Jacob's Ladder (14 page)

“Two bits is the highest I'll go. I don't got to give you nothin'.”

She was looking at her feet again. “Master,” she said softly, “I got me a husband.”

“You jumped the broomstick with some buck. That don't make him your rightful husband.”

“It wasn't him I was thinking of. Please, Master.”

“You mean you got two sweethearts? Well then, Missy, you're about to get you a third one. And this one might do you some good. Might be I could tell Uncle Silas to sell you as a house servant. Might be you could keep your baby.”

A clattering sound outside, a scrape against the windowsill.

“Well then,” he said, taking a step to her. “Well then.”

Out of her clothes she was pretty enough, but she didn't hold herself like she was pretty and didn't lie like she was pretty either. She was dry, and she kept her eyes closed until Ellam told her to open them and then she fixed them somewhere overhead. When he was done, still kneeling between her legs, he had an uneasy feeling, and goddamned if that fool wasn't peering at him through the window, where he'd piled boxes on top of an old whiskey barrel so he could see everything. The fool was grinning to bust.

Next morning Ellam woke with a powerful erection and it seemed his member was longer than it had been before. Maybe doing it stretched your member. He hadn't heard about that, not even from the Summerfield boys, who had girls in the Quarters and used to describe everything they did and how it was when they did it. Uncle Silas was already up. The sun poured through the windows and scrubbed the room. Ellam yawned enormously. The sun said it was half past six. Uncle Silas would be out feeding the niggers. He always fed the niggers before he ate himself. When Ellam sat up he could smell her on him, kind of a fishy smell. He wondered how long that'd last.

He clumped down the narrow stairs into the ordinary, where a long table was set with tin plates and coffee mugs. Platters—already considerably picked at—held ham and bacon. Another platter had a half-eaten chicken. Cornbread still in the pan, jugs of water and coffee. Most of the plates were dirty. Drovers were always in a hurry to get on the road.

He'd loaded his platter before his Uncle Silas came in, so skinny that from a distance you'd swear he was just a boy. His hair was combed straight back off his head and fastened behind in an old-fashioned queue. The spectacles he'd taken to wearing jutted out of his vest pocket.

Ellam was lifting a forkful of ham to his mouth when Uncle Silas smiled at him, laid his hand on the back of Ellam's chair, and upended it. One second Ellam was at table, next second he was flat on his back with an aching head where he'd knocked it against the wall and Uncle Silas had dumped his plate on him, ham, cornbread, and all.

Ellam was so confused, he thought, “I can't eat that now.”

Deliberately Uncle Silas lifted up the pitcher of coffee, dunked his finger in it, testing for heat, and finding it tepid enough for his purposes, poured it over his nephew's head.

“What the hell, what the hell!” Ellam sputtered.

Uncle Silas's smile returned. Things had been pleasanter without it. “You look like a fool, boy. Hell, you are a fool. Have more breakfast.” He dumped the cornbread on his nephew.

“Now wait a damned minute, Uncle Silas. What's gone wrong with you?” Ellam scuttled into a corner as the smaller man stalked him.

Silas said, “Have I got your attention?” His voice was so mild. “That was your father's trouble. My brother, my wellborn, legitimate brother, ran good businesses into the ground. And it wasn't for lack of sensible men, including myself, warning him to watch his step, that people weren't as witless as he thought they were; they expected value for what they bought and a fair price for what they sold. You'd think that wouldn't be beyond a grown man's powers of comprehension. But, by God, your father sold shoddy and paid late in Virginia and he did no better in Tennessee and God knows what he's doing out in Missouri, because I surely do not. My poor bankrupt brother never could pay attention. Oh, he was kind enough, kind to his servants, kind to his wife, the only Omohundru who ever claimed kinship to me. My legitimate brother's creditors never thought he would cheat them until he did. I cannot count the times I sat down to explain matters and your father'd smile and say, ‘Yes, Silas,' and in that moment perhaps he did understand. In the next instant, sir, the cloud would lift from the sun or a pretty girl would walk by and he'd forget every word I ever told him. I trust you will show more improvement.”

“Yes, sir, Uncle Silas.”

