Savannah, or a Gift for Mr. Lincoln

by John Jakes

  “Sara, here’s a visitor. You’ll excuse me if I tend to matters in the kitchen. Come, Amelia, let these two chat in private.”

  Vee’s discipline had relaxed since the invasion of the house by Marcus and company; Amelia was prone on the parlor rug and saw no need to respond, except to grunt. Vee extended her foot and nudged Amelia’s ribs, not hard, but with sufficient energy to send the pig trundling from the room. Sara felt tongue-tied, idiotic—suffused with warmth like that of an airless summer afternoon at Silverglass.

  Stephen turned his hat in his hands. This seemed to go on a long time, until Sara remembered herself. “Won’t you please sit down, Captain?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lester.” He took a chair. Sara took another across the room, as far from him as the size of the parlor allowed. She hardly dared admit that she liked the rakishly attractive New Yorker, so different from her shy, slow-spoken Ladson.

  He cleared his throat. “The fellows who crossed your threshold with bad intentions have been reported to their commanding officer.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “However, it isn’t the primary reason I called. General Sherman has ordered a review of the troops for late today. It’s sure to be a grand event. Journalists aren’t obliged to march or otherwise participate. I wondered if you’d care to accompany me to view it?”

  Sara wanted to leap to her feet and cry, Yes, yes! She pressed her lips together. The pink in her cheeks faded. “Thank you for the kind invitation, but I can’t accept.”

  “Not even on Christmas Eve?”

  “Not even then. You are a gentleman, Captain, and this is not against you personally.”

  “That’s your final word?”

  “Final, yes.”

  “Because we’re still at war.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m a Yankee.”

  “Yes.”

  “That attitude won’t be currency forever, Mrs. Lester. Not if you want to get on with your life. I’m sorry that you refuse, but of course I’ll honor your decision.” He jammed his black felt hat on his head, not the most polite gesture inside a house; she detected color in his cheeks.

  He spoke with strain: “In any case, it’s a distinct pleasure to see you again. Let me be among the first to wish you a merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, Captain Hopewell.”

  He went out. Rain brushed the parlor windows. Misery overwhelmed Sara.

  Why, why had she rejected him, when she wanted so badly to let him squire her to the grand review? Then she wondered why she felt attracted to him at all. He was a Northern newspaper scribbler, most certainly holding abolitionist views. He hailed from that den of cupidity and sin, New York, and no doubt freely participated in illicit revels there. How could she possibly be interested?

  No, she didn’t understand; there was nothing in her experience to explain the strange yearning, the stranger sense of loss in her breast. She flung herself into a chair and pressed her hands to her face, confused and heartsick as any adolescent.

  Thunder bumped; he heard it through a veil of darkness. Someone pulled his foot. Coming awake was like swimming to the surface of a glue pot.

  Bugling followed the last reverberations in the sky. Winks fuzzily recognized the notes of assembly, remembered the review; he’d nodded off. Shouldn’t have wrapped up in his blanket.

  Someone pulled his foot a second time, this time removing his left bootee, one of the low-cut square-toed shoes he wore when he wasn’t in the saddle.

  “Oops, sorry. I got your gunboat right here, Captain. Looky it’s me.”

  Winks grunted, eyes still shut. “It’s who?”

  “Me, Zip. I got news. I heard something at the horseshoe pitch.”

  Winks sat up so suddenly, he wrenched his neck. “You mean to say they were playing horseshoes in this weather?”

  “No, sir, they was inside a tent near the pitch. Two of them, that professor man and the one looks so innocent.”

  “Spiker.”

  “Yessir. I happen to spy him when he was answerin’ nature’s call at the sink.”

  Details of Winks’s surroundings came into focus, especially his dark-skinned shadow kneeling in the tent entrance. Winks took back his scuffed black bootee, disgusted to note a new hole in the sole. Like most of the army’s contractor-made goods, the shoddy shoes lasted about thirty days. He stretched to put on the shoe. “Go on.”

  “Those two was laughin’ and carryin’ on. I could smell their cee-gars an’ the whiskey they was tossin’ down like it was cider. Where do you ‘spose they got it?”

