The R— laid a hoop of silver on the table.
“Which ring the slave shall, and must, present to his liberators when his term comes due. As some of you may know—”
“Trust a nigger with a piece of silver?” Kennedy said, showing us his gums.
“Bear in mind, Mr. Kennedy, that this piece of silver will already have been balanced by two hundred dollars in gold, as we’ll have sold him once already. If the escapee should fail to produce the ring, it shall be taken as proof of a breach of faith, and said escapee will be left to his druthers. We, contrary-wise, will be left our profit.”
Kennedy rubbed his nose. “I don’t ruh! — ruh! — rightly see—”
The R— all but rolled his eyes. “The man who comes for the runaway at the end of the three-month period, Mr. Kennedy, may not be the same man who deposited him. Some mark of identity is required. A slave is very respectful of a piece of silver, as you may know.”
He privileged the lot of us with an easy grin.
“What happens after?” said the lieutenant, twiddling his whiskers. It was clear he was disgusted by the others’ way of buttering the R—’s cake. “Your scheme seems of greater interest to the Abolitionists, Mr. M—, than to any natural son of Dixie.”
The R— laughed. “And yet you are interested, Lieutenant Beauregard, are you not.”
“I’m interested to have you answer me, sirrah,” the lieutenant growled.
“A horse-thief steals horses, Mr. Beauregard—; an Abolitionist steals bondsmen. I see no difference between the two, aside from the margin of profit. It has simply never occurred to your Abolitionist, as near as I can tell, that he is in possession — ipso facto of having liberated it from its owner — of a highly remunerative piece of property.”
General laughter from the assembly. Beauregard was neatly put away. Virgil could have done that much, I thought. But Virgil was still scratching at his notes.
The R— smoothed the map out with his palms. “Abolitionizing for profit, gentlemen—: such is my proposal. I consider it no less grand for its simplicity. What’s more, I have fifty-seven share-holders — both here and in Memphis — who agree with me whole-heartedly.” He looked about the room. “I foresaw, of course, that some of you might not. That’s why we’re not going to steal the above-mentioned slaves.”
The Colonel sat up straight as a rod. “Not steal them? Do you mean to tell us, M—, that we’ve come all this way—”
The R— raised his hands and the map closed with a snap. In this pose, tidy in his costly clothes, he put me in mind of a well-scrubbed toddler waiting on his Sunday porridge. He brought his palms together then, as if saying grace, and the likeness was complete. But it bewitched me regardless.
“What I mean, Colonel, is that we’re going to borrow them.”
OVER THE NEXT HOUR each guest learned the reason for his being at table. No end of cash, it was said and repeated, had been put behind the venture. The stock-holders would know next to nothing of the goings-on—; only that slaves were being dealt in for a profit, and that the profit, in this case, was near one-hundred percent. The rest, the R— said with a wink, would be left to their fancy and leisure.
The R— himself would recruit the mulattoes—“strikers,” he called them — whose names would be known to him alone. A ramshackle property of Asa Trist’s on the Cane River would serve as a concentration point, as the R— called it, before the shippage north. Kennedy and Virgil, who’d spent time on the river, would manage the passage, each in their own boats—; Beauregard would see that the army left those boats alone. The Colonel, who made his home in Memphis, would deal with the up-river buyers. When sprung the second time, the runaways would come out of the boat’s hold expecting to see St. Louis, or Cincinnati—; instead they’d find the plantation they’d run off from. Goodman Harvey — the lisper — was to minister to the runaways—: the R— spoke of him as a doctor. He’d played some role, it seemed, in the conception of the thing—; but the R— made a point of paying him no mind.
At the end they’d all been accounted for except the ghost in the corner.
“What’ll hith job be, then?” Harvey said, pointing at him. The ghost gave a grin. He might have been grinning at anybody, his eyes were so flat. But he was grinning at nobody but the R—.
“Me?” said the ghost.
“Gentlemen—: our Parson,” the R— said. “Parson’s handy with niggers.”
Nobody gave a coo.
“Well!” the R— said. “Are we ready to adjourn?”
There was never any yessing to the plan, but they were for it just the same. Every one of them was for it. They’d agreed in themselves, before they came, to whatever the R— would offer them. The reason was different, each to each—: some were spiteful, some were greedy, some were cowardly, some were sly. But each had a hollow part that this business would fill.
One by one they got to their feet, straightened their cravats, and went downstairs. Some of their glasses were empty, some were full. I marveled at the coziness of it all. All of them kept quiet except for Beauregard, who was set on having sport with the R—.
“Neat enough, M—, I grant you,” he said. He stopped as he passed and took the R— by the shoulder. The difference in their size was fit to laugh over, and Beauregard savored it in a way that showed the weakness in him. “Neat enough,” he said again. “If no war breaks out, it should turn a pretty profit.”
“War?” squawked Trist. “What war? With Mexico?”
“I think the lieutenant is thinking of a war between the states, Asa,” the R— said, looking up at Beauregard. “An Abolitionist war.”
“I can’t see how that would affect us,” Virgil said. “Such a fight would center on the territories, surely. We’d have breathing-room regardless.”
Beauregard raised his eyebrows. “Does it speak?”
The R— made a subtle movement and Beauregard’s hand fell off his shoulder. “Mr. Beauregard, there is something I wished to mention to you,” he said. “But I’d forgotten it till now.”
Beauregard kept his eyes on Virgil. “Of course, M—. What was it?”
“Your waist-coat. It’s exceeding pretty.”
Beauregard gave a laugh. “A happy accident, sir—; I can’t take credit for it. There’s a tailor in Exchange Alley, Christian name of Jessup—”
“Don’t, in the future, wear apparel with decided colors,” the R— said, holding up a finger. “Or with pronounced patterns, either. What have men to do with pretty things?”
Beauregard blinked at him a moment. “And what the devil, sir, have you to do with my choice of—”
“It’s true that a waist-coat should be becoming, Lieutenant—; but also that it should lend dignity to the figure. A man’s costume should never be ornamental, pretty, or capricious, except at a fancy-dress ball.”
Beauregard let out a breath. Then he took a half-step backwards and put his right hand into his pocket. I looked from one of them to the other, thinking there’d be an affair of honor under the oaks next morning sure as I breathed. Then a long gray hand came to rest on Beauregard’s shoulder and he spun about as though a wasp had stung him. Parson stood behind him, as tall again to Beauregard as Beauregard was to the R—.
“What do you want?” Beauregard said, stepping back. His voice was no louder than a sigh.