The boy yelled. His eyes opened wide, and for an instant Justin saw such rage he feared an attack. A new, unhealthy spirit was stirring among slaves in the district now that the black Republican Yankees had begun to prosecute their war to rob decent men of their property. Lately there had been an unexplained sharp rise in nigger funerals; some said the coffins being buried contained firearms for an uprising. Old white fears of black skin blew across the low country like the pestilential breezes of summertime.
"Get out," Justin shouted at his slave. Whatever brief rebelliousness Mem had felt was gone now. He ran, slamming the door. From the bed, Justin picked up his stomach-cinching corset. Francis shouted his name; he sounded frightened.
Cursing, Justin flung the corset down and tugged on his tight canary trousers. Patches of dampness immediately appeared on thigh, crotch, and rump. He buttoned his fly as he tore down the main stairs, stopping only to yank the old saber from its pegs.
He rushed into the sunshine and found the fight in progress at one end of the ramshackle house. The Ashley Guards, their fine uniforms carelessly soiled, encircled two men wrestling for possession of an ancient Hall breechloader: the Lemke cousins, ill-tempered cretins who ran a prosperous farm nearby.
Wizened Francis hurried to his brother. "Drunk as owls, both of them. Better fetch some of the niggers — these boys are enjoying themselves too much to help us stop it."
No doubt about that. A couple of the guards sniggered at Justin's sopping pants and the visible quarter-globe of his paunch above. "Christ, can't you discipline them?" he whispered to Francis. "Must I always be the one?"
He wasn't going to be the one this time. Each of the Lemkes had two powerful hands on the contested weapon, and each pulled hard on it. One Lemke rammed his head forward and sank teeth into the other's shoulder, biting deeply enough to bring blood through the uniform. No, thank you, thought Justin, and walked away; he'd find four or five bucks and make them take the risk.
One Lemke changed the position of his hands while the other forced the barrel down. Men near the muzzle backed clear. The piece went off with a smoky boom.
Justin felt a hard hit that began to burn as he pitched toward the ground. He struck chin-first, screaming in pain and outrage. A great red flower bloomed on the yellow field of his buttocks.
17
At Mont Royal, the large rice plantation on the west bank of the Ashley River above Charleston, the present head of the Main family faced a decision similar to the one confronting his friend George Hazard.
From boyhood, Orry Main had wanted to be a soldier. He had graduated in the West Point class of '46 and taken part in some of the hottest action of the Mexican War. At Churubusco, outside Mexico City, he had lost his left arm, partly because of the cowardice and enmity of Elkanah Bent. The injury had forced Orry to abandon his cherished dream of a military career.
Difficult years followed his return to South Carolina. He fell helplessly in love with Justin LaMotte's wife, and she with him, though honor had restricted their long affair to occasional secret meetings without the physical consummation both of them wanted.
Now, tangled events had brought Madeline under his roof to stay. Whether they'd be able to marry legally was another question. The state's divorce law was complex, and LaMotte was doing everything possible to prevent Madeline from gaining her freedom. He was doing that despite a circumstance that would have driven most white Southern men to a directly opposite course. Madeline's mother had been a beautiful New Orleans quadroon. Madeline was one-eighth black, which mattered little to Orry. Though the truth would have been a powerful weapon against Justin, she had lacked the cruelty to use it. But she had certainly imagined the scene of revelation, particularly his reaction, often enough.
In the small office building from which his father and his father's father had run the plantation, Orry sat at the old, littered desk confronting still another issue: papers he must sign if he were to show his loyalty and support the new Confederate government with part of his earnings. It was a humid afternoon, typical for the low country in July. In peacetime, he and Madeline more than likely would have escaped to a summer residence upcountry, where cooler weather prevailed.
Hazy sunshine splashed the office windows. The air smelled of violets and the perfume of the sweet olive, which he could always bring to mind no matter how far from Mont Royal he traveled. Wishing he didn't have to wade through the document in hand, he watched an inch-long palmetto bug scurry along a light-burnished sill near his desk, bound from dark to dark. As are we all.
He shook his head, irritated with himself. But the mood refused to pass. Melancholy times brought melancholy feelings.
Conversation, occasional laughter or singing reached him from the nearby kitchen building. He comprehended none of what he heard. His thoughts had turned from the papers to the commission that had been offered to him — staff duty in the Richmond office of Bob Lee, the veteran officer whose loyalty to his native Virginia had forced him to leave the federal army. Lee was presently the special military adviser to Jefferson Davis.
The prospect of desk duty didn't thrill Orry, though he supposed it was unrealistic to expect a field command. Not entirely so, however; not if Richmond was inclined to follow the example of the enemy. An officer Orry had heard about but never met in Mexico, Phil Kearny, had also lost his left arm there — and he was now a brigadier commanding Union volunteers.
Though his sense of duty was strong, he hesitated to accept the commission for a number of other reasons. Davis was said to be difficult. A brave soldier — a West Point man — he was notorious for wanting to lead troops and, in lieu of that, for maintaining tight control of those who did.
Further, Orry's sister Ashton and her husband, James Huntoon, were in Richmond, where Huntoon held some government job. When Orry had discovered the malicious part Ashton played in the near-murder of Billy Hazard, he had ordered her and her husband to leave Mont Royal and never return. The thought of being anywhere near them repelled him.
Next, he had no overseer. Younger men he might have hired had all rushed off to serve. An older one with brains and enough physical strength for the job couldn't be found. He had advertised in the Charleston and Columbia papers and heard from three applicants, all unacceptable.
Most important, his mother was in poor health. And he hated to leave Madeline. That was not merely selfishness. If he were gone, Justin might try to strike at her for the damage she had done to his face and his reputation.
The slaves might pose a threat as well. He hadn't discussed it with Madeline — he didn't want to alarm her unnecessarily — but he had begun to detect subtle changes in the demeanor and behavior of some of the bucks. In the past, harsh discipline had seldom been necessary at Mont Royal and never condoned, except once — a cat-hauling ordered by his late father. In the current situation, Cousin Charles's boyhood friend Cuffey was the most notable offender; he bore watching.
Reluctantly, Orry redirected his attention to the thick, blue-backed document ornamented with seals impressed in wax. If he signed, he would be agreeing to surrender a substantial portion of his rice profits for the year in exchange for government bonds of equal value. This so-called produce loan had been conceived to help finance the war for which Orry, like his friend George, had scant enthusiasm. Orry understood the futility of the South's military adventure because he understood some simple figures first called to his attention, dourly, by his brother Cooper.