  “Not important. Tell me what you heard.”

  The regimental bugler repeated his call. Men scrambled in the muddy camp streets, their gear rattling as they readied for the review. “They tole each other how much money they’d get for the pianner they gonna steal.”

  “Piano?” It hit him like a slap.

  “Yessir. They figure to take it tonight, after the review, when folks be thinkin’ of everything in the world except thieving.”

  “Soulless devils. Did they catch sight of you?”

  “’Fraid they did. Must’ve made noise. They tore out of their tent pretty wrathy Called me nigger and a lot worse.”

  “Were you recognized?”

  “Not sure. They had the staggers from swallowin’ all that chain lightning, and I was runnin’ on canteen water. I got away pretty easy. You think they really mean to steal a pianner?”

  “Yes, and I bet I know which one. Christmas Eve. Feature that. Somebody besides Saint Nicholas needs to greet those boys. Change your shirt—review’s at five.”

  “Huh? Me?”

  “You’re part of my detail, aren’t you?”

  “Guess I am.” Zip’s smile gleamed. “Guess I am now. Oh, wait. I got no other shirt.”

  “I have one extra. Guess you can wear that.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Zip said, clasping his hands in wonderment.

  Old Adam delivered the summons while Sara busied in the bedroom, combing tangles out of Hattie’s hair so she’d be presentable for supper with the Parmenter family. Adam handed the folded square of wrapping paper to Vee and left before Sara knew he’d called. She was distressed not to have thanked him.

  Dear Cousin, the note began. The salutation was an effrontery, inaccurate as well as implying a specious familial warmth. The message, opaque in the extreme, nevertheless inspired a serious case of nerves this dreary evening:

  Kindly present yourself at my home at the hour of five, to receive important information about the status of your property. With felicitations of the Season,

  I remain

  Yr. humble & obd’t. etc.,

  The Hon. C. Drewgood,

  Juris Doctor

  “I must go,” Sara said after puzzling over the threatening words.

  “But what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know, Vee. That’s why I must go. To find out.”

  Hattie looked up from brushing Amelia with the same bristles used on her own curls. Sara was too distracted to reprove her. “Vee and I will go to church at seven, Hattie. Then Adam and I will call for you at the City Hotel, and I’ll visit with the Parmenters for a bit. When we’re home, we’ll have a small exchange of gifts. Legrand’s coming to escort you to supper, is he not?”

  “Yes, Mama.” Hattie sensed something wrong, kissed her mother’s cheek, felt its unfamiliar coolness. “I’ll be fine—don’t fret.” Sara moved away, as though she hadn’t heard.

  As Sara stepped out of the house, a distant cannon boomed to signal the start of the grand review. While Sherman’s regiments marched along Bay Street, she marched in the other direction. Band music—“When Johnny Comes Marching Home”—followed her a few blocks, then faded.

  No rain fell at the moment, though the stars hid behind a cloud layer. Savannah’s streets remained a sea of mire. Small clods of mud clung to Sara’s shoes. She stomped on the Drewgood stoop to get rid of them.

 
Adam answered her knock. A smile spoke of his pleasure at greeting her. “Step right in, Miz Lester, a merry Christmas to you.”

  “And to you, Adam. I’m here to see the judge.”

  “Waiting for you in the parlor. I take your bonnet, ma’am.” She undid the ties; Adam carried the bonnet to the hall tree and hung it.

  A strong scent of wood smoke issued from the parlor arch. The judge sat to the left of the blazing fire. From the mantel hung four stockings of various sizes and quality; Sara wondered if Merry’s might be the one missing.

  “Good evening, Judge.”

  “Come in, cousin. Warm yourself.” The judge waved her into the parlor without bothering to rise.

  A noise on the stairs signaled Napoleon’s arrival. Adam was slow to step aside; Napoleon caromed into the black man, angering the boy. He crashed his fist into Adam’s hip. “Clumsy old nigger. Stay out of my way.”

  Adam rubbed his left hip. “Didn’t see you coming.”

