By the Wind's Will

by Nat Burns

  Now, as she stepped from the foyer onto the wide front porch and surveyed her sloping green fields of tobacco from behind the enormous Ionic columns along her verandah, she wished desperately that her father could be here to share in this, her pride.

  Franc died early the next morning and Foxy, though nearing fifty years of age, wept unashamedly at the old man’s passing. She had lost a valued friend and this thought led her into a deep period of melancholia. She remembered, thought extensively about all those she had loved and who had died, and she fancied herself a jinx, cursing herself roundly. She felt empty and alone and destined to always be so.

  They buried him on the plantation, she and Sara, with the help of a few slave men who were not superstitious of death. Foxy read a passage that had been clearly marked in Franc’s old worn French Bible. She also read a poem, The Four Elements, from one of her favorite poets, Anne Bradstreet, a Puritan from Massachusetts. It was a poem that Franc had been especially fond of, when Foxy had shared it with him.

  The Fire, Air, Earth and Water did contest

  Which was the strongest, noblest and the best,

  Who was of greatest use and mightiest force;

  In placid terms they thought now to discourse,

  That in due order each her turn should speak;

  But enmity this amity did break

  All would be chief, and all scorned to be under

  Whence issued winds and rains, lightning and thunder

  The quaking earth did groan, the sky looked black

  The Fire, the forced Air, in sunder crack;

  The sea did threat the heavens, the heavens the earth,

  All looked like a chaos or new birth:

  Fire broiled Earth, and scorched Earth it choked

  Both by their darings, water so provoked

  That roaring in it came, and with its source

  Soon made the combatants abate their force

  The rumbling hissing, puffing was so great

  The worlds confusion, it did seem to threat

  Till gentle Air, contention so abated

  That betwixt hot and cold, she arbitrated

  The others difference, being less, did cease

  All storms now laid, and they in perfect peace

  That Fire should first begin, the rest consent,

  The noblest and most active element.

  After reading this, Foxy bent down and placed the scrap of parchment she’d copied the poem onto atop Franc’s grave and weighed it down with a rock. She motioned Sara to her and took the glazed clay pot from her hands. Foxy took the cover off and upturned it, dumping small, hot coals out upon the parchment. The straw bowl packing flamed up first then the parchment alit and Foxy stood and handed the empty bowl and cover back to Sara. They stayed until the flames spent themselves then left the graveside. Then, just as life must go on, plantation life proceeded as usual.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  July 1790

  FOXY SAT IN her study, gazing into a fire that had been lit for companionship as it was only late midsummer, and felt strong discontent. She was lonely, no two ways about it. Sara was there but could provide no real companionship as she was, after all, a slave. Foxy got on well with her Negro workers and house staff but their responses were respectful, subservient, and she needed a bit more. She needed earnest conversation that lasted long into the wee hours. And if she were honest, she would have enjoyed a warm body next to her in bed at night.

  She could drink herself insensible, as was her wont lately, but it was only temporary, no real surcease. Even the women of the evening that she occasionally visited in the city were less than satisfactory. Foxy always felt as though the clock were ticking away their time together and the women eager to move on to the next lover who could line their pockets.

  Angrily, she tossed a fine crystal goblet, still half full of brandy, into the fireplace and listened with passiveness to the resultant crash and sizzle.

  SARA, WHO WAS gathering nerve outside the study door, heard the crash and nearly jumped from her skin. The master was no doubt in a foul mood, but her request had been put off long enough and must now be aired. Timidly, she knocked on the door and entered to see the master slumped in the armchair before a roaring fire. The room was stiflingly hot, so she did not go too close to the fire.

  “Well?” he said loudly, causing Sara to jump again.

  “Mastah Nelson, sir, I come to ask permission for... well, me and Blue’d like to take up together if’n it all right with you.”

  He turned and eyed her curiously. Sara chewed her bottom lip, realizing that no matter how much education the master helped her with, she still fell back on slave talk when nervous or upset.

  The master smiled gently, shaking his head. “You sure are nervous. Come over and sit down. I won’t bite.”

  Gingerly she moved past him, carefully allowing plenty of room, and perched uneasily on the edge of the matching armchair

  The master sat back and sighed deeply. “You and Blue want to get married, huh.”

  She bobbed her head. “Yassuh, if you wouldn’t mind saying the proper words. Anytime you are free is fine with us.”

  That was better. She was talking like herself again. The master nodded his head and waved one hand to dismiss her.

  As she rose to go, thankful to get away from the cloying heat, she noticed a tear on the master’s cheek. She might have missed it if it hadn’t been for the firelight which pointed it out and made it glisten. Then, breaking all that had been inbred and ingrained into her, she laid a hand gently upon his arm. “What is it, Masta? Can I help?”

  The master, as if close to breaking down entirely at this show of affection, shook his head and asserted hoarsely. “No Sara, no one can help. There is no one.”