“Now, pay attention.” Ellam cautiously dropped his hands from his face. A servant wench came in and knelt to clean up the mess. “I am a slave speculator. Do you know what it is I do?”

“Yes, Uncle Silas.”

“The hell you do!”

Ellam clapped his hands over his face and peeked through his fingers.

“I ride the backroads of Virginia and North Carolina and I let it be known that I'm seeking prime negroes, and I wait. I wait until word gets around that I'm in the neighborhood in a buying frame of mind and I wait until somebody's banker says no, no, he can't lend any more money on the mortgage. Or the new heir, who is feeling his oats on account of he hasn't distinguished between what he has earned himself and what someone else has given him, that heir gets to playing cards with fellows who are older than he is and have seen his like before. After dark, comes the knock on my door and there's this young gentleman who I never saw before and might not see again, and Christ, he's got to have a thousand dollars then and there, because he's got to get back to the game, and he points to his carriage and he says, ‘You see my coachman?' ”

Uncle Silas spoke to the servant wench. “Bring more hot coffee. My clumsy nephew has spilled it.

“Now, it would be easy to inspect this prime negro and offer half what he's worth, and you know that heir would curse me, take the money, and get back to his game. You'd take that advantage, wouldn't you, boy?”

“No sir, Uncle Silas.”

“Yes, you would. Yes, you would. Your father he would have too. Your father would have bragged on it. And the young fellow he beat, when he wakes up in the morning and is grabbing his head, which is fat as a slaughter hog, you think that young fellow's going to say, ‘I brought that on myself,' or ‘I would have lost that money anyway'? No. He will cry out to any man who will listen, ‘Silas Omohundru has cheated me.' Because, boy, it is a sight easier for a man to admit to being robbed than admit to being a fool. And when I come back into that neighborhood next year to buy, well, what do I find?
What do I find, boy?”

“Nobody'll sell to you?”

The servant set one jug of coffee close to Uncle Silas, and he thanked her and said no doubt she'd wait to clean the table because they weren't quite finished with their business.

“What's a negro wench, boy?”

“Sir?”

“We got eight wenches, fourteen bucks, two infants. What are they all?”

“They's what we buy and sell?”

Uncle Silas sighed and poured himself a cup of black coffee, and Ellam kept his eye on it for fear it'd be flung at him.

“They're human beings, boy. They can smile and they can frown. They get angry as we do. They can grieve. God said there should be the white man and the black man and the white man should have the care of the sons of Ham, because they can't look after themselves. Some idiots look at that fact and conclude, ‘Niggers just another beast in the field,' but, boy, they're not. Some can read and some can preach and some play banjos and jump Jim Crow. And some of their women are the prettiest things a grown man ever saw. Many white gentlemen see no harm in lying with a negress, since if she gets a baby, it'll be lighter than the mother, and if it's a girl, perhaps even light enough for the fancy trade, like that Maggie woman you were diddling last night.”

Ellam opened his mouth to deny everything but closed it again when he saw Uncle Silas's eyes.

“Good,” Silas said, setting his cup down. “Might be you can learn. What will that wench bring in Vicksburg, herself and the child?”

The boy shook his head.

“Twenty-four hundred dollars, maybe more. Man buys her, sets her up, and she brings in ten dollars a night, every night except when she's bleeding and Sundays. Fancy woman costs two hundred a year to keep, so after one year, he's got his money out of her and he's still got the pickaninny if it lives. Now, boy, pay attention! Suppose you're a buyer for the fancy trade, what do you want?”

“Pretty. Light-skinned. Young.”

“Anything else?”

“I don't know, Uncle Silas.”

“You are looking for a girl who is pert and gay. What kind of girl is Maggie?”

“Sir?”

“You diddled her. What's she like?”

“Like you said, sir. Right pert.”

His uncle shook his head. “Did you talk to her or just stick it into her?”

“She seemed pert to me,” Ellam said stubbornly.