  The judge slapped the arm of his chair. “Don’t sass your master. There’s your place.” He indicated a corner near the Christmas tree lit by small white candles. Adam shuffled to the corner. Napoleon approached his father.

  “Can I go downtown and watch the Yankees parade?”

  “I suppose, but don’t attract attention to yourself, or speak to any of them.”

  “I wouldn’t spit on them, but I like soldiering. Guns and bugles and all.”

  “Watch for cutpurses and riffraff. Be home in time for church.” He patted Napoleon’s head and scooted him along with a gesture. Exiting to the hall, Napoleon stuck out his tongue at Adam. The old slave remained stoic, although the glowing candles reflected in angry eyes. Sara seated herself to the right of the fireplace.

  “Will you take a cup of holiday cheer, cousin? Eggnog, or a flip?”

  Sara was past feeling more than a twitch of righteous anger because he had ingredients for such libations. “Neither, thank you. I’m not here to celebrate.” She produced the folded brown scrap. “I would appreciate knowing the meaning of this message.”

  The judge clearly enjoyed her discomfort. He prolonged it by snapping his fingers. “A flip, right away.” Adam limped out. “I’m partial to flips this time of year, though the beer we’re forced to use is poor stuff. The rum and sugar are good. Both from Barbados.”

  “Will you please tell me what this means?”

  The judge tented his fingertips in front of his nose. “There is no gentle way to convey the essence of my message, cousin.”

  “Don’t call me that.” His false piety infuriated her.

  “All right, here is the long and short of it. You may own Silverglass tonight, and tomorrow, but that ownership will only remain for a few days.”

  Sara’s heartbeat quickened. “I remind you, Judge—I’m the rightful deed holder.”

  “Not for long. The army is confiscating the plantation. It will be sold at auction.”

  The nature and enormity of his scheme fell on her like a blow. “With you bidding for it, I suppose?”

  Adam shuffled into the parlor with a pewter tankard on a tray. This he set on a small taboret at the judge’s elbow. He retreated to his corner while the judge tasted his flip, smacked his lips. “You are correct. Happily, my credit with certain local lenders is still excellent. I have every hope of entering the winning bid.”

  Sara lost all restraint. “You miserable old cheat. Who connived with you?”

  “Connived? What an uncharitable word, especially this time of year. My new friend Brigadier Sensenbrenner, of Sherman’s general staff, began the process when he learned you were an unfit landlord.”

  “Unfit? Why on earth—?”

  “Routine and excessive abuse of your slaves.”

  Sara was quivering, sputtering, aflame with wrath. “All our slaves have run off. When Ladson was alive, he never raised his hand to a single one.”

  “Oh, it isn’t your poor dead husband under scrutiny. Did you not hear me before? You’re the culprit.”

  “I’ve never injured a black person, at Silverglass or elsewhere.”

  “Deny it all you want, my dear, Brigadier Sensenbrenner believes differently. Your cause is lost. Your acreage, too.”

  A log fell in the grate. Cascading sparks snapped and died. Sara bowed her head. The judge had won.

  “He believes different ’cause you told him lies.”

  The voice stunned both white people. The judge’s head snapped around. Adam stepped from his corner, taller than he’d seemed before. The judge cried, “What did you say?”

  Adam spoke over his master’s head, addressing Sara. “They had that Yankee sojer to supper the other night. The judge told big stories about how cruel and mean you was to your black folks. I heard every word in the dining room. I was in the corner—in my place.”

  The judge leaped out of his chair, waving his pale hands. “I’ll have you locked up, boy.”

  “Ain’t no boy,” Adam said. “I be sixty-one years old next January second, and sick and tired of the way you and your kin treat me.”

  “This is treachery. Rank betrayal.”

  Someone trooped down the stairs; Lulu’s round eyes and rouged mouth appeared in the arch as Adam boldly met the judge’s stare. “Possible you could see it like that, Judge. ‘M too old to fight you any other way.”

  Lulu edged into the room. “Cincinnatus, what is all this commotion?”

  “Your husband just got a Christmas present he didn’t expect,” Sara said. “Adam, are you willing to repeat your statement about the judge telling lies to the Union general? Repeat it in a courtroom, under oath?”

