Sweeter than Birdsong (26 page)

The walls were covered with writing and drawings. As he moved closer to peer at them, it slowly dawned on him that many of the scribbles were obscene.

He could not educate children in this building. And yet they had been regarding this filth every day for the past year, and the tabletops were similarly defiled. Who had permitted this? He scanned the room in vain for something to cover the obscenities.

Voices rose outside—the children were coming. Setting his knapsack on the small pine desk at the front of the classroom, he arranged his supply of papers and pencils to look neat, despite the apparent uselessness of such a gesture in this room. He positioned the tall stool beside the desk and sat on it just as the first students walked through the sagging door.

At least ten of them came in at once, scattering to take seats all around the room. They were unkempt and dirty, from the smallest girl to the hulking big boy who had immediately seized the spot in the farthest corner of the classroom.

“Good morning,” Ben said. “I’m Mr. Hanby.”

They gave him curious stares but no response. More students began to come in, some clean and neatly dressed, others as dirty and ragged as the first group. Holes showed in some of the shoes now ranged under the benches. Forty children had assembled, and a steady, loud buzz of chatter filled the air. It was time to begin. He prepared to call them to attention, waiting for the last group to sit.

Even as he paused, the procession of children continued. He started counting silently. Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight . . . they would never fit! And how would he teach so many? He struggled to keep his expression impassive. Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six. At last, the parade reached an end. Children lined up along the walls, poking each other and laughing. Some of the boys were almost as tall as Ben, though he knew they could not be above sixteen.

Gradually the noise quieted. Almost sixty children regarded their new instructor, some with devilish glee, others with worry. Ben only had a few minutes before the rebellion started. Some of the smallest ones goggled at the drawings on the tables and walls.

He stood up and walked slowly to the space in front of the blackboard.

“My name is Mr. Hanby.”
Lord, give me the words
. “This is not a fit place for you to learn.” Surprise stole over many faces. “We need to make it better. Let us begin in prayer.” The younger students folded their hands along with him, curiosity more evident on their faces than reverence. Some of the older boys looked at each other with derision, but Ben ignored them.

“Father in heaven . . .” He kept his eyes open—the Lord did not need him to close his eyes and risk pranks. “These are your children. Many of them have hard lives at home, and this school may be their only avenue out of hardship.” Silence blanketed the room. “Help us make the school a safe, clean refuge from our troubles. In the name of our Savior, I ask these things and trust that you will provide. Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed the children.

A rough-looking boy with blond hair and buckteeth called from the back, “God ain’t gonna do nothing for you or for us! He ain’t never done nothing so far, so why would he start now?”

“What’s your name? You may sit, children,” he added to the rest, who did as they were told, some sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall.

The boy glared at Ben. “Jimmy.”

“Well, Jimmy, you are entitled to your own beliefs. But you must raise your hand before speaking in class.”

Jimmy and the other children regarded him with amazement. A little dark-haired girl slowly raised her hand.

“You have a question, young lady?”

“Ain’t you gonna whip him, mister?”

“No, I’m not. I leave that decision to your parents. This is a schoolhouse, not a prison.”

“Then I’m leaving!” Jimmy blurted. He walked to the door.

“None of us big ones are gonna come back anyhow. We just come to see the new teacher.”

“Yeah,” a couple of the older boys echoed. A herd of them went out the door, including all but one of the big boys and a couple of the medium-sized ones to boot.

Ben’s class was reduced to fifty, at most. The parents would complain against him.

He disguised his sense of failure by turning to the remaining students. “Line up at the door, please.”

With much rustling and chatter, the children bunched together, the room being too small to allow an organized line. Ben moved to the front of the little mob. “Follow me, and be careful on the stoop.” He led them out.

The school stood adjacent to the village marketplace. As Ben rounded the corner of the school building, women in the market set out their produce and jellies for sale. Now that the harvest was over and the weather so cold, most of the fruits and vegetables were dried or in jars.

