The Seige Of Dragonard Hill Part 16

Holding her head at a pert angle, Vicky said, 'Veronica, I would not be so sanctimonious if I were you. Everyone knows why white females chase after. . . black men.'

'Why, Vicky?' Veronica demanded, her fingers curling in anger as she sat to the edge of her chair. 'Tell me why!'

'You tell me, my dear. Or isn't your. . . Royal built quite so big as other bucks?'

Veronica forced herself from flying across the table and striking Vicky on the face. She fought to keep a balance to her voice as she said, There is more to life-and love- Vicky, than the . . . size of a man's genitals. But that is one thing you obviously have never discovered. That is why you are having such a miserable life.'

'My life is not miserable!' Vicky quickly retorted.

'You are very wretched!' Veronica argued. 'Do not try to play games with me. You do not write letters home to your husband. None arrive for you. You rarely talk about your child. I would not even be surprised if you do not return to Cuba!'

'And why wouldn't I?"

'Possibly because your good husband might not want you coming back home. It could very possibly be that you conduct yourself in Havana in the same shocking way as you conduct yourself here. Sneaking into the bushes with every stranger like a... harlot!'

Vicky had received enough abuse from Veronica. She airily announced, 'The fact that I might have gone into the cottonwoods with a patroller is no reason for someone in your position to cast aspersions on my family life!'

'There! You admit it! You did . . . rut with that patroller!'

Realizing that Veronica had tricked her into confessing to a profligacy, Vicky stared in amazement at her sister. She said, 'Veronica, you are more artful than I ever gave you credit for.'

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'Stop trying to flatter me. I am a ninny and I am the first to admit it. Who but a ninny would have protected you all these years?'

'The trouble with you, Veronica, is not that you're a ninny but that you are dreary and boring!'

'Fine. Neither do I deny that. But at least my "dreary" and "boring" ways do not place other people in danger. And I am not talking about your actions merely affecting me. I mean Maybelle. Ham. Two innocent people.'

'You worry too much about n.i.g.g.e.rs.'

'And why not?'

'We are talking in circles, I think, Veronica. I think you are a n.i.g.g.e.r-lover and you think I'm a s.l.u.t. Let's leave it at that.'

'Oh, no! Let's not leave it at that. Let's start there! I fell in love with a man who happened to be black. Brown. Whatever colour you care to call him. I married him. I believe that no people-regardless of their skin colouring- should have to be placed in subjugation, bondage, slavery to another person.'

'Then I suggest that you go back to the North where other people share your sentiments. Because you are quite in the minority here! In the South!'

'I will. I intend to go home soon. But I also love my father very much. I came home to him when he needed me. And I also looked forward to seeing you and Imogen after all these years.'

'I suppose you'll have a talk with her next.'

'Imogen? Why? About what?'

'About her trying to arrange for Papa to sleep with Belladonna. '

'Stop being so disgusting, Vicky,' Veronica said, pushing a coffee cup to one side on the table, 'You always reduce everything to ... s.e.x!'

'Disgusting am I?" Vicky laughed at her sister. 'It's the truth! Imogen did plan such a thing. And it worked! But it worked too d.a.m.ned well! Why do you think Belladonna's in the kitchen? To be close at hand for Papa, that's why!'

'Vicky, you are despicable.'

I arn despicable only if I stay here listening to you speak from your pulpit in the sky, a place where a view of the 199.

world is so dim you don't even know what's happening around you!'

Standing now next to the table, Vicky continued, 'I am also in the wrong if I stay here and watch Imogen throw her cast-off lovers to my . . . father. If I stand around watching that, then, no, I do have no pride/ 'What are you implying,' Veronica asked, still seated in her chair in the breakfast alcove.

I imply nothing,' Vicky said moving toward the double white doors leading to the hallway. 'I am saying that if I embarra.s.s you, cause you trouble, I will leave. There is no reason to stay on Dragonard Hill-at least not whilst you and Imogen are here. And maybe you're right about my life in Havana. Perhaps it is not a picture of marital joy. But, by G.o.d, Veronica, the world is a big place. There's someplace in it for me. And I also intend to help my Papa. And I am certain I can help him better than all of you! I will go to New Orleans and prove that I can!'

