The Family Greene (15 page)

On Pa's hands General Wayne put the gloves that were a present of the Marquis de Lafayette.

And it was General Wayne, too, who told Emily to pack our clothes for a trip. And to lay out our best clothes, which we were to wear tomorrow, for tomorrow our father's body was to be set in a coffin and put on a boat at the plantation landing, and brought down the river to Savannah.

"For you all and your mother are to go along," he told us.

He told it all plain, but kind. And the children minded him. He told it all as would a general. He would not leave the matter to Phineas Miller.

P
A HAD ALWAYS
enjoyed the trip to Savannah. And this day the sun glistened on us and reflected off the water as he would have loved. But to me, the glistening sun had a luminous indifference. It promised nothing.

The men of the honor guard stood around the casket, muskets held firmly in their hands, as if someone would come and steal Pa's body away. The flag rippled obediently in the breeze.

Mama sat near the casket, frail-looking, her gloved hand on it. I stood apart, near the railing of the boat. George and Nat, Louisa, and Martha were at the other end of it, in the care of Mr. Miller.

In a short moment, I heard boots on the deck and there was General Wayne's arm around me. "You're needed, Cornelia, remember? You're supposed to give your mother comfort."

"I don't even have any for myself," I said.

"That's what being a grownup is all about. Giving what you don't have enough of for yourself. Go on now, go to your mother. And don't let me see you away from her again today."

I went to Mama.
Why me?
I thought.
Why not Mar
tha? She's the oldest.
But I knew why. Martha was about as good at giving comfort as a skunk in daylight. And Wayne knew it, too.

When we finally arrived at the dock in Savannah's harbor, we saw that all the vessels at anchor had lowered their colors to half-mast.

My brothers and sisters and Phineas Miller had come to crowd around me now.

"For Pa," George said of the flags at half-mast.

"Why?" asked Martha, who had never understood Pa's role in the Revolution. Or even tried to.

"Because he was next in command to General Washington," I told her. "If anything had happened to Washington, Pa would have been commander in chief. General Washington wanted it that way."

That gave her a turn, all right. So did the fact that there was no business in town open that day.

There was a whole crowd of people in front of the Pendletons' house, and they parted to let us through. I held Mama's hand, and as we passed, many of the men saluted. The men carrying Pa's casket went ahead of us. Up by the entrance to the house, a military guard of honor stood at attention.

The casket was set down in the parlor to lie in state until five that afternoon.

We, Pa's family, sat down next to the casket while Mama received the visitors. Within half an hour, she fainted and George took her place, shaking hands with people who came to pay their respects.

General Wayne carried Mama to a bedroom upstairs, then came down to help George welcome the people, who seemed to never stop coming.

About five thirty, the funeral procession moved slowly through the streets of Savannah to take Pa to the Old Colonial Cemetery that belonged to Christ Church. A band played, and from somewhere on a bluff, soldiers fired their guns.

There was a simple service in the church. I glanced at Mama and thought she might not have the mettle to make it through. I heard little Louisa whimpering, saw her passed from our nurse, Emily, to George, then I reached out my arms and she was passed to me and I held her in my lap.

She nestled close to me, sucking her thumb.
Poor child,
I thought.
She doesn't even know what is going on.

Thank heaven, the service was over soon, for it had nothing to do with Pa. Pa was gone, lost to us forever. Where? Into some indifferent density? Or was there really a heaven, a God waiting for him? I shuddered at my blasphemous thoughts and hugged little Louisa's warm body.

They locked Pa's casket in a vault for future burial, and we went back to the Pendleton estate for the night.

***

G
ENERAL WAYNE
stayed for another week after we got home. He seemed loath to leave Mama, for she was lost in the house, not knowing which way to turn.

We were all lost. The house was an echoing memory of Pa. Phineas Miller attempted to take his place with us, but he failed miserably, so he went about his business of managing the plantation.

In the first day or so, Mama had her hands full with the children.

