Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  Amon’s face worked.

  Finally Morgan laughed. “All right. I know, I know. So I need to take every opportunity to show that horse who wishes he were boss.”

  “Yes, sir,” Amon said with amusement. “If you’re set on it—and if that Vulcan will let you. Good Lord watch over you an’ keep you, sir.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The brilliant sunshine of June caught Jolie DeForge full in the face as she stepped out of the house and then crossed the porch. Though she was thirteen years old now, the face that the golden sun lit up was more like a ten-year-old’s, for with her wide-spaced dark eyes and tiny nose, mouth, and chin, she looked very much like a little kitten.

  No one would ever suspect that she had black blood. Her skin was of an unusual shade, a very light olive, and her complexion was pure and smooth. Her hair was black and shiny, but instead of coarse curls, it was satiny, as her mother’s had been. Since she was so young, she still wore it down, flowing around her shoulders, with the top and sides pulled away from her face with a sky-blue ribbon. She wore the dress of a young lady of good family, a fine-quality muslin of blue and green stripes, with a satin sash that matched her hair ribbon.

  Jolie went to the enclosure around the chicken house and scooped out some feed into a five-gallon bucket and started lightly spreading it around. The chickens came running and at once began pecking at the feed. Jolie watched them with a smile. “Ophelia, don’t be so greedy. Let Juliet have some of that seed.”

  She had named the hens after characters in Shakespeare, which Cleo, the housekeeper, had long ago warned her not to do. “If you name them, you’ll get to thinking they’re pets, Jolie. Just don’t do it, chile.”

  Jolie had found that to be true, and finally, after many broad hints to Mr. DeForge, DeForge House no longer had chicken for supper. They had loads of eggs, but that was because no chickens were ever killed and Box and Cleo kept them “broody” so they wouldn’t have little chicks.

  After she’d fed the chickens, calling each one of them by name, she went back to the summer kitchen, which was in back of the main house, connected by a bricked, covered walkway. DeForge House, a majestic Greek Revival home looming above the banks of the Rapidan River, had an enormous kitchen in the cellar that was used in the winter, because it gave the big house additional heat.

  As Jolie thought of this, she wondered for perhaps the thousandth time about her benefactor, Henry DeForge. He was 59 years old now—Jolie could always recall his age because he was born in 1800, and so the math was easy—and he obviously had a lot of money, because he had bought this plantation, and only he and Jolie lived in the fifteen-room house. He wore nice clothes, she knew, and she always had nice clothes, but that seemed to be the extent of Mr. DeForge’s extravagance. He had a business in Baltimore; he had been teaching Jolie some of the basics of bookkeeping, and so she knew that his company, DeForge Brothers Import & Export, Ltd., made quite a bit of money. But Mr. DeForge had no horses and no carriage, he never entertained, and he never bought new furnishings or accessories for grand DeForge House. Besides the necessities, the only other thing Jolie had seen him purchase was books.

  Jolie entered the stifling kitchen. Cleo had an enormous bowl underneath her left arm and was whipping the batter so vigorously she could have powered a boat. “Sponge cake for tea?” Jolie asked as she put on a stained and worn canvas bib apron. “Mr. DeForge will be so happy. Do you want me to help you, Cleo?”

  “No! No’m, it’s fine. I kin do it,” Cleo blurted out.

  Jolie had tried three times before to make sponge cakes, Henry DeForge’s favorite food. All three times she had neglected to beat the eggs and sugar enough to give the cake its airy texture, and twice she had yanked the cake out of the oven to test its doneness, which made it promptly fall into a gummy mess.

  “You go ahead and work out in the garden, Jolie. Box weeded them tomato plants just three days ago, but I swear it looks like they’re gettin’ took over again.”

  “I’ll put a stop to that,” Jolie said briskly, forgetting all about the sponge cake or helping Cleo in the kitchen. She would much rather be outdoors. She liked working in the gardens, for DeForge House had a rich and plentiful, varied kitchen garden, and the flower gardens around the house were gorgeous.

