her relationship with her husband.

Their marriage had become a painful thing to observe. Thomas had taken his father's words to heart, and no husband ever treated a wife with more respect or courtesy than he showed Priscilla, if woodenly, and she responded as stiffly.

Her son and daughter-in-law waltzed around each other like mannequins, playing at the role of husband and wife without warmth or spontaneity, their baby the only connection between them. During their engagement, they had talked of building a manor home for themselves on the plantation, but there had been no further discussion of it. When Jessica asked Thomas why, he replied that Priscilla preferred to live in town to be near her parents and he did not wish to leave his mother alone in the house on Houston Avenue. But for Vernon crawling and gurgling on the parlor floor after supper, entertaining them, Jessica could not have borne the ponderous evenings in their company.