Authors: James A. Michener
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Family Saga, #Sagas, #Historical, #Action & Adventure, #General, #Romance, #Eastern Shore (Md. And Va.), #Historical Fiction, #Fiction, #Chesapeake Bay Region (Md. And Va.)
He then went on to cite his expenses—about $122 a year per slave, for he fed and clothed better than average—the loss through accidents and many other factors. In the end he proved that by the most careful husbandry, which included giving his slaves at least as much attention as he gave his hogs, it was possible to utilize them more profitably than hired labor. He refuted each of Hinton Helper’s main arguments, and added a clincher:
I would concede to Mr. Helper that if a plantation owner were going to be lazy, or indifferent, or cruel to his slaves, or inattentive to every small and irritating item of management, he might do better hiring his help rather than owning it. But the true southern gentleman accepts not only the possibility of making a just profit but also the obligation to create on his plantation a harmonious style of life, in which each man and woman has duties to perform and rewards to enjoy. He likes to have his slaves living near him, to observe their families growing and to share in their recreations. He takes pride in the fact that they take pride in whom they work for; often he hears his slaves boast to Negroes from other plantations, ‘This is the best place to work.’ I direct my plantation to seek that approval, and I produce a good profit for everyone while doing so.
Without reservation, I would throw open the Steed plantations for comparison with the labor-mills at the north. My slaves live freely in the open air, eat good food, are warm in winter, and are cared for by my doctors. In every respect their lot is superior to that of the so-called free labor at the north, which rises before daylight, works in horrible conditions, and goes home after sunset to a foul bed. When unprejudiced men compare the two systems, they must conclude that ours is better.
By May of 1860 the United States was in such confusion that European nations began to speculate on when a war would start and which side
they ought to back. Both London and Paris received ominous reports from their envoys, the French ambassador having written:
The presidential election this autumn cannot escape chaos. There may be as many as five contending parties, for the Democrats are in pitiful disarray and will not be able to agree on any one man. Expect them to present two candidates, one North, one South and to lose the election thereby. The Whigs have become the Constitutional Unionists and have no possibility of winning. But the Republicans are also split and may also have to offer two candidates, so that 1860 may well go down in history as the year in which nobody won.
Because of a constellation of contradictory reasons, most European nations sided with the South and actively hoped it would win. England perceived the northern states as being the real inheritors of the original colonies, and any animosities held over from 1776 and 1812 were vented on them. Also, British industrialists relied heavily on southern cotton, and goaded their government into openly supporting these states. Austria backed the South because it was viewed as being the home of gentlemen and fine horses. And France was strongly pro-southern because this region was civilized, whereas the North was not. Russia and Germany vaguely wanted to teach the upstart nation a lesson.
When Europe decided that war was inevitable, it became necessary to form some estimate of the South’s chances of winning, and in late May the French government dispatched one of its lesser naval vessels on a casual tour of seven southern ports, chosen rather skillfully to reveal a wide scattering of opinion. Remembering the amiable relations France had once enjoyed with the Steed family, whose sons had attended St. Omer’s, officers directed the little ship to end its voyage at the port of Patamoke, where the local gentry were to be entertained and queried.
The ship was the
Ariel,
captured from the slaving fleet in 1832 and refashioned into a corvette of eight guns. She was an old ship now, but her timbers were so solid and her keel so unblemished that ambitious men liked to serve aboard her, and her captains, usually younger men, often found quick promotion. Her present commander, Captain de Villiers, did not know the Chesapeake, but his great-uncle had served under De Grasse; the name kept recurring in family records.
His arrival at Patamoke was not announced. Paul Steed was pushing his wife’s chair on a promenade through the north garden when the
Ariel
passed up Devon channel, and although both the Steeds had once been involved with this ship, they did not recognize her as she passed. The French Ministry of Marine had raised her bulwarks to accommodate the guns and had replaced the old hermaphrodite rigging with full brig dress.
But when the vessel approached Peace Cliff, old George Paxmore, who had built her, studied her with his glass, as he did all ships of size coming upriver, and cried to his son, ‘Bartley, I do believe it’s the
Ariel.
