Child of the River Page 11

  One threat from the Order of the White Rose a few weeks earlier had made a firm believer out of Logan. Horsemen wearing tall white hats and hoods stormed into Larkspur late one night and fired a cross at the quarters. The riders never said a word. One of the riders, a tall man, dismounted and pinned a note to the ground with a knife. The note was a warning. “Politicking niggers beware”! Strangely, Benjamin was in town on business that evening, or so he said. Logan told him about the incident and he seemed concerned. Joe Floyd wasn’t fooled for a minute. He recognized the man’s walk but kept it to himself.

  1866 was an important election year. The secret order was designed to counteract propaganda by northern politicians who took advantage of the naive blacks. They told the Negroes that Republicans were “sinners” as opposed to “good” Democrats, citing scripture about Publicans to prove it.

  In the beginning, the hooded white men’s pranks were meant to frighten and intimidate the blacks from the voting polls and from running for public office. Most of their deadlier action was aimed at the militia. Angered by the Emancipation Proclamation and northern interference in southern affairs, their acts became more atrocious, violent and gruesome. Carpetbagger and Yankee soldiers’ lies didn’t help matters. They reveled in encouraging uneducated black men to take over plantations and court the southern belles, telling them that certain women and girls were in love with them and wanted the blacks to make love to them but were to shy to ask. The Negroes were frightened of the hooded horsemen who struck in the night. White people were becoming afraid of the freed slaves they once controlled. It was a precarious time in American history.

  Joe Floyd was not by nature a violent man but neither was he a coward. He listened to some of the political talk in town, but one secret meeting was enough. It was not that he didn’t side with his black brothers, for indeed he did. However, the man realized that peace between the races would never come in his lifetime. He decided that his first consideration was to his family. “I’m takin’ you and the twins west so we can live out our lives in freedom and peace, Lucy. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to nobody, but I intend to vote Republican because the party is for my people. Ain’t nobody stoppin’ me.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous? That warnin’ note from the hooded men….”

  “Don’t give a wave at…dad gum it, Lucy, it’s my prerogative how I vote. Come November, I’m a-votin’ for the party who’s for my people.”

  His wife was still dubious. “We won’t be here more’n a month after the election. Is it worth…?”

  “A man’s gotta stand up for his own kind and what’s right. At least, he oughta. I feel like a yellar dog, plannin’ t’ sneak in the polls, hopin’ Benjamin don’t find out. Gossip is, he’s goin’ back to college come September. Hope so.”

  Seven months of schooling and phonics had improved the Floyd family’s grammar to a degree. This gave Dayme a special feeling of accomplishment. She was so impressed with the family’s sincerity and dedication that she presented them with their own dictionary to enhance their vocabulary. They studied the book religiously, looking up the words they didn’t understand. Acutely aware of the necessity for an education, their lamp burned when all other lights were out. They took turns reading aloud the books borrowed from the Farrington library. Unlike many of their peers who spent extra money for frivolous things, the Floyds saved money to pay for filing the homestead and things needed for the journey west. Their entertainment was simple…picnics, checkers and fishing in Big Black River.

  Days flew by while Joe and Lucy planned for the future. Dreams made workdays seem shorter. Joe had a special way of making Lucy feel pretty and desirable even when she was covered with sweat and wearing a ragged dress. “One of these days, I’ll buy you silk dresses for that pretty body and sweet-smellin’ perfume and lotions. Right now,” he apologized, “best I can do is try to figure a way out o’ this mess. Put the last seed in the ground today. Once it matures and we pull it, you ain’t goin’ to no white man’s field ever again. That’s my prerogative.”

  Lucy was a comely woman, perfectly proportioned with a slender build and full breasts. She was coal black and wore her curly hair cropped short. Her sensuous lips smiled easily, and her luminous dark brown eyes revealed inner feelings even when she tried to conceal them. Joe adored her. He tried to make it up to Lucy for all the harsh treatment she suffered as Elmo Stroud’s slave at Curlew Plantation. Many times he told her while caressing the hard calluses in her work-roughened hands, that one day the calluses would fade away and her hands would be soft and supple like Miss Dayme’s. The time would come when she would be simply Mrs. Joe Floyd, housewife, who didn’t do any kind of man’s work.

