Freeman (49 page)

He brushed past her without another word, then stopped short at the sight of the wounded Negro lying flat on the old army cot. “Who is this?” he demanded.

Prudence’s anger sparked like struck flint. “I will tell you who he is, Mr. Wheaton. This is Mr. Freeman. Mr. Sam Freeman.”

He regarded her with a sour smirk. “‘Mister,’” he said. “Even at the price you’ve paid for the lesson, you still do not learn.”

She ignored him. “Mr. Freeman is another victim of the mob law you and your friends instituted when you burned down half this town.”

Wheaton had been gazing down at Sam, but now his eyes came up sharply. “I was there,” he said. “I’ll not deny that. But I burned nothin’. I hurt no one. I tried to stop the ones who did the hurtin’ and burnin’, if you want to know the truth. Socrates didn’t even want to send your message to bring the militia here. I was the one told him to do it.
Me
. But things had gone too far by that point. I am sure we both know who is responsible for that.”

She ignored the rebuke. Or pretended to, at least. “Mr. Freeman was set upon by a gang of ruffians at a farm outside of town. They beat him very nearly to death. He barely managed to make it here on his last legs. We found him collapsed in the dirt outside.”

“And you have been nursin’ him back to health like the angel of mercy you are.”

“Mr. Wheaton, I beg you: This poor man has been through enough. Please do not compound his sufferings by revealing his whereabouts to the ruffians who did this.”

“Mrs. Kent, once again you misjudge me. You delude yourself if you think I care enough about this boy one way or another to spare him another thought once our business here is concluded. Though I will give him a piece of friendly advice.” He looked at Sam. “Heal up fast as you can and get out of town, boy. Things are changin’ hereabouts, and it would not be in your best interest to spend more time here than necessary.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Prudence.

“Well, as it happens, Mrs. Kent, that has to do with the business proposal I mentioned to you a moment ago. Is there somewhere we may speak in private?”

“We can speak here,” said Prudence.

Wheaton glanced at Sam, then shrugged. “If you insist,” he said. “You see, the late unpleasantness has convinced my father and some of the other men that for the future happiness of the town, measures must be taken to expel the Negroes and troublemakers among us.”

“Expel?”

“Yes. But only from the town proper, you understand. After all, the Negroes are still our primary labor force. The planters will need to make contract with workers soon to harvest their crops, accordin’ to the new rules imposed upon us by our Yankee masters. But thank the good Lord, we still have the power to decide some things for ourselves. And one thing we’ve decided is that all the niggers will be required to make their homes outside of town from now on. Buford is going to be exclusively white.”

Disbelief left her mute. There was a moment. Then Sam spoke for the first time since Wheaton had come through the door. “You said, ‘Negroes and
troublemakers
,’” he said.

Prudence glanced toward Sam without seeing him. “He means me,” she said.

“Indeed I do,” Wheaton said. “The ordinance is being drafted now that will give Mayor Alexander powers to expel anyone who is deemed a menace to public safety.”

“You cannot do that,” said Prudence.

“But we will,” said Wheaton. “Lest you think us unfair, though, let me hasten on to share the business proposition that brought me here. You see, my father recognizes that you and your family own certain properties in this town and he proposes to rob no man”—a fractional bow—“or
woman
of what is rightfully her own. So he stands ready to buy this buildin’ and the abandoned farmland I understand your family still owns outside of town, at a substantial profit to you.”

“I am not interested, Mr. Wheaton. You may leave.”

There was bitterness in his laugh. “I knew that would be your first response, Mrs. Kent, but for your own sake, I urge you to reconsider. Do you really want to insist upon your right to stay in a place where you are not wanted? Frankly, many in our town are surprised you are still here, after the unpleasantness. One often hears people speculatin’ about it: ‘What does she want? What is she tryin’ to prove?’”

His eyes softened and there was something like fondness in his smile. “As someone who has ample experience with it, I am well aware of your spirit, the fact that you will not allow anyone to dictate terms to you. I respect that about you, Mrs. Kent. I do. But your point has been made. After what happened here, most young ladies would have hightailed it out of this town on the next train. You did not. You stood your ground.

“But now that your point is made, you must consider the rest of your life. They’ll never allow you to teach the Negroes here, Mrs. Kent. Surely you must understand that by now. So the question is: do you really intend to spend years in this stalemate? Is it really in your interest to try and hang on in a place where you are not wanted and you accomplish nothin’? After all you have been through here, after all you have lost, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to return to the comforts of your home and consider… pursuing another course? I know what you think of us, but you should not let that prevent you from actin’ in your own interest. My father has offered you a dignified way to extricate yourself from this situation. I implore you not to dismiss it out of hand.”

Prudence was silent. She said, “You…” And then she stopped, impatiently flicking at the tears that had begun dripping from her eyes. A deep
breath. She looked at him. “You make a persuasive argument, Mr. Wheaton. I will give you that.”

“I know we haven’t…gotten along, Mrs. Kent. I know you do not trust me and I understand that I bear some responsibility for that. But I truly do believe this course of action
is
in your best interest.”

“Do you?” she asked. Then she sighed and something in her deflated. “Well maybe you are right after all, Mr. Wheaton. I will have to think about it. And I will have to write my sisters. They are as much heirs to my father’s estate as I, which makes them part owners of this property.”

