Dawson's Fall

by Roxana Robinson

It had taken some time for his troops to find, but General Sherman had given them particular orders to burn it: he held a grudge against the Hampton family. They owned several plantations here, and Sherman’s troops found them all and left them all like this, rubble and blackened brick. Family furniture and silver and portraits; books and beds, toys. Nightgowns, boots, shawls. Lockets and watches, letters, diaries: all the physical connections to life, gone. Sometimes the owners came later to pick through the charred wood and dirty ashes, searching for anything that connected them to the world they’d lost. A blackened saucer, a broken mirror.

  A hundred and fifty years later the families would still be resentful. They would never forgive Sherman, never forgive the North. This one had been the grandest of the Hampton plantations. Presidents and diplomats had visited, as well as Sarah’s grandfather, George Morgan. He’d written home that he’d seen a hundred men out plowing. It was six thousand acres of good bottomland.

  Ten years after the war, the Negroes still lived in their settlements. They paid no rent but would not leave, and it was impossible to deny that they had a certain moral right to the place. They also refused to work for the new owner. The Negroes would not forgive, either. They’d been judged by the color of their skin, and now they’d judge the owners by the color of theirs.

  After the war, Northerners came down and told the Negroes the land was rightfully theirs. They told them it was their work that had made the land valuable. They told them that if the plantation owners didn’t give them what they wanted, the Negroes should burn down their houses. They told them a small child could light a match. Quite a lot of fires started mysteriously during the night. Negroes were owed, the Northerners told them, and this was true. But how much, and who was to pay them?

  After the big house at Hampton’s had been burned down during the war, the sisters had built a smaller one. They tried to keep the place going; it had been in the family for over a hundred years. But finally they couldn’t pay the taxes, and had to sell. The plantations were worth almost nothing now. Even if the Negroes would agree to work they wanted to be paid, and that was a problem. It turned out that cotton wasn’t actually a paying crop unless the labor was free.

  * * *

  PASSENGERS FOR HAMPTON’S got off at The Pump. This was just a whistle-stop, a clearing in the woods. The train slowed, gave a brief breathy blast, and paused. It was still inching forward as Dawson swung down. When he hit the ground the conductor leaned out and called something and the train started up again.

  Across the clearing was a buggy drawn by a thin bay horse. The driver was an elderly black man in a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He lifted his whip in salute as Dawson approached.

  “Captain Dawson,” he said. “I’m Levi.”

  “Afternoon, Levi.” Dawson swung his bag into the back and climbed up beside him. Dawson braced his feet against the buckboard, Levi turned the mare, who was mouthing at her bit, and they started off.

  “Tell me, Levi,” he said, “how is Major Morgan?”

  “Poorly,” he said. “Doing poorly.”

  The telegram had said: J. M. MORGAN DYING COME AT ONCE.

  * * *

  DAWSON AND MORGAN had met during the war, outside New Orleans. Captain Pegram had been sent down to command a ship, and he brought Dawson with him, and some of the other young officers from the Nashville. They traveled down by train, but just before they reached New Orleans they were ordered off the train in Opelousas. There they learned the battle was over and the city had fallen. They were ordered back to Richmond, and waited for a northbound train. These came up from New Orleans, full of soldiers retreating from the city. When Dawson and the others finally found a car with room for them, Little Morgan was in it. He was huddled in the corner, with a raging case of the yellow fever. He’d been so sick he’d been sent ashore from his ship, the McRae. He’d been in bed at Philip Hicky’s house on Camp Street when the McRae went down.

  The trip to Richmond took three weeks, and by the time they arrived Morgan and Dawson were friends. During the rest of the war they’d stayed in touch, and last spring they’d met again, on a ship coming back from England. Dawson had been visiting his family in London; Morgan had been coming back from Egypt.

  Right after the war Jem had gotten married to Helen Trenholm. Sarah came up from New Orleans for the wedding; that was her first visit to Charleston. Helen was the daughter of George Trenholm, Secretary of the Treasury under the Confederacy. Trenholm’s shipping company had run the blockade all during the war, so unlike everyone else he was richer after it than he’d been before. Trenholm was famously generous. He had saved Jem’s life by sending him a nurse for the yellow fever before they even met. That was how they met—Jem’s roommate died of the fever, and Trenholm knew the boy’s father. He helped out with the funeral, then sent a nurse to look after Jem. Then he invited him to recuperate at his big house, Ashley Hall. Jem promptly fell in love with Helen. That was during the war.

