Charleston (49 page)

She drew her hands out of the basin of soapy water, dried them, and followed Maudie outside. An old iron box lay canted in the huge hole left when the tree fell. Most of the flood water had leached into the ground, leaving only a puddle at the bottom of the hole. The box was dented and badly rusted but otherwise undamaged.

“Let's find a hammer and chisel and see what's in it,” Alex said.

The lock resisted for a while, but eventually Alex broke it open. Rust flaked away as she lifted the lid and discovered a package wrapped in wet layers of oilskin, lying in an inch of storm water.

Unwrapping the oilskins revealed two thick books. Carefully she opened the first, peeled the heavy pages apart. They were damp, especially at the edges, and spotted with mold, but the faded handwriting for the most part was readable. Her astonishment grew as she realized the books were diaries, written by her great-grandfather.

There was also an explanatory letter, heavy parchment folded and waxed shut. She broke the seal.

“Our name isn't Bell,” Alex said to Ham and Richard when she showed the diaries several hours later. Ham's right arm was swathed in a sling with the tapes tied behind his back. Grumpily, he said, “Then what is it?”

She struggled against an urge to giggle. “Greech.”

“Greech?” Ham said, as though tasting tainted meat.

“According to this diary Tom Bell's father's name was Sydney Greech. When he came to Charleston he was a fugitive. He'd been a crewman on a ship captained by a man named Stede Bonnet.”

Richard said, “Who would that be?”

“They called him the gentleman pirate,” Ham said. “One of the sea rovers who plagued this coast in the early seventeen hundreds. The most famous was Blackbeard Teach. He and his bully boys strutted up and down the streets of
Charleston terrifying the citizens. As for Bonnet, an expedition headed by Col. William Rhett caught him and his shipmates where their vessel was careened in the Cape Fear River. Brought 'em all to Charleston in irons.”

“Not all,” Alex said. “Not Sydney.”

Ham nodded and went on. “Bonnet himself managed to sneak out of jail, but he was apprehended on Sullivan's Island and hanged. They hadn't invented the gallows in those days so he was swung off a cart, slow strangulation. Legend says he went to his death carrying a bunch of posies. A gentleman to the end.”

Alex took up the story. “Sydney Greech avoided the same fate by running off and disappearing into North Carolina before Bonnet was captured. It's all written down in Tom's fine hand.” She couldn't restrain a burst of laughter.

Ham was severely vexed. “Do you find it funny that the founder of this family wanted to conceal unsavory facts about an ancestor?”

“The founder of this family?” Alex said through a storm of tears and giggles. “The founder of this family was a lowborn thieving buccaneer with a stripe of yellow down his back. If only they could have known, Lydia and Simms and Ouida, living their pretensions and fighting like dogs to defend their grand reputations.”

Ham sniffed. “I would say the contents of that box demonstrate that our revered forebear wasn't entirely free of pretensions, as we have always believed. He wanted to be thought of as a person of substance, not a pirate's whelp.”

Alex hugged herself and rocked. “Oh, it's delicious.”

“Does the book say why Greech called himself Bell?” Richard asked.

Alex wiped her eyes. “No, Tom's confession omits that detail. Maybe he liked the sound of it. We'll never know.”

“Well, it's all very droll,” Richard observed. “Pretty damn typical of Charleston.”

No one disagreed.

Two days later Ham sent a formal note to Gibbes, asking him to call at the law office. Gibbes didn't reply for three days, then turned up unexpectedly one afternoon.

Wearing an appropriately somber sling of black cloth, Ham shut the door with his good hand. “So we won't be disturbed.” There was continual racket in the street as carts carried away storm debris. A dozen houses had been blown down and nine people were dead, including a child drowned in the tidal surge.

“I am severely pressed for time,” Gibbes began.

