Freeman, page 38
“Well,” he said, not bothering to hide his pleasure, “I suppose that concludes our business in as satisfactory a manner as possible, under the circumstances.”
“I suppose it does,” she said.
“You will be returning to Boston, then?”
A querulous edge had entered his voice and Prudence immediately knew it for what it was. She smiled, very faintly. “Yes, Mr. Wheaton. I have no intention of taking your money and using it to set up a new school in the next county over.”
He reddened. “This whole thing has unsettled the town terribly,” he said. “It is a pity we could not have come to an accommodation sooner. A great deal of grief might have been avoided. A great many lives might have been saved.”
She thought she might gag on the sanctimony of it, and a half-dozen sharp retorts leapt to her tongue. But she knew what Bonnie would have told her: keep her mouth shut for once and bide her time. How often, when they were girls, had she led Bonnie into some rambunctious misadventure against Bonnie’s cautious advice? Finally, Prudence was listening.
She made herself smile again. “Yes,” she said. “But at least we have reached agreement now, before any further hardship can come.”
“Yes,” he said, “quite.”
Prudence expected him to conclude their business then, but instead, he simply gazed out over the river for a time without speaking. There was silence but for the sawing of insects in the trees. Then he said, “We are different people, you Northerners and we Southern folk. It would have been better had you simply allowed us to go our own way. It is beyond my comprehension how any of you can expect that we will ever be one country again.”
“But we must try,” she said. “What other option do we have?”
He looked at her. He looked back at the river. “We in the South must be left alone to manage our own affairs,” he said. “That is the only way the thing can possibly work. But if you all insist on imposing upon us your values and your ways of doing things, well…”
She waited for him to finish the thought. When he didn’t, she said, “Well, that is business for another day. Our business for this day is concluded, is it not?”
“Yes,” he said, “it is, indeed. Good day, Mrs. Kent. Sass will show you out.”
He wheeled his chair back through the open door without another word or even a nod of farewell. She was surprised to find herself feeling sorry for him. There was a melancholy about the man, thought Prudence, as if he understood that for all his machinations, for all the violent resistance his town had raised, they were only delaying the inevitable.
“We will resist,” he had told her, the first time they sat on this porch, “if it takes a hundred years.”
And maybe, she thought, he had been right. It might take time to truly understand the shifting of the ground, the turning of the tide, might even take a century, as he had predicted. But the change was begun. Of that much, there could be no doubt. The change was begun, and it was irrevocable. And he knew it.
Of course, Charles Wheaton was thinking in the long term, was gazing out upon a far horizon. Prudence’s concerns were more immediate.
Not a hundred years from now.
Not fifty years from now.
Not twenty years from now.
Now.
What hope was there for the 412 Negroes in and around Buford, Mississippi right now, if left to the mercies of white people who had burned down half a town rather than allow a school to be set up for their benefit?
After a moment, Colindy appeared on the porch. “Marse Bo bring the wagon around directly, Miss,” she said. Her dark, moon-shaped face was as impassive as ever, her feelings and opinions, her self, not daring to so much as peek through the windows of her eyes.
Coming to her feet, Prudence heard herself say, “Colindy, may I speak with you for a moment?”
Now surprise entered the expressionless eyes. “What you want to talk to me about?” she asked.
In a few broad strokes, Prudence sketched out the plan she and Sam had hatched at Miss Ginny’s table. When she was done, Colindy’s eyes had widened still more. It was a moment before impassiveness remembered to reassert itself.
“So,” said Prudence, “would you like to join us?”
“Can’t do that, Miss.”
“Why ever not?”
“Just can’t is all. They ain’t gon’ never allow that.”
“What can they do to stop us?”
“Ain’t no tellin’.”
“Colindy, please think about it. It could change so much for you.”
“Done thought about it plenty,” said Colindy. “It’s foolishness, is all it is. Just foolishness.”
