Freeman, page 20
“What are you saying, Preacher Lee?”
The smile turned sly. He returned his eyes to the road. “Got me an idea, is all. Have Ginny bring you to my church Sunday. We can talk about it then.”
She wondered what he meant, but she knew from the puckish light she had seen in his eyes that he would not answer her, so she didn’t bother asking. Instead, she settled back on the hard bench as the wagon jostled painfully over the rough road. They didn’t speak much for the rest of the trip.
Four days later, Prudence stood in the bedroom she shared with Bonnie, regarding herself in the mirror and wondering yet again if a spoon bonnet with a nosegay of carnations were not too saucy for church. From beyond the closed door of the tiny bedroom, Miss Ginny’s voice intruded upon her deliberations. “Come on, now. Paul like to be here any second.”
“Coming,” called Prudence. She checked the mirror one last time, decided the nosegay looked just fine. Her dress was a long and rather dowdy affair, lacking bustles, ribbons, and color and therefore suited, she thought, to a colored church out in the country. The hat was her only concession to style.
She opened the door and went to join Bonnie and Miss Ginny in the parlor in front. They sat together on a tatty gold settee that, like the other pieces in the room—two chairs and a table—was the castoff of a white woman Miss Ginny had once cooked for. As Prudence entered, Bonnie took one look at her. “Lovely hat,” she quipped.
The older woman chuckled softly. “Now, you leave her alone,” she said.
Out of Miss Ginny’s line of sight, Prudence made a face at Bonnie—a favorite child taunting a less-favored sibling. The laughter that followed felt good after the trouble of the last few days.
Presently, there came a knock at the door. Miss Ginny opened it and there was Paul. “Mornin’, ladies,” he said. He lifted his hat and smiled a jaunty smile. “Miss Bonnie,” he added.
Prudence was quietly amused. For the last couple of weeks, Bonnie had been teaching Paul to read. The affection between them was becoming obvious, though Bonnie denied it every time Prudence tried to bring it up.
It was a hot day, the air thick and close. They walked in a companionable silence toward the edge of town. When they passed the warehouse, Prudence could not help herself. She looked over, half expecting some new outrage. But the building stood silent and unabused. She exhaled a breath she had not known she was holding.
Then a gleaming black wagon clattered to a stop beside them and she started. Bo Wheaton was at the reins and he spoke without preamble, without giving her three companions so much as a glance. “My pa wants to see you, ma’am,” he told Prudence.
She felt their eyes on her. “I beg your pardon,” she said.
“My pa sent me to get you,” he said.
“If your father wishes to see me, I am at the Cafferty School six days a week. I am certain he knows where it is.”
The blue eyes darkened and then, to her surprise, he smiled. “Yes ma’am, but he’d count it as a personal favor if you would call on him up to the house. My father, he’s, well…an invalid since the war. Lost both his legs. It would be a great hardship for him to come over here. If you’re worried about missin’ your church service, well, I promise I’ll have you there before the last amen.”
“What does he wish to see me for?”
“Ma’am, I purely don’t know. He just sent me to get you, is all.”
“Well, if I go, my friends must go with me.”
For the second time in less than a minute, he surprised her by smiling. “Ma’am, you’re not from around here, so I guess you wouldn’t know, but in this country, white people do not entertain niggers in their homes. Tell you the truth, it’s not that common they entertain Yankees.” He spoke patiently, as if instructing a child.
“So you expect me to just ride off with you alone?” said Prudence.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And if you’re worried about your personal safety, my pa says that I am to apologize for my”—and here, his smile bent with distaste—“boorish behavior last time we met, and to give you his personal assurance no one will bother you while you are in his care. Plus, I’m sure you still have that little pea shooter of yours.”
He spoke to Paul without looking at him. “Tell her if my pap’s word is good or not, boy.”
She heard Paul say, “It’s good.” His voice had gone dead.
She glanced the question at him. He met her eyes and repeated. “It’s good. Marse Wheaton set a great store by his word.”
Prudence was curious. She had to admit that to herself. She turned, seeking out her companions, wanting their opinions. Miss Ginny and Paul held their heads down as though Bo Wheaton were the sun, too bright for direct viewing. Bonnie was staring at her, eyes widened. “I already know what you are going to do,” she said, her voice softened by wonder and disbelief.
Prudence nodded, knowing it herself only in that instant. “Very well,” she told Bo Wheaton. “Let us go see your father.”
He answered her with a curt nod. Paul helped her climb up into the rig behind the driver. She was barely seated before Wheaton flicked the horses with the reins and the wagon started forward with a lurch that pushed her back against the plush leather seat and brought her hand to her head to hold the spoon bonnet in place. Wheaton turned the wagon in the middle of the street, bringing her back past Paul, Bonnie and Miss Ginny, who stood there on the boardwalk watching after her. They looked small and forlorn. She smiled to reassure them. And then they were gone.
Wheaton kept the horses at a brisk pace, just short of a trot. For long minutes, there was no sound except those the wagon made, the striking of hooves against the dirt, the jingling of bridles, the turning of wheels. They drove west toward the river, then turned north. The movement of the wagon stirred a hot breeze that flowed back against Prudence’s face. The sun highlighted ripples of water that unfolded across the broad, brown back of the Mississippi.