Ham's thick head of hair was nearly white, enhancing his air of rectitude. “I won't waste words. You'll recall the letter mentioned in a previous conversation? It rests in that big safe in the outer office. Lest you have an urge to act rashly a second time, heed this. If anything untoward occurs involving me or my sister, or anyone in our household, the letter goes to the authorities, as well as to every newspaper in Charleston, Columbia, and Greenville. With it goes my sworn statement endorsing its validity based on meetings conducted with Mrs. Mary Hix. Should you have some lunatic idea about destroying this office, copies of the letter have been placed safely elsewhere. With that made clear I have this to say to you. You had better resign from the legislature, on any pretext that will save face.” Gibbes began to sputter and interrupt, but Ham wasn't through. “You must resign and never stand for office again, or I promise your reputation will suffer a sharp decline.”

“By God, you've got more gall than—look here, you for
get who I am. Your cousin. Would you stoop to blackmailing your own flesh and blood?”

“Cousin you may be, but you're a damned murdering bigot too. You tried to have us killed”—Gibbes opened his mouth again; Ham immediately raised his hand, palm toward the visitor—“kindly spare me the pious denials.”

“I know what's behind this. Your beastly love of the Goddamn niggers.”

Expressionless, Ham said, “That is not at issue. You've heard my terms.”

Gibbes chewed his lip. “Supposing I do what you and your do-good sister want. Nothing will change. We will take back this state anyway. Drive down the colored and keep South Carolina in the hands of white men.”

“We'll see.”

“What a smug little worm you are. You really think you can thwart me?”

“I do. I know who and what you are. I also know full well that one less of your kind won't dam the flood, but it will certainly remove a few drams of poison from the stream. That is all I have to say.”

“But—”

“There is no appeal, Gibbes. I bid you good day.”

 

Gibbes spent the remainder of the afternoon in the saloon bar of the reopened Mills House. He saw a number of acquaintances but declined to join them. He retired to a corner with a bottle of Kentucky's finest and proceeded to drink himself into a stupor. He seethed and raged. He was trapped.

Gradually the alcohol calmed him, and he considered the standoff Ham had effected. His cousin was, if nothing else, a man always true to his word. If Gibbes resigned his seat, his reputation would remain intact. He could then continue to work behind the scenes to help reclaim the state for its rightful owners. When he left the hotel after seven, he was in somewhat improved spirits.

He swung his stick almost jauntily as he walked along Legare Street in a state of hazy confidence. Near Sword
Gate rain began; nothing like the torrents that had come with the hurricane but enough to raise a murky mist. Lamps gleaming in the ground-floor windows shed welcoming light on the small front yard. He happily anticipated the food he'd tell Desmond to prepare.

And after supper, the report. He'd received it late that morning and was eager to read it more carefully. The report dealt with an assay of soil samples from Prosperity Hall. The hired geologist said there was great promise of phosphates, in quantity, in his land along the river. If that proved true, new wealth was not a chimera but a real possibility.

Someone stepped from behind a large elm planted on the curb a few steps beyond his gate. A woman heavily draped in a hooded talma approached. “Mr. Bell?”

“Yes?”

“This is for my husband.” The woman emptied a small silver pistol into his face and chest.

Gibbes collapsed against the iron gates, dying as he slid to his knees. His vest left scarlet swathes on the wrought metal. The woman threw the pistol over the fence into his yard and ran.

Gibbes's killer was never found. Mary Hix and her children moved out of the state.

Of all the departed ones who had been connected to the Bells by blood or marriage, Folsey Lark was mourned least. Scarcely a dozen attended his funeral: Rex Porcher-Jones and some other cronies; three former employees of Palmetto Traders; a strange moony-eyed boy who sat alone
in a rear pew, snuffling and wiping his nose. Snoo was too distraught and stayed home.

The authorities attributed her half brother's death to unknown causes, the most likely being association with evil companions. General Huffington publicly denied knowing Folsey. In private he insisted he'd always been suspicious of the man's character and had intended to cut short their relationship.

It was different with Gibbes. His funeral was a civic occasion. Hundreds of people crowded the nave and overflowed to the steps of St. Michael's when he was laid to rest.