Prudence was about to say more, but the heavy tread of boots coming through the house stopped her. Bo Wheaton appeared on the porch. “Sass? What’s this about? I thought you were goin’ to get Miss Prudence here. I been waitin’ out there fifteen minutes.”
Colindy addressed herself to the floor. “I’se sorry, Marse Bo. Mrs. Kent an’ me was talkin’.”
He shoved his hat back on his head. “Oh?”
Prudence had time to wonder if her entire plot was about to come tumbling down before her very eyes. How perversely fitting it would be if once again she were the victim of her own impulsiveness.
Colindy said, “Yes, Marse. She keep askin’ me what you and Marse Charles mean to use that old warehouse for. I done told her I don’t know. I don’t mix in white folks’ business.”
Without meaning to, Prudence breathed out a long sigh. It was an expression of relief, but she saw immediately that Wheaton took it for exasperation. “You done real good, Sass,” he said. “You’re smart not to put your nose in where it don’t belong.”
His gaze fell upon Prudence, and she tried her best to look contrite. “As for you, Mrs. Kent, if you were curious, why didn’t you just ask my father or me? I don’t know how it’s done where you come from, but down here, if you want to know somethin’, you ask somebody. You don’t go sneakin’ around behind folks’ backs.”
“You are absolutely right,” said Prudence, lowering her head. “I apologize for my unseemly behavior.”
“Well,” he said, surprised. “You? Apologize? I didn’t think you knew the word. I accept your apology, Mrs. Kent. And just to answer your question: we don’t know yet what we goin’ to do with that property. As I’m sure you can imagine, the most important thing to us was simply to take possession of it in a fair and legal manner, to assure that you have no further reason ever to return to Buford.”
Prudence had had enough of pretend contrition. She met his eyes. “On that we can agree,” she said. “When I leave here, it is my hope never to see you or your town again.”
She saw a shadow of laughter flicker in Colindy’s eyes, gone before it was truly there. “Goodbye, Sass,” she said. “You take of yourself, now.”
“Goodbye, Miss,” said Colindy.
Brushing past Bo Wheaton, Prudence made her way through to the front of the house and climbed into the phaeton. He followed, climbing into his seat. Wheaton let the brake off, clicked his teeth, and the horses started forward. Prudence turned in her seat and saw what she had expected to see: Colindy, standing out front, following her with those impenetrable eyes.
Prudence and Bo Wheaton didn’t speak during the trip back to town except once when she asked him to make a slight detour. He only grunted in response and she wasn’t sure he would do it, but he did. He even slowed the wagon as it passed the ramshackle little cemetery behind the colored church. The twelve parallel depressions in the dirt were still clearly visible almost six weeks later, even though the grass had grown in. Bonnie’s grave was third from the left. But soon, it would not be necessary for a visitor to count off the graves to find the victims of the massacre: Charles Wheaton had agreed to her stipulation that he furnish grave markers and see to the upkeep of the graves.
Prudence could not imagine who would ever need to seek Bonnie Cafferty’s grave. She had told Bo Wheaton the truth when she said she had no intention of ever returning to this place again. Still, it cheered her to know her sister would not spend eternity lying in an unmarked hole. She deserved better than that.
The back door of the church opened just then, and the Reverend Davis Lee stepped out. He was smoking a pipe and had his head down, as if deep in thought. The sight of the wagon seemed to catch him by surprise and he started. Then he recognized her. Slowly he lifted his hand and nodded. His face bore an expression she could not read.
Still, she was grateful for the gesture, for the acknowledgment. In some part of her heart, Prudence was still convinced all the Negroes hated her for the ruin she had brought upon them. It was the one thing about Sam’s plan that gave her pause. In order for it to work, she would have to ask them to trust her—again. What right did she have to ask? And even if she did, wouldn’t they—shouldn’t they—refuse?
Prudence returned Preacher Lee’s solemn nod. Wheaton flicked the reins and the graveyard fell behind.