Everyone in the marketplace watched the schoolmaster and his many charges. Ben led the throng past the curious women and onto Main Street, which would take them to the shops in the heart of Rushville.

He felt a tug on his coat.

“Mister . . . mister . . .” A little girl skipped to keep up with him.

He slowed down for her. “It’s Mr. Hanby.” He smiled. “What is it?”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see in a moment.” This girl was one of the smallest, probably six or seven. Her brown hair was plaited in two long braids that fell over her shoulders, and she had a cherubic face with upturned nose and huge blue eyes. “What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Jane.”

“Jane, do you have a last name?” he asked, teasing.

“Yes, sir, it’s Lefort.” She rambled on in the single-minded way of young children. “My daddy says you’re not a good man. But I like you.” Her eyes were bright with hero worship.

The Leforts must be one of the families his father had mentioned. Naturally, the pro-slavery families would remember the Hanbys less than fondly. And with a surname like Lefort, he guessed that this family had Louisiana roots.

“I like you too, Jane,” he said. He looked over his shoulder and saw an older girl following a few steps behind. She had the same chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes, though she looked somber. “Are you Jane’s sister?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what’s your name?” He projected as much goodwill as he could.

“Sally Lefort.” She quickened her step and came forward to take her little sister’s hand. She looked as if she would like to drag the little girl away from Ben, but daren’t be so rude. She put a little more space between them as they walked.

“Well, Miss Sally, I will need your help in a moment. I hope you have strong arms.”

“Yes, sir.”

They walked within view of the town center.

The Sumners still ran the general store in Rushville. As the large posse of children approached it, a boy ran up to the front of the group and addressed Ben.

“That’s my father’s store,” he said. “Are we going in?”

“Your father is Ted Sumner?” he asked the boy.

“Yes. I’m Stuart.” The young boy was as well groomed as the Lefort girls, but mischievous looking, with white-blond hair sticking up in a cowlick above his forehead.

“I’ve known your family since I was a boy,” Ben said. He climbed one step to the store porch and paused to speak to the children. “Stay outside and behave yourselves like ladies and gentlemen, if you please. Stuart and Sally, come with me.”

In the musty dimness of the store, Ted Sumner perched on a stool behind the counter, scratching figures in a ledger. At the sound of customers, he looked up.

“Ben! What brings you here?” He saw the children come in behind Ben and understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah. How may I help you,
Mr. Hanby
?” He winked. Like his son, he was blond, but his hair had thinned at the temples.

“Good morning, Mr. Sumner,” Ben said with equal formality. “We need some whitewash and brushes. About five gallons, and—let’s see,” he said, taking out his wallet, “how much are the brushes?”

“One dollar each,” Ted replied. “And seventy-five cents a gallon for the whitewash.”

Ben disguised a wince. He only had ten dollars to last two weeks, until he received the first installment of his teaching wages. “Will you consider a discount for a good cause, Mr. Sumner?”

“Let me hazard a guess,” Ted said. “You’re whitewashing the schoolhouse?”

Ben nodded.

“Then I’ll let you have them at cost. Fifty cents per gallon and the same per brush.”

“Thank you.” He calculated rapidly in his head. “I’ll take six brushes with the whitewash.”

“That’ll be five-fifty. And thank you, Mr. Hanby, for taking on the task. That building is a disgrace.” He added, “I’d have done the job myself, but there was no point as long as your predecessor was here. As you can see for yourself, there wasn’t any order in the classroom. Plenty of thrashing, but no order.”

Ben paid for his purchases and divided the load between Sally and Stuart. He said his good-byes to Ted and ushered the children back out on the porch. In the street, the boys chased the girls. It took five minutes to restore order and get the children on the road.

But back at the schoolhouse, the children cooperated, excited about their unusual school day. He sent half of them home, with special instructions. They returned bearing a few decorative odds and ends they had wheedled from their parents: some old but decent green curtains, several samplers cross-stitched with Bible verses, and even an amateur landscape painting. In the meantime, the other children scrubbed the filth from the walls and tables with old rags and buckets full of water. What would not come clean was covered with whitewash by a group of little painters, who followed after the cleaners once the surfaces had dried.

