The Seige Of Dragonard Hill Part 2

She had often rebuked him-although playfully during these love games-that she would love him regardless of how he was built. She knew that she would, too. She lay under him, alongside him, often raising one leg to let him lay between her legs to penetrate her v.a.g.i.n.a from behind. Regardless of what position they chose, despite the deep sensation which his p.e.n.i.s gave her, she still considered his total self to be the man she called Royal Selby, her husband.

Veronica had often caught people in the street glancing at Royal's bulging crotch-equipment difficult to conceal-and then look up at her face. She knew what they were thinking when they saw she was a white woman. She tried to ignore their supposedly knowledgeable glances. And in that way, Royal's jokes about his p.e.n.i.s did help her. He was deflating people's opinions about her.

Nevertheless, Veronica felt that it was unfair how so many white people disliked blacks for-she often felt- purely s.e.xual reasons. Black men made white men feel s.e.xually inferior. They often were threatening to white women ... or, perhaps too s.e.xually exciting.

Veronica wondered what caused Imogen's hatred for Royal. Was it only s.e.xual? But Imogen is not interested in men, Veronica reminded herself. She then thought of the other answer, the more serious reason why Imogen might disapprove of Royal.

Does Imogen despise black people deep down inside 26.her like so many white people do here in the South? Veronica next asked herself. Is Imogen actually jealous that Papa freed Royal and secured a job for him in the Boston-New Brunswick Bank through his business connections? Is she angry that Papa allowed me to move North to marry Royal? To try to live a normal life with someone who should still be a slave, her property?

Veronica did not know the answers to these questions, But she did know for certain that her own opinion about black people-and slavery-had increasingly changed since she had been living in the North. The distance from Dra-gonard Hill had shown Veronica the indignities done to black people by keeping them in shackles, even enslaved in the most humane manner as her father did here in the Louisiana wilderness.

Royal still worked at the Boston-New Brunswick bank. Having diligently applied himself to his job, he had risen in position at the bank and now was the chief clerk. Veronica and Royal chose not to socialize with business colleagues from the bank but the New England atmosphere was not harsh on them, not intolerable as Southern critics would be of a white woman who Soved a black man and gave birth to his children.

Veronica felt indebted to her father. He had shown kindness to her and Royal when he had finally learned of their love. His decision to approve of their marriage had been painful for him to make, Veronica realized, but he had risen above prejudices and not only granted them his permission to marry but a.s.sisted them in escaping to a new life.

Considering these facts as she now stood inside the picket fence of the graveyard, Veronica wondered how she could a.s.sist her father now that he needed help. She could see that he was clinging onto gloom. He kept talking about bringing bad luck to a woman. That Kate's death was a sign for him to obey in the future. How could she help her father to free himself from such harmful thoughts?

Closing her eyes, Veronica lowered her head and next thought about her husband. She had to help Royal, too. As she did not yet understand how she might be of a.s.sistance to her father neither did Veronica know in what way Royal wanted her to help him.

27.Before Veronica had left Boston, Royal had suggested a plan to her, a way in which they both could a.s.sist the black people still living in slavery in the South. Royal had not explained his intentions to Veronica, only promising her that a man would contact her during her stay at Dra-gonard Hill, that she must not leave Louisiana until the man made himself known to her. Veronica longed to know the exact date on which she could return home to Boston but she had to wait patiently for the letter of instruction from Royal to arrive.

The main centre of domestic activity during the daytime hours at Dragonard Hill was the kitchen. This bustling whitewashed annex was connected to the main house by a breezeway, a colonnade of white columns which were small replicas of the large white pillars flanking the house's front veranda.

Unlike most prosperous planting families in the American South, Peter Abdee had appointed a male Negro to be the head cook for the main house, bestowing the responsibility upon a tail and angular Negro named Posey whose only claim to his male gender was hidden beneath a voluminous ap.r.o.n and the starched white skirts of a woman's dress.

