The Rebel Wife

by Polites, Taylor M

  I look away, ashamed for Mama.

  “Did their—” I ask, stopping myself. “Their father—did he know? Couldn’t he have helped you?”

  Emma gives me a level stare that is so full of knowing, my nerves tense like I am about to be cut. “I don’t know, ma’am,” she says. “I guess he didn’t think he could do anything to stop it. Or didn’t want to. I learned how to keep from having babies after that. But he’s long dead, too. No use talking about all that. No use talking about things nobody wants to hear.”

  “Was he someone on the plantation? One of Pa’s people?” I should not ask, but I can’t resist.

  “No, ma’am. He was here in town. You don’t really want me to answer you, now, do you, Miss Gus?”

  Her eyes stay on me until I have to turn away. She wipes Mike’s forehead and hums to herself, then starts to sing in a whisper.

  Dark was the night,

  Cold was the ground

  On which my Saviour lay

  Blood in drops and sweat run down,

  In agony he pray.

  Lord move this bitter cup,

  If such Thy sacred will

  If not, content I’ll drink it up

  Whose pleasure I’ll fulfill.

  “Like you said,” Emma says. “Jesus in the garden.”

  “Yes. Like Gethsemane.” On the walls are the oval-framed daguerreotypes of Pa and Mama that I hung in this room. They look at me with cold, impenetrable eyes. “Was their father one of Pa’s people? In the house?”

  Emma looks at me. “He was in the house, yes.”

  I get up slowly from the chair. My feet don’t want me to leave. I hold on to the door frame and turn back. Emma wipes Mike’s face with the cloth. She shakes her head, humming to herself, lost in the past, like Rachel said. Those days aren’t gone. Emancipation didn’t end any of it.

  “Why did you stay with us, Emma?”

  Her hand is still against Mike’s head. Maybe she will not answer me. Mike mumbles, his eyes closed.

  “Where would I have gone?” she asks me. “What could I have done? I’m not like Rachel. I don’t have her spirit. I may have had it once, but I lost it. I lost the chance to be Rachel. Maybe I was born too soon for freedom.” She dips the cloth in the bowl of water at her elbow. She twists it until the water stops dripping from the cloth and wipes Mike’s cheeks with it. “We all want a home, Miss Gus. Maybe I would have gone if you hadn’t married Mr. Eli. But when you did, I knew I could find a home with the both of you.”

  Emma watches Mike slowly breathing with so much sadness, so much tenderness in her face.

  I close the bedroom door behind me. The hall is bright. Pa’s bench is before me, the one thing I took from the house on Allen Street to remember him by. It is a solid piece of furniture, hand-carved of hickory, a hard, hard wood. I sit and lean my back against it, feeling the turned slats press into me. The arms are smooth, and I run a hand across the polished surface of the wood. I close my hand over the arm and curl my fingers around it, moving slowly up its length and back. This was my father’s bench and I loved him very much, whoever he was. The bench is smooth and solid and has a coolness to it that feels good in the heat. I could sit here all day, like when Pa used to sit here with me and show me the newspapers. That’s how I learned to read, from Pa reading from the newspapers while I sat in his lap. The hours he used to spend with me reading. That was real. That is something that I know for certain. His name was Henry, like my boy. What were Emma’s boys’ names? Was one named Henry?

  I must go see him. Henry has been asking for me.

  Mike is dead. It has happened, and he is dead, too, after a spluttering moment of semi-lucidity. He seemed to recognize me and Emma, and he talked as though the war were still on. He threatened to join the army and kill all the Yankees. And then he died.

  Did Hill die like that? Alone, with nothing to ease his pain? That is what I wish I had been able to do for Hill. I wish I had been there to wash him, to read the psalms over him, to wrap him in a winding sheet and carefully stitch it. But he never made it home. The deaths come so fast, one upon the other, just like during the war. We will bury him, Emma and I. Even that she has agreed to do. Simon rode away while it was still dark and he has not been back.