George did nothing but tramp the fields, like he used to do with Pa. And Mama was terrified with him out there in the noonday sun. Finally, General Wayne had to go out and fetch him in sternly from its noontime rays, for the sake of his mother.

Louisa continually sucked her thumb now, instead of just when she was tired. And because she'd been told Pa was up in heaven, she wanted to stay out on the back veranda where she could "see heaven" and where she would point her little finger up to the sky and say, "Papa."

Nat went missing all the time. General Wayne soon discovered his hiding place. It was under Pa's desk, in Pa's study. He would huddle there, wanting to be left alone.

"Let the children act out their mourning as they will," I heard him advise Mama, "so long as they don't hurt themselves, or anyone else. Don't be so severe with them, Caty. Relax the rules a bit."

Martha, as far as anyone could see, was not acting out her mourning at all. As for myself, I found Pa in every corner of the house. In his jackets that hung in the hallway, his hats on the pegs, his boots that stood ready near the mats by the back door, his gray gelding, the pipes and ledgers on his desk.

These things all held bits of his life in them. They all sat waiting for him to return and pick them up.

And his horse, Tommy, was restless in the stable. What of Tommy? I went to the stable to pat him, talk to him, give him some sugar.

"Don't try to buy him off. He knows." George came to the stall, dressed for riding. "General Wayne says I'm to care for him, ride him. And Mama says if I do well, he's mine."

George had always been a good horseman. With Pa for a father, how could he be anything else?

The groom saddled Tommy, and George mounted him. I watched them argue it out for a few minutes. The horse was accustomed to no one but Pa, and he was persnickety. But George had good hands with the reins, and he leaned over Tommy's neck, spoke into his ear, and the horse settled down. Soon they were as one, galloping off. And I knew that Tommy belonged to George now.

That very afternoon, when we were in the flower garden having an afternoon tea, Martha showed me where her true feelings were. She started in on me.

Phineas Miller was playing a game of chess with Nat. George was languishing in a nearby chair. Louisa was upstairs napping. General Wayne and Mama were sitting near the rosebushes. She was telling him that she wanted to take us children and travel to Newport, Rhode Island, this summer, where she planned to meet with the executors of Pa's estate.

Right in front of everyone, General Wayne took both of Mama's hands in his own and said, "Please, Caty, don't go. My spirits break when you aren't here."

Mama said nothing.

Martha caught my eye, smirked, and, taking my arm, pulled me out of earshot of the others. "Why were you allowed to stay when the rest of us were sent to the Elbridges'?" she demanded.

"To be with Mama," I said. "General Wayne said she needed me."

More smirking. "So you see, then? How what I said means something? And look at him now, begging her not to go. And did you know that he's given Eulinda money so she can leave here immediately if she wants to? Why do you think he did that? So she'll stop talking about it."

"You lie!"

"Ask him, why don't you."

There was nothing for it. Somebody had to slap her. I drew my arm back all the way to Savannah and did so, on the spot.

All blue hell broke loose then. Martha screamed. Mama came running, to find her holding the side of her face, tears streaming down. General Wayne, right behind Mama, saw the whole affair for what it was, observed me standing in front of my sister, dug into the brick walk like a stubborn weed. He glowered at me.

Martha ran to Mama, bawling like a stuck pig.

"What have you done?" General Wayne demanded of me.

I scowled up at him. Then I started to run, right around him, past him, but he grabbed my arm and held me.

"Tell your sister you're sorry."

"It would be a lie."

"Then lie."

"Pa hated lying. And liars."

He grabbed my arm and dragged me along the brick walk into a side door that led into the sunroom. Then he drew back his hand and slapped my face.

"How do you like it?"

It scarce hurt. He did not hit hard. But he was counting on the shock of it paining me. He knew that such treatment would injure not my face but my heart.

"I don't," I said.

He nodded, satisfied, as tears came down my face. And I knew two things right off. That he was sorry that he had done it. And that he would never let me know he was sorry.

"Why did you hit your sister?" he demanded.

"She was making sport of you, of what you said to Mama, about how your spirit would break into pieces if she wasn't here. She thought it was funny."

