Child of the River Read online

  Dayme had been resting her feet on a stool and listening but the Negro’s tale stunned her and she stood up. “You mean…you mean to say that ya’ll have been wearin’ rags and half-starvin’ knowing where valuables might be hidden?”

  “B’longs t’ Mista Ben,” Logan declared righteously. “Twarn’t ourn t’ take. B’sides, me an’ Cassie’d both be deader’n a July poppy if we took it. The Missus said it was your legacy, Mista Ben.”

  The cemetery was fenced with ornate baroque wrought iron that had become obsolete in recent years. Tall, flowering magnolia trees shaded the site. Lilac bushes were in the corners and red roses hugged the fence. Therein lay Benjamin's great-grandparents, grandparents, his father, several uncles and aunts, a cousin and siblings who died before he was born. A brother, John, Jr., died of measles at age seven, and a little sister died shortly after birth. His father passed away in 1858 when Benjamin was eighteen. Now, his mother lay beside him. All the other graves had marble headstones, but her’s was marked with a crude plank cross that read “Bess Farrington 1815-1864”.

  Benjamin read the words as he caressed the board. The harsh reality of her death flooded over him. He kneeled at the site and wept.

  A feeling of inadequacy swept over Dayme as she dropped down beside him, brushing away a sympathetic tear. She grieved for his grief, not uttering a word. Nothing she could say would make it any easier. The black couple stood back from the scene. Logan’s bare head was bowed while Cassie cried into her apron.

  Finally, Benjamin arose and whispered hoarsely, “I can’t disturb Mum’s grave. I can’t desecrate….”

  Logan’s voice was low and husky but controlled though his pained brown eyes floated in tears. “One day you can, Mista Ben. When the time is right, you kin do it. It was the only safe place t’ put it. Yankee soldiers always pokin’ around lookin’ fo’ hidin’ places. Pore white trash an’ thievin’ niggers would steal money off’n they own dead mama’s eyes. Miss Bess said so herself.” The elderly Negro’s lip quivered. “Miss Bess told me t’ tell you that she wanted her only son t’ touch her casket ‘n let her know you done come home to Lawkspur.”

  The sun was going down in a pink and purple haze when Benjamin finally decided to leave the cemetery. It was the first time he’d noticed that all the weeds had been pulled and the graves recently re-mounded. Again, he rubbed his hand across the crude marker. “I must get Mums a decent tombstone,” he mumbled as he snapped the gate shut. “I’ve walked all the way from Georgia. We’re both tired and hungry."

  “Got some soup cookin’, child,” his old nanny told him. “Ain’t got no meat in it, but I throwed in some possum fat. It’s pretty good. If I’d a-knowed my Benjamin was comin’ home, I’d a-made Logan catch you some catfish. Them ole bees is still a-makin’ honey and we got fresh peaches fo’ dessert."

  “Peach cobbler?”

  “Can’t, child. Ain’t got no flour.” Cassie chuckled. “I ‘member that sweet tooth o’ yourn. We got some makeshift coffee. Made it myself out o’ ground-up dried sweet tater peelin’s, dried corn, a little okry seed an’ just a dab o’ chicory root. Parched it in a skillet and made Logan grind it up. Beats nothin’.”

  Dayme laughed. “Sounds like some kind of medicinal tea.” Immediately, the girl wished she hadn’t said it. She could tell by the look on the old woman’s face that it didn’t set too well.

  In spite of occupation damage, Dayme was thrilled with the interior of Larkspur. Never in her life had she seen ceilings so high in a house. The black woman didn’t speak as she followed Benjamin’s instructions to get the girl some of his mother’s clothes and to heat water for her bath. She ignored Dayme as if she wasn’t even there.

  “I kept them graves worked,” Logan explained as they crossed into the reception room leading from the foyer, “so nobody won’t notice nothin’ when we dig up that trunk.”

  Benjamin shook his head firmly. “Have to make-do. I refuse to disturb my mother’s grave.”

  The servant told Benjamin about some money Mrs. Farrington left to care for the coloreds. “Ain’t got no idy how much…some gold pieces an’ a bunch o’ Confederate money, but it ain’t no good no mo’. Won’t nobody take it. On Miss Bess’s deathbed, she called me over, an’ she could barely talk above a whisper. She said, “Logan, you take this here money to carry on. Take care o’ my people. If Benjamin gits hisself killed in the war, you gonna need this here money t’ feed the coloreds an’ buy more livestock t’ start over.”