"What good will you do in New Orleans?'

'I know more about this family than you do, Veronica. . . Selby! You concentrate on kindness and goodness in the future. I will build on the wickedness and torture we came from in the past. I know the sc.u.m, the addictions, the pa.s.sions we've picked-up along the way. You concern yourself with good will and charity, Mrs Selby. I will tend the darker side.'

Vicky opened one of the double white doors and, stepping out into the hallway, she called, 'Malou! Malou, you b.i.t.c.h! Pack my clothes! We're going to New Orleans, you voodoo b.i.t.c.hi' She slammed the door.

The brothel, Pet.i.t Jour, was the one place in New Orleans where Vicky knew she could find a likely accomplice for her plan. She regretted that Jerome Poliguet was not on the Carterville-New Orleans coach to make the tedious trip south speed more quickly but, having only sober-faced Malou, and two chubby-faced farm women for travelling companions inside the b.u.mpy public coach, Vicky employed the time brooding upon the sudden turn in Veronica's temperament.

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The thought that word about her a.s.signation with the patroller already spread in the countryside made Vicky feel relieved that at least she was escaping this backwoods community. She looked blankly at the water oaks suspending curtains of moss as the coach travelled farther south; she hoped that she would never have to go upcountry again. Home had always been misery for her.

Vicky had no idea what the future held in store for her. Considering the prospect of returning to Havana, she remembered Veronica's accusation about her not caring for her husband, of talking so little of her son.

Perhaps I am not meant to be a mother, Vicky told herself as she saw the first storage sheds oh the northern skirts of New Orleans. The prospect of being once again in a vibrant city began to revitalize her. She had always believed that a city held some secret strength for her; New Orleans was especially an elixir with its mysterious architecture, the cries of the black people, a night-long cacophony of 'hot coffee!', 'sweet pies', even 'biere du pays'- pineapple beer!

Unlike Vicky, Malou sat soberly as the coach now travelled over cobbled streets through rows of tall houses crowding one another. Malou had left many friends on Dragonard Hill. She also had left work undone there. She felt that she was abandoning the black people in Town at the moment when they might be needing her the most. She thought about the black overseer, Lloy. Something troubled her about Lloy. He was not telling everything he knew. Malou had no choice at the moment but to obey her mistress's commands and accompany her to New Orleans. Where they would go to from here was a mystery. Malou had often prayed for the gift of foretelling the future but the G.o.ds had always denied her the gift. She only knew the next point of her destiny when she heard Vicky call to the black driver of an open public carriage which they hailed at the coach-house. Vicky ordered the black-driver wearing a feather c.o.c.kade on the band of his tattered old hat, 'Hotel LaSalle!'

"You once ordered me to leave this establishment, 201.

Madam,' Vicky said as she sat across the desk from Naomi, the veiled woman who owned the bordello, Pet.i.t Jour, on Rampart Street. Vicky had come here from the Hotel LaSalle after she had bathed and changed into a crackling emerald gown-the first dress she had worn that wasn't black since she had left Havana. She held her hands pointed on the crystal k.n.o.b of a green ruffled parasol and proceeded, 'You once suggested that life's answer for me was to go home and live with my father on Dragonard Hill. I did not follow your advice. I married a Cuban. I live in Havana.'

Naomi looked at the card which Vicky had sent in with the bodyguard to Naomi's office. She said, 'Yes, I see. The Condesa Veradaga.'

'My family name was Abdee.'

'I remember you well,' Naomi a.s.sured her in a raspy voice. 'The pa.s.sage of years have not taken a toll on your attractive appearance, Miss Abdee.'

'I am called "Condesa".'

"None of your pretences, girl!' the veiled Negress named Naomi said, throwing down the card to her desk. 'Come to the point! I remember that you did not speak with a guarded tongue in the past. What do you want from me now?'

