East of Orleans (14 page)

Isabella stood in front of Jesse for a moment. “You can go with me if you want. Just don’t talk to me all the time and leave that harmonica here.”

Jesse raised his eyes and looked steadily into hers. He shook his head and said in a low tone, “That woman is bound to drive me crazy.”

Isabella and Jesse traveled on the Georgia Railroad for almost a day before reaching
Savannah
. Lettie McGillivrary sent a runabout carriage pulled by a span of regal palomino horses to pick up Isabella and Jesse at the train station. The horses’ long silky blond manes blew rhythmically in the breeze as they trotted down cobblestone streets.

Jesse talked while Isabella’s eyes connected to every sight that she passed. Clusters of Negro women with nappy hair that curled tight under wrapped turbans, wearing faded cotton dresses, with children of all sizes hanging off them, sucking at their breast, strapped on their backs; all wearing them down one way or another. The older women sat weaving and carrying baskets to the market for sale.

Negro men with sad faces gathered on street corners. They stood by carriage posts in tattered clothes patched with mismatched fabric. Digging their hands deep into their pants pockets, they engaged in conversation while they sold tobacco, talked and shook their heads about how bad things had been since the war. All seemed to be lost, staring into the distance, wondering what their future would be. Certainly not the future they had hoped for. All the Negroes here seemed to be displaced. Some hoped that they could return to the security of the plantation and the families that they had known all their lives, but in many cases, those families and plantations no longer existed. So, they stood bewildered in the streets, fending for themselves without any means or education to do so. More often than not, their children were starving and living out of old slave quarters and shacks in the marshes or woods. It was a haunting reminder of what had taken place years before.

Savannah
streets and houses mesmerized Isabella as she turned her head and glanced back at the rows of shanty shacks sprinkled on the edge of town. The shacks were a bleak contrast to the painted ladies that lined
Savannah
’s most desired streets. Isabella could never imagine living in such a fine house.

“Granny said that Miz Lettie drank a lot,” Jesse said, as he looked at the clothes Granny had given him. They had belonged to Isabella’s daddy. Jesse had on a nut-brown shirt, and duckling overalls with his pants tucked down in his boots.

“Why you suppose she drinks?” Isabella’s eyes went to Jesse.

“Granny say that Miz Lettie got more troubles with that man of hers than she can shake a stick at.” Without waiting for her to answer he continued, “She said the government told Mister Red that they were ‘bout to lock his place up. Granny said that Mister Red ain’t no better than po’ white or scalawag trash.”

Isabella shook her head. “You know how Granny and Mama like to talk.”

Jesse glanced at Isabella. He took his hat off and sat up straight as they rode down
Orleans Square
. He pointed with his finger. “That’s the Robert Habersham House, that there’s the Archibald Bulloch House, and over there is the Champion McAlpin place.” Soon Jesse pointed out the Richard Richardson House at
Oglethorpe Square
. “That over there is Mister Willie Low’s place. His wife is a fine woman. I know a fellow that works there. When I stayed here and worked on the railroad, he told me about General Sherman staying at Mister Charles Green’s house on
Madison Square
. That fellow say that in December of ’64, old
Sherman
telegraphed President Lincoln and offered him
Savannah
as a Christmas present.” Isabella glanced at Jesse and then turned to watch the trolley cars on
Whitaker Street
in
Forsyth
Park
. She saw graceful, chatty ladies dressed in fine delicate white lawn dresses and large feathered hats, pushing their young in wicker carts. Isabella stared at babies wearing bountiful ribboned bonnets adorned with silk streamers that blew in the wind.

The city seduced her.
Bull Street
, that faced
Monterrey Square
captured her heart.

Jesse raised his feet and looked at his new shoes. “Granny said that Mister Red had the French pox,” he said to Isabella.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “They talk about Mae Patterson and such as that. You can’t listen to all that Mama and Granny talk about. Besides, what’s the French pox?”

“I thought everybody know what that is,” Jesse said. “The French pox is syphilis, shure nuff is. Ain’t no other way for me to tell you. Granny sad Mister Red got sick and Miz Lettie sent him over to see the doctor. The doctor gave Mister Red a needle and some tonic and he’s doing better now.” Isabella held a steady gaze on Jesse. “He get rid of it?”

“I reckon he did.” Jesse raised his brows and looked downward.

Riverstreet was crowded. Shopkeepers could be seen hanging out of their aqua painted doors calling for patrons to purchase their wares. A young paperboy cried out “Mornin’ News! Mornin’ News!” Hawkers’ early morning cries of, “Milk, fresh milk!” echoed through the streets. Ladies were scarce until noon. A herd of round-bellied gentlemen, with cigars clenched tight either in their hands or between their teeth, glanced at penniless Negroes and delicate southern ladies. The gentlemen pulled gold pocket watches from their trouser pockets, timing incoming container goods. They gave long side-glances to carpetbaggers and Yankee types. With a scowl on their faces, they would pull a cigar from their pocket, bite off the end, and spit it on the ground.

