A Dream of Daring (11 page)

“Did the snake also point
you to the shops to spend my money?” Tom sighed, exasperated. But his anger at
the theft was tempered by pity at what appeared to be a genuine, paralyzing
fear.

Tom had demanded the
money back. He told Jerome to use the area around his cabin to plant crops and
raise livestock of his own to sell. That way Jerome could recoup the money he
squandered. “Give it back to me, and I’ll hold it for the time when you’re
ready to make a second try for freedom,” Tom had said. “I’ll give it to you and
write you a pass when you’re ready. I spoke to the captain, and the deal’s
still open.”

But Jerome never did
generate the money—or the will—to make a second try for freedom. As Tom now
stared at the slave whose sole ambition, apparently, was to irritate him, he
thought of that old incident.

“I’m prepared to write
that pass anytime, Jerome.”

The slave smiled, knowing
what Tom meant.

“If you’d just save the
money you get from stealing my stuff and selling it at the docks, you’d have
quite enough by now, you know.”

“I reckon I likes stayin’
put, sir.”

Of course Jerome liked
staying put, Tom thought, because his work output was sparse, while his
benefits were plentiful. As long as Tom remained lax with him, why would the
bondsman want to trade his happy indolence here for the demands of freedom
elsewhere? Oddly, this slave at the bottom of Greenbriar’s social structure
reminded Tom of a man at its top. In idleness and pretension, Jerome bore an
uncanny resemblance to . . . Nash Nottingham. In
Greenbriar’s peculiar interplay of masters and slaves, Tom saw that the
distinctions between the two groups were sometimes blurred.

“Say, whut’s that muddy
thing?” Jerome, in his impeccable attire, looked aghast at the vagabond peering
at him from behind Tom on the horse.

“I thought we needed a
woman’s touch,” said Tom.

“C’mon down, girl.” As
Jerome approached the damsel and reached for her waist, trying to help her dismount,
she placed a dainty foot on his chest and kicked him down. Then she slid off
the back of the horse, with Tom dismounting after her.

“Hey, whut ya think yer
doin’?” Jerome got up, brushed himself off, and moved toward the girl, ready to
grab her arms and shake some sense into her.

Tom stepped protectively
in front of her, and Jerome backed off.

“Whut name this wench
got?”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Say, Missy, whut name
you got?”

The young woman’s only
answer was a disapproving stare at Jerome.

“What
is
your
name?” Tom asked more politely, but was equally ignored.

“Well?” He glared at her,
waiting. She glared back, offering nothing.

“Okay,” he sighed, “we’ll
call her . . . hmm . . . ” He pondered
the matter. The two slaves stared at him curiously as he stroked his face,
considered possibilities, then made up his mind.

“
Solo
. We’ll call
her
Solo
.”

“Whut?” said Jerome.
“That ain’t no name.”

“It’s a good name for
someone who wants to be left alone.” Tom looked sympathetically at the silent
woman with the big eyes and the slender figure. “Until you’re ready to tell us
your real name, you’ll go by that.”

Not given to lengthy
ponderings, Jerome moved on to other matters.

“Well, Missy, there be
things you gotta know ’bout yer place here. Ol’ Jerome’ll learn ya good. First,
ya calls the genelman”—he pointed to Tom—“
mistah.
Not
marse
or
massa
. He don’t like bein’ called that, no ma’am. And next, you needs to
earn yer keep. Ya gotta
work
, and work
hard
!” He pointed his
finger at her sanctimoniously. “Mr. Tom, he be a fine genelman, he don’t use no
whip, so you can’t take ’vantage o’ that, no Missy. Jerome don’t let you take
’vantage o’ Mr. Tom!”

Solo stared at Jerome,
then at Tom, her forehead wrinkled as she tried to assess the two new
characters in her life.

“Now, Mr. Tom, I thinks
Missy here kin help Aunt Bess in the kitchen.” Bess was Tom’s elderly cook.
“Bess gettin’ too old fer cookin’. She forgettin’ the sugar in the cake and the
eggs in the bread—”

“And do you eat my food
too, Jerome?” Tom inquired. “Never mind. I know the answer.”

“If not fer Jerome
tastin’ and directin’ Aunt Bess, yer food be mighty hard to swallow, sir.”