Look what they’ve done to her!’ Bartley joined his father on the porch as the elegant ship sailed past; he had not been born when she was launched in 1814, but family conversation had acquainted him with her history, and he could now appreciate the compact design and the flow of wood and sail which had made the ship memorable.
It was not until the
Ariel
had berthed that she created her real impact, for her name proclaimed her saga, and citizens from all parts of town streamed down to see this legendary vessel. A score of Turlocks came; their family had once owned the
Ariel.
And young men whose fathers had worked upon her came down to study her lines. As they watched, a very old man, crotchety and pushing people aside, moved to the edge of the wharf.
It was Lafe Turlock, seventy-seven years old and long retired from chasing runaways. He had sold his dogs and given his tracking boots to his grandson, but when he saw the
Ariel
his eyes beamed. ‘She was my cousin’s ship. Finest sea captain this river ever produced. Killed by niggers I won’t name.’
Through the long afternoon and into the evening the townspeople gaped at the beautiful little ship, recalling her escapades. They watched admiringly as young Captain de Villiers came ashore to pay his respects and dispatch a boat to convey his greetings to the Steeds. He sought the Paxmores, too, but the young men who ran the boatyard warned him, ‘Steeds and Paxmores do not meet at social affairs,’ and since this was precisely the kind of subtlety that Captain de Villiers wanted to investigate, he said graciously, ‘Oh, I intended inviting your distinguished uncle to the ship, not to Devon.’
‘He would be delighted to come,’ the young man said.
‘And you. And your wives.’
So it was agreed. On the first evening the ship’s officers would be taken to Devon for a gala party with the leading planters. On the second evening the Paxmores and their friends would be entertained aboard the ship that old George had built. And on the final evening the Steeds and a few choice friends of similar persuasion would attend a farewell party aboard ship. By that time Captain de Villiers would have a sense of loyalties along the Choptank.
During each afternoon the ship was opened to the general public, and a host of Turlocks trooped over the deck that their cousin Matt had once ruled. They relived his exploits and listened, jaws agape, as Lafe pointed out where the gallant redhead had fallen—‘The niggers was so dumb they didn’t even cut off his silver fist.’
There was one family that did not board the ship. Cudjo Cater and
his children stayed onshore, for as Eden explained, ‘They sure ain’t gonna want to see us on that ship.’ Cudjo took his sons to a point along the shore from which they could see the spars, and as they stood there he told them of his adventures.
‘You was tied down?’ they asked.
‘Chained an’ bolted,’ Cudjo said.
‘You mean the roof only this high?’
‘Lower. Put your hand lower.’
‘Nobody cain’t live that low.’
‘We did,’ Cudjo said.
‘An’ then you come up stairs.’
‘On deck. Rutak, he lead the way. Don’t never forget his name. Bravest man I ever knowed. You here on earth because of Rutak.’
The boys saw the people of Patamoke streaming aboard, and said wistfully, ‘Wish we could go.’
‘No way you go aboard that ship,’ Cudjo said, and he took the boys to Eden. ‘I want them in the house,’ he said. ‘Ever’body just keep quiet ain’t nothin’ gonna happen.’
The gala at Devon was one that the families would talk about for years. The French officers were resplendent in their gold uniforms and glistening swords; Paul and Susan were fastidious as hosts, conversing with the visitors in French, then translating for their Choptank guests. Susan was so exhilarated that she dispensed entirely with her wheelchair, walking proudly to her place at the head of the table, assisted only by her husband’s arm. Old Tiberius, past eighty now, officiated with an elegance that few French major-domos could have equaled, and extravagant toasts were proposed to the grandeur of France.
‘Maryland is of the South?’ Captain de Villiers inquired.
‘All who matter.’
‘And if—well, if trouble comes?’
‘Every man in this room … Ask my son Mark. He runs the plantations now.’
Mark Steed was forty-three, as handsome in his subdued way as the attractive captain was in his. ‘We’d follow the lead of South Carolina, all of us.’
When the others nodded, De Villiers pointed out, ‘Yes, but you’re men of substance. What of the general populace?’
Paul Steed, with his traditional capacity to ignore the middle majority—those stubborn Methodists who had warned that they would abide with the Union—promised the captain, ‘In all Patamoke, ninety-five percent would rush to fight with the South—for freedom.’