  The two carpetbags are packed and ready, but what will running away do? All the things I am running from will follow me wherever I go. I do not want to leave this house. All those things that were real to me are false. And the things we denied are true. Eli and Rachel knew it. Simon does, too, wherever he is. I must stay and do what needs to be done. I knew what it was last night in the woods.

  Twenty-four

  EMMA STANDS OVER THE pot of simmering water, stirring it slowly. It steams earthy and bitter, and the water has turned dark from the oak bark, but there is willow in there, too, and arrowroot and the white dried vetch roots from the garden. She takes a towel and wraps it around the pot to move it to the sink.

  “We should let it cool before we mix it,” she says. “That oak bark and sour vetch are sharp.” She nods and smiles to herself. Henry sits at the table, his chin on his hands, watching us. These past days have made him even more quiet than he usually is.

  I swing the stove door open and shovel out the hot coals, tossing them in the cold hearth of the old kitchen fireplace behind the stove. I shatter the coals with the shovel, and Emma pours on dirt from the garden.

  “There can’t be smoke from the chimneys,” I say. “No more fires tonight.”

  She nods. She doesn’t seem to be worried. I am not, either. My body feels cold and hard, bitter from all these losses. How fearless Rachel was. She never doubted herself.

  “You have the pistol, Emma? I wish Simon hadn’t taken all the guns.” The coals are buried. There’s not a trace of smoke.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s better not to know.”

  “I’ve prayed for them.” She looks at Henry and gives him a warm smile.

  “Yes, I’ve prayed for them, too.”

  The sun has set, and a rich twilight has descended over the garden. It is almost time. “Do you think it’s cool enough?”

  Emma dips a finger into the water and draws it out. She tastes it and shakes her head, frowning in disgust. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She empties the pot into a bowl. I add a jigger of whiskey and sugar. I take the stoppers off the two small blue bottles and pour them in together. The laudanum floats on the surface and has a bright sheen. My nerves jump at the sight of it, and I can feel the odor settle deep in my lungs. My body seems to scream at me for it, like the throbbing in my head. The kitchen has grown dark, and outside, the garden is purple fading to black.

  Emma mixes the liquid carefully with a wooden spoon. I take the glass flagon and slip the funnel into its mouth. Emma pours the tonic through the funnel in a steady stream. The laudanum swirls in the murky fluid with a swimming paisley pattern. There is enough to put a horse to sleep. Emma takes out the funnel. I press the cork firmly into the bottle.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Rachel would be proud to see me making one of her tonics.” She smiles with that old sadness, and I want to reach for her to give her back some of the comfort she has given to me.

  “I know she would.”

  “She’d be proud of you, too, Miss Gus.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  “Thank you, Emma.”

  I take her hand and hold it. She has small, rough calluses on her fingers, but they are full, soft hands and warm to the touch. My hands feel cold against hers.

  “Henry, honey,” I say, and he looks at me anxiously. “Come here to Mama.”

  He slides down from his chair and walks to me. I kneel in front of him and take him in my arms. “Mama is going to go out for a little bit. But I’ll be back very soon. You’re going to stay here with Emma, and you’ll be very good and quiet for her, won’t you?”

  Henry whispers, “Yes, Mama.” H
is breath touches my ear. He smells sweet, like fresh-mowed clover.

  “That’s a good boy. It is important that you both keep very quiet. Emma will stay with you in your room until I get back.” My hands are on his shoulders. I look into his eyes that are like Eli’s. He studies me with so much caution. I kiss his fine hair. “You’re going to be very safe. Emma will protect you. You do whatever Emma tells you, yes?”

  “Yes,” he says, nodding. He looks up at Emma.

  “That’s right, little man. Your mama and I are going to keep you safe.” Emma’s hand is on her skirt pocket, pressing against the derringer.

  I stand. “Make sure you bolt the nursery door behind you, Emma. And no light or noise.”

  She nods at me. She knows all this already, but I must say it.

  “I will go now.”

  Emma wraps her arms around me, and my arms find their way around her. She feels so warm and safe. She pulls away and hands me the bottle of tonic. I slip it into my dress pocket. Emma takes Henry’s hand and gives me one more glance before leading him upstairs.