  Lucy leaned the hoe handle against the cabin wall and wiped the beaded sweat from her forehead. Her hair was sopping wet and perspiration trickled down around her ears. She fanned herself with a split bonnet. “I’m glad this work day is over. My back hurts. But even so, my husband, you make me feel good, real good. You give me hope, Joe. You give me dreams.”

  Joe kissed the tip of her nose. “Where does your back hurt, honey? I’ll rub it for you.”

  “Way down low…in the small o’ my back. It doesn’t hurt really bad…just tired. Joe!” She giggled and tried to twist away. “It don’t hurt that’ low! You know I got supper t’ cook. The twins….”

  “Are playin’ down by the river.” His voice was husky as he finished the sentence and smothered her moist lips with a kiss. “I’m not hungry. Are you?”

  Lucy smiled. “Just for you, Joe. Just for you.”

  Every evening after class, the family walked back to their cabin speaking in low secret tones. They told none of the others about their plans. If word got out, it would be harder on them until leaving time. Benjamin could run them off before they were ready to leave…before Joe got paid. He could renege on the acreage agreement and refuse to deed the land. “The least that could happen,” Joe explained, “we could be mighty uncomfortable ‘til ginnin’ time. Just keep quiet ‘til we are good and ready to pull out.”

  “It’s our secret, boys,” Lucy instructed. “Don’t tell anybody, not even your best friend. When that cotton money comes in next fall, we’re leavin’. We’ll wander in the wilderness out west ‘til we find that promised land just like the children o’ Israel.”

  “We gonna wander in the wilderness for forty years like they did, huh?” Jacob asked earnestly.

  Smothering a giggle, Lucy tousled his hair. “Let’s hope it ain’t that long, child.”

  “Understand this, my sons,” Joe told them. “It’s nobody’s business where we go or what we do. We’re not slaves anymore. We belong to ourselves and to God. It’s your Papa’s prerogative whether we stay on here or move out. According to the law, we’re free as birds to do what we please. We’re not stayin’ to lay the land in for next year. Soon as that cotton’s sold and I get our money, we’re gone.”

  Lucy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Yeah, soon’s you pocket that money and get that deed, we’re takin’ off like a flock o’ black birds headed west. That’s my prerogative.”

  “Where is west, Papa?” Jacob wanted to know.

  “Uh…it’s in Texas, son.”

  “Is that where the forty acres the gov’ment’s givin’ coloreds is?” Alfie inquired.

  Joe guffawed. “No, baby. Heard tell Texas is a mite bigger. I’m claimin’ 160 acres. There’s miles and miles o’ free land in Texas free for the takin’ under a law called the Homestead Act of 1863.”

  He opened the cabin door and lit the kerosene lamp while Lucy and the twins dumped books borrowed from the Farrington library on the table. “Freedom is a wonderful thing,” he explained to the youngsters as he picked up an American History book. “Means people don’t belong to nobody but themselves and God. A man can find his own place in the world and be his own man. Best not to mess with no more white people than a body just has to. White men set up the Freedmen’s Bureau in town. Helps some, I reckon. Helps colored
folks find out their rights. Gets ‘em started out on their own. Way I figure it though, there’ll be strings and strings attached. Ain’t no way, my sons, that white men are gonna help black men without getting’ another strangle hold on ‘em. They’ll….”

  “Then how come you accepted that gov’ment mule?” Lucy interrupted.” What about that old mule?”

  “Hell, I ain’t a fool, Lucy. How do you think we’re goin’ to Texas without some mules? Sure as heck ain’t gonna walk. I ain’t lookin’ no gift mule in the mouth. They give me that ole mule, and I took it. What I gotta do now is figure how to get three more. Gonna take four to pull that heavy old Conestoga wagon.”

  “What about them ten acres Mr. Farrington gonna give us? Gonna just leave it here?”

  Joe laughed, teasing her. “Can’t take it with us.”

  “Oh, I know that, silly. What good’s it gonna do t’ get the deed and just leave it?”

