Child of the River Read online

  Shadows of twilight fell. Servants lit candles, couples strolled in the garden and young swains began to feel their liquor. Some of the young ladies giggled more than usual because James Callaway secretly spiked the punch. Laughter and idle chatter increased as darkness crept over the plantation, and the full yellow moon rising over the treetops was most inviting to sweethearts.

  Benjamin escorted Mrs. Elms back to her seat when the music stopped and scanned the room for Dayme. She was chatting with Baxter by the double doors leading to the foyer. Shivers of excitement raced through her body when Benjamin caught her by the elbow and asked her to dance.

  Dayme smiled sweetly. “Certainly. My very first dance when Baxter and I get back. We need some air. It’s stuffy in here and the night breeze….”

  “Sorry, old man,” Baxter said, looking superior like he always had in the past.

  Benjamin smiled a tight, affected smile as the two walked outside together. He pretended to listen to something old man Yates was telling. He sauntered around the room, playing host, finally stopping to visit with Clara Lee Lewis and her mother-in-law.

  “My Cecil is dead,” the old woman said dully, staring into space.

  Clara Lee arose from her seat and walked with Benjamin out of earshot of her mother-in-law. “That’s all Mother Lewis ever says anymore. Cecil was killed three years ago, and she has never learned to cope. Martin and I thought bringing her to this party might awaken her mind.” She shrugged. “Our home is like a mausoleum. Mr. Lewis sits in his chair all day long bitterly cursing the Yankees. Did you hear that he suffered a stroke last year? We offered to bring him along but he refused. The war, the upheaval, his financial losses and now crippled from that stroke. The man is simply devastated. The only thing Father Lewis enjoys these days is wallowing in self-pity in that crumbled mansion.” She sighed deeply. “Such a proud man. It’s difficult for him to be poor, having been a state senator and all. Everything he utters has an oath attached to it. We shut off the west wing after Martin returned from the war. No money to repair it.”

  “I’m sorry, Clara Lee. I’m glad you brought Mrs. Lewis. Perhaps the music will cheer her and make her want to live again.” He smiled at the quiet little girl sitting beside her grandmother. “And who, may I ask, is this pretty lass?”

  “Lori Lee.” The mother’s voice was filled with love. “The little bright spot in all the gloom.”

  “Will you dance with me? I see Martin has a partner.” He waltzed Clara Lee around the room, ever conscious of movement near the open doorway. Outwardly, he appeared calm, nonchalant. Inwardly, he was impatient for Dayme’s return.

  The couple remained in the moonlight for almost an hour. When they finally appeared in the doorway, Dayme had a dreamy-eyed look. Benjamin assumed she had just been kissed, and he felt like belting Baxter. He whisked Dayme away in a whirling waltz and whispered, “You shouldn’t stay away so long. People missed you.”

  “People? What people? Who missed little ole me? I don’t even know these people.”

  “Well, uh,” Benjamin stammered in a flustered tone. “Just people. Everyone, I suppose.”

  “Aw, they did? But Benjamin, the night is irresistible. You should see that lover’s moon…so big and orange and romantic. The Milky Way looks close enough to touch. We didn’t realize the time. You poor dear, you’ve been so busy being a good host. Why don’t you take a walk in the garden? I’ll…sort of…well, take your place and visit with people while you’re gone.”

  Throughout the remainder of the evening, Benjamin continued to follow the girl with his eyes. Some of the guests noticed it, and there were whispers. People were curious about his relationship with the pretty young woman who’d come to live at Larkspur.

  Dayme was ecstatic, playing her little game, when Benjamin cut in again. She smiled up at him sweetly. “I feel so popular. That good-looking Baxter Johnston keeps cutting in. I understand he’s a good catch.”

  Benjamin laughed. “Baxter? Actually the man is…uh…rather strange. He will never marry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Benjamin couldn’t resist the temptation to put his old rival down. He knew the man’s intentions were far from honorable but didn’t have the heart to tell Dayme. “Just…just not the marrying kind. I’m afraid Baxter will remain a bachelor forever. It’s all for show, you know, his attention to the ladies.” Dayme was puzzled, but he didn’t elaborate.