“And is that why you
drink my sherry? Do you worry that there’s an Aunt Bess in Spain botching the
sherry too?”

Jerome laughed briefly, then
continued with his theme. “Us go to the kitchen now, Missy, and see yer new
job.” He turned to Tom, as if remembering who had the final word. “Mr. Tom, if
you ’low me, I takes care o’ this, sir.”

Tom hesitated, as he
often did when it came to managing the slaves, which led Jerome to take charge
by default. The inventor, who was decisive about where to place every nut and
bolt on his tractor, had no preference at all for what the new girl, or any of
them, did.

Jerome tried to lead Solo
by the arm, but she pulled away from him.

“Ya can’t jus’ stay here
and do nothin’, Missy! Now, c’mon!”

Solo stood firm.

“Let her be,” said Tom.

“But this little
squirrel, she gotta do somethin’, and we needs a cook, sir. Why, Aunt Bess, she
shaky. She forgettin’. She can’t make yer mama’s dishes no mo’. Us needs young
hands there, so’s us kin eat good.” He turned to the girl. “C’mon, now, Missy.”

Jerome grabbed her arm
and prodded her forward. She kicked him in the shin.

“Ow!” he wailed,
clutching his leg. “You hellcat!” Taking great offense, he raised his hand to
slap her.

Tom caught his arm and
bent it behind him with a force that made the slave double over in pain.

“I said let her be.”

Tom twisted the arm a
little tighter, making Jerome wince, then he finally released it. Jerome was
stunned by a side of Tom he had never seen.

“If you
ever
touch
her, I’ll send you to the fields to work there forever.”

The ruthlessness in Tom’s
voice and the fear in Jerome’s eyes were equally unprecedented. Tom’s threat
caught the slave by surprise. In the fields Jerome would actually have to work
hard, a far cry from his current situation. For once speechless, he backed away
from the girl, as if seeing for the first time a line drawn by Tom that he
could never cross.

“We can decide what to do
with her later. Right now, I’d like to see what
you’ve
been up to.”

Tom walked toward the
stable. Jerome took the reins of his horse and walked with him.

Solo cocked her head in
curiosity at the two men, then trailed behind them.

On the way, Tom saw the wagon
full of bricks that had just been hauled up the road. Someone had unhitched it
from the horse by the site of the new smokehouse. Tom’s three slaves who were
supposed to build the new structure stood around the pile of bricks, talking
and joking, while no one made any effort to unload them, lay them out, or begin
work.

As the young master
reached the stable and walked around, he gasped in exasperation. There was no
water in the horses’ buckets and barely any hay left in their stalls. The
animals looked parched and weak. The horse that had just hauled the bricks up
the road was standing in the middle of the stable. The poor beast had been left
sweating, unattended, with saliva dribbling from its mouth.

“Damn it, Jerome, this
animal looks terrible! They
all
look neglected!”

“I wuz jus’ gettin’ to
them, Mr. Tom!”

As Jerome approached the
sweating horse, Solo pushed him aside. She rushed to the animal, removed its
harness, threw a blanket over its back, patted it reassuringly.

She pushed an empty
bucket at Jerome. “Get water,” she said.

“Why, you little tick!
For Gawd, Mr. Tom, you tells her to hold her tongue wid Jerome!”

Solo turned to Tom,
staring at him pointedly, as if his next move would set the limits—or
liberties—on hers.

“But she’s
right
,
Jerome. You need to get water. You needed to do that a while ago.”

The girl turned back to
the slave, triumphantly. “Go! And be quick about it!”

She preceded to rub the
animal down.

“Darn that Willie! Comin’
back wid that big load,” Jerome whined. “It too much for one po’ beast! Why
don’t he take two? How’s it be Jerome’s fault that horse sweatin’ so?” He
turned to Solo. “Now, I handles this, Missy. I works here.
You
git to
the kitchen!”

“
You
get to the
kitchen! I’m staying here,” said Solo.

She turned to the horse,
rubbing it down and patting its nose. The animal seemed to like the petting,
because when she stopped, it nudged her with its muzzle for more.

“Whut you doin’, woman?”
Jerome persisted. “This here Jerome’s bizness. You stays out!”