“That girl hasn't known more than one, maybe two men in her life, and she's got a way of speaking sometimes you can't tell if she's a white woman or not. You're lucky you caught that girl young. Two or three years hence, if you try to stick it in her, she'll cut it off and hand it to you. Until we get to Vicksburg, you chain Maggie every night and don't come near when she's got anything sharp in her hand. You gave her something to think about, boy, and I'll not thank you for that. In Vicksburg, when we put her on that block and tell her, ‘Sing and dance, Maggie, so you fetch a good price,' you know what she'll be thinking? ‘Why should I dance and act pert when some stupid white boy stick his thing in me anytime he want?' She'll stand on that block like she's cross, and you know what the buyer for the fancy trade will be thinking? He'll think that maybe she won't bring ten dollars a night, and if some customer acts up with her, maybe Maggie will scratch his eyes out. That buyer will say to me, ‘Silas, that's a fine high yellow you sellin' there, Silas, but she seems a handful. I'll give you fifteen hundred for her.' ”

“Oh hell, Uncle. I didn't mean nothin' by it. I didn't hurt her any.”

Silas rubbed his forehead. “God forgive you, you're no smarter than your father.” He thought for a moment. “What did I promise you for coming with me and helping me?”

“Hundred dollars.”

Uncle Silas smiled, and Ellam sort of wished his uncle hadn't smiled. “What's that wench worth?”

“Twenty-four hundred dollars.”

“That's right. And in lieu of paying you, I'll give you every cent over sixteen hundred dollars she brings, herself and the baby. Nephew, you might get rich. Boy, you might just change your luck.”

THE PLUNGER

G
OSHEN
, V
IRGINIA
A
PRIL
18, 1861

“GENTLEMEN,” PROVISIONAL THIRD
Lieutenant Duncan Gatewood exclaimed. “Thank God for secession. We live a new life.”

Catesby Byrd interlaced his fingers behind his head and cricked his neck from side to side. “I'd rather have new cards,” he said. “Spaulding, what time do you show?”

The florid-faced young man extracted a silver hunter. “I fear we are in violation of the Sabbath. It is ten past four—if the watch keeps good time.”

“It did when I last wound it,” Catesby muttered. “You military gentlemen have cleaned me out.”

Duncan grinned. “What's mere wealth compared to our prospects? Catesby, the prospect of military glory invigorates a man.”

Catesby eyed him somewhat sourly. “A king of hearts would have invigorated me wonderfully. He or his diamond brother. Lord knows there were two of them in the deck, unemployed.”

“Catesby,” his young kinsman objected, “our Commonwealth of Virginia has seceded and is the brightest star in the new Confederate Nation. Like our forefathers, we create a new nation. Patriots are rushing to the colors throughout the South”—he gestured solemnly at the invisible host—“while you fret about a game of cards.”

Three men, two in cadet uniforms, lounged in the empty saloon of the hotel that served Millboro passengers of the Virginia Central Railroad. They'd been playing cards since Catesby Byrd made his surprise appearance last night after dinner.

“I'd not fret,” Catesby said, “if you returned my watch. I had no notion your studies included the mechanics of gulling kinfolk.”

“Wheelhorse and I did play some cards at the Institute,” Spaulding said, smiling. “I've many a demerit for cardplaying. How innocent that all seems—demerits! How we shall miss the dear old Institute.”

Duncan stretched. “I believe there's daylight in the sky. Remember that damn train when we went to hang old John Brown? It was my first train ride, and I was devilish sick. I remember when we finally reached Relay House, a hundred cadets rubbed the sleep from their eyes and dined on tea and hot bread. And afterward, when we huffed and puffed along the Patapsco: the sun burned the fog off the river and none of us knew whether a thousand armed abolitionists were coming to free Brown. Spaulding, that was the finest morning of my life.”

The older youth yawned. “Railroad journeys can be tiresome. Richmond isn't a hundred twenty miles, but my Christmas travels took every bit of thirteen hours.”

Duncan's face darkened. “God, how I wish I had accepted your invitation. I wish . . .”

Spaulding waited for more, but Duncan fell silent.

“Why not travel to Richmond by canal?” Catesby asked. “You could float majestically down the James while ladies on shore wave lacy handkerchiefs and swoon at your martial splendor.”

