Authors: Donald Mccaig
“And so say all of us.” Andrew Seig gulped his brandy.
“Hurrah for our dear hostess, my mother-in-law, Abigail Gatewood,” Catesby cried. “Now where is that scoundrel Pompey?”
With prodigious ceremony, Pompey ferried a roast of beef from the sideboard, and conversation resumed while his master carved.
As swiftly as Pompey removed a dish from the sideboard to the table, other servants replaced it. A roast goose nestled between a brace of ducks, the smoked ham had hung in Gatewood's meathouse since the year of Cox's snow; there was a venison tenderloin baked in red wine and juniper berries, scotch eggs, a lamb fricassee, and two pork pies. There were white potatoes, sweet potatoes, dilled cucumbers, an apple-and-carrot casserole, baked squash, pumpkin soup, diced turnips in butter, winter spinach, and cress gathered just that morning from Strait Creek spring. There was light bread and cornbread and biscuits. There were pies: apple, mince, pumpkin, buttermilk, pecan. And there were more cakes than pies! Ten of the best beeswax candles were pickets of light down the dining table, and each piece of Grandmother Gatewood's silver shone like a new sun.
During Christmas mouth, the valley plantations paid calls. Stratford visited Warwick Christmas Eve, and Samuel Gatewood was the first across the door lintel at Hidden Valley (that front door kept bolted to hold good luck in until the Gatewoods' arrival) on New Year's. But Christmas Day was reserved for family, white and black, unto the fourth cousin once removed and the lonely spinster aunt who must have been related to Cousin Edward but nobody remembered exactly how.
Stratford's dining table had been increased by six leaves, so that Mistress Abigail Gatewood, seated at the foot, had her back scant inches from the front window, and Samuel Gatewood, at the head, was pressed against the china closet, which would have made serving impossible had not every last piece of silver been exhausted from its drawers, every plate previously laid out. The door through which the servants brought dishes from the kitchen house swung open and closed, open and closed.
Catesby Byrd sat at Samuel Gatewood's right hand. Duncan, in uniformâwhite trousers, dark gray jacket, black stock at his throatâwas farther down the table. To Duncan's left was Aunt Sadie, who, having lost hearing at the advanced age of eighty-one, had abandoned speech as well, and hovered over her plate of soft vegetables as if only her strictest attention would prevent their flight. Duncan turned to his other partner. “You'll be Alexander Kirkpatrick. Congratulations on your marriage, sir. Sallie's a fine girl. I've known her all my life.”
“Ah yes, young Gatewood. Your attire, sir. Do we fear military alarms?”
“This rig?” Duncan grinned. “This was to show Father his money wasn't altogether wasted. Likely to be plenty boys in uniform before long. Boys at the Institute expect Mississippi and Alabama to secede before the year is out.”
Kirkpatrick lifted a slice of beef, inspected it, replaced it to pare away a scrap of fat. “You favor secession, sir?”
“I figure we came into this union voluntarily and we can come out of it should we choose to.” He took a roll. “You're a professor, I hear.”
“I am not presently employed. As you may know, your father had our modest home built. Since I have no practical skills, I am grateful.” Kirkpatrick speared a roasted potato.
“You're educated! Just the sort of man we need in Virginia. Why, old Tom Jefferson thought so high of education . . .”
“I am acquainted with Mr. Jefferson's views. My father-in-law is his devotee.”
Heedlessly, young Duncan rushed on. “There are civilians who teach at the Institute. Old Gummy Stewart, he teaches French and German; he's never fought a war. And Washington College down the road, there aren't any soldiers at that school. That was Father's college. Why, I bet he'd recommend you. Father's fond of Sallie. So are we all. If you were to come to Lexington, I'll bet you could find a position.”
“I have not found that Virginians, as a people, appreciate a superior education. Not only do they shun it themselves but they reproach their children should the poor creatures incline toward acquiring one. They disdain those who, like myself, have taken the trouble to complete a course of studies. Virginius Rusticus prefers unlettered traditions to knowledge.”
Duncan put down his fork, and a cool smile fastened to his mouth. “You are my father's guest, sir,” he said.
Across the table, Elmo Hevener and Andrew Seig were arguing the merits of a horse the latter had at stud. Seig had bred Duncan's Gypsy, and Duncan turned to their congenial conversation.