Posey-or 'Miss Posey' as the shrill black man insisted upon being called by the other Negroes on the plantation- ruled the kitchen with an authority which he had learned from his predecessor, an imperious woman named Storky.

Storky was now dead and Posey had a.s.sumed all the characteristics which had made her a domestic power in her lifetime. Apart from copying her starched white uniform, Posey also slept each night behind the cook stove in the kitchen annex as Storky had done, and kept a meat cleaver under his pillow as protection against possible intruders.

Posey's choice to attire himself and to live according to the s.e.x into which he had not been born did not trouble the Abdee family. They had come to accept Posey's increasingly idiosyncratic ways as they had also grown to enjoy his honey-cured hams, delicious yam pies, pickled 28.melon rinds, as well as becoming totally dependent upon the rigid schedule by which he kept the meals flowing from the kitchen to the dining-room of the main house.

Posey was a.s.sisted by two black children in the kitchen, the older subordinate being a girl called Lulu who fetched eggs from the chicken coop, carried milk, b.u.t.ter, and cream from the springhouse, and arranged the covered bowls and platters of food on the silver trays which the house servants hurried piping hot down the columned colonnade to the Abdee's table.

The second kitchen-helper was a corpulent black youth whom Posey had nicknamed Fat Boy. The black people on the plantation whispered amongst themselves-and joked openly-that Miss Posey kept Fat Boy in the kitchen for reasons other than a.s.sistance in domestic ch.o.r.es. The black girls on the plantation giggled about the prematurely large proportions of Fat Boy's p.e.n.i.s; the young black field-workers gossiped that Miss Posey appreciated this physical hugeness. But, so far, no one had seen-nor heard prurient noises-which would have proved that a s.e.xual relationship was consummated between Posey and Fat Boy behind the cookstove in the kitchen annex at night.

On this warm June afternoon, when Master Peter Ab-dee, Veronica, Imogen, and young David Abdee stood down at the roadside cemetery paying respects at the grave of the woman whom the black people had lovingly called 'Matty Kate', Posey hurried around the white-washed kitchen in a frenzy to prepare tonight's supper. Lulu had been sent to the chicken coop to bring back two hens for frying; Fat Boy perched on a stool next to a kitchen table where he had been ordered to sh.e.l.l fresh garden peas.

Posey's lanky legs kicked against the crisply starched folds of his skirt as he bustled about the kitchen, ranting, 'Fat Boy, I swears you gots earth slugs for fingers! Look!' He stopped by the table where Fat Boy sat. 'Do it like this!'

s.n.a.t.c.hing a green pod from the boy's chubby hands, Posey nimbly cracked it with his long delicate brown fingers and the peas tumbled out into an earthenware bowl. Posey tossed the broken pod into another bowl and shrilled, 29.'Don't just sit there staring at them peas! You keeps staring like that, Fat Boy, and I takes my fingers and I pops out your eyes from their sockets just like . . . this!' Posey menacingly pressed the pink tips of two forefingers in front of Fat Boy's bulging eyes to ill.u.s.trate his threat.

Turning away from the table, Posey readjusted the white kerchief on his head-knotted at the nape of his neck exactly as Miss Storky had worn her kerchief-and he surveyed the black iron pots, bright copper pans, speckled blue bowls, and bleached wooden spoons surrounding him on the scrubbed pine tabletops.

Although having grieved for Matty Kate, Posey had not joined the other plantation slaves in singing religious songs at her burial within the picket-fenced cemetery which the Negroes called 'the boneyard'. Posey considered himself to be superior to the other blacks on Dragonard Hill. He had insisted on paying his respects quietly to Matty Kate like a white person.

Kate had treated Posey with the utmost respect and kindness since the day she had come to be the mistress of Dragonard Hill. The red-haired woman had trusted Posey to run the kitchen according to his liking, only occasionally offering him advice, and then only on holidays or the special occasions on which a party was given at Dragonard Hill.