  I slip out of the kitchen and lock the door. Full darkness has settled in. They will be safe locked in the nursery, and I will not be gone long, I hope.

  The night is moonless, but the stars blaze. The gravel paths and trimmed hedges are dark blocks, even black lines running parallel to each other leading to the street. Fistfuls of blossoms blare bright white against the dark horse chestnut in the unnatural glow of the stars. The broad leaves undulate in the breeze. A gust sweeps through the garden, shaking the trees and making the leaves whip wildly.

  The wind is picking up from a front that is coming in. A rumbling line of clouds sits in the west like a black sheet being pulled across the stars by an armada of thunderheads. The forgotten gardens line the lane, hiding the large homes behind them like a weedy bulwark. The soldiers dug trenches and cut down thorny osage-orange trees as defenses at Franklin. The wind blows hard, snapping at me with a bone-cold chill and carrying a fine mist—the first assault of the storm. The wind twists the leaves on the towering trees, turning them around so that they seem silverbacked in the starlight. The roaring wind comes from all directions, strong currents battling each other amid the wild overgrowth. The tree branches whip their leaves up as if pulled by the magnetic force of the clouds. The trees blaze silver and black, all consumed in a horrible, roaring white fire. They flame up toward the clouds, and the tree roots strain to keep themselves set in the ground. The leaves are torn from the branches like balls of flame and are tossed against the houses, threatening to consume them with the same cold fire.

  The houses are decrepit in the darkness. Rather than hide the damage, the lurid light makes them crumble before me with fractured cornices and brick dissolving into powder. I push through the weeds of the Sheffields’ garden. The vetch and thistle pluck at my skirts and sleeves, grasping at me on the wind so that they almost pull me down. They have grown so tall, it is a wild living forest of these weeds, standing in rank rows around the path like a silent army. Vines climb up the brick walls, eating the houses. These houses, the homes of my friends from years ago, are all abandoned, left back to the earth that is sending up its armies to swallow them back whole.

  I rush across Pulaski Street, the wind whipping dust and leaves against me. The storm is moving so fast, it may break soon. I am sweating, though the wind is chilling. It howls, and the great black clouds cover the sky. Judge’s house is across the street. I crouch in the Jamesons’ yard behind the hedges and the black iron fence. There are men behind Judge’s house, three men on horseback in wine-colored cassocks. They ride up Elm Street, kicking up dust that is spun into whirling devils by the battling gusts. Branches scrape against each other, groaning to the point of breaking, like limbs torn from a body.

  There must be eyes everywhere—Judge’s eyes, watching everything. Does he know I’m coming to him? The handle of the front door gives with little resistance. I close the door and shut out the frenzy of the wind, but it shudders over the house with a low moan.

  There is someone here, I feel it. The inky darkness fades to gray. I can hear breathing, soft but labored.

  “Miss Gus?” There is a form in front of me, a shape. She seems to materialize from the air.

  “Sally? Is that you?” The words float from my lips, barely audible.

  “Are you here to see Mr. Judge?” She wheezes the words. I can see her face. Her eyes are wide and black, like dark, empty holes. She leans on a chair.

  “Are you ill, Sally?” My hand reaches out to her, but I pull it back. She seems to be dripping. Dark drops fall from her face and mark the floor around her with small black spots. Sweat or blood. The fever has her.

  “I’ve been with Mr. Judge over thirty years and never been sick. I ain’t sick now.” The rhythm of her breathing is uneven and loud. She does not look at me but straight ahead, like a sleepwalker. “Go on up, ma’am. He’ll see you.”

  “Sally,” I whisper. She turns and shuffles into the darkness. She isn’t in her right mind. She stumbles against the wall and struggles through the back of the house.

  I cannot run away. I must see Judge. I hold the thick carved banister and climb the stairs. The bottle is in my pocket. I grasp it through my skirts. The house does not make any noise of its own, no creaking from the force of the wind. The stairs are noiseless, no sighing groans under my feet. The beams do not shift or crack. The house is perfectly still, as if built of solid stone, like a giant mausoleum. There is only the noise of the keening wind outside.