"Fine,' Vicky said, sitting primly in the chair across from Naomi. Ill tell you exactly what I want. A girl One of the most beautiful young girls you can find here in New Orleans.'

Naomi lifted her cane and, pointing its ebony tip at Malou standing soberly alongside the door, she said, "I see you have an .attendant. You do riot come here for a body slave. Usually women approach me for a handsome young man. A buck. I have the occasional request from a female for another. . . woman but-'

"I do not wish the girl for myself. I want her for my father.'

'What is the matter? Has Dragonard Hill depleted its supply of wenches?'

'My father is an honourable man, madam. He respects his slaves. He does not forcibly bed them. I recently returned home because of the death of my step-mother. She and my father were happily married. But-'

'Yes,' Naomi said. 'I heard of her death.'

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'That surprises me,' Vicky sniffed.

'Don't be so surprised. A wh.o.r.e has ears as well as a c.u.n.t!' Naomi laughed as she saw Vicky pale at her crude-ness. She said, 'Ah! the pretences of a fine t.i.tled lady. I remember you coming here swearing like a roustabout on the wharf. Let us not play games, condesa. So, your father has lost his wife. He does not want to bed a wench on the plantation because he's too humane, too considerate. And you thought I might have a little filly who..."

'Not a... wh.o.r.e, madam!'

'Oh, of course not. Not a wh.o.r.e. Not for such a fine gentleman as your father.' Tilting her veiled head, Naomi said, 'It is too bad you did not come here six months ago. The annual Octoroon Ball is held in New Orleans then. That is where most white gentlemen find the mistresses they keep in very nice little houses. These girls are illegitimate. They have impeccable pedigrees on their father's side-usually married Creoles-and their mothers are ravishing beauties. The girls are educated to be perfect ladies. The ultimate of femininity. The best a man could wish for in a mistress. Such a girl would suit your purposes.'

The idea of an octoroon girl immediately appealed to Vicky. She knew that her father would respond to a well educated young companion. She said, 'But surely you must know one who is not taken.'

Naomi smiled behind her veil. She recognized the Ab-dee eagerness in this young woman, a willingness to buy or sell anyone at anytime. Speaking about a girl as if she were a horse for a carriage. She is just like her grandfather, Naomi thought.

Rising from the chair behind her desk, Naomi said, 'Come back this evening. I'll see what I can do for you by then. At least I'll be able to give you a lead I should think.'

I am most appreciative,' Vicky began.

'Spare me the rubbish. Show your appreciation with gold if I find you something.'

Naomi did not escort Vicky and Malou to the carved door of her office but, remaining standing behind her desk, she waited until her black bodyguard returned from seeing the visitors to the courtyard.

Naomi informed the burly black man, 'I want to make some changes in tonight's theatrics. The young lady you 203.

saw is returning this evening. I will allow her to sit in one of the curtained boxes upstairs in the theatre. I want her to see that she has more than one acquaintance in New Orleans.'

For the rest of the day, Naomi remained in her office, making plans and sending messages, waiting to see what customers reserved a place for tonight's theatrics. Finally, by early evening, she heard that Jerome Poliguet had sent word to Pet.i.t Jour that he was coming later this evening as was previously arranged. Naomi then went upstairs herself. She hurried to ascend the red-carpeted stairs before the hour that Vicky was to arrive back in her office. She ordered the bodyguard to inform Vicky that she was indisposed and, whilst waiting for her, Vicky was to be escorted to a small room upstairs in the theatre herself.

Vicky stared at the white man's naked body trussed with black leather thongs by two voluptuous black women. She sat in the niche protected from the stage area by thin gauze curtains, a protection which covered her presence from the eyes of the men lounging on chaise longues encircling the stage but a curtaining which was sheer enough for her to see that the white man was Jerome Poliguet. Vicky watched with growing fascination as Poliguet gasped, moaned, struggled against his leather bindings as the Negresses pulled him toward a black woman sitting upon bales of cotton. Poliguet was trussed to be only one more bale of cotton being loaded for the North by African workers. Vicky complimented herself for having guessed that Poliguet's lean body was firm and well-proportioned, that his manhood was of a size which would have pleased her. She could see all those physical attributes from where she sat. But she also was most pleased that she had foreseen that Poliguet would have been disappointing in love-making. Vicky guessed that-regardless of his theatrical moanings and protests-he enjoyed being dragged from his chaise longue, stripped of his clothes, and tied into a bundle by domineering women. Yes, she was certain that Poliguet thoroughly enjoyed his role. And watching him now being forced to he facedown on the floor in front of a Negress and 204.

