Crescent City Part 43

I'm really not as clever about people as I thought I was, Miriam told herself when f.a.n.n.y had left the room. See how Eulalie has surprised me! And what about the slaves? If they had revolted while all the men were away at the front, the Confederacy would have collapsed, there could be no doubt of it. Pelagie, intending no unkindness, believed it was because they were inferior and didn't have enough intelligence. Faithful oxen, she called them. Other people, though, including Miriam herself, were apt to say that their loyalty was a mask and that the revolt would surely come. But it had not come.

No, I am really not keen at seeing what is inside of other people. It is a serious defect, I am afraid.

Richmond fell.

A letter from Andre, posted in Richmond just before the fall, arrived at last.

Miriam's hands fumbled at it, while her heart's dull thudding sounded in her ears. Her heart was behaving as if it were afraid of something.

I shall be in Louisiana again before long. I have news for you. Oh, Miriam, I can't wait!

The script itself was large and confident, commanding her to read it again. She read the few words half a dozen times, still with that dull thudding in her ears.

And read on: Jefferson Davis says that the loss of Richmond will not be a hopeless calamity. The army is mobile and can keep on striking. They are saying that Lee will retreat to Danville to unite with Johnston, and following the railroad, will cross the Appomattox River, but I do not think he can do it.

This pessimism, so unlike Andre, had sounded like a doomsday bell in her ears, almost as if he had spoken the words aloud. Her sense of sorrowful foreboding astounded her: The defeat of the Confederacy was, after all, what she had wanted and expected! It had had to be. And yet there was all this pity, this regret in her.

I do not think he can do it. He had not done it. The letter had reached Miriam after Lee's surrender. She held it thoughtfully, then laid it down and picked up the newspaper again.

"Men," Lee said, "we have fought through the war together. I have done the best I could for you. My heart is too full to say more."

And she read about how Lee had asked that his men be allowed to keep their horses for spring plowing, and how Grant had a.s.sented; she read about the men in gray falling in line to stack their arms, and how some wept, and, again to her own astonishment, she wept, too. She thought of all the dead young men, the blue and the gray, now mouldering in the earth. And she thought about Gabriel, who had followed Lee to the end.

She put the paper aside. Why, she ought to be thinking of Andre! Soon he would be here .... But what had happened to the joy? Oh, it was because there were too many things to be decided! Her mind was too full, she told herself, tapping her nails on the tabletop. Yes, there was simply too much to do.

Last night Ferdinand had asked her where they should go, now that the war was over. He had made the question sound rhetorical, but in truth he was asking for his daughter's guidance; since Emma's death he had become more acquiescent, putting all decisions, without admitting that he was doing so, into his daughter's hands. Should they go back to New Orleans now? The house would be returned to them, surely, And she knew he wanted to go.

But how were they just to walk away from the land? Once she had seen this place only as a refuge, a kind of safe prison to shelter them through the war. She could remember her own shuddering dread of the long, useless days .... These last years, though, had been different years. Here the family had survived. The land had responded to their labor and kept them alive. It seemed as if now they must owe it something in return.

In the enclosure across the lane a small flock of new sheep, two ewes saved from the wreckage, followed by two lambs, ambled and grazed in peace.

Nearer, in the yard where they had been a.s.sembling for hours, the dark people waited for Miriam. For them, unlike the sheep, peace would be less simple than they probably expected it to be on this morning of their glory, their emanc.i.p.ation day. She tried to imagine, to feel how this must be, this fulfillment of a hope that had for generations gone unanswered; now that it was here it must be past believing! She supposed they must be dazed with the enormity of their rejoicing, as is the way when a grand wish comes true. In and out of the house since breakfast time, as she tried to prepare herself for the meeting, she had observed the differences among these varied individuals, as they jostled and argued among themselves, confronted as they were for the first time in their lives with choices, and uncertain which to take. She had seen many faces: ashamed and furtive eyes, sullen and defiant mouths, a.s.serting themselves so that she would be sure to hear: "This land is mine, I worked it and it belongs to me now." While others proclaimed their plans for up North "to get my plenty, because there's piles of gold up there."

Simeon was prepared to leave, but his wife Chloe, so f.a.n.n.y reported, had told him he would first have to get himself a job and her a house. Until then she would stay where she had a roof over her head. They had had a violent quarrel, and Simeon had departed, picked up a knapsack and stalked off down the road.