  Helen was the beautiful daughter. She was the one on the Confederate ten-dollar bill, dressed as a Greek goddess. A year after they were married Helen gave birth to baby Emily, and ten days later Helen died of the yellow fever. Jem was a father and a widower at the age of twenty. The Trenholms took the baby, and Jem went to Egypt to ride in the Khedive’s cavalry. He was there for six years. He left out of loneliness: he admired the horses, but the Egyptians wouldn’t introduce him to their women, and he didn’t speak the language. Jem went back to Charleston.

  Plantations were being auctioned off then for nonpayment of taxes. No one could make them pay, and they sold for next to nothing. George Trenholm had bought several. Jem wanted to buy one from him, Hampton’s. Trenholm told him it was a bad idea, that no one could make these places pay now. Jem had never run a plantation, but he was pretty sure he could make it work. He persuaded Trenholm to give him Hampton’s in exchange for some railroad bonds.

  * * *

  THE ROAD LED through woods lit by long shafts of slanting light. The green deerflies were small and vicious. The mare switched her tail and tossed her head, and Dawson slapped his cheek, leaving a smear of dark blood. He’d come as soon as he’d gotten the telegram, but it was an eight-hour trip. He didn’t know if he’d arrive too late. He didn’t how he’d be able to help. He didn’t know who was in the household; he didn’t even know who had sent the telegram.

  They came out into low rolling fields, ragged and untended. A driveway came in from the left, flanked by tall square brick pillars. Levi pointed his whip.

  “Hampton’s,” he said.

  The drive ran for nearly a mile in a straight line. On either side were huge old live oaks, meeting overhead in an airy green filigree. At the end stood a row of twelve charred pillars, sooty blackened brick. Only four were whole, the rest were stumps. They would once have been fluted white columns, supporting a pediment. Coming up the driveway, through the green arch of the live oaks, the house would have looked like a Greek temple.

  He thought they should be pulled down, all these ruins. They did nothing but remind people what they’d lost.

  The drive curved left toward a smaller house, plain white clapboard, with a two-story porch supported by square pillars. Levi pulled up in front.

  “We here,” he said.

  On the porch stood several rocking chairs. An old red hound lay sprawled on the floor. At Dawson’s approach she gave a brief yodeling bark and struggled to stand. Her old pads slipped on the smooth surface, as she scrabbled for purchase. After several tries she gave up, legs sliding out from under her as she collapsed onto the floor. She raised her nose and gave the hootling bark again.

  As Dawson walked up the steps the door opened and a young woman came out. The afternoon light slanted across the verandah, and as she stepped into it her face turned suddenly radiant. She raised her hand to shade her eyes. Her skin was very white. She walked quickly toward him and the thought came to him, This is the woman I’m meant to marry. Though he was already married.


  “The fever’s broken.” She smiled at him, intimate and joyful, as though she knew him. “He’s going to live.”

  “Thank God,” Dawson said. He took off his hat, and held it down at his side.

  “You’re Captain Dawson,” she said. “I’m Sarah Morgan, Jem’s sister.”

  “Miss Morgan.” He bowed.

  The sun lit up her honey-colored hair, her face. She seemed to give off light.

  “Come in,” she said. “He’s waiting for you.”

  He stepped inside behind her. When she shut the door they were alone in the long hall. She smiled and turned to lead him. The house was dim and silent, and the air motionless. The slanting sun made bright lozenges on the dark floor. Radiant motes hung in the beams. She walked ahead. Their footsteps were loud against the bare boards. She held herself very straight, and her skirts made a light shushing sound. Her tawny hair was piled thickly on the back of her head, and loose strands curled at the nape.

  The bedroom was on the ground floor, beyond the staircase. The shades were lowered, the room dim. A bed stood against the far wall. An older woman sat beside it.