Cotton was thriving and many a plantation owner could be seen shaking hands, securing one gentleman’s deal after another.

The McGillivrary saloon was dark and musty. The floors shined with a high gloss. All heads turned when Isabella and Jesse walked through the door. They pushed their way past one crowded pub table after another. Isabella looked up at the tin embossed ceiling where three gas brass chandeliers with round milky etched globes were hanging. Merchants and seamen fumbled with coins and stockpiled earnings. The rooms rumbled and roared with laughter, poker tables were busy. Isabella noticed a plump middle-aged barmaid romp around the tables. The curved mahogany bar was at the end of the saloon. It housed a tall slender barkeep being held up by black suspenders. His hair was thin and brown with mutton-shaped sideburns, and he had stooped shoulders and a large nose. The barkeep balanced his pouring with one hand while observing the bar. His eyes stopped at Isabella and Jesse. He stared briefly, glanced at a pile of winnings being pulled from a table, and then continued his pouring.

Isabella jumped to a loud noise. One of the poker players had been shot. Smoke and loud noise filled the room. The piano player stopped for a moment while the wounded player was dragged from the room. The piano player went back to playing a lively tune as the bartender continued to fill the glasses.

Isabella felt sick from the smell of gunpowder, seamen and whiskey. She was hot and her clothes clung to her and dripped of sweat. The room was spinning and she fell to the ground.

“Miz Isabella, you okay?” She heard Jesse say as two seamen helped her up. Isabella took a step backward.

“For lands sake, I’m standing here, aren’t I, Jesse?” The middle-aged barmaid slid over to her. Her snug dress barely covered her full bosom. She fished in her apron pocket for a damp rag. Cynical blue eyes narrowed and she turned to Jesse. “Take her bags upstairs.” She tilted her head back and smiled at Isabella. “I bet you’re Lettie’s cousin Isabella McCoy. I have your room ready. Let’s go upstairs.” Jesse lead the way, as the three of them walked up a narrow staircase. The barmaid removed a brass key from the low-cut bodice of her dress. She placed it in the key-hole and opened the door.

The small room was painted the same strange aqua blue as most of the shutters and doors in town. In the corner of the room sat an empire chest with a mirror on top that swung whenever you touched it. The bed was short and curved at both ends; it was a sleigh bed. A single white crocheted spread lay on top of the bed. One window was in the room with shutters that opened and closed. Next to the bed was a sewing table with a short round painted floral oil lamp on top; the sewing table sat on an oval hook rug.

“I have to change for the afternoon crowd, but I’ll spend a minute with you. So, you’re Isabella McCoy. You sure don’t weigh much, but you are prettier than I had imagined.” The aged barmaid offered Isabella her hand. “My name is Nell.” Jesse had followed them into the room. He sat their bags down in the corner. Nell’s eyes shifted to Jesse. “If you need work, go downstairs and talk to Charlie. He’s the tall bartender that you saw when you came in. Red will make the final decision, but Charlie can put you to work until Red comes in.” Nell’s eyes shifted to Isabella. “Try and rest until suppertime, then I’ll take you down and let you meet the boys. Afterwards, I’ll show you Riverstreet and introduce you to the good and the bad.” Nell chuckled. “There ain’t much bad and what there is usually stays around here. Would you like some toast and orange marmalade or how ‘bout some hot tea?”

Isabella studied Nell. A crown of loose red curls framed her tired round face. Her eyes were a bright blue. Nell lifted the crocheted spread over the bed, folded it and lay it at the foot of the bed. “If you need another blanket, let me know. I doubt that you will unless a storm moves in across the water.” Nell put her hand inside her dress, adjusted her bosom, then pulled her dress up on her shoulders.

“It’s fine,” said Isabella, running an impatient hand through her hair as she looked over at Jesse. Jesse shoved his hands deep into his trousers. Nell opened the door and left. Isabella sat down on the bed and removed her shoes. She rubbed her red and swollen feet. Jesse turned and started to open the door.

“Where you going?” asked Isabella.

“Downstairs.”

“For what?”

“To see if Mister Red got any work I can do.”

“I want to walk down with you.”

“There ain’t no point in that. You just stay here and get some rest. You better eat that toast Miss Nell offered you. You are ‘bout as poor as a half-starved calf.” Jesse turned away, picked up his bag and stopped. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a little while.”

Isabella fell back on the bed and curled up in a ball. Cool air from the
Savannah River
blew through the partially opened shutters. She thought about her mama, granny, and then images of Tom ran through her head. Isabella struggled to hold back tears, but couldn’t; she cried herself to sleep. She wanted to go home.