Andrew's revolver was as familiar to him as Charlotte had been. The long browned barrel was white at the muzzle from much firing; that chip on the grip was where he'd cracked some nigger's skull.
As the moon rose, a pregnant vixen came out of the bushes to fish for crayfish. Andrew considered shooting her but decided not to.
To the merciful shall mercy be given.
At first light, Andrew Ravanel, late Colonel, C.S.A., went inside to write a letter to his firstborn son and shot himself.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Legacies
The Chapeau Rouge had just closed when a heavy knock brought Mac- Beth to the door. He cracked it open and then slammed it shut. "Miss Belle ... They's some mens, Miss Belle, wants talk to you.”
"At this time of night? Who ...”
"Miss Belle ..." MacBeth was rigid with fear. "They ain't wearin' no hoods, but they's Kluxers.”
Belle ran to her bedroom for her revolver, and when she returned, Mac- Beth had vanished.
Belle stood indecisively, listening to feet shuffle on the porch. She took a deep breath, cocked her revolver, and jerked the door open. "Jesus Christ," she gasped.
Isaiah Watling slapped his daughter's cheek so hard, she almost pulled the trigger. "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”
"Poppa! After twenty years you hit me...”
"Why didn't you tell me, Daughter? Why didn't you say something?”
A younger man was with Isaiah and a third at the curb held their horses.
Belle was trembling so violently, she used both hands to uncock her revolver.
"I trusted him, Daughter. I believed the man who dishonored you was a Christian gentleman.”
The porch creaked when the younger man shifted his weight. He cleared his throat. " 'Lo, Cousin Belle.”
At her father's impatient gesture, the young man withdrew into the shadows.
"We were young, Poppa," Belle said. "Was you ever young?”
"No," Isaiah said, "I had no time to be young.”
His eyebrows were untrimmed. He had clumps of hair in his nostrils and ears. Belle smelled the bitter metallic stink of an outraged soul.
"You have your mother's eyes." Isaiah pursed his lips. "I'd forgotten that." His curt head shake buried that memory. "I trusted Colonel Ravanel.
I trusted him.”
"Andrew loved me, Poppa. I cried when I heard ... what he done to himself.”
Isaiah rubbed his hand across his face. "Colonel Ravanel left things for the boy — his pistol, watch, a note...”
"My Tazewell is a gentleman, Poppa," Belle insisted. "He's got schooling and he's in the cotton business in New Orleans. He even bought himself a house!" Belle rubbed her cheek.
He said, "I should never have come to the Low Country. Your mother hated to leave Mundy Hollow, but I said we had to start over somewheres else. So we come to Broughton. I was Master Butler's man, body and soul, for thirty-two years. Thirty-two years, body and soul.”
"This parcel... it's from Tazewell's father?”
"Only ones besides us at the Colonel's burying were Yankees lookin' for Klansmen.”
"Uncle Isaiah never held with the Klan." Belle's cousin grinned at her.
"Uncle Isaiah's ... 'fussy.' Him 'n' me, we found the Colonel. We was going to spirit him away to Texas, but the Colonel got his own self away first.
I reckon he would have done right good in Texas.”
"This is Josie, Abraham's son.”
Josie touched his hat. "Pleased to meet you, cuz. Nice place you got.
That's Archie Flytte with the horses.”
Belle's hands trembled. "Father, did you love Mama?”
"Your mother was devout.”
"Did you love her?”
"Daughter, I love the Lord.”
Belle had believed her father was a simple man; she'd never before guessed how much his simplicity cost him.
"Colonel Ravanel lied to me," Isaiah said. "And your brother, Shadrach, died for Colonel Ravanel's lie. Shadrach never had no days to repent of his sins.”
An unkind thought flashed through Belle's mind: Shadrach died because he'd challenged a better shot.
Josie said, "Dead is dead.”
"Rhett Butler lied.”
"He never did. Rhett never said nothin'. He just let 'em believe whatever they wanted to believe.”
"Butler murdered your brother and disgraced his parents. Honor thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long upon the land the Lord thy God has given you.”
"Even now, after all this hurtfulness ..." Belle's hands opened and closed helplessly. "You can't forgive?”
Belle's father handed her the parcel. "By my lights, I did my best.”
The parcel was heavier than it looked. "I reckon we all do the best we can," Belle said. "Won't you come in? I've a picture of your grandson.”
For one moment, she thought Isaiah was going to take off his hat and step inside. They'd go to the kitchen — they wouldn't need to be in the business part of the house. She'd make coffee for her father. She remembered he took sugar in his coffee — heaping tablespoons of sugar.
Isaiah Watling touched the package. "Give these to your son." He turned away.
"Uncle likes to say our day will come," Josie observed, "but it ain't come yet.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Ashley's Birthday Party
Melanie was preparing a surprise birthday party — Ashley's first since the barbecue at Twelve Oaks, eleven years ago, when he and she had announced their betrothal.
The Wilkeses' home was nearly ready. The mantelpiece had been scrubbed with Sapolio, the gilt mirror frame had been dusted, every grate and stove was freshly blacked, and the winter carpets had been taken up and brushed. Pork and Peter had sprinkled tobacco on them before carrying them to the attic.
As chairwoman of the Confederate Widows and Orphans Society, Melanie knew all Georgia's Confederate greats: General John Gordon, five times wounded at Sharpsburg; Robert Augustus Toombs, Confederate Senator and Secretary of State; even Alexander Stephens had accepted Melanie's invitation. Vice President Stephens's two-volume justification of secession, A Constitutional View of the Late War Between the States, had pride of place in many Southern households (where it was more honored than read). Ashley's spinster sister, India, wanted the book beside the family Bible in the parlor, but Melanie said no. "What if someone decides to raise a constitutional issue with Mr. Stephens? What will happen to Ashley's party then?" Mr. Stephens's volumes remained locked in the bookcase.
India was an efficient worker, but she upset the negroes. When set to a task, Aunt Pittypat managed — she'd polished all the glassware, including that borrowed for the occasion — but left to her own devices, Pitty flittered from one unfinished task to another. Only Scarlett worked without instructions.
Scarlett was the best negro driver, too.
Since preparations were moving along nicely, Melanie took a cup of tea to the second-floor landing, her desk, and her interrupted letter to Rosemary.
Melanie entirely approved of Rosemary's decision to teach at the Female Seminary. "You have suffered a terrible grief, dear friend. The children will heal you as you instruct them.”
She tapped the pen against her teeth, thinking.
As for myself... when I learned I could have no more children, I assumed I would be as satisfied with the warmth that attends lovemaking as by the lovemaking itself. Ashley is an affectionate husband but absent the — if you will permit me — "tender violence" of the act — I am blushing, dear friend — our heart passion fades year by year, unvarying season by unvarying season. Oh, I know, a decent woman shouldn't desire her husbands ardent embraces, but...