  Shortly after midnight, Esta Calloway approached Benjamin with a disgusted expression on her face. “Those two do this at every party. James is asleep on the lawn and I cannot awaken him. Baxter is terribly sick. My brother cannot hold his liquor.”

  “Want Cassie to make old Bax a glass of salt water?”

  “Will it help?”

  “I don’t know. It might.” Ah, how sweet revenge. Benjamin was fully aware that salt water would make Baxter sicker. This gave him a chance to relax his guard and join a group of men gathered at the east end of the ballroom.

  “Corley Edwards finally got a letter from Morgan. He’s searching for the Lost Bowie Silver Mine in Texas,” Martin Lewis remarked.

  Benjamin grinned and filled his pipe. “Sounds like that son-of-a-pistol. He has to try everything at least once. Just like Morgan…adventuring in a wild untamed land while his poor parents wrung their hands and worried.”

  “They say his battalion was still fighting three months after General Lee’s surrender,” Peter Wentworth added.

  “We left together,” Benjamin told them. “Morgan, however, was transferred to the cavalry because of his expertise with horses.”

  “His letter said he was in the last real battle of the war at a place called Palmetto Ranch near Brownsville.” Martin Lewis added.

  Benjamin chuckled. “Knowing that die-hard, he probably fought the Union all the way to his claim.”

  “Prospectors have been searching for that old Los Almagres Mine since the ‘30’s,” Charles Pierce put in. “Legend has it that Jim Bowie got in with Xolic, the old Lipan-Apache chief. He was adopted as a blood brother into their tribe. After he found the source of the gold nuggets the Indians traded….”

  “Thought Bowie had a ‘silver’ mine.” Benjamin interrupted.

  “I have my doubts if there’s anything out there. Every time I hear it the stories add more mines. Last time I heard there were twenty-five or more in the vicinity of the San Saba River.” Martin laughed. “Silver and gold. I think it’s a fairy tale.”

  “He left the tribe and went back to San Antonio for men and supplies to take the mine. The rest is history. He died at the Alamo. As far as anyone knows, the secret died with him,” Pierce continued.

  Peter Wentworth disagreed. “He left some kind of map. A woman, a Mrs. Dickinson and two children escaped from the Alamo. The story I heard said the little boy had a map that Bowie gave him to give to his brother. The map never reached Bowie’s brother, but somebody might have it.”

  Benjamin puffed on the pipe. Blue smoke curled and drifted out an open window of the east end of the great room occupied by smokers. Ladies shied away from the east end or fanned themselves when passing by.

  “If there was a map, it would be worthless now,” Martin Lewis insisted. “The Lipan-Apaches changed the course of the San Saba River to hide the mine’s location or so the legend goes.”

  “My bet is on Morgan,” Benjamin said, grinning. “It there is precious metal out there, my two-bits says Morgan just might find it. I’d rather have his luck than license to steal.”

  “There’s a superstition that Indian ghosts guard the entrance to the Las Almagres Mine,” Peter Wentworth added as he struggled up from the chair, holding his crutches. “I’m going to see what Logan’s got left on the pit.”

  At the moment, Benjamin noticed as he glanced around the room to check on Dayme, she was dancing with white-haired Mr. Yates. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “We are getting some piqued glances from some disgruntled young ladies who want to dance.”

 
; Benjamin’s feet followed the music as he glided across the dance floor with homely Eva Hope Borsch, daughter of the former mayor of Vicksburg. His eyes still followed Dayme. A younger, good-looking man cut in just seconds before the music stopped.

  “I’m just all out of breath,” Dayme told him demurely as she excused herself. She promised the next dance to him when she returned. She rushed upstairs to powder her nose and add a touch of lip rouge, not much, just a pink blush. She knew it would further antagonize Benjamin for he hated for her to wear makeup. “I’m popular tonight with Benjamin’s friends,” she said to her image in the mirror. “I hope this night never ends. Benjamin is jealous and I’m glad. He’s miserable and I love it.”