Day was almost over by the time the work was finished. The children left, tired but thrilled by the results of their labor— a sparkling white building and classroom, still with a crooked front stoop and sagging door, but transformed in the rest of its appearance. Tomorrow, when the whitewash dried completely, they would tack the curtains neatly over the window and hang the painting proudly with the samplers. As the sun went down, Ben surveyed his building with satisfaction. Tomorrow, he could teach here. A pale reddish light glowed through the window, making the classroom seem homey despite the smell of whitewash. Ben looked out the window at the sun setting through the trees. What was Kate doing? The fall term was in progress at Otterbein. Was she studying?

He gathered his things and headed for his solitary cabin. The last time he saw Kate, on the street in Westerville, her face had gone blank and still. He couldn’t expect her to recover from such a public scene and treat him as if nothing had ever happened. But she had walked away as if he were a complete stranger. He couldn’t stand it. There must be something he could do to help her forgive him. Because if he couldn’t be near her, he certainly couldn’t expect . . . but he would think on it no further. It was bad enough as it was, without dwelling on the complicated mess of desires that lurked inside him.

He could apply one remedy immediately. When he walked into the cabin, he retrieved a pen, inkhorn, and paper from his small stock of supplies, and sat down to write Kate a letter.

Dear Miss Winter
, he wrote, then stopped.

How would he send it to her? Her mother would refuse to give it to her, after what had happened. Well, he would send it through Cornelia, as he had passed the message about Nelly.

Perhaps there was some hope. He began to set words on the page, writing the best apology he knew how to make.

Twenty-Seven

O
CTOBER

My dear Miss Winter
,

I am tardy in sending this letter only because my great respect for you convinced me that words were inadequate to express my regret for what happened at the musicale. But I find myself compelled to write to you nonetheless because your happiness is of great import to me. I cannot bear to think of you suffering due to the actions of a member of my family. If my sincere apology can help in any way, I offer it to you wholeheartedly. My admiration for your character increased during the time in which I was privileged to observe your compassion and courage. I hope you will one day find it in your heart to forgive, so we may resume the friendship that began through our mutual love of music.

Yours,
Ben Hanby

She could not expunge the words from her mind—she shouldn’t have read the letter more than once. In fact, she should not have read it at all. Now she was even more distracted than usual, even though she had hidden the letter back at her home.

“Miss Winter?” Frederick stood with hand uplifted to help her step down from his buggy. The Joneses’ footman stood in uniform at the bottom of the steps to the mansion. Leaves tumbled across the drive in the rising fall breeze.

She murmured an apology and took his hand to make her descent.

Frederick escorted her through the broad front doorway, making no attempt to hide his proud pleasure in doing so. The butler took Kate’s light cape and Frederick’s hat.

Mrs. Sapphia Jones waited in the parlor as if her greatest pleasure was to greet her son’s college friends. Of course, her presence as chaperone was necessary for the party of college students that would arrive soon. She took Kate’s hand and then seated herself in a delicate carved chair. Her silver skirt gleamed like mercury where the lamplight touched it. It pooled around her chair like the base of a statue, an effect enhanced by her blond, symmetrical countenance. “I am enjoying the cooler weather. And you, Miss Winter?” Her gentle voice reminded Kate of Ann Hanby, though it was like comparing a magnolia and a rose. Mrs. Jones was sweeter and more lavish compared to the simple sincerity of Mrs. Hanby.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Jones,” Kate replied.

“Frederick,” Mrs. Jones said. “I believe your father wishes to speak to you.”

A flicker of chagrin touched his eyes before he stood, the dutiful son. “Yes, Mother. And where is he?”

“In the study. Perhaps you will accompany us in that direction and I will show Miss Winter the library?” Again, the white, soft, perfumed voice. It would be the same in all settings, Kate thought, from parlor to church to funeral home. Perfectly pitched, unchangeable.