  “Here’s Captain Dawson, mother,” Sarah said.

  “Mrs. Morgan,” Dawson said, bowing.

  Jem lay against the pillow, his right arm in a sling. His face was pale, and greenish bruises spread like clouds along one cheek and jaw. His eyelids were heavy and swollen. He grinned.

  “Frank Dawson,” Jem said. “All the way from Charleston.”

  “I’d have come farther,” said Dawson. “How are you?”

  “Capital,” Jem said. His voice was a croak.

  “He nearly died, Captain.” Mrs. Morgan held grievance wrapped around her like a shawl.

  Sarah dipped a cloth into a basin and smoothed it over Jem’s forehead. He closed his eyes.

  “Worth the bullet, the attention.”

  “I can see that,” Dawson said.

  Sarah put her wrist against Jem’s forehead. “Cool.” She looked at Dawson, triumphant. He nodded, as though they were partners.

  They took turns telling Jem’s story. Jem had gone to lunch in Columbia with his friend John Caldwell. They’d gone to the upstairs room in Pollocks Restaurant. A friend came over to speak to Caldwell. When he left Caldwell explained that he was Judge Melton, and in the midst of a public feud with Senator C. W. Montgomery, who happened to be downstairs. Caldwell wanted to make sure there was no trouble.

  Caldwell and Jem went down after Melton, who saw Montgomery, sitting with his friends. Melton went straight for him. They grappled, falling over onto the floor. Caldwell and Morgan followed at a run. George Tupper, a friend of Montgomery, stood up as they approached. He pulled out his pistol and fired into Caldwell’s chest. Caldwell fell backward, and Morgan caught him and laid him down on the carpet. He was dead.

  “I went after Tupper,” Jem said, recovering energy. “I was going to throw him out the window. I got my arms around him and tried to wrestle him over to it, but while I was getting there he got his gun hand up underneath my arm. He reached around and shot me in the shoulder.”

  “And then what?” Dawson asked.

  “Then the police arrested Jem,” Sally said.

  “You?” Dawson asked.

  “For trying to throw that man out the window,” Sally said. “Mr. Tupper.”

  “But Tupper’s the one who shot Jem,” Dawson said. “Who killed Caldwell.”

  “They put Mr. Tupper in prison for a few weeks,” Sarah said. “He pleaded self-defense and they let him out.”

  “That poor Mr. Caldwell, his whole life ahead of him,” Sally said fiercely. “He was just trying to help.”

  “Tupper was just trying to help, too,” Jem said.

  Sally ignored him. “Luckily, Mr. Trenholm came up from Charleston. He got Jem out of jail and found him a doctor.”

  “The doctors were worse than getting shot,” Jem said. “They started digging for the bullet. They spent days in there, prospecting. Finally I told them they were killing me, and they had to quit. Then the fever started. I thought that was the end of it. I thought I was dying, and asked for a bottle of champagne. They thought I was dying, and they brought it. That’s what saved me. I drank it and the fever stopped.”

  As he talked, his eyes were beginning to droop. He was running out of energy. Talking was an effort.

  “That’s enough.” Sarah drew up the sheet. “You need some rest. We’re going to leave you alone.”

  As they left, Jem called after them, his voice rusty. “The funny thing is,” he said, “I don’t like champagne. I never have.”

  On the porch Sarah brought out a tea tray. Dawson watched her white hands moving among the cups. Her fingers were small and blunt, like a child’s.

  “How long have you and your mother been here?”

  “Since June,” she said. “We’d been living in New Orleans with my brother since the war.”

  “And how do you like South Carolina?” He expected her to praise it; she did not.

  “We’re learning to like it.”

  “Jem must be grateful to have you here,” Dawson said.

  “I always wanted to keep house for my brothers,” Sarah said. Her gaze was level, not flirtatious. He didn’t quite understand her, there was something unyielding about her. He liked it.

  “We’re fortunate to be here, Captain Dawson,” said Sally.

  “Where were you during the war, Mrs. Morgan?” he asked.