The shock of Matty Kate's death was eclipsed for Posey by Veronica's arrival from Boston and, now, the imminent visitation of her twin sister, Victoria, from Cuba.

Being a trusted household slave, Posey knew more about the Abdee family's private life than the black people who lived in the plantation's slave quarter called 'Town'. Posey knew that Veronica was married to the black man named Royal, that they lived in Boston with their three children and were known by the name 'Selby' which had been the maiden name of the three Abdee girls' mother-and the name of the family who had owned Dragonard Hill when the plantation had been known as 'The Star'.

Posey also knew that Veronica's twin sister, Victoria, lived on the faraway island of Cuba. He was further aware that Miss Vicky was a countess. This elevated her in Posey's eye above all other members of the Abdee family, living or dead.

The only member of the Abdee family with whom Posey 30.did not obsess himself was the eldest daughter, Imogen. Apart from living too close to his own world for her to be exotic, Posey believed that Imogen should not demean herself by acting as the plantation's overseer. He knew that such a job was usually held by a man, and a man from the cla.s.s of white people whom Posey disapprovingly called 'trash'.

Fat Boy now called to Posey from the work table, drawling, 'That Lulu, she taking a long time getting you them fryers from the coop, Posey. You thinks maybe I should just sees-'

'What you call me?' Posey snapped from across the kitchen.

'Miss Posey,' the corpulent boy corrected himself, hanging his shaved head as he reluctantly reached for another pod from the earthenware bowl. The job of sh.e.l.ling peas bored Fat Boy. He envied Lulu the task of going to the chicken coop.

'You better watch yourself, Fat Boy, or I sends you to live down at the old house. You finds yourself slopping food for Miss Imogen and that Belladonna wench."

Fat Boy slowly broke another pod, asking, "Those two eats chickens up here tonight. . . Miss Posey?'

'Miss Imogen eats up here, . . maybe! But never that Belladonna wench. Belladonna's a n.i.g.g.e.r and no n.i.g.g.e.rs allowed to sit in that red silk dining-room with white folks.'

"If Belladonna so awful n.i.g.g.e.r trash, Miss Posey, why then Miss Imogen lives with her all alone down in that old house?'

'Mind your business,' Posey snapped, unable to provide a correct answer to the boy's question. Posey could not comprehend the relationship between Imogen and die black woman named Belladonna. He suspected that their private life in the old house had something to do with that physical activity which had played such a minor role in his life-s.e.x.

Fat Boy asked, 'When Miss Vicky comes home to visit her papa, Miss Posey?'

'I tells you, Fat Boy, minds your own business or I takes down your pants, puts you over my knee, and I spanks your naked fat bottom with the flat of my hand till you turns as raw as a freshly peeled peach!'

3I.

Suspecting that a spanking was only an idle threat, Fat Boy continued, I hears in Town that Miss Vicky is like some empress or queen where she lives on that island called-what's the name of that island where Miss Vicky lives, Miss Posey?'

Throwing up his hands, Posey airily said, 'Miss Vicky is a... countess! She lives in a. . . castle!'

'Miss Vicky married herself some king?*

The sound of the kitchen door opening attracted their attention. Posey spun around in a crackle of starched skirts and saw a scrawny black girl dressed in a ragged blue shift. She stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a fully feathered chicken in each hand, gripping each red hen by its limp neck.

'Lulu!' Posey shrieked as he stared at the chickens. 'What's you thinks I going to do with them hens looking like that? You thinks I plucks them feathers right here in my kitchen and makes me a pillow? Go on! Get! Shoo! Take yourself back to that chicken coop and gets them feathers plucked or I throws you in the pot!'

Lulu backed nervously toward the door, confessing, 'Croney ain't got no time today to plucks no feathers, Miss Posey, Croney gots to rush to some meeting in Town about trouble brewing for us black people.'

