Jacob's Ladder (23 page)

She stretched then, lifted her long arms, and his hand fell naturally upon her breast.

“I know who you are,” he murmured. After a long minute, he said, “Jesus Christ, I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't you caused my troubles,” she said. She nestled herself into his hand.

When Silas Omohundru departed Memphis for Wilmington, North Carolina, most of Omohundru's cotton trade accrued to Turnbull, and because he knew his enhanced prosperity was due less to his own efforts than to the withdrawal of a better man, Turnbull joked that Omohundru had got out while the getting was good. And when word came that Omohundru had purchased a blockade runner and had married a strikingly beautiful Bahamian girl, Turnbull joked about that too: “They call them girls ‘conks,' you know, on account of they been conked by that ol' tar brush. . . .” Shrewder men thought Silas had judged it right, got his money out when the markets were at their peak. U. S. Grant took over Federal command in Memphis, and though his factors kept on buying Confederate cotton, they paid for it in scrip.

THE GRANARY OF THE
CONFEDERACY

S
TRATFORD
P
LANTATION
J
ULY
12, 1862

THE CRADLERS SPREAD
along a golden wall of wheat like skirmishers. A step forward and whiss the sharp blade slices the standing grain; on the backswing, twist the cradle so it deposits it in the swath: step and cut, an easy motion that let a man enjoy the small clouds scudding overhead, the trickle of sweat down his brow, his hickory snathe smoothed by other hands, other harvests. Step and cut. The Jackson river bounded this field, and over the whiss of his blade, a man could dream of that water's sweetness.

The field was ten acres: longer than deep. The wheat was the newfangled Mediterranean variety. The field was the last the gang would cut, the farthest upstream, highest elevation, last to ripen and dry. They'd worked Hidden Valley and Warwick Plantation and Stratford's lower fields and the sun had stayed bright and the courteous rains came on Sundays when they wouldn't interrupt the work and the harvest promised to be bountiful.

It had been hard on the older men, and every morning they rose stiff from their beds and toppled gratefully into them at nightfall. But the work peeled years away, and as their muscles lengthened and suppled, they joked more and grew easy with each other.

A man could dream fantastical dreams while the wall of wheat receded before him. Duncan Gatewood dreamed of horses: fast horses, sleek-sided mares, foals dancing in the pasture.

Beside Duncan, Rufus watched barn swallows wheeling after insects dislodged by the cradles and the ground-dwelling insects exposed when their wheat roof was suddenly removed. The swallows were conducting their own harvest.

Cradling alongside Rufus, Samuel Gatewood was calculating profits. A barrel of prime flour was bringing forty dollars at Richmond, and since there were ready buyers at the Millboro Springs railhead, a man didn't have to wait for his money. Private buyers bid against the government, and some paid in gold.

Samuel was working tasks he hadn't since he was Duncan's age.

Beside Samuel, a colored man from Warwick Plantation; next Thomas Byrd, his first year with the fulltask hands; and finally, at the verge of the plowed ground, big, pleasant, simple Joe Dinwiddie. People worried what would happen to Joe if he was conscripted.

The rakers followed the cradlers. Pauline Byrd, Franky and Dinah Williams, and four children from Warwick Plantation who never spoke except to one another.

Pompey veered from swath to swath, binding sheaves. He'd strip wheat into cords, knot it, loop it around a fat sheave, and knot again. When Jack the Driver called “Shock!” the children dropped their rakes and fetched armloads of sheaves. Since the shocks must defy the weather for weeks, only Jack built them. Eight sheaves formed a shock's walls, and Jack flattened two sheaves for the roof. “A good hudder makes a good shock,” Jack frequently remarked.

Day after day each cradler cut his bushels, and day after day, over rough ground and smooth, the rakers raked their swaths, Pompey bound his sheaves and Jack cried “Shock!” They started as soon as the dew was off the wheat. Same sun every day: it felt fine in the cool of the morning but turned cruel before noon. Waves of grain receded before the skirmish line of cradlers, and the barn swallows swirled and cried overhead.