  Humming softly to herself, she knelt down by the first staked tomato plant in the row and started working out the weeds with a claw. Two of the field slaves were working the kitchen garden today, two boys in their teens. Jolie talked to them as they worked, desultory things like the weather, how tall the corn was growing, what vegetables they would take to the farmer’s market on Saturday in Fredericksburg. The boys mostly just mumbled yes’m and no’m, but Jolie knew them by name and knew their families, and she talked to them as if they were school friends.

  By one o’clock, her back was aching, her fingers were sore, and she was very hungry. She went back to the kitchen to beg something from Cleo.

  “I’m a-makin’ this mayonnaise for tea,” Cleo said impatiently. “You can help yourself to whatever you want, Jolie, but I don’t have time to stop right now to fix you something.”

  “That’s all right,” Jolie said hastily. “I see you’ve got some of that ham left. I’ll just have a couple of slices of that with some cheese.”

  “Good thing we don’t have no hogs what you named, or we’d never have the likes of bacon nor ham,” Cleo muttered.

  Ignoring her, Jolie put a slice of ham and a chuck of cheese on a stoneware plate, poured herself a mug of apple cider, and went outside to sit on the bench by the door. She ate slowly, staring into space.

  She was reflecting upon her age. She had turned thirteen two months previously, and for some reason she had thought that she would be very, very different once she was in her teen years. But she didn’t feel any different, and she sure didn’t look any different. She was still thin and gangly with no hint of a womanly shape.

  Her life was exactly the same as it had always been. Mr. DeForge taught her lessons five days a week in the mornings. In the afternoons she went outside to work in the gardens or take long walks or go down to sit on the riverbank and read and nap. Sometimes, when Mr. DeForge felt well enough, he would go with her, and they would have a picnic at teatime. Either she would read aloud to him, or he would read to her. These times were treasured by Jolie.

  She ate very slowly, and she wasn’t yet finished when Cleo appeared at the door, hands on hips. “You know you look like a field hand, Jolie. Ain’t you going to have tea with Mr. DeForge and Mr. Tremayne?”

  Jolie jumped up, scattering plate, ham, cheese, and cider. “Mr. Tremayne’s coming for tea? Why didn’t you tell me?” Turning, she started running toward the house, skirts flapping.

  As Morgan rode to the DeForge place, he wondered about two things: the chickens and Jolie.

  When Morgan had inherited his farm in the winter of 1855, he had immediately traveled here and surveyed the property, assessed the state of the house and the outbuildings, and checked on the one-hundred-twelve acres of fields that went with the property.

  Also, as soon as he could, he had called on all his neighbors. Henry DeForge was his nearest neighbor, as it was only about five miles along the river to DeForge House. Mr. DeForge had received him most cordially, and in the four years since then they had become fast friends.

  Mr. DeForge had, in the course of time, told Morgan that he and his brother had a successful import/export business in Baltimore, Maryland. In 1840, Henry DeForge had been diagnosed with consumption, and that was when he semiretired from the business, bought this property in Virginia, and moved down here. He was very much a recluse. He never traveled; he didn’t even own a horse and buggy. He had made arrangements with various shopkeepers in Fredericksburg to have his supplies shipped to him by boat on the Rapidan.

  As far as Morgan knew, he was the only visitor to DeForge House, and that was strictly by invitation only. Though he knew that DeForge was a good friend, he was a rather formal, ins
ular man, and each time Morgan visited, Mr. DeForge would make an appointment with him to visit the next time.

  In four years of long visits, Morgan and DeForge had talked about their lives, their families, their plans for the future, politics, religion, books, and public figures, but Henry DeForge had never spoken once about Jolie. On his first visit, Morgan had been introduced to the nine-year-old child with Old World gallantry. Mr. DeForge had said, “Mr. Tremayne, it is my honor to make known to you Jolie. Jolie, may I introduce you to Mr. Morgan Tremayne.” The child had curtsied prettily but had not said a word, and DeForge had gone on visiting with Morgan. Since then Morgan guessed he might have heard her speak a dozen times.

  Morgan Tremayne was not inherently a curious man. He firmly believed that the world would be a much better place if people minded their own business, and he set about doing that very thing. But sometimes he did, in passing, wonder about Jolie. It seemed she had no last name, but only slaves had one given name. Jolie wasn’t a slave, that much was obvious, but apparently neither was she a DeForge relative.

