Finally LaMotte said, "You left it where I told you?" His height reduced the spectacled storekeeper, Gettys, to the size of a boy.
"Yessir, Mist' Desmond. Nobody seen me, neither." Gettys laughed. "It's a fine jest. Choice." "Only the opening salvo," Des said. "Wait outside, Juba." "I was wonderin', sir — I ain't et since mornin' —" "We'll be back in Charleston in a few hours. You can eat then."
Miserable, Juba knew better than to object. He moved slowly outside to the lowering dark.
Des said, "When I stopped here to wait while my nigger did the errand, I never supposed I'd meet someone like you. Gettys."
"It does appear that we share the same convictions, Mr. LaMotte."
"What you said about Mont Royal stupefies me. I had no idea that black bitch would be so audacious. She must be stopped. If you are equally strong about that, we should join forces."
"Yes, sir, I am strong about that."
Out in the dark, Juba leaned his aching body against a live oak. His head was full of sad thoughts of the heartlessness of which some men were capable.
Madeline held the mysterious package at arm's length, to sharpen the letters crudely inked on the wrapping, which was old wallpaper. She couldn't afford the glasses she needed.
MADELINE MAIN. She saw that clearly. Seated in a rocker on the other side of the lamp, Prudence said, "What on earth can it be?"
"Let's find out."
She opened the flat, square package. She discovered an old browned daguerreotype about ten inches high, mounted on a piece of cardboard. The subject was one of the ugliest black women she had ever seen, a woman with a long jaw and jutting upper teeth. Although the woman was smiling, it was a peculiar smile, full of malice. Everything the woman wore — frilly dress, lace mittens, feathered hat — was white. So was the open parasol she held over her shoulder.
Madeline shook her head. "It must be some reference to my background, but I don't know this woman."
She put the daguerreotype on a little shelf. Both women studied it. The longer they looked, the more sinister the smiling face became. Madeline saw it in her dreams that night.
Next day, a matter at the saw pit brought Lincoln to the house. As he began to speak, he noticed the daguerreotype and went silent. Madeline caught her breath.
"Lincoln, do you recognize that woman?"
"No, I — yes." He avoided her eye. "I worked for her once, for two weeks. Couldn't stand her meanness, so I just picked up an' ran." He shook his head. "How'd that awful thing come into this house?"
"Someone left it in the lane last night. Do you know why?"
Again he evaded her eye.
"Lincoln, you're my friend. You've got to tell me. Who is that woman?"
"She goes by the name Nell Whitebird. Please, Miss Madeline —"
"Go on."
"Well, the place I worked, her place, there was a lot of fine white gentlemen coming and going at all hours."
He hadn't the heart to say more. Madeline put her hand on her lips, angry, sorrowful, frightened too. Whoever her anonymous tormentors might be, they knew not only that she was an octoroon, but also that her mother had been a prostitute.
There have been no further "gifts" or incidents of any kind. Prudence urges me to burn the picture. I insist we keep it, a reminder that we must be vigilant...
... A full week — all quiet. Governor Orr has convened the legislature, and there is spirited debate over a new set of laws purporting to aid and benefit the freed blacks as well as improve economic conditions generally. I do not think well of the regulations proposed thus far. They are the old system tricked out in new clothes. If those who need field labor have their way and these regulations become law, we will surely reap a harvest of Northern anger.
... A day of rejoicing. At least it began as such. Prudence enrolled her first pupils, Pride, who is twelve, and Grant, fourteen. They are sons of our freedman Sim and his wife, Lydie. When Francis LaMotte owned the boys, they were called by affected classical names — Jason, Ulysses. The latter boy turned the tables and named himself after a less popular Ulysses!
Even more heartening, we have a white pupil. Dorrie Otis is fifteen. She came shyly, at the insistence of her mother, and quickly showed a hunger to know the meaning of the curious marks printed in books. Her father is a poor farmer, never a slaveowner but in sympathy with the system. How glad I am that his wife won the battle over schooling for the girl.
A single day of rejoicing — that was all granted to us ...
"Wake up, Madeline." Prudence shook her again. Madeline heard a man shouting. "Nemo's outside. There's a fire."
"Oh my God."
Madeline hastily rose from the rocking chair, rubbing her eyes. With clumsy fingers she fastened the four top buttons of her stained dress. She'd opened them for a little relief from the humid heat, and fallen asleep where she sat.
She ran to the open door. The lamplight revealed Nemo outside, his face tearful. She saw light in the sky. "Is it the school?" He couldn't speak, only nod.
She dashed from the whitewashed house and ran barefoot along the sandy road to the old slave quarters. Prudence kept up with her, dampness plastering her cotton nightgown to her broad bosom and wide hips. The bright glare through the trees lighted their way.
Just as they reached the schoolhouse, the last wall fell inward, a brilliant waterfall of fire and sparks. The heat was fierce.
Prudence didn't seem to think of that. "All my books are in there. And my Bible," she cried.
"You can't go in," Madeline said, dragging her back.
Prudence struggled a moment before she gave up. She stood watching the fire with pain and disbelief in her eyes.
Behind the two women, some of the blacks gathered: Andy and Nemo and Sim and their wives. Pride and Grant looked confused and lost.
"Did anyone see strangers around here?" Madeline asked. No one had. Sim said the fire's glare had wakened him; he was a light sleeper.
Madeline paced, almost dancing on her tiptoes, so angry was she, so overwhelmed with a sense of violation of her self, of her property, of simple and reasonable principles of decency and practicality.
She flung a damp strand of hair off her forehead. "Randall Gettys warned me not to open the school. I suspect he had a hand in this. He wouldn't set a fire by himself, I think. He strikes me as a perfect coward. He would need accomplices."
She watched the nearby trees, in case the fire spread. It didn't; the cleared area around the burned building contained it. The flames receded but the heat remained intense.
"The worst part is not knowing who your enemies are. Well, no help for that. Will one of you go up to the house and bring me that picture of the black woman?"
Lincoln stepped forward. "I will."
He hurried off. Madeline kept pacing. She couldn't control her nervous excitement. Prudence spoke softly to the blacks, shaking her head and shrugging because she couldn't answer their questions. "
Lincoln brought back the daguerreotype of Nell Whitebird. Madeline took it and stalked toward the glowing ruins. "This fire was the work of men so despicable, they have to hide their deeds under cover of darkness. I'm sure the same men sent me this." She thrust her arm out, showing them the face of the prostitute. "This is a black woman of bad character. The men who burned the school are saying blackness equals evil, evil equals blackness. God curse them. Do you know why they sent me this particular picture? My mother was a quadroon." They were astonished. "What's more, during a certain period in her life she sold herself to men. Yet my father adored her. Married her. I honor her memory. I'm proud to have her blood. Your blood. They want us to think it's a taint. Inferior to theirs. We're supposed to cringe in a corner and bless them when they deign to throw us scraps, or thank them if they choose to whip us. Well, to hell with them. This is what I think of them, and their tactics, and their threats."