  As she started to descend the stairs, she heard whispers and paused midway to listen when she heard her name. Maggie Mae Peters had an all-wise expression on her unattractive face. “Oh, she’s Benjamin’s mistress, all right. There’s no doubt about it. Did you notice the way he looks at her? Mama said he bought Dayme a blue calico dress at our store, and he didn’t make any bones about it. He told Mama it was for Dayme…blatantly, straight out. It’s plain as the nose on your face what kind of girl Dayme O’Malley is…white trash! That’s all she ever was. No wonder the men are falling all over themselves rushing her for dances. They’re competing for her favors.”

  For a moment, Dayme stood there in a state of shock. She was stunned, insulted and so angry she trembled. Her first instinct was to defend her reputation and deny the allegations with an angry confrontation. She took a deep breath and quickly decided against it. I won’t lower myself to their level, she decided. I’ll be the gracious lady Benjamin expects me to be tonight. I’ll not become involved in a petty scene.

  She coughed, revealing her presence and walked regally the rest of the way downstairs with her head held high. The two gossipers exchanged glances, hoping they hadn’t been overheard. “It…it’s a lovely party, Dayme, really it is,” Maggie Mae blurted in a high shrill voice while Lois Simpson twisted a handkerchief. Both faces reflected guilt.

  “Yes. It is, isn’t it,” Dayme replied primly. “Shame on you, Maggie Mae. Surely you didn’t mean what you said about Lois’ nose. Her nose isn’t plain at all. Actually, it’s…uh…rather unique. And you shouldn’t keeping hiding your face behind that fan, dear. You are neat. Somebody might ask you to dance if they could see who you are. Relax, both of you. Enjoy yourselves. Have fun. I certainly intend to.” She glided into the ballroom into the arms of the handsome young man who awaited her return while the two girls gaped. A smile was on Dayme’s lips, but all the fun was gone.

  Chapter 13

  The singing had already begun in the small coffee-grinder church when Benjamin helped Dayme down from the wagon. Heads turned and a murmur of whispers fluttered through the congregation when the couple took seats in the fourth row and joined in singing, “Bringing in the Sheaves”.

  Brother James, the fleshy, red-faced preacher, welcomed the congregation. He commented about the beautiful Lord’s Day and read some announcements. “There will be a Stewardship Committee meeting in the parsonage immediately following the service. Are there any more announcements?” He scanned the room but nobody spoke up so he read a poem by an unknown author entitled “It Isn’t the Church, It’s you.” Brother James loved poetry so much that he used just about as much poetry in the services as he did scripture. Throughout his years as a minister, he found that poetry could enhance the dullest of sermons and frequently helped get the point across. As a forerunner to the stewardship meeting, the preacher planned to read an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem, “Reward For Service,” which he had carefully weaved into a well-researched hell fire and damnation message directed at non-tithers.

  “Turn your song books to page 66,” he told them. “Will There be Any Stars in My Crown? Think about it, brothers and sisters. Will there be any stars in your crown? What have you done for the Lord this week? Is your love as deep as your pocketbook? Your eternal soul is at stake here. Let us sing.”

  Deacon Lloyd McPugh was already on his mark when the song ended. He left the pew and whispered to the preacher while the pianist prepared for the next hymn. Both men’s eyes came to rest on Dayme.

  Brother James donned his most pious expression at the close of the singing. He closed his eyes for a long moment, dreading the northern mandate to pray for President Andrew Johnson. Personally, he despised the man. It appalled him to be forced to pray for the president, but he wasn’t the type to buck a mandate. Besides, it pleased several affluent northern converts. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was offend them. What McPugh told him caused a hasty change in the subject matter. This sermon would have to be extemporaneous. The carefully prepared oration on stewardship would have to wait until next Sunday.

  “Let every head be bowed and every eye closed while we pray. Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for the blessing Thou hast bestowed upon us all by healing our land of the ravages of war. Bless President Johnson as he leads this nation and keep him from harm. May this great land be truly united once again.” At this point, the reverend paused. His mind churned to come up with the perfect words to continue. “We thank Thee, Lord, for providing a sanctuary where Christians may worship away from the sinners and lusts of this world.” His tone changed abruptly to righteous indignation. He began low but became increasing louder as the words spilled out of his mouth like snake venom. “This church, YOUR house, Lord, has been INVADED by a SCARLET woman! From a den of INIQUITY! Who even today is BRAZENLY living with a man without benefit of clergy.”

