John Brown's Body, page 19
“Clay dropped the papers in his hands and leaned back in surprise at the display of adult manners in a child of seven. Not wanting to leave her to solitary punishment, I entered the room and stood beside her, trying to keep from trembling. He probably only studied us for a few moments, but it so felt like an eternity.
“‘Ah, you must be the two—You are the ones of which I have heard. Very adult, very adult. Blood will tell.’ He paused, then said, almost to himself. ‘What shall I do with you? Clay blood should not have been so mixed. But it is done.’”
“Face downcast, I mumbled, ‘Sir, when will the master be back?’
“‘That—He is never coming back,’ responded old Clay in a furious voice.
“That scared me. As the offspring of his favorite concubine, Decimus had allowed us to live in the big house. I was old enough to realize we would now be sent to the miserable hovels Decimus had allotted to the field hands, and the prospect of losing the little comfort we had, on top of our mother’s death, frightened me.
“‘Once I have settled the affairs here, you two will be coming with me. My son recently lost his mother and is an only child. You will be his companions.’
“Two days later, after appointing an overseer for his brother’s estate, known to be both honest and reluctant to use the whip, the elder Clay loaded us into his buggy and took us on the twenty-mile trip to his own plantation. Arabella and I had discussed running away, but even at our tender ages, we knew we would not get far. He squeezed us into the one-horse buggy on either side of him, and in five hours, we were at the estate he had named Dignitas.
“It was not what I had expected. No tobacco or cotton cultivated, the large fields had been designated primarily to grazing and horse paddocks. Much later, I learned Dignitas produced the finest thoroughbreds in the Bluegrass, the income from which would have by itself supported the expenses of the estate. Here and there were small buildings with chugging steam engines at their rears. I would find each of them was a small factory manufacturing some form of high-quality commercial product—cutlery, steel pens, cigar cases, that kind of thing. It was the most unusual plantation I was ever to see, although I didn’t know it at the time.
“The main house was surprisingly modest, considering the estate encompassed nearly 6,000 acres: a three-story brick structure in the old-fashioned Federal style, unadorned by the pretentious pillars and porticos so common in plantation architecture. A middle-aged black woman came out, saw us pulling up to the front door, and hurriedly retreated inside, shouting something. By the time we clambered stiffly out of the buggy, and old Clay had secured the horse to the hitching post, a small, blonde child, not above nine years of age, had emerged from the house, impeccably dressed in miniature adult clothes. This was the first time I laid eyes on Alphonso Clay.
“The child acted incredibly mature and formal for one of his youth. He bowed slightly to his father, saying, ‘Welcome home. Nothing serious happened in your absence. Who are these children?’
“‘Good afternoon, Alphonso. This is Jeremiah and Arabella. They will be staying in the house with us.’
“Alphonso gravely shook my hand, then took Arabella’s and kissed it lightly, European-style. He stepped back, scrutinizing. ‘We’re related to them, Father. You can tell from their build and faces. Has Uncle Decimus been naughty?’ It was only several years later, I realized what an astonishing performance this was from a child of nine.
“‘Alphonso, you will never mention him to me again. He is dead to me, Son, dead. Arabella and Jeremiah will be living with us in the main house as companions for you. It is not right that a child be on his own all the time, and my business will keep me occupied more than I would like.’
“‘That should be interesting. Tell me, Father, what is their last name?’
“‘People who are, uh, servants are discouraged from having last names by Kentucky, Son.’
“‘Father, they really should have one. They are Clays.’
“‘Perhaps you are right, Son. However, it cannot be Clay.’
“‘Why not, Father? They are Clays.’
“The old man was most uncomfortable. ‘Someday I will explain it to you. Notwithstanding, they shall have a last name.’ He thought for a moment, then asked my sister and me, ‘Do you have any objection to being called Lot?’
“‘No sir,’ Arabella said, replying for both of us. ‘But why Lot?’
“‘Do you know your Holy Bible?’
“‘A little sir,’ I responded.
“‘You see, Lot was a righteous man who suffered for his righteousness at the hands of an evil city’s people. The Lord had decided to destroy the evil city but told Lot in time for he and his family to flee. However, the Lord also warned them never to look back at what they had left behind, no matter what they heard. As the Lord began to destroy the evil city, Lot’s wife could not help herself. For her defiance, she was turned into a pillar of salt. Let that be a warning to you. You are leaving one kind of life and entering another; never look back. Henceforth, you shall be Jeremiah and Arabella Lot.’