'Trouble? I'll give you and that Croney wench troubles, n.i.g.g.e.r brat. I ain't going to pluck no hens here in my kitchen. Not me!' he exclaimed, thumbing the bib of his ap.r.o.n, expanding his imaginary b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'Croney ain't there in the coop no more, Miss Posey,' Lulu whined, now trying to hide the limp hens behind her back. 'Croney's gone to Town to Maybelle's house for that special meeting.'

'Meeting? n.i.g.g.e.rs having meetings? Who that Maybelle wench thinks she is? That Maybelle wench sees herself as big as Master Peter? The Master, he puts Maybelle in charge of raising piccaninnies in The Shed but he ain't gives her-nor no other n.i.g.g.e.r-no permission to go holding meetings in Town.'

'I only knows what I hears from Croney in the chicken coop, Miss Posey. And Croney gone to Town and she tells me to asks you 'Give me those hens!' Posey shouted, s.n.a.t.c.hing one hen 32.from Lulu's hand. He gripped a handful of feathers from the dead fowl and, as the red feathers fluttered to the floor, he tossed the chicken onto the table where Fat Boy was working.

He shouted to the bewildered youth, 'You leave them peas and tends these hens for me, Fat Boy, You gots big hands! Use them!'

'What about. . .'

'You just do like I says," Posey commanded, turning his back on the boy and continued grumbling about black people having meetings, complaining about lazy piccaninnies not knowing how to sh.e.l.l peas, deriding dumb black girls who brought fully-feathered chickens back to the kitchen for him to fry.

The slave quarter on Dragonard Hill called Town was a small community located to the southwest of the main house. The majority of dwellings in Town were small log cabins built on pole stilts to prevent dampness from creeping into the plank floors. Peter Abdee allowed no more than six people to inhabit one cabin and, to accommodate the steadily increasing number of black people born on the plantation, he had also erected long, low-pitched roofed dormitories.

The children born on Dragonard Hill-youngsters referred to as 'Saplings'-lived in the converted warehouse called The Shed. The Southern slave system disapproved of black parents being allowed to maintain ties with their offspring and, following this strict guideline set down by his predecessors and rigidly upheld by his peers, Peter Abdee dutifully removed every newly born child from its mother a short time after birthing, allowing the young blacks to mature under the supervision of Negresses selected from Town.

Maybelle was one of the black women from Town who was responsible for overseeing the welfare of the small children in The Shed. She lived with a field slave named Ham in one of the long-legged cabins in Town, a husky black man whom she had considered to be her rightful husband. Maybelle and Ham had birthed one child, a son 33.who lived in The Shed with the other saplings but was approaching the age when maturing young boys were moved to the Dormitory.

Returning to Town this evening after her two-day stint at The Shed, Maybelle ran her fingers through her hair which fit like a woolly skullcap on her head. She had washed her one extra shift this morning and, after it had whipped dry in the breeze she had ironed it in The Shed whilst the children had been weeding the vegetable patch. Maybelle felt fresh, even pretty, as she hurried down the wide dirt street of Town on her way home to join her husband.

Climbing the pole ladder to their tall cabin, Maybelle wondered if the four other people who shared it with them would be home this evening. She hoped that their housemates would be outside weeding the cabin's garden patch. She wanted this time to cook a supper only for herself and Ham, to speak privately with him, perhaps even to make love.

'Ham?' she called as she stood near the top of the ladder and reached to part the strings which hung in the doorway to prevent flies from buzzing into the cabin. 'You in there, Ham honey?'

Maybelle remained on the ladder and adjusted her eyes to the near darkness inside the small log house, a blackness lit only by a faint shaft of light pouring through the smoke hole cut into the centre of the roof.

'Who you?' she suddenly asked, seeing a group of black people sitting in a sober circle on the cabin's plank floor. She leaned her head farther into the cabin and eventually recognized the woman from the chicken coop, two women from the looming house, three men from the dairy barn, and a stabler.

Finally seeing Ham sitting cross-legged on the floor amongst these other Negro slaves, Maybelle asked guardedly, 'What's going on here? Some kind of. . . meeting?'