  Sara, somehow sensed his meaning and knelt in front of him. “Ain’t you got no family, Masta? There must be somebody you could see for a visit.”

  His mouth tightened into a grim line as he spoke irritably. “No, Sara, just leave me be.”

  She rose and left the room, feeling rejected and saddened. She crossed the hall and was almost across to the dining room when a yell arrested her. She turned and the master limped up to her, smiling from ear to ear.

  “By God, Sara!” he cried, “I do have family. I have a mother and father in Georgia and then there’s Charles and Margaret and their brood. It’ll be damn good to see them again! Pack bags! I set out in the morning and don’t forget to find me a nice boy to take along, one that’s clean and mannerly.”

  She watched him limp off toward the library, smiling to herself. He would be all right now, thank the good Lord. He had been moping around here for far too long since his friend had died. As she turned, a terrible thought occurred to her as she made ready to descend the kitchen stairs. How was she going to hold Blue off ‘till Masta Nelson came back?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  August 1790

  “WELL, CHARLES, I see that you are as spry as ever.”

  Charles, hearing but not recognizing the voice, turned a freckled face and squinted in the direction it had come from. “Eh? Sir, if you know me, then you know my eyes. Come a little closer that I may see who addresses me so familiarly.”

  Foxy grinned like a young girl and urged her mount closer while Charles leaned upon his horse’s neck and peered hard at her.

  “Nope,” he said finally. “Don’t believe I know you. Your voice could be familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Help an old man out, young fella.”

  Foxy laughed. “What the devil you mean, ‘young fella’? I ain’t what you’d call a girl any longer, either, but I do remember it as your favorite way of addressing me. ‘Girl, get them nigras in that lower bottom! We got cotton to pick!’”

  Charles’s face registered shock, then he scowled ferociously and raised his quirt menacingly. “Go on you rascal,” he shrieked. “Quit playin’ tricks on old people. I’ll take your hide an’ carpet my floors with it!”

  Foxy, truly alarm
ed, raised her arms to protect herself against the older man’s short flailing whip. “Whoa! Charles! Don’t overdo! It’s Foxy, back for a visit. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Charles lowered the quirt slowly and his face seemed frozen. “Foxy?” he croaked out. “Foxy? Fidelia Nelson?”

  Foxy grinned. “Yes, sir! What the devil happened to your eyesight?”

  She was astonished for Charles immediately burst into tears. She watched in amazement and then moved her restless horse closer to hold the older man near her until he quieted. When the wracking sobs died down, she spoke to him gently. “Forgive me, Charles, it was perhaps an insensitive question.”

  Charles drew himself up and brushed impatiently at his wet eyes. “Damnit, girl,” he cried, some of his old spirit returning. “Ain’t blubbering about me eyes! They told us you were dead! Some trapper brought your journal back here and we’d given you up for lost. Now, what are you doing still alive?” The question was asked seriously and demanded an answer.

  Busting into uncomfortable laughter, Foxy was momentarily speechless. She thought of all she’d done since leaving Georgia and the trouble she went to before coming back, hurriedly marrying Blue and Sara and leaving them in care of the plantation, the long days travelling, sleeping in roadside hostelries along the way. She could only shake her head at the man who wanted to know what she was doing alive.

  Charles, as if realizing Foxy’s thoughts, spoke excitedly. “No! Don’t tell me anything yet. You must be plumb tuckered. Come to the house, Margaret will swoon for sure.”

  Riding up the front drive, toward the big house, Foxy felt nostalgia hit like a physical blow. There was Finley, same as ever, and it caused memories to wash across her, playing as a child, overseeing as a young woman and sadly, the tragedy of her first love.

  They dismounted and handed their horses over to one of the many slave children who were running about. Charles preceded her, throwing open the front door and shouting out the good news. As Foxy stepped inside, Margaret came rushing up, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist. She had barely aged except for growing a bit wider in the hips and the new silver that streaked her dark hair. It took her a moment to recognize Foxy but before Charles could say, “Guess who ‘tis?”, she had flung her arms about Foxy’s neck and was weeping copiously. Finally, she drew back, wiped her eyes and stared at her.

  “Fidelia, is it really you?”

  “So, it is her? Really her?” Charles asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Margaret reached for his hand and clasped it joyfully. “Yes, my darling, it’s Fidelia come back to us.”

  “And she looks...she looks well?” he whispered again.

  “Yes, but...well, she’s still dressed as a man and has cropped her hair, shorter than yours.”

  Foxy smiled at them both, knowing that the woman they saw before them was far removed from the young girl who had fled Finley so many years ago. She was taller and thinner, and her skin had been stained hard by the elements. There were fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth now, but they, like the deep slash scar across her cheek only served to make her face that much more manlike. She had dressed simply for travel, but the breeches and flaxen shirt were of the finest quality. As were her high, deerskin boots. She fixed them with her level gaze and grinned charmingly.