“And so, our life at Dignitas began. Swiftly, strong bonds formed between us children. It’s not uncommon for white children to be friends of slave children when very young, but it usually ends abruptly at about the age of ten or twelve. My sister and I did not realize how privileged we were until much later. Old Clay did not put Alphonso in public schools, but hired, at great expense, a series of excellent tutors. To the amazement of most of them, Alphonso’s father permitted my sister and me to attend. We found we had a thirst for knowledge and never sought to evade what others would have regarded as boring drudgery. Not that it was all education; there was hunting, fishing, riding. We grew very close, during those years; Alphonso and Arabella closest of all. I wasn’t jealous of that. No, I saw them as affectionate brother and sister. Would that it had remained so …
“Dignitas was a very unusual place. Cicero Clay was not loved by the slaves; he was a cold, distant man. In any event, rare is the slave who can love his owner, no matter how well treated, even though he was respected. The slave quarters were clean and well-maintained; the overseers forbidden the use of the whip although harsh words permitted. Work was expected and demanded, but old Clay had set up a phased emancipation system. If you worked hard and loyally for a certain number of years, and otherwise showed yourself of good character, he would grant you your freedom and set you up in a small business of some sort in Louisville or Frankfurt. It was a hard-headed investment; he expected half the profits of the new businesses. But even so, a slave could have far worse masters than Cicero Clay. I don’t believe he felt black people were his equal, but to be fair, I don’t think he thought most white people were his equal. Although he felt chattel slavery was becoming obsolete, and, in a few generations, would diminish of its own accord, he was no abolitionist. He disagreed violently with his cousin Cassius. Yet, several times, I heard him express grudging admiration for his bravery in agitating for the end of slavery so publicly in a slave state.
“We grew up almost forgetting for long periods our status as blacks and as slaves, but then something would happen to remind us. A simple trip to Louisville would lead to a snide comment or offensive phrase. Usually, we just ignored the offender, no matter how much the words stung. Then just after Alphonso’s 18th birthday, we had gone into town to buy something, I truly don’t remember what. Abner Laing, the son of a prominent tobacco-grower, known for his wild ways, whistled at Arabella and then said … he said something that proved beyond doubt he was no gentleman, no matter how much money his daddy had. I started toward the young buck, intending to pound him into a pulp, but Alphonso grabbed my arm with a grip of iron and hissed, ‘You know what happens if a black man strikes a white man in public.’
“‘Let it go, Jeremiah,’ Arabella added.
“With a great act of will, I turned back in the direction we had been heading, feeling humiliation, shame, and anger, all at the same time.
“When we got back to Dignitas, I spent the evening muttering and cursing under my breath. I was so wrapped up in my humiliation and shame that when Alphonso slipped out that evening, I never noticed.
“The following afternoon, word reached Dignitas: Abner Laing had been killed that morning in a duel. The word around town was that Alphonso had challenged Laing and shot him through the heart. Dueling was illegal under Kentucky law, but there was no concern about the law; such ‘affairs of honor’ among the landed gentry were generally ignored.
“Old Clay took Alphonso into the library and had a long discussion with him. When they emerged after an hour, the old man fairly glowed with pride and satisfaction. He told a servant to bring a horse and soon was galloping off, no doubt to boast about his son’s success in an affair of honor.
“We were left standing in the parlor, with Arabella bestowing Alphonso the purest adoration. As for myself, my feelings were conflicted. I had wanted Laing hurt, but not dead. To my own surprise, I found myself sorry for what Alphonso had done.
“‘Alphonso, it was not necessary for you to defend Arabella’s honor, or my own, at least against an ill-bred wastrel,’ I said to him.
“‘It was not just your honor. Any insult to a Clay is an insult to me personally; I was defending my own honor as well.’
“‘That’s as may be, but I want you to swear on your honor you will not duel in the future. It’s murder; I don’t care whether the sheriff ignores it or no.’
“I was the recipient of a furious glare from Arabella, who apparently had no qualms about what had taken place.
“Alphonso studied me calmly with a faint sign of emotion. ‘You are a better man than I. Jeremiah, you have my word; no more such affairs of honor. In any event, a further one would probably be unnecessary. I am sure the gossips and idlers are busily spreading the word of what happens to those who insult someone with Clay blood.’
“He was, in fact, correct. Verbal insults became a very rare thing when we ventured into public. Somehow, it did not please me as much as it should.
“The distinctions caused by our black ancestry became most apparent when it was time for Alphonso to go to college. Not even the wealth and connections of Cicero Clay could get a mulatto into a fine university. So, when Alphonso went away for his undergraduate work at Miskatonic College in Massachusetts, he made an unusual arrangement with Arabella and me. He promised to send us copies of every book and every lesson plan he received, so we could follow the process of his education, with only a lag caused by the mails. He was as good as his word. In effect, we received the benefit of a university education without ever leaving Dignitas. Somewhat to my surprise, old Clay thoroughly approved, especially when he saw how his niece and nephew kept up with the most abstract subjects without the help of a professor. If Clays have an overriding sin, it is pride in their blood and themselves.
“Not that it was all study. The old man was getting weary and forgetful, often complaining of blinding headaches. I asked if I could take some of the burden off him. Gratefully, he gave me more and more of the responsibilities of running the estate, until by ’58, I was virtually the manager of Dignitas, at only the age of twenty-one. You should have seen the faces of some of the merchants when they saw a mulatto handling transactions in the thousands of dollars! Some refused to deal with me. I did not make a scene; I simply took the considerable business of Dignitas elsewhere. Most found their greed could override their bigotry. The only part of my responsibilities I hated was the need to give orders to the slaves. Usually, it was the overseer who did it, but sometimes I needed to get personally involved. Physical cruelty was not permitted at Dignitas, and yet, I felt disgust with myself at lording it over people with skins no darker than mine. Occasionally, I could conjure up a bit of naked hatred, but I never did anything. Truthfully, I didn’t blame them.