'Come in, Maybelle,' Ham softly called. His chiselled mahogany-brown face was sober as he beckoned Maybelle to climb from the top rungs of the pole ladder and join them.

'You crazy?" Maybelle^ whispered, looking anxiously around the small room. 'You know us black people ain't suppose to hold no meetings. If Miss Imogen finds out 34.about you being here, she's bound to dig out that old whip and makes an example of you for other black folks here to see.'

'Maybelle, you come in here and hold your tongue,' Ham ordered. Although he loved his pretty wife he often thought that she was too authoritative in her ways. He also believed that Maybelle was too cautious of the punishment which white people might inflict on them as slaves. May-belle had helped nurse young David Abdee in his infancy and, ever since those years she had spent visiting the main house, Ham felt that she showed too much concern for the Abdees.

Ham now a.s.sured her, 'We ain't breaking no laws.'

'Breaking no laws? You crazy?' Maybelle impatiently asked. 'Master Peter is danged good to us black folks but he makes us abide by rules laid down by other white planters. You knows that, Ham. You do, too, Croney. And you, Dido. Same goes for you, Curlew, and Topper. What's this secret meeting you having all about?'

'It's about Master Peter,' answered the white-haired woman named Croney from the chicken coop.

'The poor man, he's grieving,' Maybelle said as she crawled across the floor to crouch alongside Ham. 'Master Peter loved Matty Kate and-'

Curlew the stabler interrupted, 'Master Peter maybe ain't grieving as much as we all think, Maybelle. You know that Sara wench who lives with Topper and Dido?'

Maybelle certainly remembered the brown-skinned girl to whom Curlew referred, a statuesque young woman not yet twenty-years-old and who worked in the looming house.

She asked, 'What Sara got to do with Master Peter and this meeting?' Her eyes darted to the couple, Topper and Dido, who also lived together as husband and wife. She knew that they were looking for a respectable black man to pair-off with Sara.

Croney continued, 'You seen how Master Peter been roaming Town late at night since Matty Kate died? Well, last night Master Peter went strolling with young Sara. Master Peter didn't do nothing particular bad with young Sara but she says to Dido and Topper here that Master Peter stared a lot at her t.i.tties. That he actually hinted that he would be mighty pleased if she-'

35.'Sara's lying!' Maybelle quickly protested. 'What that Sara wench want to lie about our Master Peter for? The poor man's still grieving for Matty Kate!'

'That's what Topper and me first claimed,' Dido said, 'We thought that Sara was lying to us at first, too. But what reason Sara gots to lie? She says that Master Peter complains to her about bringing bad Suck to white women. That in the future he ain't going to do no marrying again.'

Maybelle said, 'Maybe the death of Matty Kate makes Master Peter's mind take a funny turn. Maybe he just lonely and wants to have company on his walks. Maybe that's why he talks to Sara. Using her for company. And as for gawking at those t.i.tties of hers-who could miss them? They sticks out like milk buckets!'

The black people sitting on the floor all agreed with Maybelle that Sara was extremely buxom. But Curlew argued, 'Master Peter gots his daughters for talking if that's what he wants.'

Maybelle grunted. 'Miss Imogen? You call her good company?' She shook her head.

'There's his other daughter,' offered Topper. 'She comes home all the way from Boston just especially to be with her papa.'

'Miss Veronica?' Maybelle again shook her head. 'Miss Veronica gots worries of her own. Any fool can see that by the scared look in her eyes. She ain't going to be no good company to her Papa. No, like I says, maybe Master Peter's brain just took a turn and he wants somebody for company.'

Curlew leaned closer toward the circle of people, saying, 'We got to protect our own women, Maybelle. You hears what white men do to our girls. We seen it happens here before. We hears about it still happening in the neighbourhood.'