  “How much is left?”

  “Mostly all of it. Me an’ Cassie, we’s ‘fraid t’ let folks know we got money. Didn’t even tell my own boys. ‘Fraid one of ‘em would blab it. Sent Luke an’ Ike in a time or two f’ staples. Salt, bakin’ powder, tobaccer, stuff like that. We jus’ pore talked like everbody else. We grubbed in th’ bottomland rustlin’ nuts t’ sell an’ trapped a few skins t’ trade. To tell the Lord's truth, I’s ‘fraid t’ go t’ town without you or Miss Bess. Scared somebody’d foller me back an’ knock me in the head. B’sides, I don’t know nothin’ about buyin’ hogs an’ cows. I’s kinda waitin’ on you.”

  Benjamin beamed. “Go get the money and while you’re at it, bring some tobacco.” He fingered his empty pipe.

  The high ceiling in the comfortable great room let air pass freely and there were multi-pane windows, some of which were broken. Two windows in the east end of the room were boarded up. The white plastered walls were smeared with scrawled obscenities and dirty smudges. The glass in the hall mirror was broken. Items were missing and everything had sustained occupation damage. The wine colored draperies were dusty from neglect. The white lace panels were now a dingy gray, and dust bunny cobwebs hung in the corners, over the windows and from the chandeliers. The candles were burned all the way down. He observed a crude grease light in a saucer. It was made from possum fat and rags.

  Looks like Cassie would have cleaned this room by now, he mused. Have to tell them every move to make. Won’t wipe their damn asses unless somebody instructs them to. Hearing the old woman descending the stairs, he stepped back into the reception hall. He sensed her displeasure with the girl and wanted it settled once and for all. “You were cool to Miss O’Malley,” he scolded. “I won’t stand for that. She’s a guest in my home and you treat her with the respect she deserves.”

  “Mista Ben, you ain’t heard the town talk.”

  “She’s a ‘lady’ in this house and don’t you forget it,” he told her sharply. Watching his old Nanny disappear through the doorway to the kitchen outside, his heart was filled with love and compassion for her. How on earth could I stand it if not for Cassie and Logan? Bless them both…the dear old loyal souls.

  The elaborate rectangular piano with hand-carved, heavy curved legs had Yankee initials scratched on its surface but miraculously the keys were still in tune. Imported from Belgium in the early 1800’s by his grandfather, the piano was transported up the Mississippi and Big Black Rivers by steamboat. In his memory, Benjamin could hear his mother playing, her long fingers skipping effortlessly over the keys. The tune pounding in his brain was one of Mozart’s. Strange. Her favorite composer was Chopin.

  It was at that moment that he looked up at the painting of his mother hanging in the shadows over the fireplace. Fury consumed him. “Some Yankee son-of-a-bitch slashed an X across Mum’s face with a bayonet!” he cried. “I could kill the bastard with my bare hands!” She looked so young in the picture. He couldn’t remember her ever looking that young. He felt an even deeper loss.

  The blue velvet davenport and upholstered wingback Chippendale chairs were mud-streaked and torn. Dried mud on the imported Persian rugs spoke mutely of the occupation force, as well. His law books, expensive first editions, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Chaucer, Homer and other great masterpieces littered the library floor. Some of the books had been ripped and torn in the military search.

  “Stripped. Even Mum’s favorite music box is gone. The Ming vases, all the rifles and handgun co
llection….” He tamped down the tobacco Logan brought in the pipe with his thumb and struck a match. “I see they missed grandfather’s rusty old musket and great-grandfather’s dueling pistols.”

  “It’s a wonder they didn’t break the glass in that old grandpa clock. Too heavy t’ cart off, I reckon. Smashed most ever’thing else,” Logan added.

  “Why is Cassie taking so long to call dinner?” Benjamin complained in an irritated tone. “This house is dreadful. The grounds are a disgrace. What have you people been doing?”

  “Jus’ tryin’ t’ eat, Mista Ben. Ain’t none o’ us got no heart t’ do more’n just try t’ get by,” the elderly Negro explained. “Had a awful time whilst them Yankee soldiers was holed up here in Lawkspur. We run off’n hid in the cave. You know, that little natural cave past the bend. Miss Bess had us stock it ‘fore the Yankees hit. What food we had run out more’n two weeks ‘fore they pulled out.”

