She forced herself to rest for the remainder of the day, but on the following morning she made her usual tour of the plantation.
In the sheds, the bundles of drying tobacco plants were being taken down from their hooks so that the leaves could be separated from the stems and the heavy fibers stripped out. Next they would be bundled up again and covered with cloth to “sweat.”
Some of the hands were in the woods, cutting wood to make barrels. Others were sowing winter wheat in Stream Quarter. Lizzie spotted Mack there, working alongside a young black woman. They crossed the plowed field in a line, distributing the seed from heavy baskets. Lennox followed, hurrying the slower workers with a kick or a touch of the whip. It was a short whip with a hard handle and a lash two or three feet long made of some flexible wood. After he noticed Lizzie watching, he began to use it more freely, as if challenging her to try to stop him.
She turned away and started back toward the house. But before she was out of earshot she heard a cry and turned back.
The hand working next to Mack had collapsed. It was Bess, an adolescent girl about fifteen years old, tall and thin: Lizzie’s mother would have said she had outgrown her strength.
Lizzie hurried toward the prone figure, but Mack was nearer. He put down his basket and knelt beside Bess. He touched her forehead and her hands. “I think she’s just fainted,” he said.
Lennox came up and kicked the girl in the ribs with a heavily booted foot.
Her body jerked with the impact but her eyes did not open.
Lizzie cried out: “Stop it, don’t kick her!”
“Lazy black bitch, I’ll teach her a lesson,” Lennox said, and he drew back the arm that held the whip.
“Don’t you dare!” Lizzie said furiously.
He brought the whip down on the back of the unconscious girl.
Mack sprang to his feet.
“Stop!” Lizzie cried.
Lennox lifted the whip again.
Mack stood between Lennox and Bess.
“Your mistress told you to stop,” Mack said.
Lennox changed his grip and slashed Mack across the face.
Mack staggered sideways and his hand flew to his face. A purplish weal appeared immediately on his cheek and blood trickled between his lips.
Lennox raised his whip hand again, but the blow never fell.
Lizzie hardly saw what happened, it was so quick, but in a moment Lennox was flat on the ground, groaning, and Mack had the whip. He took it in both hands and snapped it over his knee, then contemptuously threw it at Lennox.
Lizzie felt a surge of triumph. The bully was broken.
Everyone stood around staring for a long moment.
Then Lizzie said: “Get on with your work, everyone!”
The hands turned away and recommenced sowing seed. Lennox got to his feet, staring at Mack evilly.
“Can you carry Bess to the house?” Lizzie asked Mack.
“Of course.” He picked her up in his arms.
They walked back across the fields to the house and took her into the kitchen, which was an outbuilding at the back. By the time Mack put her in a chair she had recovered consciousness.
Sarah, the cook, was a middle-aged black woman always in a sweat. Lizzie sent her to fetch some of Jay’s brandy. After a sip Bess declared she felt all right except for bruised ribs, and she could not understand why she had fainted. Lizzie told her to have something to eat and rest until tomorrow.
Leaving the kitchen, she noticed that Mack looked solemn. “What is it?” she said.
“I must have been mad,” he said.
“How can you say that?” she protested. “Lennox disobeyed a direct order from me!”
“He’s a vengeful man. I shouldn’t have humiliated him.”
“How can he take revenge on you?”
“Easily. He’s the overseer.”
“I won’t allow it,” Lizzie said decisively.
“You can’t watch over me all day.”
“Curse it.” She could not allow Mack to suffer for what he had done.
“I’d run away if I knew where to go. Have you ever seen a map of Virginia?”
“Don’t run away.” She frowned, thinking, then she was struck by an idea. “I know what to do—you can work in the house.”
He smiled. “I’d love to. I might not be much of a butler, though.”
“No, no—not a servant. You could be in charge of repairs. I have to have the nursery painted and fixed up.”
He looked suspicious. “Do you really mean it?”
“Of course!”
“It would be … just wonderful to get away from Lennox.”
“Then you shall.”
“You can’t possibly understand what good news this is.”
“For me, too—I’ll feel safer with you close by. I’m frightened of Lennox.”
“With reason.”
“You’ll have to have a new shirt and a waistcoat, and house shoes.” She would enjoy dressing him in good clothes.
“Such luxury,” he said, grinning.
“That’s settled,” she said decisively. “You can start right away.”
The house slaves were a little grumpy about the party at first. They looked down on the field hands. Sarah, in particular, resented having to cook for “trash that eats hominy and corn pone.” But Lizzie mocked their snobbery and jollied them along, and in the end they entered into the spirit of it.
At sundown on Saturday the kitchen staff were cooking up a banquet. Pepper Jones, the banjo player, had arrived drunk at midday. McAsh had made him drink gallons of tea then put him to sleep in an outhouse, and he was now sober again. His instrument had four catgut strings stretched over a gourd, and the sound as he tuned it was halfway between a piano and a drum.
As she went around the yard checking on the preparations Lizzie felt excited. She was looking forward to the celebration. She would not join in the jollity, of course: she had to play Lady Bountiful, serene and aloof. But she would enjoy watching other people let their hair down.
When darkness fell all was ready. A new barrel of cider had been tapped; several fat hams were sizzling over open fires; hundreds of sweet potatoes were cooking in cauldrons of boiling water; and long four-pound loaves of white bread stood waiting to be sliced.
Lizzie paced up and down impatiently, waiting for the slaves to come in from the fields. She hoped they would sing. She had sometimes heard them from a distance, singing plaintive laments or rhythmic work songs, but they always stopped when one of the masters came near.
As the moon rose, the old women came up from the quarters with the babies on their hips and the toddlers trailing behind. They did not know where the field hands were: they fed them in the morning then did not see them until the end of the day.
The hands knew they were to come up to the house tonight. Lizzie had told Kobe to make sure everyone understood, and he was always reliable. She had been too busy to go out into the fields, but she supposed they must have been working at the farthermost reaches of the plantation, and so were taking a long time to return. She hoped the sweet potatoes would not overcook and turn to mush.
Time went by and no one appeared. When it had been dark for an hour she admitted to herself that something had gone wrong. With anger mounting in her breast she summoned McAsh and said: “Get Lennox up here.”
It took almost an hour, but eventually McAsh returned with Lennox, who had obviously started his evening’s drinking already. By this time Lizzie was furious. “Where are the field hands?” she demanded. “They should be here!”
“Ah, yes,” Lennox said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “That was not possible today.”
His insolence warned her that he had found some foolproof way to frustrate her plans. “What the devil do you mean, not possible?” she said.
“They’ve been cutting wood for barrels on Stafford Park.” Stafford Park was ten miles upriver. “There’s a few days’ work to be done so we made camp. The hands will stay there, with Kobe, until we finish.”