The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  “May I ride him, your pony, ‘Tienne,” he demanded breathlessly. “May I?”

  Etienne turned toward him.

  “If you touch him at all, I’ll kill you!” he barked and ran into the house.

  Stephen ordered the Negroes to bring wine, and afterwards the adults retired to the great hall. The slave orchestra struck up a tune, and there was dancing. But it was no good. Not even the wine could bring true good feeling. One by one the guests made their excuses and left. Only a few lingered.

  Stephen was dancing with Aurore, holding her as lightly as a breath as they swept through the great curves of the waltz. There was a rare, elusive perfume in her chestnut hair, and her hazel eyes under the long lashes were alight with sombre fire.

  “Ye’re beautiful, my little sister,” he whispered. “And ye grow more so daily. I wonder at the stupidity of these lads . . .”

  “It’s not their fault, Stephen,” Aurore said. “I am naturally an old maid—too finicky to please a man. But I like dancing with you.”

  “Nonsense. There is more to it than that. Someday I’ll find out the reason for your demi-nunhood. Or perhaps ye care to tell me. What is it, Aurore? Why have ye never chosen to grace some lucky man’s board?”

  “From me you’ll never know. I wish I could tell you. But it’s better that you do not—that no one knows. Please, Stephen, do not pry into this thing.”

  Stephen led her back to her place and bowed over her hand.

  “As ye will, little sister,” he murmured.

  When all the guests had gone, Stephen strode up the stairs to Etienne’s room. Without knocking, he pushed open the door and went in; but the room was empty. He stood there, frowning a moment, then he turned and went back down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Neither Etienne nor the pony was in sight. Stephen bent down, staring at the soft earth. The tracks were there, small and well-shod, and they led off toward the cypress wood. Stephen followed, swearing softly under his breath.

  Before he reached the clump of woods, he heard the high, shrill whinny of the pony. It was squealing in anguish, and sharp and clear above the sound came the singing whine of a whip. Stephen ran forward. Just inside the screen of branches the pony was tethered. He was rearing and plunging like a wild thing. And beside him, just a little way off, Etienne stood, the long black snake whip in his hand. Even as Stephen ran forward, Etienne lifted the whip. The long lash sang through the air and bit into the pony’s rough coat. The little animal squealed pitifully.

  Then Stephen was upon his son, tearing the whip from his hands. He stood back, looking at the boy, the great scar on his forehead glowing scarlet with anger. Etienne was covered with mud and dust, and a thin trickle of blood stole down from the corner of his mouth. Stephen looked at the pony. It was covered all over with stripes. In one or two places Etienne had drawn blood.

  “Ye little beast!” Stephen roared and lifted the whip. Etienne stood without moving, without flinching, his pale eyes steady upon his father’s face. Stephen lowered the whip slowly, without striking his son; then, with a quick motion, he broke it across his knee, and flung it way into the underbrush. Without another word, he turned and strode back toward the house.

  Etienne stood looking after him, his blue eyes bleak in his dark face.

  “Father,” he whispered. “Father.”

  But Stephen walked on, unhearing. Slowly, Etienne moved after him.

  Inside the house, Stephen walked dully into his study. He paused to light a candle, for already the dusk was gathering, and turned to the row upon row of leather-bound volumes that lined the walls. Here were the great Greek writers, and the Latin. He stood there, frowning a moment in indecision, reading the titles:

  Aristophanes, Sophocles, Homer, Euripides, Horace, Plato, Seneca . . . Then he stretched forth his hand. There was a little scurrying noise behind him, and he whirled. Little Inch stood frozen there, the whites of his eyes showing grotesquely in his black face.

  “Inch!” Stephen said. “What the devil do ye here?”

  “I—I was reading, maître,” Inch stammered. “Please, maître, I go now. Don’t beat me, no?”

  “Reading?” Stephen said. “By all the saints! Who taught ye to read?”

  “Grandmère—an’ Jean-Jacques, maître’s butler—an’ ‘Tienne, a little. Please, maître . . .”

  Stephen bent and picked up the open book from the floor. It was Moliere, a bound volume of the plays. Stephen pointed to a passage.

  “Read,” he commanded.