For days Gibbes had been the subject of fulsome eulogies in the press.
An exemplar of Southern courage,
he was called.
A valiant soldier and patriot who put aside wartime animosities to serve and resurrect his city and his state.
Editorialists said his death was untimely.
We are confident he would have gone far, perhaps even to the highest forums of the capital of our reunited nation.

Mayor and council members attended, and fellow legislators. Gen. Wade Hampton rode down from Columbia to bow his mighty head in prayer. Snoo wept uncontrollably throughout the service. She swooned on the grass as the coffin was lowered and Great Michael tolled.

Leaving in their carriage, Ham and Alex exchanged confidences. “I felt a horrid hypocrite sitting there without an ounce of sympathy for him,” Alex said. Ham admitted a similar lack.

“We no longer need the letter. Will you give it to me?”

“For what purpose?”

“It's time to bury the hatreds.”

Ham hardly hesitated. “I'll fetch it home tomorrow. You're a wise woman, Alex.”

She leaned back, closed her eyes. “But old. Old. Do you realize there's no one to carry on the family name?”

“I regret that I never married.”

“You could still father a child. You're not Methuselah.”

“But ever so set in my bachelor ways, alas.”

“Then the Bells go silent.”

She hadn't meant to say it that way, but it was appropri
ate. Ham responded not with a smile but a little sniff. When they reached home he took her gloved hand and helped her step down from the carriage. She used her cane again. Ever since the storm her injured leg had troubled her. Just another sign of fragile mortality, she thought in a moment of uncharacteristic self-pity.

The following night she and Richard walked arm-in-arm along the Battery. Ripples in the cobalt harbor were touched with the light of the setting sun. The air smelled of fish and the mudflats strewn with white oyster shells. The night of blood and horror might have been a fantasy.

She laid her cane against a waterside bollard and took the letter from a pocket in her skirt. He knew the whole story of it. He was silent as she tore the pages in half, then again, and a third time. She tossed the inky confetti in the air. The offshore wind carried it over the water, where the bits of paper attracted noisy gulls who left as soon as they found it inedible.

“Rest in peace,” she said, “though I really doubt this part of the world will know peace for a long time, perhaps generations. Defeated people find it hard to forgive or forget. There's a gulf between the races not easily bridged.”

“Not too big a gulf between us, I hope.” After reflecting a moment he said, “I don't intend to drive horsecars the rest of my life. It may take five years, but I'm going to start another freighting company. In Charleston. I've come to like the place. I haven't withdrawn my marriage proposal.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Dear Richard. I've thought about that endlessly. We fought on opposing sides, figuratively if not literally. During the last years of my marriage to Reverend Drew, he used one word in regard to the end of the war.
Forgiveness.
That was the foundation of peace, he said. That was the first essential. I recognize his wisdom. So I'd like to make peace between us and accept your proposal.”

He whooped. “Lord above.” She touched his lips.

“If we marry, I won't change my beliefs, or hide them.”

“I guess I'll have to put mine up against yours and see who comes out aces.”

“Fair enough, my dear. I'll change your ways, see if I don't.”

“I accept the challenge.” He was beaming; she felt a sudden confidence that they could succeed together. She fell into his arms and shamelessly planted a long kiss, right there in front of God and everybody in the city of Charleston who might be watching.

“There is one thing,” she said as they strolled home. “I want the Bell line to continue.”

“Children? How—?”

“No, no, I'm far too old. I would, however, like to adopt Little Bob before we marry. He'd be ours, but I want to change his name legally to Robert Henry Drew Bell. Would you object?”

“Not a bit. Would he?”

She shook her head, more gray than golden now. “He and I had a long talk on the subject just yesterday. He likes our household, though he doesn't often say it.”

“Then he's part of the family, and welcome.”

They walked arm-in-arm. Richard glanced at Alex from time to time, admiringly. It moved him to say, “You should have been a general. We'd have won the damn war.”

 

Cal and his wife, Adah, called. “We're going to Chicago.”

