"Thank you, sir. I'll think on it and speak to you again."
"Can you read or write, Andy?"
"Nigras reading and writing is against the law. I could be whipped if I said yes."
"Not here. Answer the question."
"I can't do either."
"Would you learn if you had the chance?"
Andy estimated the danger before he replied. "Yes, sir, I would. Reading, ciphering — they help a man get ahead in the world." A deep swallow, then he blurted, "I might be free one day. Then I'd need it more than ever."
Orry smiled to relieve the black man's apprehension. "That's a wise outlook. Glad we had this talk. I've never known much about you, but I think you can be of great service on this plantation. You will get ahead."
"Thank you," Andy said, holding up the money. "For this, too."
Orry nodded, watching the strong young man turn toward the door. Some would have whipped Andy for his admission; Orry wished he had a dozen more with similar initiative.
Night had fallen while they talked. In the distance, big frogs made a sound like drums with cracked heads; the cicada obbligato was pleasanter. Andy wasn't tall, Orry observed as he watched the slave walk down the path, but his stride — and his nature — made it seem otherwise.
In the morning, Orry rode to the day's work site to look for Cicero. He didn't see him. Cuffey curbed his ranting until Orry passed by, then doubled the volume. Orry proceeded to the slave cabins and dismounted before that belonging to Cicero and his wife. A naked, merry-faced boy of five was urinating against one of the tabby pillars. Cicero's wife heard Orry shoo the boy away and rushed outside.
"Where's your husband, Missy?"
"Inside, Mist' Orry. He, uh, not working today. He just a little sickly."
"I'd like to see him."
Her response — a burst of nearly incoherent statements amounting to refusal — confirmed that something was wrong. He pushed her aside gently and entered the clean, bare cabin just as Cicero groaned.
Orry swore under his breath. The aging slave lay on a pallet of ticking, arms folded over his stomach, face contorted. Dried blood and matter showed on his closed, discolored eyelids. His forehead bore similar marks. No doubt Cuffey had used his truncheon.
"I'll send for the doctor to look at him, Missy," he said as he rejoined her on the porch. "I'll also see this matter is put to rights before the day's done."
She caught his hand and pressed it. She was crying too hard to speak.
By afternoon, it was broiling. Orry nevertheless built a fire in the iron stove in his office before summoning Cuffey from the fields. When Cuffey walked in — he had his truncheon, as Orry had anticipated — there were no formalities.
"I should have sold you instead of Anne. I'll take this."
He yanked the truncheon from Cuffey's hand, opened the stove door, and threw the stick into the fire.
"You are no longer head driver. You're a field hand again. I saw what you did to Cicero, for God knows what ridiculous reason. Get out of here."
Next morning, an hour after sunup, Orry again spoke to Andy in the office.
"I want you to be the head driver." Andy gave a small, quick nod of consent. "I'm putting a lot of trust in you, Andy. I don't know you well, and these are difficult times. I know some of the people feel a strong pull to run away to Yankee territory. I won't be forgiving if anyone tries that and I catch him or her — as I most likely will. I don't engage in cruelty, but I won't be forgiving. Clear?"
Andy nodded again.
"One more thing. You remember that our former overseer, Salem Jones, whom I caught stealing and discharged, carried a stick. Evidently the late Mr. Jones impressed Cuffey. He adopted the idea. I should have taken Cuffey's truncheon away the first time I saw it."
Andy's lids flickered as he stored the new word in memory. Orry finished by saying, "Carrying a stick shows a man is weak, not strong. I don't want to find you with one."
"I don't need one," Andy said, looking him straight in the eye.
That was how the delicate card house had collapsed. Orry had started to build another when he put Andy in Cuffey's place.
He had soon learned that most of the people liked the change. Orry was well satisfied, too. Not only was Andy quick-witted and hardy enough to work long hours, but he also had a knack for leading rather than driving the others. He was neither craven nor truculent; he had somehow acquired an inner strength in which he had absolute confidence. He didn't need to dramatize it to convince himself of his worth.
The trust Orry had placed in him — on a hunch and an impulse, mostly — created an unspoken but real attachment between the two men. Once or twice Orry had heard his father speak of loving certain of his people as he would love a child of his own loins. For the first time Orry began to have some comprehension of why Tillet Main might have said that.
Much of this flowed through Orry's mind as he lay beside Madeline, but what came last was a disturbing image. Cuffey's face. Wrathful — far more so since the end of his short tenure as driver. Cuffey had to be watched now; he would spread discontent. Orry could easily identify half a dozen of the people who might be receptive.
On balance, the situation, while not ideal, was not as bad as it had been a week ago. Orry believed that if he accepted the post in Richmond, Andy would protect Madeline in the event of trouble. Feeling good about that, he fell asleep.
A week later, he received an unexpected letter.
Deir Sir,
My cozin who resides in Charleston, S.C., shewed me your advertisement for job of overseer, I have the honr to prezent myself to your atention, Philemon Meek, age 64 yers but in the prim of helth and gretly experienced —
"There's a big one he got right." Orry laughed as he and Madeline strolled through the formal garden to the river at twilight of the day the letter came. "He didn't get many of the others."
"Could you take a chance on a man so poorly educated?"
"I could if he's had the right experience. The rest of this seems to suggest he has. He says I'm to get a letter of reference from his present employer, an elderly widower with a tobacco plantation up near Raleigh; no children and no will to keep the place going. Meek would like to buy it but can't afford it. The place is to be broken into small farms."
They reached the pier jutting into the smooth-flowing Ashley. On the other side, in shallows beneath Spanish moss, three white egrets stood like statuary. Orry slapped a mite on his neck. The smack sent the birds swooping away into the river's dark distances.
"There's only one difficulty with Mr. Meek," Orry continued, sinking down on an old cask. "He won't be at liberty until sometime in the fall. Says he won't leave until his employer is properly settled with a sister who's to take him in."
"That kind of attitude recommends him."
"Definitely," Orry agreed. "I doubt I'll find anyone better qualified. I think I should write him and begin salary negotiations."
"Yes, indeed. Does he have a wife or a family?"
"Neither."
Quietly, her eyes on the smooth water specked occasionally by insects too small to be seen, she said, "I've been wanting to ask — how do you feel about the latter?"
"I want children, Madeline."
"Considering what you know about my mother?"
"What I know about you is far more important." He kissed her mouth. "Yes, I do want children."
"I'm glad to hear you say it. Justin thought I was barren, though I always suspected the fault was his. We should find out soon enough — I can't imagine two people working harder at the question than we've been doing, can you?" She squeezed his arm, and they laughed together.