'"Our" girls? What for you talking about "our" girls, Curlew? You thinks we all free? You forgets we all slaves here? Master Peter, if he wants to... lay each and every one of us black women, he rightly can. Master Peter can rightly do just that. He's the master here on this land. We just his slaves. But let me also tells you this feet. Master Peter, he's a good man. He ain't going to do nothing you're fearing. He ain't done nothing bad in the past and he ain't going to be doing it now or in the future!'

36.'I just hope you're right, Maybelle, honey,' Dido generously offered as she leaned back on her arms placed behind her on the floor. 'I wish I could have the same trust in white folks as you do. But I just can't find that trust in my soul. The Lord helps me to look but I can't find it.'

'White people? Black people?' Maybelle asked. 'We're talking about folks we knows and lives with. Folks who treats us good. We ain't talking about. . . trash!'

Curlew muttered, 'You tells that to Miss Imogen.'

'Out!' Maybelle ordered, finally satiated with this arguing. She pointed one hand at the door, saying, 'Get out! All of you! I've been away from my man for over two days and nights. Now out! I wants to be alone with rny own man before I hears any more complaints about Master Peter, Miss Imogen, the Lord knows who else. Now out! All of you!'

Croney, Dido, Curlew, the black visitors all agreed to leave Maybelle alone with Harn. They spanned their exits down the pole ladder, though, allowing a few minutes to elapse between their departure to avoid attracting the attention of other black people in Town.

The last person to leave was old Croney. She called into the cabin from the ladder, 'What us black people needs now is somebody to speak for us to the white folks. We need to have a speaker. We used to have Nero but he's dead. And you, Maybelle, you know the Master good but you're too hot-headed. We need us a person who has a sharp mind and can speak for us.'

'Then pray!' Maybelle said flippantly. 'Pray to the Good Lord to send us such a black leader to appear out of nowhere like the Mother of Jesus!' She waved Croney to leave.

Chapter Two.

THE Pa.s.sION.The Louisiana sun was sinking below the hilly western perimeter of Dragonard Hill when Veronica and Imogen walked together that evening toward the old house. The palatial proportions of the main house were silhouetted behind them against a scrim of golden light, sitting high on a promontory which commanded a view over the front fields of green cotton, the cypress-lined drive, and the public road which separated this property from the picket-fenced cemetery.

The supper hour was nearing; activity crested in the kitchen annex of the main house whilst the servants painstakingly arranged plates, goblets, and cutlery on the highly waxed mahogany table in the dining-room. Posey had taken a brief respite from his cooking to arrange daffodils and p.u.s.s.y-willow stalks in a cut gla.s.s vase for a centrepiece.

Imogen had again refrained from accepting an invitation to sit at the family table in the main house, opting to eat her supper instead with Belladonna in the privacy of the old house.

Veronica insisted that she accompany Imogen through the copse of trees which connected the two homes. She suspected that Imogen did not welcome her companionship on this walk but she wrapped a black shawl around the shoulders of her mourning dress and tagged along anyway.

Ferns drooped across the narrow path which led to the shadowy section of Dragonard Hill where the old clapboard 38.house set in a small clearing. Evening dew already glistened on the lacy green foliage, the air was becoming noticeably colder as the sun inched down beyond the spires of the distant pine forest.

Veronica drew the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and began to ask Imogen idle questions about the potential of this year's cotton crop, the plantation's new arrangement with the cotton gin in Troy, even praising Imogen for her dedication to overseeing fieldwork here, for accomplishing a task which would be difficult for some men.

Finally, Veronica manipulated the conversation to the subject of their father. She asked, 'Have you noticed anything strange about Papa?'

Imogen swatted her riding crop at the p.r.i.c.kly branches of a wild rose bush as she answered, I don't get involved much in life over at the big house. They have their ways. I have mine.'

Veronica persevered, I know Papa and Katie were happy but I'm talking about what is going to happen now. Papa seems to have changed so much since I've last seen him. I don't ever remember him being this morose. I'm worried about him, Imogen. I'm worried about things like. . . like the way he talks about the bad luck he brings to women-'