kiss the toes of her thigh-high leather boots, Vicky decided that she had yet one more favour to ask of Naomi. The bodyguard had told her that Naomi would see her after tonight's theatric. Vicky now planned how she would ask Naomi-even pay her- to allow her to partic.i.p.ate in a future theatric. Perhaps even a later performance tonight. Yes, and she would ask Naomi to keep Poliguet in bondage until that time. Vicky decided that if she was going to have a bad reputation in certain parts of Louisiana, she might as well debase herself in New Orleans as well.

Chapter Seventeen.

THE BOSTON-NEW BRUNSWICK.

Mister Reginald Snelling, Mister Cartwright Burney-Jones, Mister James Fitzpatrick, and Mister Joseph Llewelyn represented a token committee of the Board of Trustees for the Boston-New Brunswick Bank at a meeting held this grey morning in the Adams-style boardroom in the bank's main office on Beacon Street, Boston. The four sombre-suited gentlemen had a.s.sembled to give their chief clerk, Royal Selby, instructions on how to proceed-or not to proceed-with the loan of money being considered to the charitable group, The Deliverance of Neglected People to Safety.

Royal understood the four gentlemen's hesitation to speak in specific terms about the society they were to discuss at this meeting, a charity which he knew them all to be members of, but, nonetheless, a group unchartered by the State of Ma.s.sachussetts and considered to be financially as well as politically risky for any bank to have dealings.

The state of Ma.s.sachusetts was known for its cotton mills in Lowell, Hutton, other industrial towns; the mills' chief source of cotton came from the South; the South's work force was slave labour; Royal knew the commercial dangers for a bank as esteemed as the Boston-New Brunswick to be connected in any way to a charity such as The Deliverance of Neglected People to Safety-a t.i.tle thinly disguising the fact that the society a.s.sisted black slaves escape to freedom in the North.

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Since the days when Peter Abdee had first written to the Boston-New Brunswick Bank and found employment for his future son-in-law as a teller there, Royal had enjoyed considerate, pleasant treatment from everyone on every level within the bank. He had expected to be greeted by a stony wall of emotionless civility but, instead, had been warmly welcomed as a member of a small community of businessmen and their wives.

Royal's dedication to his job, and his long hours of study at night to improve his knowledge of accounting and commercial banking, had helped his progress at the bank. He and Veronica had both decided to keep themselves away from social affairs as much as possible, not to flaunt their marriage to eyes in Boston which were supposedly easily shocked by appearances.

The first hint that there was a faction within the bank- indeed in the entire city of Boston-which was violently opposed to slave-owners had been made to Royal when the bank vice-president, Mister Reginald Snelling, asked him if he would care to contribute in a modest way to a charity.

That had been four years ago. The charity had been The Deliverance of Neglected People to Safety. And in the meantime, Royal had learned more about the South from the four members of the bank's board than he had learned about the South in the entire time he had lived there.

Snelling, Burney-jones, Fitzpatrick, and Llewelyn kept a growing list of names in the South-farmers, ministers of the church, businessmen-who not only contributed to the same charity but wrote covert letters in which they offered accommodations for 'Victims' to be enjoyed at a time when the society saw it financially able to bring its first 'testimonial' north.