“While I can still travel,” Adah said with a lowering of her eyes. Refined women, no matter what their station, didn't discuss pregnancy except with intimate friends and relatives, and then only in a kind of genteel code.

“It may be easier for us in the North,” Cal said.

It wouldn't be, but they would learn that, and if they were strong, as devoted as husband and wife as they seemed to be, they would survive. So Alex said, “Yes, very possibly so. Blessings on you both.”

 

On the first of July, Maudie discovered an interloper in their kitchen. She brought the ragged youngster to the stuffy sitting room, where Alex was struggling to decipher small type in a newspaper. She had new spectacles.

“Must have sneaked in the back door. I found him stuffing some of my corn dodgers into his pants.” Maudie was the soul of stern justice; she gripped the boy's arm like a policeman restraining a desperate criminal.

The boy was six or seven. His cocoa-brown face might have been winsome if it hadn't been so dirty. Alex had seen too many like him skulking or begging in the streets, the flotsam of the tides of war.

“What's your name, young man?”

“Micah John.”

“Where do you live?”

“Up the Coosawhatchie a ways. I don't live there no more.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Kilt when the white men burned our cabin.”

“Who were they?”

“I don't know who they were.”

“Why did they burn your house?”

“Looking for money. There wasn't none.”

“Wasn't any,” Alex corrected. The boy stuck out his lower lip. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Any kin that you know about?”

“Off in Tennessee somewheres. Don't know their names.”

She smelled the dirt and sweat on him. First thing she'd do was throw him in the zinc tub and scrub him down. She rapped her cane on the floor.

“Maudie, we can help this boy. Would you stay with us awhile, Micah? We can feed you and care for you.”

“Just like you was his mother?” Maudie said with raised eyebrows. “Isn't Little Bob enough?”

“Stop that. I'm too old to be anyone's mother. Grandmother, well, that's a different story. From what I see of others, a proper grandmother likes plenty of children around her.”

The boy frowned. “Who's Bob?”

“Another youngster who lives with us. You'd like him. I think he'd like you. What do you say, Micah? A warm bed, an equal share of our food—would that please you?”

Long seconds passed. “Yes'm.”

“Let's be very clear, so you don't agree and later feel I wasn't honest with you. You'll have to work, we have a great deal of repairing to do and we don't keep servants. You'll have to do as you're told. I don't abide spoiled sassy boys who cry and stomp to get their way. If you don't want to obey, and carry your weight, we have to say good-bye.”

There was no hesitancy. “I can be like you want, ma'am.”

Alex's heart soared. She laid her cane aside, took his grimy fingers in hers. “Let's go back to the kitchen. While you eat, we'll get acquainted.”

He smiled for the first time. She wondered how he'd like the name Micah John Bell.

 

On the glorious morning of the Fourth, the hottest day of the summer so far, the five of them strolled beside the harbor. Few white people were abroad; they disliked the holiday because the freed slaves celebrated and paraded in the streets.

Distant music of a brass band drifted over rooftops shimmering in the heat. Maudie held hands with Micah John. Alex held hands with Little Bob. Richard trailed along behind in amiable silence until, unprompted, he suddenly stepped forward and took Micah John's other hand. Alex wondered whether he'd ever clasped the hand of a black person for other than a business transaction.

He saw her watching. Over the heads of Maudie and the children he responded with a smile of mysterious contentment. Away up Meeting Street the bells of St. Michael's, back from Columbia and hung in their rightful place, rang the hour.

So much to heal, Alex thought. So much to rebuild. So much to worry about. She laughed at herself. Cassandra would say she was the ideal choice for worrying.

They stood hand in hand gazing at the water, Richard, Micah John, Maudie, Little Bob, Alex. Gulls soaring, waves sparkling, boats bobbing, the bells chiming in St.
Michael's steeple—how she loved it. The air was sweet with the eternal, unforgettable essences of Charleston: flowers, the salt sea, the mudflats steaming in the sun. Feelings of age dropped off like a burdensome cloak. A terrible time had passed for her beloved home. There was beauty before. There would be beauty again.