So it had gone since daybreak.

Having seen all this, Miriam's mouth went dry with apprehension. Yet it was necessary to face the people and get it over with. She went outside to stand on the verandah, looking down upon them, trying again to imagine herself in their places. Unable to do that, she decided simply to tell the forthright truth.

"Today there are no more masters, as you know. Today you're free to go wherever you wish. Perhaps some of you already know where you want to go, and if that's so, I will say good-bye and wish you good luck. But others of you may have no place, and if you want to stay here, if you feel this is your home, you may stay. I'll tell you what I will do. I will pay you wages. But you will have to work, to make a crop that I can sell. Otherwise, I'll have no money to pay wages, you understand that, don't you?"

Some nodded, while others looked perplexed. One young fellow stepped forward.

"How much, missis? How much will you pay?"

"Ten dollars a month," she said, and as a low grumble began to rise from the back rows, she said quickly, "You forget, you have a house and food and medicine when you're sick. You'll have everything you need, as you always have had. And money besides, if you work well. But if you don't work well," she said more boldly now, "I'll hire somebody else and tell you to leave. That's the way it will be from now on. That's all I have to tell you, except that-well, I should like you to remember that we, my husband and I, always treated you well. Some others didn't, but we always did. I should just like you to remember that. And now I'll wait here on the verandah while you decide, and come and tell me, each of you, whether you go or stay."

There was then a general movement on the lawn, a milling and cl.u.s.tering, a hubbub of palaver. Maxim and Chanute were engaged in what appeared to be a fiery quarrel under Eugene's giant beech tree.

Presently Maxim came to Miriam and, removing his cap as he always had, declared, "Missis, Chanute and I, we've had a big fight. I think Chanute's gone crazy. All that big talk about gold, when anybody can see this whole country close to starving. Where's the gold coming from? So he can go if he wants, but I stay. I stay and keep this place for you. Then maybe after a while you'll raise my wages."

She had a swift picture of the two, as alike as twins in their lace-cuffed jackets, bizarre in their blackness as though they had come to the German village from another world, which indeed they had.

"You've never been apart, you and Chanute."

Maxim looked as though he were going to cry. "I know. Everything's gone crazy. But I'm not going to go crazy."

When Sisyphus appeared, he actually was crying.

"I stay, Miss Miriam. Didn't you know I would? I was born to Miss Emma's people, I came with her when she married Mr. Ferdinand, and I laid Miss Emma to rest in the tomb. Where would I go? This is my home."

One by one they kept coming, either to announce with timid relief that they would stay, or with a kind of defiance that they would go. Some even left in anger without a word.

When at last it was over, Miriam thought that this was the hardest day's work she had done in her life.

"Do you think this wage arrangement will work?" asked Ferdinand.

"Never," a.s.serted Eulalie.

But Rosa had another opinion.

"I've heard that in New Orleans, under Union control, they found that free labor produced a hogshead and a half more sugar in a day than slaves produce."

"We shall see" was Miriam's only reply.

The hardest was yet to come. In the morning, when f.a.n.n.y brought a basin of hot water to Miriam's room, she did not set it down and leave as usual, but paused instead with one hand on the doorjamb. Her dark eyes roved about the room as if she were searching or memorizing.

"What is it, f.a.n.n.y? You want to tell me something?"

"I do. And I can't bring myself to do it."

"Say it. I won't be angry even if it's something bad. Is it something bad?"

f.a.n.n.y's mouth trembled into the square, ugly shape of sorrow. "I don't know whether you'll call it bad or not."

All at once Miriam knew. She was stunned; others would leave, she had expected them to, but it had not entered her mind that f.a.n.n.y might, any more than she could imagine Angelique saying, Mama, I don't want to be your daughter anymore.

She raised her head in a gesture of proud acceptance: "You're going away, that's it, isn't it?"

f.a.n.n.y nodded. Her pleading eyes did nothing to a.s.suage the hurt that lumped itself in Miriam's throat. She wanted to say, We were children together, does that mean so little to you? I thought you were contented here, happy here.

And suddenly words poured from f.a.n.n.y.

