Evidence of Mr. Gettys's political views reposed even more prominently upon the counter — a neat stack of issues of The Land We Love, one of several publications pandering to the sad belief that the South's cause is not lost. ...
Gettys affected an exaggerated politeness, hovering uncomfortably close to Madeline. His small round wire-rimmed spectacles shone. A huge white handkerchief billowed from the breast pocket of his greasy coat. Even closely shaved, his dark beard lent him a vaguely soiled look.
Madeline noted the profusion of goods on the shelves. "I didn't know you were so well stocked. Nor that you had the capital for it."
"A relative in Greenville furnished the money," Gettys said at once. She saw him glance at her breasts while he wiped his chin with his handkerchief. "It's a decided pleasure to see you, Mrs. Main. What may I sell you this morning?"
"Nothing just yet. I'd like to know your prices." She pointed to a barrel. "That seed corn, for instance."
"One dollar per bushel. And one-quarter of the crop produced, or the cash equivalent. For the colored, the price is double."
"Randall, I'm happy to have the store open, but I don't believe we can stand that kind of price-gouging in the district."
She said it without rancor. Even so, it enraged him. He shed his smarmy politeness. "What we can't stand is that infernal school you're putting up. A school for niggers!"
"And any white person who cares to better himself."
Gettys ignored the remark. "It's an outrage. Furthermore, it's a waste. A darky can't learn. His brain's too small. He's only fit to be our hewer of wood, our drawer of water, exactly as Scripture says. If a nigger does have a scintilla of intelligence, education just inflames his base passions and foments hatred of his betters."
"Dear God, Randall, spare me that old cant."
"No, ma'am," he exclaimed, "I will not. We lost the war but we haven't lost our senses. The white citizens of this district will not permit it to be Africanized."
Wearily, she turned and walked to the door.
"You'd better listen," he shouted. "You've been given fair warning."
Her back was toward him; he couldn't see her face, and the startled emotion evident there. She thought unhappily of Cooper's letter about Desmond LaMotte. How many would turn against her?
Saturday. Sawmill shed finished, on the bank of the river, so that lumber may be shipped by steam packet if service ever resumes. With considerable pride, I watched our two mules drag the first cypress log to the site. With Lincoln at ground level and Fred below in the pit, the log was split with the long two-handed saw. The method is antiquated, back-breaking, but until we have steam power there is no other way. It is a beginning.
Prudence wants to attend church tomorrow. Will take her. ...
To the Church of St Joseph of Arimathea this morning. I wish we had not. ...
Parking the wagon and tethering the horses, Madeline saw two men from the congregation throw away their cigars and dart inside the small tabby church where Episcopalian families from the district had worshiped for generations.
Both Madeline and Prudence wore their best bonnets. They approached the double doors. Music from the church's tiny pump organ squealed to silence as the avuncular priest, Father Lovewell, stepped into the entrance. Beyond him, in sunlit pews, members of the congregation turned to stare at the women. Madeline saw many people she knew. They didn't look friendly.
"Mrs. Main —" The priest's pink cheeks shone with sweat that steamed his spectacles. He pitched his voice low. "This is most regrettable. I am asked to remind you that, ah, colored are not permitted to worship here."
"Colored?" she repeated, as if he'd hit her. "That's right. We have no separate balcony to accommodate you, and I can no longer allow you into the family pew." She saw it, second from the front on the left, empty. Her self-control disintegrated.
"Are you in earnest, Father?" "Yes, I am. I wish it could be otherwise, but —" "Then you're a vicious man, with no right to claim that you practice Christianity."
He put his face close to hers, wheezing. "I have Christian compassion for my own race. I have none for a mongrelized race that promotes unrest, plots arson, advocates hatred, and worships the devilish doctrines of black Republicanism."
Prudence looked baffled and angry. Madeline managed a radiant smile. "God smite you where you stand, Father. Before I creep off to hide like some — some leper, I'll see you in hell."
"Hell?" The smug, sweating face drew back. Soft white hands gripped the doors. "I doubt that."
"Oh, yes. You just reserved your place."
The congregation broke into angry conversation. The doors slammed.
"Come along," Madeline said, kicking her skirt out of the way as she whirled and marched to the wagon. Prudence hurried after her, confused.
"What did all that mean? Why did he call you a colored woman?"
Madeline sighed. "I should have told you when you arrived. I'll tell you as we drive home. If you wish, you can leave. As to what else Father Lovewell meant, I'm afraid it was a declaration of war. On Mont Royal, on the school, and on me."
... Prudence knows all. She will stay. I pray God she will not regret the choice, or come to any harm because of it.
8
Charles opened his eyes, braced his hands, pushed upward. An invisible sledge slammed his forehead and dropped him. "Godamighty."
He tried again. This time, despite the pain, he succeeded.
He stared across a small fire built in a shallow hole in the ground. Beyond the fire, a bearded man weather-burned to a dark brown bent a flexible stick back and forth, trying to break it. The man wore a coat so heavily beaded he might have come from a traveling medicine show. Near him a brindle dog lay gnawing a bone. Behind the man, cross-legged, sat a youth with slanted eyes and a malformed head.
Charles smelted something vile. "What in hell's that stink?"
"Bunch of herbs mashed in a paste of buffla brains," the man said. "I rubbed it on where they banged you the worst."
Charles began to perceive his surroundings. He was inside a tipi of hides stretched over a dozen eighteen-foot poles to form a cone, with a smoke hole at the top. He heard rain falling.
"That's right, this yere's our tipi," the bearded man said. "In the tongue of the Dakota Sioux, tipi means place-where-a-man-lives." He broke the stick and handed half across the fire. "Jerky. Do you good."
Charles bit off a chew of the smoked buffalo meat. "Thanks. I've had it before."
"Oh," said the man, pleased. "This ain't your first time in the West, then."
"Before the war, I served with Bob Lee's Second Cavalry in Texas."
The stranger's grin revealed stained teeth. "Better 'n' better." Charles changed position; the sledge struck again. "Listen, I wouldn't move too quick. You got more purple on you than a side of bad beef. While you was knocked out, I scouted around some. That little rooster who beat you up, he charged you with takin' the Grand Bounce."
"Deserting?"
"Yep. You better not go back on the post."
Charles sat up, fighting dizziness. "I have things there." The stranger pointed. Behind him, Charles discovered his carpetbag.
"I went in and picked it up. Nobody said boo 'cept for the boy on sentry duty. For a dollar, he looked the other way. What's your name?"
"Charles Main."