Stanley swallowed the rest of his third glass of champagne. "Not at the moment. Some confiscated by the Treasury can be bought for almost nothing. Of course, long term, it's very valuable. Property is always valuable. And cash crops are the whole basis of the Southern economy. They have no industrial economy and never did."
Isabel's eyes gleamed above the candles. "Then perhaps we should look into investments in the South, to replace the factory."
He sat back, astounded as always by her audacity, and the way her mind leaped to sink fangs into some prey he hadn't even spotted. "Are you saying you'd like me to make inquiries at the Treasury?"
"No, sweet. I'll make them. In person. I am going to leave you for a week or so — I'm sure that grieves you terribly," she added with venom. He silently called her a witch, smiled a sickly smile, and poured more champagne.
Old Mr. Marvin, our long-time friend at Green Pond, called to say good-bye. He is embittered, angry — bankrupt. Treasury men seized $15,000 in Sea Island cotton, marking it "Confederate" right at his gin and hauling it off while he watched. It happened because he refused to pay the bribe the Treasury man demanded. The Yankee would have let M. keep the cotton and sell it, but he would have had to surrender half the profits to the agent.
Land and crops are being stolen everywhere by these two-legged vultures. Marvin's neighbor lost a fine farm, Pride's Haven, when unable to pay $150 of back taxes. We have our share of sinners down here, but all the saints and seraphims do not reside in the North ...
Philo Trout, a cheerful, muscular young Treasury agent, met Isabel's steamer in Charleston. Their inland journey was delayed twenty-four hours because a tropical storm came onshore, ripping the city with gale winds and pouring out more than six inches of rain before moving inland.
Once they set out, Trout's covered buggy labored along muddy roads, and Isabel surveyed submerged fields on either side. She asked about the standing water. Trout said, "Storm surge from the tidal rivers. The salt will poison those fields for a few seasons."
This immediately banished the idea that had brought Isabel south: absentee ownership of Carolina farmland. The storms, which came regularly, created too great a risk for her taste, or her money, although she didn't say this to Trout.
On the river road along the Ashley, he pointed out various plantations including Mont Royal. Isabel reacted with silent disgust, but she never so much as hinted that she knew the owners.
A few miles farther on, Trout stopped the buggy at a crossroads store, whose crookedly hung sign said GETTYS BROS. Nailed over the front door was a board painted with one word:
C L O Z E D.
Trout pushed back his straw planter's hat and put his boot on the footboard. "Now here's an interesting proposition, though it isn't what you said you wanted. Still, someone could make money on this little store and never have to worry about the salt in the rivers."
Isabel wrinkled her nose. "How could such a sorry place be profitable?"
"Three ways, ma'am, all predicated on having the capital to stock it properly. Real money, not Confederate paper. The local planters need goods. Implements, staples, seed. First, the store could charge plenty at the time of the sale. But the planters and the freedmen don't have real money to pay. So the store could treat each sale as a loan — the cost, at any price you set, plus interest, at any rate you determine. Fifty percent? Ninety? They'd have to take it or starve."
Just then, despite the cloying heat of the marshy country, and the insects, and the stench of decay, Isabel decided that the discomforts of the trip were worth it.
"You mentioned a third way, Mr. Trout."
"Yes indeed. To secure every loan with goods, you also demand a fixed percent of the next rice or cotton crop." He grinned. "Ingenious?"
"I couldn't think of anything more ingenious myself." She dabbed her moist lip. "Who could run a store like this?"
"Well, ma'am, if you bought it, you'd undoubtedly want a new manager, your husband being with the Bureau and all. The fellow who ran it before it closed, Randall Gettys, is pretty much of a secesh. I know him. If he stayed on, and assuming he'd even consider selling to nig — uh, the colored, he'd charge them eight or ten times what he charged whites, just for spite."
Isabel beamed. "Why, dear Mr. Trout, what of that? It's true that my husband and I are Republicans, but I really don't care about the prejudices or operating policies of a store manager if he makes money."
"Oh, Randall Gettys could do that, definitely. He knows everybody around here. Used to print a little newspaper for the district. Wants to start it again."
"He may charge the nigras ten times what he charges white people, so long as no one in Washington finds out, and my husband and I are never connected with the business. That point would have to be impressed on him."
"Randall and his kinfolk are so desperate, they'd sign a contract to sell ice in hell."
Isabel could hardly contain her excitement. As usual, it was she who prospected and struck gold, while Stanley stayed behind.
"Everything could be arranged," Trout assured her. He picked up the reins and turned the buggy around. "I can buy the property for you at tax auction next month."
The horse plodded back toward Mont Royal. Shadows of Spanish moss drifted across Isabel's perspiring face.
"We have one more consideration to discuss, ma'am."
"Your fee for services — and silence?"
"Yes, ma'am." Trout's sunny face shone. "You know, I worked as a telegraph operator in Dayton, Ohio, before my uncle got me this job. I've made more in six months than I'd make in a lifetime up North."
"The South is proving a land of opportunity for all, isn't it?" said Isabel with another smugly charming smile.
Gettys Bros, open again. New whitewash inside and out, new goods crowding the shelves and floor. Young Randall G. is enthroned as manager amidst this new affluence. He has put up a gaudy sign on the roof. It features a painted flag — the Confed. battle ensign — and a new name, THE DIXIE STORE.
He refuses to discuss the sudden reversal in his fortunes, so we have a mystery now. I cannot solve it, but neither will I give much time to it. You know my feelings about the bigoted Mr. Gettys.
7
"Too short a visit," George said, raising his voice above the racket of baggage being loaded two cars ahead. He hugged Brett. Despite her voluminous skirts, he was conscious of her stomach. "Take care of that youngster I'm not supposed to mention — and get to San Francisco in plenty of time."
Steam blew around them. Brett's lavender-scented cheek felt damp against his. "Don't worry. He'll be born a Californian."
"You're certain it's he?" Constance said.
"Positive," Billy answered. He looked spruce in his new sack-style coat of dark gray and trousers and cravat of lighter gray. He and Constance embraced, then the ladies hugged. George shook his brother's hand.
"I can't hide it, Billy. I wish you'd stay in Pennsylvania."
"Too many memories on this side of the Mississippi. I'll always love West Point, but, like you, I've had my bellyful of armies." And what armies are sent out to do. George heard that unspoken conclusion.
"God protect you and everyone, George," Billy said.
"And you and Brett and your new son. Since Constance is the religious one in the family, I'll ask her to pray for calm seas while you sail down South America and around the Cape."