“Do you think you will have any difficulty convincin’ them?”

She shook her head. “No, if I tell them it is for the best, they will agree.”

“And do you believe it is for the best?” asked Wheaton.

“I do not know,” she told him. “Perhaps. As I have said, I’ll have to think on it.”

Wheaton touched his hat. “Excellent,” he said. “Take all the time you need. But the thing you must understand—and forgive me if this sounds like a threat, but it is only the truth—is that there is no question of whether or not you will be leavin’ town. That has already been decided. The only question is what will happen to your properties once you do.”

“I understand,” she said.

He nodded. “Very good. I will tell my father to have legal papers drawn up in anticipation of a happy conclusion to this business. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kent. Good day to you, ma’am.”

He nodded to her, moved toward the door, then paused and looked back. “You get better quick, now,” he told Sam. And then the door closed behind him.

She stood watching the door a long moment, hating Bo Wheaton for being who and what he was. Hating him all the more for being right.

Sam spoke from behind her. “So,” he said.

“So,” she said. She did not turn.

“It appears we both will soon be leaving.”

“Yes,” she said. “Damn him, but he is right. He made no argument I had not already considered, but…”

“You hate to let them run you off,” he said, finishing the thought for her.

“No,” she hissed, and now she turned to face him. “I hate to let them
win
.”

Sam pulled his cot toward the wall, tossed some miscellaneous scraps of broken wood to one side, and limped back to lift the water pail out of the path of the loading doors. Then he pulled the doors open.

Prudence was standing there with a colored boy she had hired to muck out the makeshift stall. She gave Sam an appraising glance. “You would not have been able to handle that door just a few days ago,” she told him. “You have made great progress these last two weeks.”

“Yes, Sergeant Kent, thanks to you, I have.”

Sam Freeman was not ordinarily a playful man, but he had been calling Prudence “Sergeant Kent” for two weeks now, first as she walked him up and down the floors of the old warehouse, then as she stood off to the side encouraging and cajoling as he walked himself. The name was not only a tease, but also a salute of sorts. He knew now that had she not pushed him, he might never have gotten up from that cot.

She had not let him leave the old warehouse yet. The town was still too dangerous, she said, and he was in no position to defend himself. But she had brought him books and he had passed the time in reading. He enjoyed losing himself on the pages of great works, but it did not give him the same pleasure it once had. Once, words had been his shield. Now they were simply words.

They talked sometimes when he was sweating with exertion and sitting heavily on the edge of the cot. He learned that she was from a wealthy family of abolitionists in the North. Her father had once owned slaves here
in Buford, she said, but had come to realize what a detestable practice that was. He had dedicated himself wholeheartedly to the antislavery cause and had taught his children likewise.

“What made him change?” Sam had asked.

She had been perched on the edge of a desk slightly above him and she gave him a look he could not read. “He just did,” she said. “He just came to understand that it was not a fit practice for a Christian man.” She held his eyes. She turned away.

He had never known a woman like Prudence Kent. He had known many abolitionists after he escaped from slavery, had attended their gatherings and even spoken at their meetings. But he’d never known a woman—he’d never known
anyone
—who called him “mister.” That stayed with him. He mentioned it to her one day as he hobbled gingerly across the floor, leaning on a walking stick fashioned from the remains of a broken desk.

“You know, Sergeant Kent,” he said, “I must say that you startled me the first time we met.”

“Oh?” She was standing with arms folded, marking his progress. “And how did I do that?”

“You called me ‘Mr. Freeman.’ No one has ever called me that. I never thanked you.”

She made an impatient sound. “You should not thank me for paying you the courtesy any person owes another person to whom she has not been properly introduced.”

He grunted with the exertion of a step, then paused. “Yes,” he said, “but we both know not everyone believes a Negro is a person to whom one owes such small courtesies. It is a pity more white people do not emulate your example.”

She smiled, again with that look he could not read.

“Your sergeant thinks you give her entirely too much credit,” she said. “Your recovery is entirely of your own doing. I only facilitated it.”

“Yes,” said Sam, “well I would beg to—”

Then he saw the boy. It stopped him.

The child gripped the handles of a wheelbarrow full of clean straw. He was tall, perhaps 15 years of age, lithe and sinewy as only a boy-man can be. The sight of him made Sam’s heart lunge for the bars of its cage. Because the boy was Luke. For a sliver of time, over before it was begun, he glanced toward Sam with the face of his long dead son.

Then the instant was gone. Sam blinked and the boy was no longer his son, had
never
been his son, but was only himself, a medium-brown boy with the shadow of a moustache overtop full lips glancing with mild interest toward the crippled man standing in the middle of the floor. He nodded politely, then maneuvered the wheelbarrow around Sam toward the corner where the horse was kept. Sam watched him closely as he crossed the room.

“Is something wrong?” Prudence was at his shoulder.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, eyes still tracking the boy as he set the wheelbarrow down and approached the horse, stroking its neck and murmuring soothing words.

“You look as if you have seen a ghost,” she said.

And that was near enough to the truth that he turned to search her eyes for mockery. He found only concern. “The boy reminded me of someone,” he said. “That is all.”

“I see,” she said. “And who might that someone be?” she asked.

“Just someone I once knew,” said Sam. “It does not matter. He has been dead a very long time.”