  “I’m gonna sell it,” Joe said decisively. “I’ll sell my land to another black man. Don’t expect a colored can pay much. None of ‘em ain’t got any money t’ speak of. Oh hell, yeah…them carpetbaggers would pay a heap more.” He snorted. “Hummp, pretendin’ to be the freedmen’s friend. I don’t trust any white man. Take what I can get from one of my own kind. That’s my prerogative.”

  On Sunday afternoons, the Floyd family rummaged in the woods for leftovers of war, collecting wrecked wagon parts, discarded canteens, defective or abandoned rifles half-buried in flood debris…anything that might be used or sold. Joe greased the guns to remove the rust, polished, filed and repaired them. He took parts from some and repaired others. He whittled new stocks for some. He kept what he needed for the westward journey and sold the rest. The twins dived in Big Black River searching for anything of value. They found a sunken Union ship and came up with a few items but abandoned the effort after finding skeletons of the crew. Lucy pieced and patched quilts and made a heavy duck cloth cover for the wagon Joe was building.

  One afternoon, Benjamin sauntered toward the Negro quarters where Joe was working. The man had him puzzled. He seemed so distant. Polite, Benjamin mused, but in an insolent sort of way. He couldn’t understand the man.

  Alfie ran to the cabin out of breath, teeming with excitement. “Look, Papa, a army pack! Floodwater washed it to the trunk o’ that big sycamore tree…in a pile o’ driftwood. It was damn near buried.”

  Joe slammed the sledgehammer down impatiently. “Watch your mouth, Alfie. Don’t want to hear you say damn ever again! Sounds like hell…like the devil hisself. I catch you sayin’ cuss words one more time, and I’ll bust your damn bottom!”

  “What you building, Josephus?” Out of pride or spite one, Benjamin couldn’t bring himself to call the man by his chosen name.

  This irritated Joe but he didn’t correct his employer. “It’s a wagon, Mr. Farrington,” he said in a calm matter-of-fact way. “Thought you’d a-known that, seein’ as how it’s got two wheels on it.”

  “I know it’s a wagon. Of course, it’s a wagon,” Benjamin replied flustered. “Anybody would know it’s a wagon.”

  The black man grinned broadly, getting a kick out of getting the boss’s goat. “Then why did you ask, Mr. Farrington?”

  Benjamin felt like slapping that impudent, grinning black face for making him appear foolish. “I meant what are you building it for? Planning on going somewhere?” It crossed his mind that the Negro might be planning on leaving.

  “Well, sir, I’m a-building this here wagon to take my fam’ly ridin’. They like to go places once in awhile, same as other folks.”

  “You can take one of my wagons, Josephus, anytime you wish.” Secretly, Benjamin missed the friendship they once shared as lads. He wished Josephus would open up to him, but the big black man was stiff and formal, answering only his questions and adding nothing to the conversation.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your offer but the way I see it, it’s not the same as ridin’ in my own wagon pulled by my own mules. That’s my prerogative.”

  “You have but that one old mule. It can’t pull that Conestoga. It’s too heavy. Bet it weighs 3500 pounds.”

  Don’t you think I know that? Joe wanted to say. Just because my skin is black don’t mean I’m stupid. Instead, he replied quietly. “So I’ll get more mules.” He strained until the vein in his neck stood out as he lifted a wagon wheel to mount it on the axle.

  “Wait. I’ll give you a hand.”

  “No…no, I’ve got it,” Joe replied, grimacing. “Just about got it.” He neither asked for nor wanted Benjamin’s help.

  “You have a good stand of cotton. Prettiest cotton on the plantation.”

  “Yes, sir. If we get enough rain at the right time, oughta be waist high come fall.”

  “The fact is, Josephus, your cotton is cleaner of weeds than the others. The rows are straighter. You take pride in your farming. I admire that.”

  Wish to hell he’d quit calling me “Josephus” and go on back to the big house and out of my way, Joe thought but he smiled wanly. “Good Bein’ willin’, it’ll be the best damn cotton in the county.”

  An uneasy feeling nagged at Benjamin as he sauntered on to inspect the quarters. Something was in the wind, and he couldn’t define it. He wondered what Josephus was thinking behind that pleasant smile. Freedom hasn’t slacked the boy’s work, he mused. If anything the whole family works harder than when they were slaves. On the outside, he is polite in a defiant sort of way. He’s so distant. Can’t reach him anymore. He’s intelligent, too intelligent, and just nice enough to frustrate me. It’s hard to cope with.