"Miss Miriam, I have to go! I don't want to, but I have to. There's a part of me that says one way and a part that says the other. Blaise says we've never done anything, we don't know anything, and now we've got our chance. You can see he's right, can't you?"

I suppose I can see, but I don't want to, Miriam thought.

"I've a pain right here." f.a.n.n.y put her hand on her heart, "A pain."

Miriam smiled sadly. "And in your head. It aches with thinking about what you'll do with your life, I know. You said that to me once, on a very hard day."

f.a.n.n.y's eyes pleaded still. Like the eyes of an intelligent child asking mutely to be understood, they widened and shone. Suddenly the lump, the wound, in Miriam's throat, dissolved. She could have said, You will never again be as comfortable as you have been in this house, but she did not say it. Instead, she held out her arms.

"Of course you must go, it's the only way, and G.o.d bless you, f.a.n.n.y, wherever you go."

"I never thought, after all Lincoln did to us, that I could feel sorry about his death," Pelagie said. "But now that he's been murdered one thinks how good he really was. And our southern papers call the crime 'barbaric,' too." She held the newspaper up to the light of the terrabene lamp. "They call him a generous man. They say Johnson won't be like him, either."

Ferdinand sighed. "Read David's letter again. Read what he says about Lincoln."

"'As you know,'" Miriam began, "'the a.s.sa.s.sination came on the fifth day of Pa.s.sover. Everyone went into mourning. Here in New York the temple was draped in black. What a debt we as Jews, let alone as citizens, owe to that man! At the memorial exercises fifteen lodges of B'nai Brith were in the march. I carried a banner myself. It was heavy for me, I'm still not back to hundred-percent strength, but getting closer to it every day, and so grateful to be alive, to know that you're well and that the war, and the slaughter, are over, that I'd have gone twice the distance if I'd had to. So there was thankfulness, in the midst of the deepest grief.'"

"That was New York," Eulalie said. "There are plenty of people in this country who are not mourning that man's death, I a.s.sure you. And as for the war being over, the South was beaten only because of greater numbers and nothing else. The spirit was here and it still is, and what's more, always will be."

Ferdinand made haste to keep peace in the room.

"Courage! We have a new fight now, the fight with poverty." He smiled ruefully. "I feel as if I've been here before. Well, I was, back in Europe when I was much younger than any of you, and Napoleon had laid the continent to waste." He looked at Miriam, adding with some of his old jaunty confidence, "We'll manage. I did once. We'll do it again."

The confidence was pathetic. In reality Ferdinand was as helpless before this turn of events as someone whose boat is caught at the crest of a flood. But who has to appear able to keep it from capsizing. And in so appearing, Ferdinand was most touchingly brave.

In the very early morning a shredded mist hung like spiders' webs in the trees. Racc.o.o.ns were still scuttling in the scrub swamp and birds were just waking up; the red sun was barely risen when Miriam went outside. Each morning, it seemed, she awoke earlier than on the day before, for sleep came hard. Where was life taking her? To stifle an anxiety like that, one got up early and filled one's hours with other problems.

Of these there were more than enough. Sunflowers, those great, gawky, hot-looking things, had spread themselves over into what should have been a flourishing vegetable patch and was not. The help were neglecting the work most disgracefully. The stables were never properly cleaned. Right now cows were moaning in the barn; it was long past milking time. Yards and yards of fence had not yet been mended. The big house needed paint. She sighed. The whole place probably wouldn't fetch more than ten thousand dollars, if one could find somebody to buy it.

A door slammed as Eugene and Angelique came out of the house.

"Go do something," their mother commanded. "Maybe you can set an example. One of you feed the chickens and the other bring some eggs to the kitchen."

She watched them as in their clumsy, wood-soled shoes they walked toward the chicken house, and saw them disappear inside. When they reappeared, Eugene was carrying the tub of grain. It pleased her that he took the heavy work for himself without being told. There was something protective in his manner toward Angelique now that they were fairly past the age of childish squabbles, something that reminded Miriam of herself and David.

Oh, be fair! There's much of their father in them, too! David's scowls don't cross young Eugene's forehead. Quite possibly the scowl is just not natural to him, but if it were, his father would not have allowed it. Disciplined according to their place and their social cla.s.s, these two are dutiful and compliant. Eugene is affable and Angelique, in her dawning vanity, is charming. She wants some proper clothes, and I wish she had some. But if she had them, where would she wear them, the way things are now?