  “Hither and yon, Captain,” Sally said. “Hither and yon.” Her faded blue eyes were large and confiding. He could see she’d been a beauty; she still gave off a whiff of coquetry. “Toward the end we were fortunate to move in with Sarah’s brother, Philip Hicky Morgan, in New Orleans.” She emphasized the name, as though he were famous. “So we were safe. But our house in Baton Rouge was pillaged. The Yankees destroyed everything. And we lost three of our boys.” Her voice carried blame. “And my husband.”

  “Not all to the war, Mother,” Sarah said. She had heard this before.

  “During it. Two of my sons were lost on the battlefield, Captain,” she said. “Gibbes and George.” There was something avid and fierce about her. “My husband died of illness shortly after it began, and my eldest son, Hal, just before.”

  Her faded eyes were fixed on him, as though he knew who was to blame.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dawson. “Those are terrible losses.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Morgan.

  He could see this was not enough.

  “But now we’re here at Hampton’s,” Sarah said.

  “Jem can’t get anyone to work for him,” Sally said. “He lets them stay here, but they won’t work for him. They poisoned his poor dog and stole his chickens.”

  Dawson shook his head.

  “One of them stole his milk cow. He butchered her and nailed her poor hide on the cabin wall. When Jem took it down the man had him arrested for trespassing. And the judge gave Jem a fine. It was his cabin.” Sally stirred her tea, then set the spoon in the saucer. “They’re all Negroes now, you know. Judges, mayors, everyone.”

  He saw that, for her, this life, everything about it, this strange new house and unfriendly people, was provisional. She had been robbed of her real life. She was waiting to return to it, her sons and her husband, Baton Rouge, her friends, her furniture, her place in the world. Her lost family.

  She still was living somehow in her real life, the one with her sons and family, in their house. The chandelier in the dining room, its prisms catching the early light. Tiche pushing through the swinging door with the breakfast tray. The soft linen sheets with her monogram, which she’d mended over and over. Her husband coming out of his study holding a book, his finger holding his place.

  “I never saw my sons’ bodies,” she said.

  “Mother,” said Sarah.

  Grief had taken hold, settling in gray drifts across this wide Southern landscape. The deaths lay like a pall over them all. No one could fit themselves around t
hose empty spaces.

  The hound, for no reason, began to thump her tail. She looked at Sarah, ears pricked.

  “Good girl,” Sarah said, crooning. She turned to Dawson. “Last summer Duchess saved our lives. One night the lamp caught fire, down in the front hall. Duchess woke everyone up. Mother and I were upstairs, and we’d have been trapped. The whole house would have gone but for Duchess.” She smiled at the dog, who dropped her ears and thumped harder. “And you, Captain Dawson? Will you go home to England or stay here?”

  “This is home now,” he said. “I became a citizen right after the war.”

  “So you’re one of us,” Sarah said.

  He nodded. He felt he was.

  “What made you become a citizen?” She cradled her saucer in her palm. Her face was in shadow, but when she moved it flickered into the sunlight.

  “A Belshazzar Thoroughbred.” It was a famous bloodline, though maybe she didn’t know horses.

  “A horse?” Sarah was laughing.

  “I bought him during the war. He was a big handsome gelding, seventeen hands, pure black except for a white snip on his nose. I was going to name him Caesar, but my servant Aleck got there first. He called him Pete, and I never went against Aleck. I trusted him with everything: clothes, meals, my pocketbook. My horses.

  “But one morning when I got up Aleck was gone, and so were two of my horses. A friend and I rode after them, but Pete was faster than our horses, and finally we had to turn back.

  “That summer, after the war ended, I saw Aleck on the street in Petersburg. I asked him why he’d stolen my horses. He just laughed. He said he hadn’t meant to thieve them, he’d only meant to visit a girl in Winchester. When he got there some Yankees stopped him and took the horses. He didn’t say why he’d needed two horses to visit the girl.”

  “So the Yankees had your horse?” Sally said.

  “They did. In the fall I saw him, being ridden by a federal officer. I told him that was my horse, he disputed it, and I went to the police. It was common enough, Yankees stole our horses and afterward we claimed them. But the police said I couldn’t file a claim unless I was a citizen. So right there I asked for a Bible, swore my allegiance, and got my horse back.”