“I meant what I said, you know.” Bo Wheaton spoke without turning around.
The sound of his voice surprised her. “Beg pardon?” she said.
“About my behavior last time. My pa was right. That was boorish of me. Can’t blame you for pullin’ out that little pea shooter. You got sand for a Yankee gal. I’ll give you that.”
Prudence kept silent. She wished she had the derringer with her now, but she had thought it improper and unnecessary to go armed to church. Assuming her safe return from this trip, she would not make that mistake again. In this country, she told herself—no, in this part of the country—it might be necessary to go armed everywhere.
“I couldn’t help myself,” said Wheaton, as though she had spoken. “I’ve always had too great a fondness for drink. My father, my brother, my sister, they all say that. And of course, drink causes a loss of control. You’re very pretty, ma’am. You must know that.” Here, he glanced over his shoulder at her and the smile he gave was almost bashful. Prudence turned away. He went back to watching the horse’s rumps.
“But the thing I can’t understand,” he went on, “the thing none of us can understand, is how you can come down here and do what you’re doin’. You have to know—even a Yankee has to know—how wrong that is, ma’am. And not just wrong, but dangerous.”
He looked back at her again, as if waiting for agreement. Prudence studied the river. Wheaton sighed as if fatigued and went back to the horses. “That’s all I’m sayin’,” he muttered. He did not speak again for the balance of the journey.
After a few more minutes, they arrived at a large house that sat on a bluff at the end of a long, tree-shaded lane. When the wagon clattered to a stop, a Negro man and woman appeared as if by magic. The man, stiffly formal and dressed in livery, placed a step stool for her convenience. He touched her elbow lightly as she climbed down from the rig. Then he went to tend the horses. He never spoke.
Prudence found herself standing beneath a columned portico beside a short, plump colored woman whose hair was gathered beneath a kerchief. Prudence smiled at the woman, who only bowed her head in response. “This here is Sassafras,” said Wheaton, coming around to Prudence’s side as the footman led the horses away. “Call her that on account of she’s so sassy whenever anyone dares intrude upon her kitchen. I have some work to do. She’ll take you to my father.” He lifted his hat. “Ma’am,” he said and then lowered the hat and sauntered toward one of the outbuildings.
“If you please come with me,” said the colored woman.
She led Prudence through the front door and into a hall that rose two stories above her. From either side, stairways curled along the wall up to the living quarters above. A massive chandelier hung suspended overhead. Prudence wondered idly how long it took to light all the candles.
The woman led her through an equally elegant parlor and dining room, where the table looked long enough to accommodate 20 diners with ease. A door from here led to a wide, covered porch that wrapped around the back of the house, looking down upon the river. A steamboat was just passing by, heading north. Its decks were crowded with soldiers.
“What is your real name?” Prudence asked the colored woman as the latter gestured toward a chair positioned next to a round table, facing the view.
“Sassafras real enough,” the woman said, and Prudence felt chastened, abruptly reminded of her place in the grand scheme of things. Why had she thought this woman would allow herself to be drawn into conversation with a white woman she did not know? It was vanity, that’s all it was.
Prudence sat. There was a pitcher of lemonade in the center of the damask-covered table. It was flanked by two drinking glasses, one of which Sassafras now filled and placed next to Prudence. She pointed to a tiny bell that sat on the table.
“Marse be with you in a minute,” she said. “You need anything, you give that bell a ring.” And with that, she disappeared back into the mansion.
Prudence drank her lemonade. It was cool and tart and a welcome antidote to the oppression of the heat. In silence, she took another sip as the river rolled past below her. Despite herself, she was enraptured by the view.
A few minutes later, the sound of metal wheels turning against hardwood brought her around to see the door open and a balding, legless man in a wheelchair pushed through it by a young Negro man. How many servants did these people have?
“Well,” said the man, as he was wheeled to a position opposite her. “I see you appreciate the view. I am pleased to think we have that much in common at least. I am Charles Wheaton,” he said, without extending his hand. “You would be Mrs. Kent. I am pleased you accepted my invitation to come up here, especially on such short notice.”
“Your son was rather insistent.”
“Yes, he has that quality.”
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me why you wanted to see me,” said Prudence.
He cut her a glance. “We are to be direct with one another, then? Good. I much prefer it that way. I grew up here, Mrs. Kent. I love this town. I am certain even those of your race can appreciate what it is to be attached to a place. This is my home, and I don’t want to see it harmed.”
“I do not follow you,” said Prudence.
His smile just then was shrewd and mean. “I suspect you do,” he said. “I want you to shut down that nigger school.”
Her chin came up. “Mr. Wheaton, I will thank you not to use such vulgar language in my presence. I had taken you for a gentleman, sir.”
It stung him. She could see that in the way his eyes went out of focus for just a second. Then they turned hard, little pellets of metal embedded in the fleshly folds of his face. “I want you to shut down that school,” he repeated.
“I will not,” she said.