  Benjamin puffed on the pipe and counted the money Logan brought while the old man talked.

  “Got so hungry in that cave that Lazarus trapped some big rats ’n Cassie fried ‘em. You know, Mista Ben, them rats tasted kinda like squirrel. Miss Bess said so herself.”

  Benjamin stopped counting. He shuddered and grimaced. “My beautiful mother ate rats?”

  Logan nodded. “Watched them soldiers steal the boats. Nothin’ we could do but watch. We come back home to nothin’…flat nothin’. Them cupboards was as clean as that possum’s prick Rufus carries in his pocket t’ pick his teeth."

  Benjamin laughed for the first time in many a day. “A possum's prick? I didn’t know he carried one.”

  “Et catfish an’ perch ‘til we nearly growed fins. Trapped possums ‘n rabbits. Caught quail in Josephus’s trap. Had nuts in the winter an’ peaches in the summer. Come Spring, we picked wild lettuce an’ watercress ‘til the garden make. Some o’ the chil’ren brung in mushrooms, but Cassie was ’fraid t’ cook ‘em. Mighta been poison."

  “Only cone-shaped mushrooms can be trusted.”

  “Yes, Suh,” Logan replied politely before continuing. “Come summertime, we gathered wild grapes an’ berries. Had peaches runnin’ out our ears….”

  “You’d have a goodly supply if you’d dried them,” Benjamin scolded. “What’s left will be. Count on it.”

  “Josephus, he robbed the bee tree. It ‘mazes me what keeps that boy from getting’ bit but he don’t.” Logan chuckled. “I shy away from bees. Seems they’s jes’ a-waitin’ t’ sting me. The Missus give most o’ the hogs t’ feed our soldiers. Yankees et the rest of ‘em. Warn’t easy but we done a heap better’n townsfolk or planters closer to the fort, I ‘spect.”

  “You had a garden. They left the seed, at least.”

  “Naw, Suh, they didn’t. Took all the seed ‘ceptin that pile o’ loose cottonseed in the bam, the hulls and the cow dukey. Guess they’s too lazy t’ scoop it up.”

  Benjamin was becoming irritated. He was hungry, and Logan kept dragging his story out. “Get to the point. Where did you get the seeds to plant a garden then?”

  “Hid a sack o’ seed corn in the cave,” the old man explained. “Miss Bess won’t let us eat none of it. Said we’d need it worser later on t’ plant.” He cleared his dry throat, wishing for a cool drink of water. “We et a lot o’ mush. Come plantin’ time, when the cottonwoods bloomed, a few black-eyed peas, onions, taters, okry an’ tomaters come up volunteer. We had kept back a great big quay for seed. It was hanging on the fence. Cantaloupes an’ watermelons sprung up all over the place from seeds been spit out. We’s jes’ tryin’ t’ eat, Mista Ben. Jes’ tryin’ t’ eat.”

  Cassie finally announced dinner. “I’ll get more mules,” Benjamin told the faithful old servant man, “and start over. Larkspur will once again be the pride of Mississippi.” He seated himself at the head of the long mahogany dining table awaiting Dayme’s entrance. Logan went outside to the kitchen while Cassie remained to serve. Logan had mixed emotions, relieved that Benjamin had returned to take responsibility, yet, yearning for the preceding days when, right or wrong, the coloreds had control of the big house. They could eat wherever they pleased and work when the notion struck

  Chapter 3

  Not a whisper of a breeze broke the stillness of that sultry August night. Unaccustomed to the softness of a feather bed, too upset and concerned with the revelations of the day to sleep, Benjamin tossed and turned. Troubled thoughts crowded his mind. Molly. Where could she be? Why didn’t anybody know? Bringing the O’Malley girl to Larkspur brought a big responsibility but what else could I do? He thought. I couldn’t just leave her there at Macy’s Saloon. After all, I made a promise. Finding a good man to marry the girl from the riverside brothel will be most difficult, but I have to try. It is the least I can do for Lawrence. Somehow, I must mold Dayme into some semblance of a lady. Did Mums really think I would disturb her grave for the contents of that trunk? He shuddered just thinking about it. Thank God for the money she left the servants. How can I rebuild Larkspur? It’s only enough to get us through the winter by counting every penny. I can’t bear that wooden cross on Mum's grave. Whatever the cost, whatever my immediate needs, I must buy her a tombstone. He thought about the Order of the White Rose Nathan Smythe told him about and the horrible situation of occupation forces in the South. Again, he seethed with anger at the thought of the Negroes moving into the big house. He beat the pillow and turned over again, but his eyes refused to close. In spite of the hot tub bath Cassie made for him, he felt sticky with the heat. Perspiration beads covered his body. He arose, poured water from the pitcher into the lavatory and washed his face, splashing some of it on his chest and shoulders. It felt cool and it was good to feel again the smoothness of a clean-shaven face. Returning to bed, he fluffed the pillow, turned it over and lay down once again, facing the open window. Mockingbirds in a tree tried to tell him to cheer up, but he didn’t heed.