  He wondered why the Negro didn’t leave with the rest of the slaves since he was so bent on asserting his independence. Perhaps I’m imagining…. He brushed the doubtful thoughts aside. I need him to farm my land. I’ve controlled coloreds all my life, and I’ll control Josephus if I have to kill him. It’s the way he says Mister Farrington that rubs the wrong way.

  The Floyd family’s secret wasn’t the only one on Larkspur plantation. Benjamin had one, too. The vast family fortune made all the difference in the world, although he continued to operate Larkspur on a shoestring budget. There was no beef Wellington on the menu as in the old days before the war. No champagne, no imported caviar or lobster that he craved. The food remained basic and simple at the big house. He didn’t rebuild the stables nor make any major repairs. He made-do with meager breeder stock like his neighbors. Business dealings and investments were made further downriver. It would serve no purpose, he reasoned, to alienate less fortunate friends who lost everything in the war effort. An announcement of great wealth would cause resentment, most especially to his dead mother for not using her millions to support the Confederacy.

  For the time being, only simple, gradual improvements were made. Walls were white washed, torn cushions mended and scratched furniture was re-varnished. He left the cracked mirror in the foyer but allowed a gracious artist friend to copy the marred painting of his mother. Broken and bullet pocked statuettes and broken stone benches were not replaced, and he didn’t buy a carriage. He took Dayme into town only occasionally in a wagon. It was just too soon. It would destroy his mother’s sweet memory with her friends.

  Knowing he was becoming far too attached to his beautiful ward and too dependent on her for company, he fought against natural feelings that stirred within. Night after night in the privacy of his bedroom, he talked to his dead friend in whispered tones. “I haven’t touched your sweetheart, Lawrence. No, I haven’t forgotten the promise.”

  Knowing how Morgan Edwards felt about the girl, he wished he could hear from him and wondered when, if ever, he was coming home. Morgan isn’t like most men, he thought. Dayme’s tainted reputation wouldn’t faze the guy. In fact, he begged the girl to run away with him a year before the war. He loves her and would marry her at the drop of a hat. However attractive and desirable she is, Benjamin concluded, it would be unwise to become emotionally or physically involved. Her lower class backgroun
d didn’t seem to bother Morgan a bit. His mother didn’t approve of Dayme’s “poor white trash” image in the community, but Morgan is a free spirit. He could care less.

  However, the girl’s upbringing by an alcoholic father was simply not compatible with the aristocratic Farrington heritage. He wanted a wife of good breeding like Molly, whose social skills would help further the political career he planned.

  Don’t worry, Lawrence, he thought. Some good man will eventually come along to court her. I hope soon. I need to search for Molly, not coddle a river street chippy. But she is a beauty. How could it be a mortal sin to enjoy the girl’s company until she finds a husband?

  Chapter 11

  Although he took Dayme into town occasionally for treats at the ice cream parlor and once to a Vaudeville show, Benjamin felt guilty for leaving her on the plantation other times when he went into town. He didn’t want to fuel rumors for any more gossip than was already circulating. And too, Dayme must not know about the clandestine Order of the White Rose meetings that often coincided with Starvation Parties.

  He was at a loss to figure out a way to get the girl off his hands so he could look for Molly. The Pinkerton men he hired found no clues as to her whereabouts.

  Molly’s name was not listed as a student in any of the colleges on the eastern seaboard. There wouldn’t be another census until 1870.

  He decided the best way to introduce Dayme girl to society would be to host a Starvation Party of his own. As Larkspur’s schoolmarm, Dayme will be the guest of honor. Perhaps one of the bachelors might return to court my beautiful ward, he decided. He dismissed the temptation to serve caviar, champagne and other dainties served to Larkspur guests before the war. It would be a dead giveaway that he was better off financially than his peers. It was just too soon to reveal his good fortune. What was on hand would be the order of the day along with Josephus’s wild grape wine. The men usually brought their own bourbon or brandy. Some brought homebrew.