"It is funny," he said. "I laugh myself to sleep every night over it."

He brushed some hair away from my face and touched my jaw where he'd slapped me. "You see? You wouldn't want me for a father. I'd be too strict."

I just looked down at my shoes. "Can I ask you something, sir?"

"Always."

"Did you give Eulinda money? So she could leave?"

He scowled. "Martha told you that, too, eh?"

I nodded yes.

"Yes, I did. She's trouble, that woman. And your mother agreed. So she'll soon be away from here. Tomorrow, I assume. Yes, she leaves tomorrow."

There was silence between us. We both wanted—no, needed—to say something more, but neither of us had the courage.

"Now behave yourself," he told me severely, "and don't make me have to punish you again." Then he went outside to the others.

W
HEN PA
and Mama first came to Mulberry Grove, one of Pa's "extravaganzas," as he used to refer to it, was the carriage he'd had made. Oh, it was not a fancy affair, not gilt and cherrywood, like some people hereabouts have, and you could not rightly call it a brougham, for the driver's seat was not on the outside. But Pa had an extra-large extension built on the back, a place where baggage could be stored, or quilts and other extras, because Mama always had to bring so much along when we traveled. And it had air ducts, because Mama often brought along food and she did not want it to go bad.

"You could fit a person in there," Pa had once teased her.

His words rang in my head the next morning as I watched Priam, the man who drove for us, put Eulinda's possessions into the front of the carriage, then go to secure the harnesses of the two horses it took to pull it.

I never knew Eulinda had so many possessions.

He was taking her to the docks at Savannah, where she was boarding a ship to go north.

The rest of the house was not yet up. It was not yet six o'clock. But I had planned to go on this trip with Eulinda, to sneak myself into that baggage compartment behind the carriage. For I knew she would not want me with her, knew Priam would not take me without permission, and knew Mama would never allow it.

But it was my last chance to get the information I needed from Eulinda, whom I knew I would never see again. And I calculated that she would be in a good humor, finally going home, and would tell me what I wanted to know. Then, on the dock at Savannah, I would present myself to Priam and he would have to take me home.

I was all ready, even to the buns and cookies I had wrapped in a napkin to take along with me in case I got hungry. Only two things might have hindered me this morning: If Priam had put Eulinda's possessions in that baggage compartment. And if General Wayne had come to see her off.

Neither had occurred, thank heavens. So I tiptoed downstairs, stood waiting as quietly as I could in the deserted hall by the front door, and then, at the last minute, when Priam closed the door of the carriage on Eulinda and stepped inside himself, I ran outside, opened the latch of the baggage compartment, and got inside.

***

I
T WAS A
fourteen-mile trip to Savannah, and I got bumped around considerably. But God and the angels must have been with me, because somebody had left an old quilt in the compartment. It smelled of cinnamon and apples, which was not unpleasant in the least, and as best as I could manage, I bundled it up and put it under my head.

Soon enough, bumping and all, I fell asleep and did not wake until I heard someone yelling, "Here, here, fresh oysters, get your fresh oysters, caught just this mornin'!"

I jumped up, hit my head on the top of the compartment, then remembered where I was.

In Savannah! At the docks! I must get out, now! Before Eulinda boards her ship!

Easily enough I opened the door and slipped out, blinking my eyes in the bright sun of midday, adjusting them to the panaroma about me.

First thing I saw was a lady with a dancing monkey and people gathered around her, dropping coins into a bucket. Then the man who had been shouting about his oysters. Another man was selling hot pretzels. All about me there was color to dazzle my vision, in one direction and in the other. On the waterfront huge vessels at anchor, so many vessels, some being unloaded, some being loaded, flags flapping, sailors running about, passengers going aboard, ladies in frocks of all the colors of the rainbow, gentlemen wearing fashions, some of which I had never seen before. Negroes following after them with baggage.

I scanned the area for Eulinda and finally set my eyes upon her.
There.
There at the stall where a man was selling cold lemonade. She stood, sipping some.