Roast followed roast, and then the Christmas pastries were succeeded by a plum pudding. Dusk smote at the windows, helpless to dim the cheer inside. Mistress Abigail's cheeks bloomed, and she wouldn't have traded places with any of her Tidewater kinfolk; no, not with any fine lady in the Commonwealth. She and Mrs. Hevener debated the proper amount of sherry to flavor a Christmas cake (Mistress Abigail: two gills; Mrs. Hevener: a Methodist pint).
Duncan Gatewood had no more than two glasses of wine. His father, Samuel, had drunk more than his accustomed portion. Afterward everyone agreed about that.
Long shadows darkened Stratford's fields when the gentlemen stepped onto the porch. Andrew Seig saluted the season with both barrels of his shotgun. Honest Uther Botkin piped a cheer and contributed a shot from a pistol which had begun life as half of a dueling set but had fallen on hard times.
Samuel Gatewood balanced a mahogany box on the porch rail before extracting a square-framed blue-black revolver from the box's velvet interior.
Smoothly he aimed, and BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM and the thump of each ball striking the white oak fell hard on the heels of its discharge.
“This is one of Mr. Colt's Hartford pistols.” Gatewood's soft words filled the aching silence after his fusillade. From the Quarters (which had gone still) came a single bitter yell.
“What a splendid, terrible instrument,” Uther Botkin exclaimed. “What a century we have made.”
Samuel Gatewood latched the case before presenting it to his son. “May you never require this weapon. But if you do, may you use it in defense of home, family, honor . . .” Samuel groped for more graceful words but failed to find them. “. . . and Virginia's hallowed traditions,” he concluded.
Duncan also did the best he could. “Thank you, sir. Few cadets possess anything so fine.”
Another whoop from the Quarters rang off the mountain.
“The attachment between a Christian father and his son must outweigh every other,” Samuel Gatewood said.
Catesby Byrd frowned.
Samuel paid him no heed. Turning to his guests, he said, “Gentlemen, though I discourage strong spirits amongst my servants, in my experience denying spirits entirely is more disruptive than a modest holiday issue. Now we must broach their holiday cask. Duncan, you will accompany me.”
“Sir?”
“Come.”
In the Quarters, children were tossing inflated pig bladders hoarded all year for this occasion.
In swap for his letter writing, Jesse had a one-pound sack of best ground cornmeal, a pair of handmade suspender tabs, and a woman's promise to mend any shirt he might need mended. Maggie sat beside him on the porch, chin in her hand. The dress she'd fashioned from Miss Abigail's drapes dragged in the dirt, but she paid no mind. Baby Jacob lay flat in her lap, washed, swaddled, and wrapped against the cold. “You takin' the Botkins home after?”
“I expect so.”
“They gonna pay you?”
“Christmas gift, Massa? Christmas gift?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why is Rufus scorchin' that hog? That scorch make my teeth grate.”
“Your tastin' been funny since Jacob's born,” Jesse said. “You want, I'll go up to kitchen house, fetch you some of the Gatewoods' Christmas.”
“You see Mistress Abigail this mornin'? She looked right through me. Like it wasn't me had brushed her hair every mornin', a hundred strokes, way she liked it.” She paused. In another woman's voice Maggie said, “Dear Maggie. You know how I care for you, child. But there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do. You do understand!”
Jesse shivered. When Maggie talked like this, Jesse felt there were two women living inside of his wife and one of them would remain a stranger.
“Mistress using that Franky for lady's maid. Frankyâstraight out of the kitchen house into Mistress's boudoir. You think Mistress ever give me my job back?”
Jesse shrugged. Had any man ever been asked so many questions he couldn't answer?
Jesse gave her his gift: a six-inch slippery-elm tube. Maggie's face lit up briefly.
“What's this?”
“Whistle. Rufus showed me how to whittle it. Took me three nights whittlin' it while you and baby Jacob was sleepin'.”
Jesse blew a high trill. “Shapin' that wooden ball inside without bustin' the outsides, that was the sly part,” he said.
Jack the Driver slashed into the thickest part of the hog and twisted his blade to see the juces run. “He ready,” he cried. “And he prime.”
Men slipped poles under the carcass and hoisted it onto the plank-and-barrel table. Aprons shielding their faces, women raked blackened yams out of the coals. Iron frypans filled with green kale fried in fatback were set on the table. Some celebrants owned plate and fork, others only spoon and wooden bowl. Jack ran his butcher knife over his whetstone, whisk, whisk, whisk, and tested the edge on the hair of his arm.