  “Judge?” My voice is a hoarse whisper. “Judge, are you home?” There is a light from under the door of his study.

  “Who’s there?” Judge swings open the door. He is a silhouette against the lamplight. A gun is poised in his hand.

  “Judge, it’s Augusta.” His face is too dark to see, but he is looking at me. I come around the top of the stairs. His arms relax.

  “Augusta, what are you doing here? What do you want?”

  “I wanted to tell you that Mike is dead. He died today from gunshot wounds.” He is close to me, and his skin is sallow and sagging, but his blue eyes blaze like sapphires. The bones of his cheeks bulge out from the shadows, giving his face the appearance of a fleshless skull. He looks down at the gun in his hand and slips it back into his belt.

  “I am sorry, Augusta. I heard there was a skirmish. Come in.” He walks into the study. A lamp flickers on a small writing table, and pen and paper are beside it. The wick makes a faint hissing sound as it burns. Judge notices me looking at the lamp. “All I have left is burning fluid. The whale oil has run out. Sit down.” He takes his seat and picks up his pen.

  “Judge, I think Sally is ill. She doesn’t seem well.”

  He looks at me sharply. “Nonsense. Sally is as solid as Gibraltar. There’s no sickness in this house.”

  The double doors to his bedroom are wide open, and a single candle flickers by his bedside. Judge’s bed is massive, carved wood with a high headboard, and floats in the shadows like a great black barge. A worn saddlebag sits on his bedside table by the candle. It is a match to the saddlebags in the carriage house. Eli’s saddlebag.

  “You shouldn’t be on the streets tonight,” he says. “There’s a Negro insurrection. They’ve used the weakness the fever has caused to rise up and attack us. They killed Mike and who knows how many others. I’m writing a telegram to the governor to ask that he invest me with military authority to quell the uprising. Since the governor is a friend, I am sure he will do it.”

  Judge picks up the pen and dips it in a small inkwell. He scratches the paper. His bright blue eyes steal a glance at me.

  “A Negro uprising?” I ask. He’s a liar. He killed Mike. He killed those other men, and he killed Rachel. He is why Hill is dead, too. The blood is on his hands.

  “Buck and some of my men caught them organizing on the Tullahoma Pike. We gave them a pretty good thrashing, but I understand they are planning on making a stand tonight. Cowards. They
won’t even fight in the daylight, like men.”

  He’s the one who attacks at night, wearing masks and disguises and terrorizing people. My heart feels like it is bursting out of my chest. “What will you do if the governor agrees? Isn’t the army moving in?”

  “They’re outside town for now. They’re afraid of the fever, but so are we all. The governor will agree we need support in town. This can’t be allowed to continue. We’ll mop them up fairly quickly. My men are already at work. The telegram to the governor is a practical formality. When he sees the names of the men who are involved, he’ll be stunned. Politicians in government who support this nigger revolution.”

  The list. He’s using the list from Eli’s saddlebag.

  Desperate tears well in my eyes. I must cry. He must believe me. “I am afraid of the fever, too, Judge. You were right about everything. I’m so sorry. I’m terrified. The whole town has gone away, and now an insurrection? Emma and Henry and I are all alone in the house. Everyone else has run off.” My voice is pleading.

  “That nigger Simon is gone, is he? He’s their leader, Augusta. Or didn’t you know that? He’s the first one we’ll flay and string up alive. We won’t have any rabble-rousing niggers in Albion.”

  They’ll kill Simon if they catch him.

  “I heard, Judge, but I couldn’t believe it. It makes sense now. He was Eli’s man. You were right about everything. Please forgive me. Tell me you forgive me.”

  I kneel before him. He is surprised and embarrassed. I reach out for his hand and pull it to my breast. “Please, Judge, you must forgive me.” I kiss his hand, my Judas kiss. His hand is wet from my tears.