“Arabella developed into the old widower’s hostess. Cicero Clay had lost his wife when Alphonso was four, and apparently never felt the need to remarry. Naturally, he did miss a woman’s light touch around the home, the kind of touch a mere servant could not provide. As she grew up, Arabella blossomed into perfection. Her beauty was remarked on by all who saw her; her intelligence far surpassed that of myself, or, for that matter, her uncle. Only Alphonso was her equal, and none her superior. Her taste was faultless and used to perfection within the great house. Old Clay gave her leave to decorate as she would, and all acknowledged the house had become the most beautiful in the county. As if this was not enough, she became an accomplished musician. On vacations from college, Alphonso encouraged her to learn the piano and hired her tutors, although before long, they were not necessary. I remember many an evening when she played Beethoven, Mozart, and Mendelssohn to perfection, while Cicero Clay and myself listened with rapt admiration. During those times, Alphonso would bring back with him scores for the latest music arranged for piano, especially that new German fellow Richard Wagner. I never really liked Wagner’s music; there was something decadent in it, but Alphonso and Arabella felt the German was ushering in a new musical age.
“I suppose our privileged life couldn’t have lasted forever, but the coming of the war made it end sooner than it otherwise would. In the summer of ’59, Alphonso came back from his first year at Harvard law school, where he had gone after graduating Miskatonic summa cum laude. He was ever so glad to be home, despite the fact he was coldly furious at something. Only gradually did Arabella and I worm it out of him. According to Alphonso, as sectional tensions increased, the sons of New England aristocrats at Harvard had been making insulting remarks to him about coming from a slave-holding family, and casting doubt on his devotion to the Union. Apparently, he had knocked one of the offenders down and had almost been expelled. I found out later it was only through pressure from Governor Nathaniel Banks, an old friend of the family, that his expulsion was avoided. The following year was even worse. Even though he held his temper in check, when he came home to Dignitas for the summer break in ’60, he raved for days about the dishonor of listening to the sons of lucky tradesmen doubt the patriotism of a Clay.”
Lot took up a stick and stirred the fire. You could hear every crackle and pop, every cricket and rustle from the wind. Neither man in audience dared to utter a sound.
“That summer was when it all began; even I had no way of realizing it at that time. Alphonso’s anger and rage just wouldn’t go away, and nothing I was able to say or do made it any better. His father could do nothing. I am sure Cicero Clay loved his son, but he was a cold man with many secrets and had difficulty talking about personal matters. It was Arabella who could comfort Alphonso, could calm him. During that summer—it seems so long ago, even though only three years have passed—Alphonso and my sister grew closer and closer. More and more often, they rode out together by themselves across the estate; more and more often, no one could say where they were. At first, I was uneasy, and then I was frightened. Living the way we did, it was easy to forget there was a barrier that could be crossed only at one’s peril. Clays did not engage in casual affairs with slaves; the unmentioned Uncle Decimus was the exception that proved the rule. If things went too far, Alphonso would want marriage, and that simply wasn’t acceptable. Arabella knew that as well as I, which is why I could not understand why she did not insist on a respectable distance.
“Old man Clay was very worried, but then he was worried about many things, not least of which was the coming election victory of the Republicans, where he said publicly, and at every opportunity, would lead to a long and bloody war. Alphonso was back at Harvard for his final year during the election in November of ’60. Almost immediately, neighbors began to choose up sides. Old Cicero began mobilizing what support and influence he had to keep Kentucky in the Union. As you know, he was one of key people who prevented a secession vote from coming up in Frankfurt.
“About the time it was clear Kentucky wouldn’t secede, Alphonso came home from Harvard, a fresh law degree in hand, and a new anger in his heart. He had just …” Here Lot remembered the promise of secrecy he had taken to the weary President in the office of General Meigs and amended his story in midstream. “… performed a great service for an important man, and in performing that service had learned something of the Starry Wisdom cult that upset him very much. I never learned what it was; the one time I asked him, he laughed and said, ‘Jeremiah, I am too fond of you to burden you with this knowledge. Just know, it is not a question of whether you would respect a confidence; I will not make your life uneasy where it is not necessary.’ What I do know is that Arabella and Cicero knew something of it, and whatever it was, involved his German grandfather, Friedrich von Junzt, dead for a quarter of a century.
“One evening shortly after his return, I heard raised voices in argument, coming from the old man’s library. It was unpardonable, I know, but I crept close enough to hear some of the dispute.
“‘Son, there is no need for this. Slaughter and his minions were depraved degenerates, nothing more. The ravings of those two prisoners mean nothing!’ said the old man.
“‘Sir, I will not live in suspense on this matter. I will not! I will see it confirmed, one way or the other,’ said Alphonso.