  “None of my affair anyway,” Morgan grunted to himself. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder about the chickens.

  He let Vulcan have his head, and instantly the horse started galloping wildly, an all-out run. Vulcan did love to run. Morgan wore spurs, but he never ever used them on Vulcan. He might have to touch his sides with his boots to get him to turn, but Morgan fancifully believed that if he actually spurred Vulcan to a gallop, the horse would probably jump six feet straight into the air, buck him off, and streak away like a red-hot railroad engine. Very soon Morgan was at the bottom of the hill at DeForge’s.

  The plantation house was built like most on the river: the drive came up to the back door, with an unspoiled lawn in the front sloping gently down to the riverbank. On Morgan’s left were DeForge’s farm fields, where he raised cash crops only: corn, peanuts, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, beets, and turnips. Bordering the house on the left were two orchards, cherry and pecan. Directly behind were all the outbuildings, the barn, a storehouse, the creamery, the smokehouse, and the slave cottages. Henry DeForge only had the old couple, Box and Cleo, as house slaves. He had about twenty working field slaves, and Morgan guessed there might be around thirty slaves on the property counting the women and children.

  There was a hitching post and watering trough in the yard, and Morgan dismounted and began to tie up Vulcan when a young boy came running up. Morgan remembered his name. “Hello, Howie. You going to take care of Vulcan for me?”

  “Yes, suh, if ’n he’ll let me,” the boy said, but he took the reins, and Vulcan meekly allowed him to lead him into the barn.

  Morgan was amused; he knew that Vulcan liked visiting here because the slaves gave him lumps of sugar and sweet cherries, no matter how many times Morgan warned them not to do it. Every time he visited DeForge’s, he was always afraid Vulcan would be sick the next day.

  He walked up the gravel path to the back door, raising his head to catch the scents. Anywhere on DeForge’s grounds it seemed one could smell jasmine and roses. It amused Morgan to see the kitchen garden, which grew exactly the same crops that were grown on the farm. But in time he had come to learn that Mr. DeForge was a generous man and apparently didn’t need money, because he allowed his slaves to take most of the cash crops to market and sell them. The kitchen garden supplied the home produce. Morgan noted the herb garden and saw that it was thriving. Someone on the place was a good gardener.

  Box, a tall, angular black man, met him at the back door, bowing. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tremayne.”

  “Good afternoon, Box.” Morgan gave him his hat and gloves and said, “I’ve got two chickens in that canvas sack on my saddle. I forgot to tell Howie to bring them up here. Evetta says they’re for Cleo.”

  “Yes, suh. No, suh. It’s all right, suh. I’ll fetch ’em, and I know Cleo will want to thank you personal. Mr. DeForge is out on the veranda, Mr. Tremayne.”

  “Thank you, Box. I can find my own way.” Morgan went to the front door, passing the butler’s pantry, the storage pantry, the formal dining room, the parlor, the music room, and the sitting room, and finally went out onto the veranda.

  DeForge and Jolie were seated around a white wrought-iron table, sipping lemonade. Henry DeForge was a tall, distinguished-looking man with thin silver hair and thick side whiskers and sharp blue eyes. However he was ill, and he had good days and bad days. Morgan could see this was a good day. He wasn’t nearly as pale as he had been on Morgan’s visit two weeks ago, and his shoulders weren’t weakly slumped. Jolie looked fresh and pretty in a mint-green dress with a green ribbon in her hair.

  He shook hands with DeForge, and Jolie offered hers, dropping her eyes shyly. Morgan bent over it, remembering a couple of years ago, when she had jumped to her feet and curtsied when he had come into the room. DeForge had gently told her, “Jolie, you are a lady, and Mr. Tremayne is a gentleman. Ladies do not rise to greet gentlemen. In fact, it is supposed to be the other way around. Gentlemen are supposed to rise when you enter or leave a room. I know that I don’t do that, but that’s because I’m old and tending to laziness.”

  Morgan seated himself and accepted a glass of lemonade from Jolie. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “Mm, I see you still have ice, Mr. DeForge. Delicious, I got rather heated riding Vulcan, and it made me thirsty.”

  “How is that devil of a horse?” DeForge asked.