“Get the water. Now!” she
replied.

Tom noticed that the new
addition to his household spoke correct English.

“Mr. Tom, this she-beast
need whippin’ bad!”

“Get the water, Jerome.”

“Everybody ’round here
mind Jerome, ’cept
her
.” He punctuated his remark with a finger jabbing
at her face.

When no one paid any
attention, he left with the bucket, deflated and grumbling. “Maybe Jerome get
lucky and this she-beast run away.”

“Maybe
I’ll
get
lucky, and you’ll both run away.” Tom sighed.

Chapter
8

The planters’ church in
Greenbriar was the tallest structure in town. Its steeple rose higher than the
town’s other buildings, and its pointed arches pierced the sky like spears
above the softer curves of the trees around it. With its towering presence, the
church seemed a fitting place for Wiley Barnwell’s memorial service.

The thick stone cross
embedded like a tombstone at the entrance cast a shadow over the winter
camellias at its base just as the day’s event cast its shadow on the arriving
guests. Ornate carriages deposited plantation families and prominent public
figures at the front steps. Tom stood at the door in top hat and tails,
alongside Charlotte and Rachel in black bonnets and mourning dresses. As the wealthy
and politically powerful guests entered the church, they offered condolences to
the widow and daughter.

“Charlotte, dear,” said
plantation mistress Emma Turndale, a stout woman with a kindly face. “I can’t
believe he’s gone!” The women embraced. “Why, just recently I was telling my
niece from New Orleans about Ruby Manor, and how our senator built a home for
his wife that surrounded her with roses! How can we ever forget him?”

“Thank you, Emma.”
Charlotte smiled gently beneath her veil.

Then Claire Winfield, a
descendant of one of the town’s oldest families, approached. “Oh, Charlotte,
I’m heartbroken for you!”

“Hello, Claire.”
Charlotte embraced her friend.

“My dear, you’ve
volunteered so much of your time through the years for our social activities
and charity drives. Now it’s our turn to relieve you of these tasks in your
time of sorrow.”

“Oh my, Claire, I forgot
all about the events coming up in March!”

“Of course you did, and
well you should. I spoke to Millie Browning, and we’re ready to pitch in. We’ll
arrange the church fair and the spring dance.”

“Thank you, dear. That’s
a big help,” said Charlotte.

“Don’t worry about a
thing, honey. Of course, we can never fill your shoes, just as no one can ever
fill Wiley’s shoes in the senate. But we’ll manage. You needn’t give it a
thought.” Mrs. Winfield clasped Charlotte’s hands in sympathy.

“Claire, you’re a dear
friend.”

The next guest to pay his
respects was a person whom everyone recognized and many knew personally.

“My dear Mrs. Barnwell,”
said the man, taking Charlotte’s hand.

“Governor, it’s so good
of you to honor us.”

“It was Wiley who honored
us, Mrs. Barnwell, by his distinguished service to the people of Louisiana. And
he couldn’t have found a wife of greater poise, grace, and gentility to adorn his
life than you.”

Charlotte inclined her
head at the compliment.

“I’m deeply saddened for
your
loss and
ours
.” He bowed solemnly and kissed her hand.

“I appreciate your
kindness, Governor.”

He smiled, taking leave
of Charlotte, then turned to Rachel. “Miss Barnwell,” he said, bowing to kiss
her hand, “let me offer my deepest condolences.”

“Thank you, Governor.”

“We will profoundly miss
your father in the state senate. That chamber will not be the same without his
leadership.”

“He would be honored by
your presence here today.”

“My God, child, it
infuriates me to think that your father met an untimely end over some foolish,
harebrained invention!”

Rachel’s eyes darted to
Tom, and she fidgeted nervously. The governor looked from her to Tom, as if
expecting an introduction. The newspapers had reported the story but without
photographs of the people involved, and Tom and the governor had never met.

“Governor,” she said, her
voice suddenly tentative, “this
is . . . uh . . . our neighbor.”

The governor paused, expecting
Rachel to provide a name. When it was not forthcoming, he shook hands with Tom.

“Governor,” said Tom, “I
should mention that
I’m
the in—”

“He’s a planter! A
planter, like Papa!”

“I see. How very nice.”
The governor looked confused.