After a moment, the wagon rattled to a stop in front of Miss Ginny’s. Finally, Bo spoke. “Well,” he said, half turning in his seat, “I suppose this is the last we will see of each other, Mrs. Kent.”
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s been a most interesting association. As I believe I told you once, you are the first Yankee I ever had a chance to know on a close-up basis.”
“I’m certain you shall not be eager to repeat the experience,” she said.
He gave her a thoughtful frown. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Some of it wasn’t too bad.”
“It is a matter of perspective, I suppose. All of it was awful for me.”
“Yes,” he said, “I can imagine how you would feel that way. You’ve been through a lot. But we’re not bad folks, Mrs. Kent. We’re just like anybody else, I suppose. Just like you Yankees, come right down to it. We’re just tryin’ to get by, best way we know how.”
She was seized with a sense of having lived this moment before. Then she remembered Adelaide’s father, standing before her in front of the school one hot afternoon with his daughter. She met Bo Wheaton’s eyes. “Another man,” she said, “told me once that people are just people, behaving according to what they have been taught.”
“I would agree with that,” he said.
“So would I,” she said, “but you see, Mr. Wheaton, that is no excuse for ignorant behavior. A man must not be defined solely by the things he has been taught. He must also be defined by his willingness and capacity to learn new and better things.”
For a moment, she fancied she could see her words hitting home. Then he grinned at her. “Ma’am, you sure talk pretty,” he said.
She regarded him for a moment. “Goodbye, Mr. Wheaton,” she told him. She climbed down from the phaeton. The moment her foot was on the ground, the wagon rattled off. He could not wait to get away from her. The idea was distantly amusing.
Prudence waited until he was out of sight, then walked down to the warehouse, eager to tell Sam about the meeting with Charles Wheaton. The idea that Wheaton’s money would help pay for a plan that would bring his town to a halt had her in a giddy mood and she couldn’t wait to share the news with him.
But the warehouse was empty. Nor was the big horse in its makeshift stall. Sam was out riding, then, exercising the horse and testing the condition of his own battered body.
Prudence sat down to wait. It didn’t take long. Fifteen minutes later, she heard the clopping of the horse’s hooves growing steadily closer. After a moment, the big doors swung open and Sam led the roan in. Man and beast were both sweating. It had been a good, hard ride.
Sam stopped at the sight of her. “Prudence,” he said.
Prudence had been sitting on his cot, but now she came to her feet. It was the first time they had been alone together since that day. “Sam,” she said. And then: “I have been to see Charles Wheaton.”
“Oh?” He was latching the door.
“It went well. Indeed, I daresay it went very well.”
Limping slightly, Sam led the horse across the room to its makeshift stall. He looped the reins over the leg of the overturned bench, undid the saddle, and laboriously laid it aside, then picked up a brush and went to work on the horse’s left flank. During all this, he was silent. Prudence approached him from behind.
“Sam, we need to talk.”
She heard him sigh. He paused in his brushing. “Look,” he began, “I need to—”
“No,” she said. “Allow me to speak first, please. Three days ago, you apologized to me for what…happened between us, and I allowed you do it. That was cowardly of me.”
“Prudence, I—”
“No, allow me to finish. I have been thinking a great deal about this. I allowed you to go on as if what happened was your fault, as if I had not kissed you first. I behaved as if I were granting you pardon. That was a dreadful thing to do, but I could not bring myself to face the truth. The truth is that it happened because I wanted it to happen. I wanted you, Sam. I still do.”
Now he turned to face her. His eyes were unreadable in the shadows and half light of the warehouse. “I am leaving tomorrow,” he said. His voice was thick.
“What?”
“I must go,” he said. “I thank you for everything you have done for me, you and Ginny both, but—”
It was as if he were speaking another language. “You are leaving?”
“Yes,” he said.
“But why?”
“I have to find her,” he said. “I have to at least try.”
“Tilda?”