When the sun stood directly overhead, Samuel Gatewood lodged his cradle, wiped his forehead with his kerchief, called out, “Take your ease!” and excepting Jack and the children, who were finishing a shock, everyone shouldered tools and ambled to the riverbank where the great elms distributed shade. Rufus found a low spot on the grassy bank and lay flat on his belly and splashed cool water on his head and neck and ducked his face under the water and drank that way. He shook his head like a dog. Sweaty, chaff-covered, Duncan slumped against a tree. Although new skin closed his wound, pallor was just beneath Duncan's tan; he worked awkwardly, disjointedly, and his swaths were no broader than young Thomas Byrd's. Samuel Gatewood uncorked his flask, swallowed, and offered it to his son, who shook his head no.

Rufus looked at the ground as Gatewood pocketed the flask.

“Jesse Burns the best cradler I ever seed,” Rufus said. “Jesse cut seventy bushels at Warwick barn field last year and day's end he was still rarin' to go. Jack, you recall when Preacher Todd broke a wheel fording Strait Creek? That water was over my waist, and Lord! Cold? Jesse lift that whole wagon and hold it up while we pry the old wheel off the hub and hammer a new wheel on. I wish we had Jesse on the cradle. That man make short work of a field of wheat.”

“He not much help in leg irons,” Franky Williams giggled.

A wagon bumped across the field where yesterday no wagon could have passed, rattling over ground that had been hidden by tall golden grain. In a cool calico dress, her face shaded by an oversized bonnet, Miss Abigail rode beside old Uther. Feet dangling over the tailgate, Aunt Opal was in back.

Young Thomas Byrd brought a water dipper to his uncle. “Duncan, when they were comin' at you, the Federals I mean, were you scared?”

The water tasted fine, and Duncan knew he would cherish such memories after he returned to his regiment. “If you get to thinking about it, sure you're scared. Thing is—mostly you're too busy to think. Fighting a battle is hot work.”

Samuel Gatewood accepted the dipper from his son. “The post rider reports that when our army fought that fearful battle at Malvern Hill, Reverend MacDonald of Mint Springs could hear cannon fire from the direction of Richmond, and others attest to the phenomenon. My God, sir. Richmond is more than a hundred miles from Mint Springs.”

“My father wrote,” Thomas added, “that G'nrl Lee whipped the pants off 'em. I wish I could have seen it.”

“Thank God Catesby is spared,” Samuel said.

Thomas refilled the dipper for Jack, who rested against the back of Duncan's tree, feet stuck out straight.

“Thank you, son. I gettin' too old for real work.”

“How old are you, Jack?”

“Don't rightly know. My mother was servant to Robert Obenchain outside Harrisonburg. Cattle he reared, and hogs. When the drought took his crops I was sold to Reverend Mitchell in Warm Springs. That was the year after Nat Turner got to killin' planter folks.”

“Jack . . .”

“Uncle Jack,” Duncan corrected.

“Uncle Jack, why'd he do such a thing? Was Nat Turner one of John Brown's men?”

“Before Mr. Brown's time, I 'spect,” Jack said. “I believe we shocked a mess of wheat this morning.”

“Was he a madman, Uncle Jack? Why'd Nat Turner want to kill planters? What'd they ever do to him?”

“Thomas,” Duncan said, “go and help your grandmother unpack our dinner. Looks like she brought that blueberry shrub you're so partial to.”

Supported on Aunt Opal's arm, Uther Botkin came near. “Good day, Duncan. You seem much improved.”

“Considerable, sir. I have another month furlough before returning to duty. I can't leave Catesby to fend for himself amongst those Tidewater men. They think we mountaineers talk funny!”

Samuel asked, “May I offer you brandy, sir? Or would you rather Abigail's shrub? Most refreshing.” He turned to his son. “Duncan, have you been reading my Tom Paine? I couldn't find it the other night.” Perplexity troubled Samuel's face. “I'd swear someone is rearranging my books. Twice this week I searched for a volume only to have it turn up the next day.”

“Maybe Pompey gettin' himself some education,” Rufus joked.

Thomas set the basket (cornbread, ham, roast beef, piccalilli, mustard, pickled horseradish) on a broad stump where all the workers could help themselves. Everybody ate the same food. Excepting Jack, the coloreds sat farther down the riverbank.

Infant Willie Byrd was sick with fever again, and the crisis was upon him. All through the night, Abigail and Sister Kate took turns bathing his tiny body and Mother Gatewood prayed ceaselessly. The infant's mother, Leona, was beside herself with worry.

“It is hopeless then?” Samuel asked his wife.

“The issue rests with God.”