Rachel changed the
subject. “And how’s your family, Governor? I remember the lovely dinners we had
together.”

“They’re very well, thank
you.”

The governor tipped his
hat to take leave of them, and then walked into the church.

Tom looked at Rachel, his
face hurt and disappointed, but she avoided his eyes. Then he reproached
himself for feeling slighted. After all,
he
wasn’t the one who should
expect consideration at this tragic time. It was his obligation to provide
comfort to the real victims: Rachel and her mother.

“I’m going inside,” said
Rachel.

He curled her hand around
his arm, wanting to escort her. But Rachel removed her hand and walked in
without his assistance.

As she entered the
church, a man approached to pat her arm reassuringly. Walking behind her, Tom
overheard them speaking.

“You poor dear, having to
go through this terrible ordeal! How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing well. It’s
nice of you to ask,” said Rachel softly.

The pale face above the
collar ruffles belonged to Nash. He and Tom looked at each other without
greeting.

“I want to be here for
you, Rachel, to help you recover from this most unfortunate ordeal,” Nash
continued. “When you feel up to it, I’d like to take you to our place for a
stroll through our peach orchard and a taste of Mother’s fine peach brandy.
It’ll relax you, dear, and get your mind off this terrible business, this
truly . . . 
senseless
tragedy.” His eyes slid to
Tom.

“That’s very kind of
you,” said Rachel.

“I want to be sure you
maintain all the comforts your dear father gave you.”

Rachel smiled politely.

“You need to be in the
company of a man like your father was, a man who can properly provide for your
needs.”

As his banker, Tom knew
that the one man who did not fit that bill was Nash.

The women’s skirts
rustled against the pews, their giant hoops swaying to and fro, as the guests
filled the church. Rachel and her mother sat in the front, with Tom and Nash in
the row behind them.

Only one planter in the
area was missing, Ted Cooper, who sat in a cell, awaiting trial. The evidence
against him was deemed to be strong, providing grounds for holding him without
bail.

Ushers gave songbooks to
the guests, the church organist took his seat, and the ceremony opened with the
group singing hymns. The solemn music moved Tom. His sorrow, grief, and admiration
for the man being honored seemed to converge on his throat so that he couldn’t
find his voice to join in.

When the singing stopped,
Greenbriar’s mayor, a short, stocky man with shrewd eyes that were the same
cool gray as his tailcoat, took the podium to deliver his eulogy.

“Where do I begin to
honor my close friend, the man who was like a brother to me since childhood?
Perhaps I should commence by honoring those who gave us Wiley Barnwell. His
parents came here from Virginia and cleared a spot in the vast alluvial forest,
where they built a home, raised a family, and started a successful plantation
out of the wilderness. Then they passed their land on to Wiley and his
generation.”

The audience listened
attentively.

“But the man who was to
become a leader of our town and state wasn’t content merely to take what was
given him by his kinfolk. Where his papa planted a good crop, Wiley planted a
great one. Where his papa built a simple cottage, Wiley built a mansion. Wiley
Barnwell was a planter and businessman second to none!”

Tom’s face showed
admiration for the master planter who had generously reached out to him after
his own father’s death, teaching him the fine points of cotton farming that
were instrumental to his own success.

“But Wiley Barnwell was
far more than our leader in farming, my dear friends. He was also a moral
compass to guide us through turbulent seas. He had an unshakable belief in the
goodness of our society. He spoke out proudly about the South. Why, he was the
most persuasive and prolific among us to uphold our customs—in our town
meetings, in the halls of our legislature, and in newspapers throughout the
South
and
the North. His was the proud voice we depended on to silence
those incorrigible Yankee tongues, wagging at us with their wild notions about
changing our way of life. Wiley was like a powerful tonic that braced us to
withstand their fanatical attacks.”

The crowd listened
somberly. They showed no surprise at the turn taken in the eulogy, as if they
had come to expect public gatherings of all kinds to lead to the one mounting
concern on everyone’s mind in 1859.

“Our beloved senator
taught us why we cannot merely remind our Northern foes of how the greatest
good of mankind is served by the world cotton economy that we make possible
with our domestic institutions. Our enemies dismiss that as mere economic
calculation, which they claim cannot right a human wrong. But Wiley Barnwell
knew how to answer them. He insisted on holding up the moral character of our
cause, because what we do here stems not only from economic necessity but also
from our
humanity
.