  “Devilish,” Morgan said lightly and told DeForge about how he had shown off at Arlington. “But it was a good visit, I think. Colonel Lee is going to buy two horses from me.”

  “Excellent,” DeForge said briskly. “Business is good, eh? What about your spring plantings?”

  Henry DeForge had three hundred acres that had lain fallow for almost twenty years. After he had gotten to know Morgan, DeForge had leased the acreage to him to raise forage crops for the horses, and with three hundred acres, there was plenty to sell. Morgan had also hired ten DeForge slaves to work the fields, paying them by the day. Unlike other slaveholders who leased out their slaves, Henry DeForge wanted no money for himself.

  “The oats and alfalfa already look strong and healthy,” Morgan told him. “That’s some good soil in your fields, Mr. DeForge. My winter rye and barley was a bumper crop, and the soil shows no sign of weakening. Next year, of course, I’ll rotate to legumes and corn, but I think I’ll go ahead and do another winter rye and barley.”

  They talked about crops and weather for a while; though Henry DeForge was not a farmer in the proper sense of the word, he was interested in agriculture, as he was interested in many things.

  “Mr. Ballard says that we are to have a blue moon this season,” DeForge said, his eyes alight, “and that Widow Tapp’s cow gave birth to a white calf. These are, I understand, very good omens for farmers.”

  “Hope so,” Morgan said. “But speaking of livestock, may I ask you a question, sir? Every time I come to visit, Evetta makes me bring Cleo a chicken or two. Is there something wrong with your chickens?”

  DeForge chuckled and glanced at Jolie. Her cheeks flamed, and she dropped her head. DeForge said, “Jolie has named all of the chickens, and so they have become her personal pets. Naturally I can’t execute a pet. I don’t really mind one way or another, because chicken is not my favorite meat, but I understand that Cleo takes great exception to it.”

  “It’s the stock,” Jolie said in a small voice. “She says you must use chicken stock in lots of dishes.”

  “Mm, true. It’s unfortunate that you still have to kill them to get the stock,” Morgan said lightly. “Don’t worry, Jolie. I’ll tell Evetta to make sure Cleo has plenty of anonymous dead chickens.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tremayne,” she said, her face still downcast.

  “Jolie, would you please go check on Cleo?” DeForge asked. “I’m about ready for my tea.” Jolie rose and went through the front door.

  Morgan didn’t rise when she left the table. To him she was very much a child, and
gentlemen weren’t constrained to show the same politeness to children as they were to adults.

  DeForge said, “Speaking of omens, have you kept up with the news out of Washington, Mr. Tremayne?”

  “Somewhat, sir. I admit I’ve been so very busy that sometimes I let the newspapers pile up for days.”

  DeForge frowned. “I see some very bad signs for the future of this country. Arrogant hotheads, who normally would never be paid any attention by sane persons, seem to be the dominant forces on both sides of the Mason–Dixon Line. And it’s not just Washington and New York in the North, you know. From Maine to Minnesota they’re all getting up in arms.”

  “But surely you don’t think we’ll go to war, do you?” Morgan asked, shocked. He knew Mr. DeForge, though he never traveled, kept up with national news every day. He took newspapers from Fredericksburg and Richmond and also Washington, New York, Chicago, Indianapolis, New Orleans, and Austin, and once a month he was delivered papers from California. He was a very sharp, intelligent man.

  “Last year at this time I didn’t think so,” he said quietly. “This spring I do think so. I don’t believe it will be next spring, because next year is election year. But I’m afraid spring of 1861 will not be nearly this peaceful and sweet.”

  Morgan sat and stared into space, stunned. Of course he was aware of the growing tensions between the slave states and the free states. He knew that in many ways, “bleeding Kansas” was symbolic of the entire nation, with “free staters” battling proslavery “border ruffians” in a series of ugly violent incidents that had begun five years ago. But to actually believe that the United States of America would be dissolved and any state would ever consider secession had not entered the darkest recesses of Morgan’s mind.

  He wondered now if DeForge was suffering from some worry that had ballooned into a big fear. Morgan thought that sometimes happened to older people. But quickly he pushed the thought away. Henry DeForge was not a man to suffer from baseless fear, nor was he given to exaggeration.