  Hugging his Bible close to his heart, Bro. James’ voice lowered to a holy whisper. “We know, oh Lord, that this goat must be separated from Thy sheep. Help Thy humble servant to do Thy will. In Thy holy name we pray. Amen.” Bro. James always closed prayers with exactly the same words. It wasn’t difficult for the man to say Thee, Thy, God, Father or even Master but rarely, except in scripture reading did he use the name of Jesus Christ. He was a “fisher of men”, so to speak, most especially those of means. By keeping his sermons general, he hoped to woo some wealthy Jewish merchants who recently opened for business in Vicksburg. It would be a feather in his cap to gain some converts. A healthy collection plate always brightened his countenance. The sooner he got into the crux of the matter the better, so the deacons could get on with passing the plate.

  “The Holy Bible gave people rules to live by,” the plump-jawed minister continued gravely. “LAWS! GOD ALMIGHTY’S LAWS!” He pursed his lips and looked exceedingly wise over gold-rimmed half-glasses. “Moses didn’t come down off Mt. Sinai with ten SUGGESTIONS! Oh, no! God gave Moses TEN COMMANDMENTS…Thou SHALTS and Thou SHALT NOTS! God gave Moses rules of conduct that absolutely must be obeyed to the letter to ever see the pearly gates of heaven!

  “Fornication is wickedness committed by the children of SATAN!” His beady eyes glared down at Dayme, and she nudged Benjamin to ask him to get her out of there, but he shook his head. “Friends and neighbors, we have one of the Devil’s own in our midst this morning.” His fist crashed down hard on the pulpit and his voice rose to an angry shout. “A WICKED woman! A HARLOT! Who has no business in the house of the Lord!”

  Mortified, Dayme’s first instinct was to get up and leave. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, and she turned frantically again to Benjamin and whispered, “Please…let’s go.”

  He refused to budge from his seat. “Sit still,” he whispered, “Let the man have his say. People will assume you’re guilty if we leave.”

  Opening the Bible to the book of Proverbs, the preacher read, “Every wise woman buildeth her house, but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.” He slammed the scripture shut and strode pompously up and down across the podium. Then, BANG! He hit the pulpit again and pointed an accusing finger. “THIS WOMAN!” He shouted to the rooftop, “This woman has no house! And no place among the decent Christian women of this church! She plucked her house down during the war by entertaining soldiers in Tom Macy’s ho
use of ill repute!”

  “Amen!” Deacon McPugh’s voice rang out.

  “Amen” Deacon Bumpas seconded, as well as a few more people in the congregation. A female voice shouted, “Indecent trollop!”

  That did it. Benjamin arose from his seat. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, removed it, folded it neatly and handed it to Dayme. Several of the women gasped as he walked with calm, firm, deliberate steps toward Bro. James. Benjamin didn’t utter a single word until after he peeled off a white glove, and with it he slapped the preacher across the face. Then with quiet dignity, he said, “You, Sir, have insulted a lady’s honor. I believe you have the choice of weapons.”

  The preacher paled and began to tremble as he looked up at the tall, muscular former army captain. His knees were jumping with fright. The congregation was quiet, as if everyone in the room was holding his breath. “I…I’m a man of the cloth,” he stammered. “You can’t challenge me to a duel. I won’t fight you.”

  Benjamin whipped the glove across his face a second time.

  “Thou…Thou shalt not kill,” Bro. James quoted. “I refuse your challenge. I, Sir, live by the word of God.” He righteously turned the other cheek so Benjamin slapped that side, also.

  At that point, deacons McPugh and Bumpas rose from their pews to defend the preacher. Benjamin had shoved the man and sent him reeling across the floor, causing his celluloid collar to pop loose.

  “Now wait a minute, Farrington,” McPugh intervened angrily. “You’re out of line. Miss O’Malley is a harlot. Everybody in Vicksburg knows she worked more than two years in Macy’s brothel while decent women took to the fields and the washtubs.”

  Benjamin clipped McPugh under the chin with a quick right, knocking him flat on the floor. “Sit down!” Benjamin ordered, spitting out the words. Both deacons returned meekly to their seats. McPugh rubbed a sore jaw. Not another man in the church challenged the tall, angry man with blood in his eye.