  “I can hear you, you know,” she said teasingly. “And Madam Scott, I must say, the years have done you naught but well.”

  Margaret blushed like a schoolgirl and Charles felt for the knob and opened the carved wooden parlor door. “Come, come. We must hear your story. Darling, could you tell Benta to bring refreshments, food especially as I’m sure Foxy is hungry as well as parched.”

  Margaret scurried away to the kitchen while Charles led Foxy into the familiar parlor. They sat in silence, emotion having gotten the best of both. Soon Margaret came in, followed by a shy young negress who bore a tray laden with sweet cakes and tiny sandwiches.

  “Foxy, in honor of your visit, we are to have a large supping, so this meager snack is just to hold you over ‘till then,” Margaret said apologetically as she seated herself in an overstuffed armchair.

  Foxy smiled and declared herself not that hungry yet, having breakfasted well at the inn. Looking around herself, she realized she heard no sound. “Isn’t the house unusually quiet? Where are all the children?”

  Margaret and Charles leaned close and exchanged a look of amusement before Charles spoke. “Foxy, surely you must be joking. We have no children any more. Well, not at home”.

  Foxy looked confused. “No children, but...”

  Then she realized. Their oldest boy was but two years younger than herself. Strange, for some reason, she had expected them not to age. She had expected things to be exactly the same as when she’d left. She began laughing at herself.

  Charles, chuckling, ran down the list of children. “Charles is a lawyer in Savannah, now, with three children and a lovely wife, Phillip has his own plantation upriver. He is also married and has eight of our grandchildren. Elizabeth married the banker in Savannah and has two gangling boys that keep her busy. Wortham took rooms in town and is now my right-hand man in the shipping office, while Daniel and Joshua share a cottage here and oversee for me. The other three girls, Charity, Sarah and Mary all made good marriages and live in Savannah. We have but one grown child who still lives with us.”

  His face darkened but for a moment. His smile returning, he questioned his guest excitedly. “Now, we must hear what you have been doing with yourself all these many years.”

  Foxy took a deep breath and began her story. The Scotts listened eagerly, attentive to her every word. There were no interruptions until she told of falling in the ravine, whereupon Charles exclaimed, “That is where your journal ends. We were to believe that you had died there.”

  Foxy responded with a look of wry amusement and responded drily. “Obviously, it was not to be so.”

  She continued her story. She told of the Myskoke Indians, describing each of her long-lost friends in detail which amused the listeners. She brushed lightly over Mi-llani and little Giles and the tragedy that befell them, but nevertheless, Margaret’s face took on a look of extreme sadness. She told of Franc, struggling over the disclosure of his death. She then spoke warmly of Saranji and the slave family that kept her plantation viable. She told about building Trapper’s Folly house and grounds and as day crept into evening, she finished her tale.

  “So here I am, back where it all began. A lot older and I’m afraid, a bit worn around the edges. I’ve led a satisfactory life though, and of that I should be grateful.”

  Margaret rose and said apologetically. “Please, excuse me. I must see to supper.” She surreptitiously wiped tears from her eyes with her apron as she quit the room.

  In the parlor, Charles carefully refreshed their whisky. “You know, Foxy, I can think of at least a dozen men who would have wanted to live your life, myself included.”

  Foxy glanced at him in surprise. “Charles? Whatever do you mean? I should think your life more rewarding.”

  Charles sighed and sank into his armchair. “No, no. It has been a sedate, almost boring life, totally devoid of adventure or real excitement. He paused thoughtfully and squinted at the planter. “You’re not with anyone now, eh?”

  Foxy shook her head regretfully. “No sir, I’m not exactly what you would call a socializer. Since Ml-llani’s death, all I crave is solitude for the most part.” She smiled crookedly. “You know, Charles, it is actually work looking for a mate nowadays. You have to make the rounds of parties, luncheons, family balls. I have no taste for such things. And, as you know, my variance makes it ever more difficult.”

  She knew the moment had come for her to ask the question that had been on the tip of her tongue since she arrived. Gingerly, fearing the response, she murmured gently. “Charles, What of Father? What of Mother?”

  A look of pain flashed across the older man’s features. “Buried here, with a proper ceremony.” />
  Foxy could not just let it lie. “How, Charles, when?”

  Charles took a deep breath and knew he would leave out the worst, how Mary had cursed her husband and daughter, how the discontent and anger ate away at her like an incurable disease until it killed.

  “Your father, God rest him, died before we received your journal. It was in a brawl at the Yamacraw Ales. He was knifed and had bled too much by the time he was discovered. Mary, your mother, wasted away last year. We do not know the cause.”

  Foxy sat silent, remembering her parents, the good times, the bad, until Charles exclaimed loudly. “Damn this cursed memory! You have a letter—something of a will, I suppose. Glad I am that I didn’t destroy it when we thought you dead.”