  After what seemed like hours, sleep finally came from sheer exhaustion but it was fitful. He dreamed of shells and death and battle…walking over dead bodies, searching frantically through burning buildings for Molly. He searched through a graveyard of open graves and found his mother there, smiling up at him with the painted lips of a prostitute and dead staring eyes. “No! Dear God, No!” he cried, “Mums has been shot!”

  A noise. A moaning sound from Benjamin’s room down the hall awakened Dayme with a start. She sat up in bed, straining to hear. She arose, lit the grease light, opened the door a crack and listened. He was groaning. Her first instinct was to run to him but she hesitated at the door. “Poor darling,” she whispered. “He’s been through so much. Should I…?” Returning to bed, she tried to ignore the moans, but his misery distressed her. When the sounds changed to distinct sobs, she could stand it no longer.

  For a moment, Benjamin thought it was part of his dream when the girl opened the door softly and the clean, soft fragrance of a woman floated over his bed. He awakened, startled. “What…?”

  “It’s only me,” Dayme said softly, setting the grease light on the table. “I…I heard you cry out in your sleep. You sounded so sad. I had to come to you.” She felt shy and out of place in a man’s room. Her long auburn tresses had been brushed, softly hanging over her shoulders. She was breathtakingly lovely in the dim light wearing Mrs. Farrington’s flowing, loose-fitting, long-sleeved white nightgown. She kept holding up one side to keep from tripping.

  “What are you doing here?” Benjamin’s tone was shocked as he observed her incredulous beauty.

  The girl felt ill at ease. She sat on the side of his bed and patted his shoulder tenderly. “Poor dear,” she soothed, “that horrid old war and grief for your mother. I couldn’t bear to hear you cry.”

  It had been so long since Benjamin had felt the soft touch of a woman. His strong arms encircled her. “I want you,” he muttered huskily. Feeling the fullness of firm breasts pressed close against his naked chest chased reason away. He kissed her hungrily, almost brutally. Wilting into the
warmth of his embrace, Dayme returned the kiss. The fire of blissful passion exploded within them. Ever so slowly, Benjamin’s hand slid under the nightgown, feeling first her shapely ankle, then her calf. Then, as suddenly as he had grabbed the girl, he released her and pushed her off the bed.

  “God knows, I want you,” he said huskily, panting. “I don’t recall ever wanting a woman more. But this is wrong. I made a promise to your fiance. The very first night I goof up. I…I…please, go back to your room.” He rolled over to face the window, hating himself, feeling miserable.

  “Lawrence is dead,” Dayme said softly. “Molly is gone. I…I think I love you, Benjamin. I think I always have.”

  The man’s voice turned bitter, sarcastic. “Like you loved all the others? No thanks! Get out of here. I couldn’t live with myself.” He turned back over quickly to face the stricken girl. “You don’t owe me anything! Get that through your pretty head. You will be a lady at Larkspur. I insist on that. You will not be a…. You have no business in my bedroom in that provocative attire and you well know it. My mother’s home is not a brothel!”

  Dayme choked back a sob and gasped. “It was not my intention to…. The kiss just happened. I thought it was your idea. I didn’t come to seduce you.”

  “No? Then why did you come? Find your pride, girl, and leave me be. I brought you here to protect you for the sake of my best friend. One way or the other, I intend to keep my promise.”

  “You…you took my gesture wrong. You cried out. That’s why I came. It was to…to comfort you, not to…not to…. I’m…I’m not what you….” Words left the girl. She ran sobbing from the room, stumbling along the dark hallway feeling cheap and dirty. His harsh bitter words echoed in her ears. Thoughts raced through her brain. He didn’t believe me! He thinks I’m a whore! Damn him! I’ll never throw myself at him again! The girl was ashamed she’d told of her feelings for him.