  Inch read the passage, clearly, and with good accent.

  “Now,” Stephen said. “Tell me what it means—in English.” Little Inch interpreted the hypochondriac’s troubles from Le Médicin Malgré Lui.

  “A black,” Stephen said half to himself. “Yet one with a mind. Miracles never cease. Inch, ye listen to me.”

  “Yas, maître?”

  “I like this, your knowledge. But when ye would have books, come to me and ask for them. There are many things which are no good for ye to read—’twill cause only trouble and confusion in your mind. From now on, ye are to read only what I select; there will be no lack of books, I assure ye, but they will be the right ones. Here, take this one, and ponder over it. When ye have finished it, I shall have a report from ye over its meaning. Ye may go now.”

  Inch showed his white teeth in a gleaming smile and scurried from the room, clutching the catechism Stephen had given him in his little hand.

  Stephen turned again to his books. But Georges was coming into the room, pausing there before his master.

  “Well,” Stephen said, “what is it, Georges?”

  “Monsieur Andre, maître—outside on the terrace. He wants to talk with you.”

  Stephen made a little gesture of annoyance and put the book back in its place. When he reached the terrace, he saw the rotund figure of Andre Le Blanc pacing nervously back and forth.

  “Andre,” Stephen said. “What ails ye, man?”

  “I’m in trouble, Stephen—terrible trouble. I need your help.”

  “Then ye have it. Stop pacing like an animal and tell me what this is all about.”

  “The Second Bank of the United States—this morning it withdrew all its deposits from its fiscal agencies. Then later in the morning, the Bank of England contracted its credits. They’re asking for gold, Stephen.”

  “My God!”

  “By midafternoon, while we toasted your son’s health, fourteen banks had failed. And all my creditors are calling in their notes at once. ‘Tis a ruined man you see before you, Stephen!”

  “These notes, they’re against the lands of La Place, itself?”

  “Yes,” Andre said miserably. “By nightfall, Melia and the children will no longer have a roof over their heads!”

  “Will ye cease your sniveling! I have no ready cash—my accounts were in the Second Bank too, ye ken; but I will give your creditors a lien against as much of Harrow as is necessary. . . .”

  “No, Stephen, never in honor could I permit . . .”

  “Silence! We shall not lose the land. Ye know well I kept the bulk of my accounts with Hammerschlag in Philadelphia. I have enough and to spare to tide us both over.”

  “That is if the Philadelphia banks do not fail, Stephen. I understand this thing is nationwide.”

  “About that we shall worry when we find it true. Come into the house, Andre. We must discuss this thing with Odalie, since her holdings, too, are involved.”

  The two of them went into the house, and Stephen ordered wine and sent Georges to fetch Odalie. When she came, Stephen went straight to the point.

  “ ‘Tis the panic, my dear, which I’ve feared. The currency is worthless, having no gold to back it up. Andre, here, is in a fair way to be ruined. There are debts outstanding against all his estate. Have I your consent to pledge the outlying lands against his notes?”

  Odalie did not even hesitate.

  “Of course,” she said; “we have more land than we’ll ever need. Pledge
Bellefont—I’m sure Aurore will be agreeable, she’s so fond of Amelia.”

  “Ye understand that we are in a bad way ourselves? The Second Bank failed this morning. We have no money here.”

  Odalie stood up.

  “Don’t talk like a Yankee, Stephen,” she said. “There are other things in the world beside money.”

  “Thank ye, my dear.” He pulled on the bell cord and Georges appeared.

  “Pen and paper, Georges—and the sand box.”

  When Georges returned, Stephen took up the pen and wrote:

  “To whom it may concern,

  “I, Stephen Fox, do hereby pledge and commit certain of my lands, vs: The entire southern tract, lying nearest to New Orleans, and the plantation of Bellefont, as security against the debts of Andre Le Blanc of this parish, my friend and associate. Done by my own hand, at Harrow, May 13, 1837, Stephen Fox.”

  “I don’t know about the legality of this. We shall need witnesses. And as Odalie is my wife and ye are both party to it, neither of ye will do. We’d best ride into the city, Andre. Ye’ll excuse us, my dear?”