“The senator never tired
of explaining to our touchy challengers how we do far more for our bondsmen
than the North does for its wage earners. While we work our laborers not unduly
hard, we also feed, clothe, and shelter them; we minister to their medical
needs; we care for their children; and we support them in their aging years,
after their productive days are over. Wiley never failed to remind us of what
decent and noble folks we planters are. We look after the little people! We
relieve the needy and unfortunate class from the pressures of want! While the
North offers nothing more than wages to their workers, we offer benevolence,
caring, and a lifetime of security to our bondsmen. Why should such a humane
society as ours rile the delicate sensibilities of the Northern busybodies?”

The mayor’s voice was
rising, his face reddening, and his hands tightening into fists. “Why must they
persist in their brazen intrusions into our sanctity that can only lead to
peril
?”
He banged his fist on the podium like a hammer. “The senator often said: ‘I
think of my slaves as my children, and they think of me as their father.’ Yes,
my friends, there was no kinder, gentler, more beloved master than Wiley
Barnwell.”

Tom remembered the faces
of the slaves when Charlotte had told them of the senator’s death; not one had
shed a tear for their humane master. Why? he wondered. At Polly’s funeral, her
slaves had cried openly. He glanced at Rachel and Charlotte. He hadn’t seen
them cry, either, for the senator. But then he pushed away his guilty
suspicions. After all, he reasoned, the senator’s death was immediate and
horrific. Rachel, Charlotte, and their slaves must still be numbed by the shock
of it all, he concluded.

“Besides giving us the
moral shield to hold high against our foes, Wiley also gave us the spears to
repel them,” the mayor continued. “In our town and later in the state
legislature, he was a driving force in banning the subversive books and
pamphlets bombarding us from the North and fomenting discontent. And he fought
ceaselessly to end all manumissions, to increase the penalties for educating
the slaves, and to stiffen the sentences for those traitors who give aid and
comfort to runaways. Thanks to leaders like Wiley, we now have the laws we need
to protect ourselves from any uprisings. We can punish the rogues who commit
seditious acts. We can even call for their death!”

A collective gasp was
heard from the pews. The women in the audience fluttered their fans, and the
men wiped their sweating brows as the tension in the hall became palpable. As
if finally sensing he had gone too far, the mayor stepped back, took several
calming sips of water, then continued with a softer tone and a smile.

“In conclusion, my dear
friends, let us pick up the banner that our fallen leader waved so proudly.”

Tom’s head dropped and he
stared down at his hands as disturbing images flooded his mind. He had admired
Wiley Barnwell as a cotton planter, but he was unfamiliar with the side of him
described by the mayor. He thought of his first encounter with the desperate
runaway he later named Solo and how he had wanted to give her money to aid her
escape. He thought of how he had done everything possible to help Jerome get to
the North. He thought of a dank cell with a hard floor, iron bars, and a dim
light floating in from a small rusted window. That cell now housed Cooper, a
man charged with murder. Tom wondered about his own fate with the laws enacted.
If he had been caught helping Jerome or Solo, would
that cell
be the
place where he would waste away precious years of his life? He thought of the
scaffold in the courtyard outside the jail. Could he have met an even worse
fate? He wasn’t a slave—he was a free man—yet the tentacles that gripped the
slaves seemed to be stretching out to grab him too.

He thought of the coming
era and its great promise: to clear the fields of slaves and raise the level of
work to heights never before imagined, heights demanding a worker’s free choice
and free effort. Was the senator a prime force in thwarting this future?

“To bolster us for
whatever trials may lie ahead, we must always remember our beloved statesman.
We must always remember the grandeur and glory of the South that he extolled
and that we will forever honor and defend!”

After the mayor finished
his eulogy, others gave their tributes, but Tom wasn’t listening. His own
thoughts preoccupied him. How could the man who fought to defend his
invention—and the modernization it promised—be the same man who had enacted
measures to punish those who challenged the old ways? Could he cast doubt on
the man who had given his life for the tractor? Or did the fault lie with the
messenger?