“Yes.”
“But what of our plan here?”
“You have no need of me for that.”
She felt as if she were falling through space, nothing to hold to, not even an impact to look forward to. Just falling.
“I am sorry,” he said.
Prudence couldn’t breathe. “After we…and that is all you have to say? Sam, please, you must not do this to me.”
“I know. I am so sorry.”
And Prudence, who had solemnly promised herself to refrain from impulsive acts, slapped Sam Freeman hard enough to turn his head. He touched the spot. “You are sorry?” she said. She slapped him on the other cheek. The flat, sharp bang of flesh against flesh echoed in the cavernous room. “How dare you?” she cried and hated the tremble she heard in her voice.
“I am sorry,” he said, yet again.
She held up her index finger as if to warn that his next word might be his last. Sam fell silent. Prudence regarded him as if he were some repellent bug. And then she ran away.
Watching the door slam behind her, Sam felt exhausted.
Stay with this white woman who had nursed him back from the dead, who had given him a home and healing and hope? Betray Tilda.
Go searching for his wife, for the woman he had loved from the instant he saw her, the woman whose image had gone before him in battlefields and a hospital ward and a thousand miles of walking? Betray Prudence.
There was no path without betrayal.
So how was a man to know what to do? He didn’t know what was right. He didn’t even know if still believed such a thing as right existed.
Morning came.
Sam had saddled the horse and was on his way to the loading door when he heard a knock at the side door. Hoping it was Prudence and yet fearing it was Prudence, he flew to answer. But it was Ginny who was standing there.
“Heard you leavin’ us,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Thought you might need these.” She lifted a haversack and a canteen. “Put you some biscuits and salt meat in there,” she said. “Ought to carry you a couple days, at least.”
“Thank you,” said Sam.
“You goin’ lookin’ for Tilda?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sam. “Miss Ginny, please…tell Prudence…” And then he stopped, because how he could he finish that sentence? What words could encompass all that was churning in his heart? He looked at the old woman, helpless.
She told him, “I’ll tell Prudence you said goodbye.”
Sam nodded, unable to do much more.
Miss Ginny touched his arm. “You a good man, Sam. I want you to know that. We all doin’ the best we can.”
Sam kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Miss Ginny,” he said.
“Goodbye, Sam. You take care of yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She watched as he secured the haversack and canteen to the horse’s saddle. Then he led the horse toward the big doors. They swung open upon a morning perfect and blue. He stepped through, leading the horse. His right knee thudded in protest as he swung his leg up over the horse from the right. Sam barely noticed. He was used to the pain.
Sam lifted the reins, regarded Miss Ginny for a moment. “Thank you for everything, ma’am,” he said.
He gave the horse the spurs and it walked slowly forward. He heard the big door close behind him. And then he felt his heart knock painfully at the walls of his chest. Prudence was standing out in front of Miss Ginny’s little house, her hands clasped before her. When the horse drew abreast of her, Sam reined it to a stop.
Without a word, she handed up a canvas sack, closed with a drawstring at its neck. Mystified, Sam accepted it. He sat it on his saddle and was using his one hand to work the drawstring open when she spoke. “It contains about $25 in Union coins. There is also a derringer pistol.”
He considered the gift. Then he pushed the sack into his pants pocket. “Thank you,” he said.
She regarded him with hurt, defiant eyes. “I wish you good luck, Sam. I hope you find her.”
With that, she turned away. He watched her go. When the front door had closed behind her, he spurred the horse gently and it moved away at an easy pace. Only once did Sam look back. No eyes met his. Miss Ginny’s door was still closed, her curtains drawn. The morning he had first started out from Philadelphia came back to him then. He had stood on the bridge, wondering if he were not making the biggest darn fool mistake of his entire darn fool life.
He wondered the same thing now. And yet, as before, he had no choice.
Sam spurred the horse into a trot and in just a few minutes he had left the town, and Prudence, behind.