In previous summers Stratford had had a dozen fulltask hands for the wheat harvest. These days Samuel was lucky to find five. The Richmond government had conscripted fifteen of his servants (“rented” was their word) from the plantation. Others had run away.

Most of the runaways were returned after Samuel Gatewood put out the advertisement and offered the reward. West Virginia was seceding from Virginia, but that didn't make it a haven for runaways. West Virginians might not care for the Confederacy but that didn't mean they embraced the negro.

The ones brought back were the lucky ones. Yellow Billy and Pompey were heading north and Billy had been fording the Cheat River when a couple white boys on the bank shot him to pieces for the hell of it. Hidden in the brush on the riverbank, while Billy begged for his life, Pompey had a change of heart and came directly home. Master Samuel told Pompey he could continue as houseman but he'd help with the field work too. Jack the Driver asked Pompey why he'd run.

“I run because Billy run,” Pompey said. “And Billy run 'cause he was foolin' with buckra's woman and buckra found out about it and was gonna kill Billy. Billy said when we get north, Master Lincoln give us a pillowsack full of gold.”

“And you believe him?”

Pompey hung his head.

Stratford quit sawing timber. Women could milk cows and shock hay and women could bring the hogs out of the woods and tend to the horses. But women couldn't fell and limb sawlogs.

Samuel Gatewood complained to Abigail, “Government rents my servants whether I wish to rent or no. And the Lynchburg Fire and Hose Company won't insure them because they're on public duty. Thus if my servants are injured or fall ill through neglectful treatment it is my duty to restore them to health, and should they die it is my loss.”

Auntie Opal removed the basket from the stump, sat old Uther down, and stood before Samuel Gatewood. “Master, they after our cows,” she said. “Government after our cows. Already took six.”

“You sold willingly?”

“Us? Them? Hah!” Aunt Opal spat. “They took half what we got, said they'd be back for the others. What we gonna do, Master Samuel, without those cows? Where we gonna get money from?”

Uther cleared his throat. “They mentioned . . . my daughter and her husband. They said that we of all people should be glad to contribute to the Confederate effort.”

“Specie,” Opal snapped. “They pay us in specie. Those cows was in calf, due in September, and now they be slaughtered for beef, and we never took specie for a cow before, never once.”

Samuel Gatewood pinched the bridge of his nose. “When next I'm at the courthouse, I'll speak to the commissioners. I can't restore your cows but may prevent future takings.”

Uther said, “The Confederate government conscripts men as the Federal government does. The Confederate government confiscates what it needs from its citizens as the Federal government does. Tell me, Samuel, what are our people fighting for?”

Duncan said, “Because we never asked the Federals to come here and tell us what to do and we're gonna make 'em go back north where they came from.”

For a moment, the old man contemplated rebuttal, but a softer light came into his eyes. “I beg your pardon, sirs. I did not come to Stratford today to dispute but to offer you, Samuel, and dear Abigail, my profoundest gratitude. My Sallie has written me, sir.” He extracted a much-read letter from his breast pocket and handed it to Abigail. “It is to your offices Sallie owes her freedom from . . . that place. My daughter is conditionally pardoned, Samuel. . . .” The old gentleman did not conceal his tears nor his trembling when he touched his neighbor's hand. “Samuel . . .”

Samuel nodded, “My wife's cousin Molly wrote us of her regard for your daughter and her intent to ask Governor Letcher to intervene. I do not doubt that practical considerations have influenced the governor's decision. If we will fight wars, we must have those to care for our wounded. Letcher is no fool, he . . .”

“Sallie does not mention Alexander,” Abigail returned the letter.

Old Uther stowed it in pocket and patted the bulge. “That my daughter is impetuous, I'll allow, but from her dear mother she has inherited her heart. My Sallie is a good girl.”

“Once Molly's mind is made up, not much deters her.” Abigail smiled. “You remember, Samuel, that summer we were courting? At Warm Springs, all the young people, oh what a gay time we had! It was the time I remember most fondly from my youth. Mischievously, we brought silly people into Molly's company to see what she would make of them. One Baptist preacher—a man from Georgia, I believe—was particularly aggravating. Every evening he took a central place on the veranda, lecturing those who were scarcely acquaintances about the evils of cards and drink and the all too numerous flaws of the younger generation. Finally, Cousin Molly had had enough. ‘Sir, complaints of elders about the young are not unknown in the Bible. As I recall, the philistines made a dreadful fuss about young Jesus.' ”