The costs of bringing slaves from the South were surprisingly high; steamboat and railway pa.s.sages were needed, bribes were necessary on many occasions; even military uniform. But most important were funds to create new jobs for the victims here in the North. The society had a small fund to date but, as each of the members had to be careful as to how much he or she could personally donate, the society hoped to establish a loan from the Boston-New Brunswick Bank to cover major expenses. The ostensible 207.

reason of the loan was to build a meeting house in Boston. The truth was-at long last-the society was going to bring the first slaves north. Royal had seized the opportunity of Veronica returning to Dragonard Hill as a ploy to alert their members in Louisiana, Mississipi, Tennessee that the plan was at long last going to be put into effect. He did not want to involve Veronica personally in the venture, though, not to ensnare her with information and details which might make her a criminal suspect, perhaps even to face execution.

Today, this bleak morning in Boston, Royal Selby listened soberly to the bad news. Messrs Snelling, Burney-Jones, Fitzpatrick, and Llewelyn told him in guarded terms that they had been over-ruled by the board's majority, that the Boston-New Brunswick Bank would not be forth-coming with a loan to the society for running slaves from the South.

Royal had learned a long time ago to protect his pride. He had learned not to beg, that begging achieved nothing but deterioration of dignity. He stood tall, sedately at the end of the polished mahogany board table. A stiff white collar hugged his cocoa-brown neck. He kept his head low; his chin was strong and firmly set as he received the bad news. He slowly drummed four fingers of each hand against the edge of the table.

Listening to each of the gentlemen express their deep regrets, Royal knew that they were as helpless as he was in this matter. At all times the prospect of a loan had been considered a gamble. But the disappointing fact to Royal was that each gentleman had a.s.sured him-separately-in the last months that they knew that the Board was going to vote unanimously to help the charitable cause, that he should begin laying the ground-work.

Mister Llewelyn now said, 'I suggest you call your wife immediately home, Mister Selby. To write to her immediately and urge her to return North.'

Royal shook his head. I am afraid it is not that easy. I have already written to the man we know at Treetop House. I have written him to go to Dragonard Hill and 208.

contact. , . Mrs Selby. He should have received the letter by now that they are to bring the first slaves.'

The four board members looked at one-another. They knew about the man from Treetop House, the farm for free slaves, the black man who was their integral peg in this entire works. If Royal Selby had already contacted the free negro, Lloy, they knew that it might be too Sate. That the society would be delivering the first victims-with the a.s.sistance of the black man, Lloy, and Mrs Selby-to the North at any moment.

Amongst the slaves to be taken North by Royal Selby's society were the two black people living at Grouse Hollow, Jack and Mary.

Jack was still waiting to hear from Treetop House for the appointed day-or night-that he and his wife would make a run from their mistress's farm.

No message had yet arrived. Mary pressed Jack for details but he confessed that, although the white-haired old chandler at Treetop House had told him about the plan, the designated date was not set-anyway not made known to the small handful of black people who would escape their owners' tyranny. The old chandler could not even divulge to Jack which of the people at Treetop House was the key man here in the South for the Abolitionist movement.

Mary sobbed against her husband's chest tonight; they lay hungry and cold on the floor alongside the cookstove in the lean-to which served as a kitchen at Grouse Hollow. Claudia Goss's snores drifted through the tattered curtain hanging in the part.i.tion.

Jack patted his wife's quaking shoulder with a rea.s.suring hand, whispering, 'Don't you cry, honey. I loves you. That's all that matters for us. I loves you. And we're going to get out of here. We're going to get out of here one way or another even if I finally has to ... kill her with my own two hands. Yes, honey, you and I are getting to safety.'

They had discussed many times about strangling Claudia Goss in her sleep, or sneaking up behind her with a board, hitting her over the head, and scattering her brains around the cabin. But they had agreed up to now that murder was 209.

not the price they wanted to pay from freedom and self-respect, that when they left Grouse Hollow they would run away from a crime no larger than running for their rights as free people. Jack no longer knew if he could remain true to that conviction. He had to do something soon. Claudia now let them eat no more than one potato between them a day. She chastised Mary when she did not clean the shack and derided her for the place being so dirty. Jack knew that Claudia would soon sell Mary. He had to hear soon from Treetop House if the black Abolitionist man there was going to help him and Mary escape. If not, they would run away from Grouse Hollow with no place to go.210.