“The best regiments are filling up,” Spaulding said briskly. “I'd hoped to join my cousin A. P. Hill, but his regiment is already chock-full. Duncan, you'll remember I attended Cousin Hill's wedding. Lord, how those regular officers can drink! Cousin has commended us to the 44th Infantry—its adjutant and lieutenant colonel are Institute men.”

“Such laudable ambition,” Catesby drawled. “Duncan, wouldn't you rather exercise your appetite for mayhem in the company of your familiars? I'm sure Spaulding here is a good fellow, but the regiment he hopes to join will be strangers, none from our mountains.”

“Catesby, I damn well will not ever again have aught to do with my previous acquaintances!” Duncan's young face was cold. In a lower tone he added, “You know my reasons.”

Catesby coughed. He shuffled the cards, once, twice. He turned to Spaulding. “Do you think this war will last long enough for you to get into it?”

“God, I pray it will! General Johnson has already seized Harpers Ferry, cut the National Road, the canal, and the Federals' rail link from the west. I worry he will take Washington before we get a chance at them!”

Catesby sighed. “Duncan, you're a horseman. Why not the cavalry?”

Spaulding answered for his friend. “Oh, the cavalry's the place for a swaggerer. If a man wants to cut a figure, there's nothing like a fine horse to help him do it. But battles aren't decided by cavalry. The infantry carries the day. Our regiment will want good noncommissioned officers, too. You are a patriot, Mr. Byrd. Why not accompany us?” Spaulding consulted his new watch. “Our train departs in a quarter hour.”

“My wife and two children are hostages to fortune.”

“Catesby, surely you'll sign up! The enlistment is only a year. Think how awful you'll feel afterward if you miss the fun.”

A shadow crossed Catesby's face. “You think so, Duncan? Wars have a way of getting away from men.”

“Well, this war is going to get away from Mr. Lincoln. The Federals can't whip our gallant boys.”

Spaulding slapped the table and upset his tumbler. “Duncan, that is the spirit!” He pushed his bench from the table and swept spilled whiskey onto the floor with the edge of his hand. “Is that the locomotive bell? I thought I heard a bell.”

Duncan went to the door and leaned into the darkness.

“Yesterday,” Catesby noted in his quiet voice, “I came hoping to dissuade my young kinsman from rashness. When we met, at this place, I found him already celebrating the rashest thing imaginable. . . .”

Duncan said, “I cannot go home to Stratford, Catesby. You know that.”

“I know that you are young and occupy a place in my affections!”

“And you do like to play cards. Admit it, Catesby—you do!”

“Yes, young friend, I am partial to cardplaying. Cardplaying promotes conviviality. Tonight I am fortunate I didn't wager my horse.”

Spaulding laughed too loudly. “Mr. Byrd, your horse is happy you haven't wagered him! You are a plunger, sir. I know you because I am a plunger myself. Wager on anything and devil take the hindmost, eh?”

“Sir, risk makes the time pass faster.”

“Catesby . . .”

Catesby raised a hand. “One last entreaty, Duncan. If you can't think of me, won't you consider your sister and mother?”

The younger man placed his hand on the older man's shoulder. “Catesby, I am thinking of them, can't you see? Surely you can understand! If I go away, they will forget me. I will no longer shame them.”

Spaulding was listening somewhat distractedly as he went into his pockets and plucked banknotes from here and there. He dipped into his purse for two gold coins, which he employed to weight the bills. He added watch and chain. He shuffled the cards and pushed the deck toward Catesby, where it sat, smug and mysterious as a heathen idol. “Sir, in the course of this evening I have satisfied myself as to Gatewood's good opinion of you. I think I could enroll no better man in our new regiment. Let us decide the issue by wager. Win, and this”—he gestured at the money contemptuously—“is all yours. Lose, and you're in for the fun. Let a single card decide.”

Attorney and responsible family man Catesby Byrd felt a spasm of loathing for Cadet Spaulding. Catesby considered that Cadet Spaulding resembled a white Leghorn rooster which had once tormented his daughter, Pauline, rushing at her whenever she went with her basket for eggs. He'd made, Catesby recalled, a rubbery supper.

The locomotive bell was drawing nigh. Its clatter was unmistakable. Carelessly, Catesby Byrd reached out and revealed the fatal card.