He went on as if she had not spoken. “Ordinarily in this situation, I would strike a bargain to buy the building at a price that allowed you to make a handsome profit, on the condition that you go away and stir up no more mischief. However, I happen to know that your father left you a tidy sum—a furniture maker, wasn’t he?—so I don’t expect you would be subject to the ordinary temptations of money.”
“You are quite right,” she said.
“However, I thought you might listen to an appeal on simple moral grounds.”
“Moral grounds,” she said. It was not a question.
He sighed and did not speak for a long time, staring out at the lazy Mississippi. Then he said, “Mrs. Kent, do you believe in God?”
“I do,” she said.
“As do I,” he said, glancing at her. “And I believe God has set in place a natural order for all creation. He set white men on top of that order for a reason.”
“Is that what your Bible tells you, Mr. Wheaton?”
“It is also what the evidence of my eyes and plain common sense tell me, Mrs. Kent. In physical deportment, intellectual capacity, and moral integrity, white men were set apart from all the other races of the world. That includes your red man, your yellow man, and most certainly, your black man.”
“Most certainly,” said Prudence, not bothering to hide her smile.
“I assure you it is not a joke, Mrs. Kent. There is an order to creation, and when all accept their places in that order, it works as God intended and every man is happier. But when people meddle with that order, when they sow confusion and discontent, dire consequences must naturally follow. Consider the late war as proof. Consider the fate of your president.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Frustration blew out of him in a heavy sigh. “I am trying to instruct you, Mrs. Kent. As you can see, I am hardly in a position to do you any harm. I lost that ability, along with my legs, in a Yankee bombardment at Vicksburg. And I can further promise you that no one of my household or in my employ will do you harm, either. But Mrs. Kent, I cannot control what other people will do.”
“You cannot or you will not? It is my understanding you are the most powerful man in this town. I find it difficult to believe there is much that happens in Buford you do not control.”
“You give me entirely too much credit,” answered Wheaton through a tight smile. “I do not control. But I do predict. This is cotton country. In a few months, it will be picking season and our planters will again be obliged to suffer the indignity of hiring labor they formerly owned outright. People will find that difficult enough to stomach. But if you, through your misguided efforts, give their labor force some foolish notion of moving beyond their station in life, if you interfere with the planters’ livelihood…” He spread his palms as if to say the rest did not even bear speaking.
“Your townsmen have already been quite busy, Mr. Wheaton. They have threatened us. They have vandalized our school.”
He waved at her words as one would a bothersome fly. “Those are just pranks, Mrs. Kent. They are getting their nerve up. If I were you, I would be braced for much worse.”
“And yet these are the people you say God has ordained at the top of the natural order.”
The flat of his palm slammed the table so fiercely that lemonade sloshed out of the pitcher. He roared, “Yes, by thunder! That is exactly what I am saying!”
He took a moment. She could see him struggling to master himself. Down below, a scrawny white boy, barefoot and bare-chested, wandered along the banks of the river. Prudence watched him until he was almost out of sight.
When Charles Wheaton next spoke, his voice bore only the remnants of his sudden rage. “Do you know that if it were not for a handful of investments in some northern firms that predate the war, I would be wiped out right now?”
“What is your point, Mr. Wheaton?” asked Prudence.
“We have lost so much, Mrs. Kent,” he said. “This is what I am struggling to make you see. We have lost our homes and other property. We have lost our dignity and pride. We have lost our way of life and we have lost our country. By the holy God, how much more can you Northern people expect us to lose? Would you have us surrender our sacred place in the very order of creation? We will not meekly accept that. We cannot, if we wish to still consider ourselves white men. You will not prop the Negro up as our social or political equal. We will resist that with every means at our disposal, Mrs. Kent. We will resist for a hundred years, and more.”
He regarded her for a long moment. Then he made a weary sound. “But you are going to do it anyway, aren’t you? You are going to continue teaching them at that school of yours.”
“Yes, I am,” she said.
“You will not even consider locating your school elsewhere, perhaps in another town where the people are less likely to take offense?”
“And where would such a town be?” asked Prudence.
His eyes filmed over and he stared at the river. “Too bad,” he said after a moment. “I had hoped I might be able to make you understand. Of course, I should have expected your response. I had a similar discussion with your father when he thought to buy a piece of the old Campbell place and loose a plague of free Negroes in our midst. You remind me of him. He was an idealistic fool, too. He had to learn the hard way, too. It mystifies me that neither of you can comprehend elemental truth. You are white, after all, even if you are from the North.”
“I suppose that makes all the difference,” said Prudence.
“I suppose it does at that,” he said. “I am just sorry we could not come to terms. There has already been such suffering. Too much, really.”
“On that much, we can agree,” said Prudence.
He gave her one last speculative look, then nodded curtly, as if to himself. “Very well, then. Sass will show you out. Beauregard will take you back.” The young Negro man reappeared on the porch as if by magic. He took the handles of the chair and wheeled the old man away.
Prudence was alone. She sipped her lemonade. After a moment, the large, dark-skinned woman stepped out of the house. “Come with me, ma’am,” she said. Prudence stood and the woman led her back through the large, silent house. They stood together under the portico a moment without speaking. Then the woman said, “My name Colindy.”
Startled, Prudence said, “Beg pardon?”