“Driver,” Rufus called, “we don't need for you to be shavin' that hog. We just want you cuttin' him up.”
The children went to the head of the line. If the food ran out, it wouldn't be the children who suffered.
Someone said, “Praise the Lord for His blessings.”
Someone else said, “Amen.”
“You want me to fetch your dinner?” Jesse asked.
“Why you want to be with me?” Maggie stirred a circle in the dirt with her foot. She changed to her white-lady voice. “Jesse, I am not intended for you. No doubt you are an excellent man, but when I look, I see nothing I desire. I cannot make you happy.”
Jesse's voice was hoarse. “You make me happy, give me what you can.”
Her dark swimming eyes turned away. “But I ain't givin' you nothin'. I lie down with you and I don't feel nothin'. Nary a itch!”
Jesse swallowed. “That child wrapped warm enough?” He tucked cloth under the sleeping infant's cheek.
The hog was speedily reduced. Rufus waved a ham hock. Grease streaked his chin.
Gunshots roared from the big house as the masters celebrated the birth of their Prince of Peace. When Mr. Colt's pistol boomed its shots, all the coloreds fell silent except Rufus, who howled like a dog. “Master got one of them guns you load on Sunday and shoot all week,” he whispered.
“Master! Master!” children called as Samuel and his jolly guests came into the Quarters. Samuel put hard candies in every child's hand.
“Evening, Uncle Agamemnon. Hope you got sufficient to eat. Rufus, Ellie. I'm pleased that your new clothing fits you.”
Rufus stepped out to shake Duncan's hand. “Young Master, welcome home. Ain't no good sawmill work goin' on since you gone away. We loafin' all the time.”
Franky curtsied sillily. “Master Duncan, you right fetchin' in your soldier suit. Was that you shootin'? Scared me half to death.” With focused concentration she aimed a mock rifle right at Duncan's heart. “Bang! Hee!”
Samuel said, “Jack, you've a grand bonfire and Hevener's George has his banjo tucked under his arm, so perhaps we could broach the Christmas cask?”
Though Jack was tone-deaf and indifferent to dancing, he said, “Master, you sure right there,” and sent Rufus for the whiskey.
As if it were everyday business, Samuel beckoned Jesse. “Jack says you are making a good hand. I trust you are content.”
“Land of milk and honey, Master,” Jesse said.
“Uther taught you to read. Though your reading violates Virginia law, it speaks well of your urge for self-improvement.”
“Oh, it were right hard to get words through this nappy skull,” Jesse said, rapping his head. With his mouth open his knuckles pro-duced a hollow “tunk,” and kids giggled but older folks looked at their feet.
“Duncan, feel this man's arm.”
“Sir? May I ask . . .”
“His arm. Can you encircle his arm with your hands?”
Duncan formed a circle with his hands but did not apply it to Jesse's arm. “No, sir. I believe I could not.”
“Jesse, how much corn can you cut in a day?”
Jesse shook his head. “I ain't no great shakes at corn cuttin'. Ten, eleven acres 'twixt can and can't.”
“From can see at sunrise to can't see at dark,” Gatewood translated. “Rufus here, a reliable man, can't cut eight.”
Rufus called out, “I ain't no worker, Master. I was born for love.”
Gatewood froze for an instant. Rufus slipped into the darkness. “Jesse, remove your shirt.”
“Samuel, my friend . . .” Catesby cautioned.
“Do you question my management of my property, or the instruction I intend for my sometimes wayward son?”
Catesby's face emptied. He turned on his heel and walked away.
Jesse eyed the Gatewoods, father and son, for a fat moment before he moved slick as a snake shedding his skin and his shirt came over his head and onto the ground.
“Sir?” Duncan said.
“Now, Jesse, turn away, if you please.”
Jesse's black skin glistened and his shoulder blades were smooth prominences in the lift of his back.
“Note his musculature,” Samuel Gatewood said, his finger not quite touching, tracing muscles from the shoulders to where they bunched above his hips. “Short-coupled and thick in the withers. Like one of Alex Seig's Percheron stallions. And nary a mark on him. Planters who rely on the whip are fools. A whipped servant can't work, and if time comes to fetch the speculator, a scarred man won't command a good price. Thank you, Jesse.”