The hens made a circular cl.u.s.ter at their feet, cackling under the dusty shower of grain. A wry little smile crossed Miriam's lips. What would their father have said of such a rural vignette? Of his son, his daughter, the Mendes' heir and heiress, in a chicken yard? No matter, she told herself. Work won't hurt them. They're lucky to have it, to have anything in these times, to be alive at all.

And staring across dry, sallow fields on which the morning's heat had already begun to quiver, she saw through the white dazzle long rows of bloodied men lying on the floor in Richmond, saw again the woman whose begging hands had reached out for milk- "What now, Mama?" asked Angelique.

"Find out from Maxim whether he needs you for something. He's overworked, and he never asks for any help."

"Sisyphus, too," Eugene said. "He was down at the barn yesterday helping to lift a wagon while they fixed a wheel. He's too old. I made him stop and took his place."

"Tell me," Miriam said suddenly, "what changed you, Eugene? When did you change sides in this war? It's still not clear to me."

He answered, "I don't think I did quite that. I've not been a traitor."

"I don't mean you are. I mean your thoughts."

"About the system? I don't know exactly. It just came to me, when I had to work to keep things going here, and I saw more of the way life was, how hard. It just came to me."

A basic kindness, she thought gladly. A basic decency, that's all it was. But she wondered whether he could have changed direction if his father had lived to keep the old, strong hold upon him. Had that gruesome death perhaps released the son to become what he was?

She said only, "Here's Maxim. Maxim, these helpers want to know whether you need them for anything."

"No, ma'am, I'm doing fine. Shouldn't they be at their books this morning?"

"It wouldn't hurt. Why don't you get to your German grammar, both of you? I'll test you on it later."

A pity she hadn't had more of an education herself with which to help them through these lost years! German was about all she knew enough of to teach. Still, it was better than nothing.

Maxim reflected, as they walked away, "Seems like last week they were born in this house."

Last week, and a hundred years ago! So sweetly they had lain in their baskets .... David had come home to stay .... The river boat had whistled, landing guests and gifts ... fruit and flowers, music and wine .... Gabriel had come home ....

"They're a real credit to you," Maxim was saying. "Kind young folks. Quality. Real quality."

"A credit to you, too, and to Blaise and f.a.n.n.y and Sisyphus, remember. You all helped raise them."

A field hand, hearing Miriam's voice, came around the corner of the barn.

"Morning, missis. You're out early."

"I'm always out early. There's work to be done."

"I was thinking, missis, maybe we should shoot that old Pepper there. That used to be one feisty mule, but there's sure no pepper left in him now."

The old mule's tail swished casually, as with head hung over the fence, he crunched a sheaf of gra.s.s between his long yellow teeth. His wary, melancholy eyes regarded Miriam.

All of life's pathos was concentrated in the mule.

"Leave him alone. There'll be no more shooting," she said, and tearing another handful of gra.s.s, she thrust it into the soft, snuffling mouth.

"And listen," she commanded, "I want pine straw in the cattle barn this morning. Cows get sick lying in the wet."

"Yes, missis. Right away, missis."

No one had ever taught her how to care for cattle, but most things were only a matter of common sense, anyway.

She went back to the house to polish what was left of the silver. Only the week before she had gone with Rosa to retrieve the silver they had once so carefully hidden, and found half of it missing. The service that Eugene had given Miriam when they were married was safe in its place, but Emma's, buried with equal discretion, or so they had thought, was gone. Someone must have been watching them that night. Too bad it was Emma's! Miriam wouldn't have minded the loss of her own as much as the loss of Papa's; things meant so much to him.

In the dining room the coffee service waited on the table. Miriam sat down to work with the polishing rag. There was a certain satisfaction in making things clean, in bringing order with one's own hands, even though Sisyphus was still horrified to see the lady of the house at such labor.

Ferdinand came in to watch her. For a few minutes he waited without speaking. Then suddenly he interrupted the regular tick of the clock.

"You're getting to look like your mother."

"I never thought I did."

He had startled her. She couldn't even remember when he had last spoken of her mother.

"I've been seeing her lately. I hadn't in years," Ferdinand said. He mused. "She wore a plaid shawl the first time I laid eyes on her."