The talk was good, and one course followed another, passed on silver trays by slaves wearing white gloves. At one point Captain de Villiers asked, ‘If I were obligated to advise my uncle in the Ministry, how could I explain the superior strength of the South?’
‘The gallantry of its men,’ Paul Steed replied. ‘You are dining with gentlemen, Captain, and these men abide by their word. If they go to war against the North, it will be to the death.’
The captain raised his glass for the final toast: ‘To the gentlemen of the South!’
His dinner with the Paxmores was less congenial. Once old George had explained how the ship had been built, and had taken the officers into the hold to show them the devices he had used to avoid cutting into the keel, there were no light topics to discuss. Captain de Villiers had the distinct impression that Quakers, whom he had never encountered before, paid little attention to light topics. Indeed, the evening dragged, until he cleared his throat and asked, ‘If things deteriorate … I mean, if war comes—’
Rachel Starbuck Paxmore, now a prim and lovely woman in her forties, interrupted, ‘We would support the North, unflinchingly.’
‘But the generality?’
‘I believe that more than half would join us. The good Methodists love our Union.’
‘At Devon, I was told otherwise.’
‘At Devon, dreams prevail. Do not be misled by dreams.’
‘But the business leaders, even those without slaves, they agreed.’
‘That’s why a war would be so terrible. Dreams fighting against reality.’
‘If war should break out, could the North force the South to remain in the Union?’
‘We pray it will not come to that,’ Bartley said.
‘And so do we all,’ De Villiers responded. He was relieved when the evening ended, but as the determined Paxmores walked to the gangway, and he saw the trimness with which they carried their austere bodies, he felt that he might have had good conversation with these people if he had chanced to strike the proper notes: But with men who don’t drink and women who don’t flirt, what can one do?
At the railing he asked, ‘You’ll be back tomorrow?’ and Rachel replied, ‘No, but it was gracious of thee to ask.’
The third night posed a difficult problem for the Steeds. It was one thing for them to invite the French officers to Devon for festivities; it was quite another to sail into Patamoke and publicly board the vessel which had once been so intricately intertwined with their lives. Susan’s notorious love affair had culminated there; from the decks of the
Ariel,
Paul had been tossed into the harbor with most of the populace of Patamoke looking on.
With the delicacy that had governed their lives since the accident on the widow’s walk, Paul refrained from raising the question as to whether it would be proper to attend the final dinner, but Susan felt no such restraint. ‘Paul, I’d love to see that ship again.’
‘Would it be proper?’
‘Paul!’ Placing her hand gently on his arm, she laughed. ‘We’ve been highly proper these last thirty-seven years and I doubt if there’s a person in Patamoke … No,’ she said defiantly, ‘I don’t give a damn if everyone in Patamoke remembers us and the
Ariel!
I want to see that ship.’
So toward noon of the last day they packed their finest clothes in valises and boarded the Steed sloop, and yard by yard as the little boat moved down the creek and into the river, Paul could see his wife’s animation increasing. She was like a schoolgirl slipping away to her first assignation. ‘Paul! I’m sure it’s right for us to be going. It was a ship that meant much to us, and I’m an old woman now and I desire to tie down the past.’
She was a finely tuned person, Paul thought, resilient, lively, a cherished companion. Their passage up the river was an epithalamium, a restatement of the abiding love that had marked the later years of their lives, and when the
Ariel
became visible, each was able to view what had happened on it as an incident, important but by no means overwhelming.
The state dinner did not begin well. The wind died and mosquitoes attacked ferociously, but Captain de Villiers had come prepared. As soon as the planter guests were aboard, he ordered the crew to hoist anchor and move the
Ariel
out into the middle of the river, where the number of insects dropped sharply. Then he announced, ‘Good news, ladies. Our French chemists have perfected a miracle. They call it
essence de citronelle.
You will love the smell of its oranges and lemons, but the mosquitoes won’t.’ And he directed his staff to spray the area where the guests would sit, and the evening became a gallant affair, the last of its kind these planters would know for many years. The ladies were beautiful, and behaved as if their slaves would be tending them forever; the men spoke well of their adversaries at the North and told De Villiers, ‘We must all pray that common sense prevails.’ And the moon shone on the Choptank in full-rimmed splendor.