  The judge snorted. “Ridiculous. Niggers have no legal standing. Their word counts for nothing.”

  Adam’s gnarled brown hand rubbed at his hip. “Think it will now that Gen’al Sherman’s took over, and Mist’ Linkum’s giving the orders up in Washington City. Miz Lester, I’ll swear to the lying on a Bible, but I got to get out of this house, for good.”

  “Come with me. I’ll protect you.”

  The judge struck a commanding pose. “Stand there. Don’t move.”

  Adam shook his head.

  “I order it. Order it. You’re my property.”

  “Not no more. And you can tell that no-good son of yours I hope he chokes.”

  Lulu’s eyes rolled up in her head. She sagged sideways and would have collapsed on the rug had not an ottoman been conveniently beneath her backside. As she draped over it, swooning, Sara offered her arm to Adam.

  “Shall we go?”

  He hesitated. Her eyes gave him leave. He grinned.

  “Yes’m. Be delighted.”

  She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. They walked out arm in arm.

  Sara, Vee, and Adam arrived at Christ Church at ten before seven. As they climbed the outside stairs, Sara whispered, “Have you ever attended a white church?”

  Adam turned an old soft hat in his gnarled hands. “No’m. The Judge didn’t ‘low it. I go to the First Africal Baptist now and again.”

  “I’m sorry to say that you must sit in the gallery.”

  “The section for colored people. I heard about it.”

  Hesitating at the entrance, Sara touched Adam’s hand. “I wish there were another way.”

  “It don’t trouble me, Miz Lester. I’m free to come here, or not, thanks to you. I meet you after the service.”

  Candles poured light into the sanctuary. Christ Church had anticipated a crush of Christmas Eve worshippers; stools and crates jammed the side aisles to deal with the overflow. Every downstairs pew was filled, as were the improvised seats. Sara murmured, “Well, it’s the gallery for us too. Please, Adam, go ahead.”

  Giving a little nod, he began to climb the stairs slowly; bent as he was, he was a picture of dignity and strength. Sara and Vee followed.

  Some seats for white worshippers remained in the pews on the south side of the gallery. Vee excused herself rather loudly as she squeezed past annoyed
parishioners in order to sit down and thus reserve two vacant places; she easily filled both. Adam slipped off to the segregated seats beyond the organ, which was located at the center rear of the gallery.

  To make room for Sara, Vee scooted sideways; a frail gentleman on her right, temporarily crushed, expostulated. His wife hushed him. Sara took her seat after counting heads in the first row downstairs. All the Drewgoods were present, except Merry. A strange calm enveloped Sara as the organist began the prelude, a transcription of the overture to Handel’s Messiah. She didn’t for a moment regret her behavior at the judge’s house.

  Vee tapped her wrist. “Look at the organist.”

  Sara turned toward the rear of the gallery but could see little more than a mass of wavy black hair above a dark clerical robe. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He isn’t bald. Our organist is bald as an egg. Either he’s wearing a wig or it’s someone else. I can’t place the shape of the head, although he looks fam—” A gasp. “Oh, heavens. It’s that Yankee.”

  “Playing here?”

  “It would seem so.” Vee giggled in a way that didn’t fit the solemnity of the occasion.

  A senior member of the vestry sat in the high-backed chair usually reserved for the Right Reverend Elliott; the bishop had departed Savannah with General Hardee’s army, no doubt fearing some sort of reprisal from the Union invaders. The organist finished the prelude. Sara was atingle, and not a little off-center. Vee had correctly identified Captain Hopewell.

  The service proceeded on familiar lines—kneeling to pray, rising with hymn books in hand to sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” listening to a soprano beautifully render “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming,” and then the small choir offering “Stille Nacht” in the original German. During the prayers, led by the vestryman, Sara eagerly bowed her head and sent her gratitude winging away: thanks for her sprightly daughter, for steadfast Vee—old Adam too. With the long, sad war ending, the rights of former slaves expanding, Adam’s testimony could foil the judge’s Machiavellian perfidy. She and Hattie could go home to Silverglass without fear. Adam would have a home there as long as he wanted.