  Odalie nodded. Stephen and Andre stood up, but as Stephen waited for his hat, gloves and crop, a horseman came pounding up the oak alley toward Harrow at a full gallop. He leaped from the horse, flung the reins to the astonished Georges and ran up the stairs, two at a time.

  “Tom!” Stephen said, “Tom Warren! So it took a panic to make ye visit Harrow!”

  Tom Warren’s face was haggard.

  “I need money, Stephen,” he said. “Much money. I’m in a hellish fix!”

  “Softly, Tom,” Stephen said. “So are we all.”

  “Not the kind I’m in. I—I speculated a bit with monies that were not actually mine. If I cannot restore them by tomorrow noon, ‘twill mean prison for me.”

  Silently Stephen extended the note be had just written.

  “I was coming in for ye to witness this,” he said simply.

  Warren’s eyes ran rapidly over the page.

  “So,” he said. “You’ve tied up all your visible assets for this man. And now you’re powerless to help me. A fine friend you’ve proved yourself, Stephen Fox!”

  “I’m sorry, Tom. Money I have not. But this of prison is nonsense. My word alone, pledged against the restoration of the monies is enough to keep ye out. Then, afterwards, ye could manage Harrow for me. Since Wilson’s death, I have needed such a man as ye are. ‘Tis no great honor, I’ll admit but . . .”

  Tom Warren looked from one to the other of them. “Give me the paper,” he said at last. “I’ll witness it.” When Tom Warren had signed the paper and had drunk the wine a servant brought, the three men went down the great stairs together. At the foot of the stairs, they stood for a moment in talk, then Andre swung his great bulk aboard his horse and started away. But ten feet down the alley be encountered old Josh, coming home from the levee in the early dark, a string of fish glistening in his hand.

  “Evening, suh,” he grinned, taking off his battered hat and bowing, “Nice evening, ain’t it?”

  “Those are fine fish,” Andre observed, then calling back to Stephen: “Do you mind if I take some of them?”

  “Not at all. Take the whole string.” He and Tom Warren strode over to where the old man stood, holding his catch.

  Then old Josh’s mouth was gaping open, and his knees were knocking together quite audibly.

  “Doan let him git me!” he moaned. “Please, Mas’ Stevie, doan let him git me!”

  “Don’t let who get ye? What ails ye, Josh? Have ye gone mad?”

  Josh was almost speechless with terror.

  “Dat’s Mas’ Tom!” he quavered. “Dat’s de one who kilt, poor Rad! He tried to kill me too, but he missed! Please, Mas’ Stevie!”

  Stephen turned to Tom Warren.

  “What’s he talking about, Tom? He appears to know ye, truly.” Tom Warren’s little piglike eyes were shifting rapidly in his big face.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I never saw the Nigra before. I think he’s mad.”

  “What’s this all about, Josh? Speak up, man, nobody’s going to harm ye.”

  “Us moved de wheat like he done tole us to. Me’n’ Rad moved all dat wheat outa de warehouse down by de river. Den we took hit cross town in de wagon. We musta gone back and forth a hundred times. After dat he tole us to sot dat warehouse on fire an’ we done dat too. An when po Rad come out—Mas’ Stevie!”

  Stephen whirled, but the blast of the pistol leaped out between him and Josh. The old black hung there clawing at his throat where the ball had gone through; then he went down on his face in the dirt and they could hear his breath gurgling out through the opening the bullet had made.

  Stephen started toward Tom, walking very slowly. Andre sat paralyzed upon his horse, watching him. Again Tom Warren lifted the pistol. It was a squat, ugly affair with four barrels mounted in pairs, one above the other.

  “Easy, Stephen,” he said. “I still have three shots, remember.”

  “It matters not if ye have a hundred,” Stephen said, and lunged forward all at once so that the pistol made a mushroom of flame and smoke squarely against his chest, and his fingers, as he fell, clawed loose the buttons of Tom Warren’s waistcoat. Tom Warren leveled the pistol at him as he lay there, but Andre was kicking his horse forward, unsheathing the swordcane as he came.

  The big man whirled, firing as he turned, but Andre ducked low along the horse’s neck and ran the point of the sword through the wrist of Tom Warren’s hand with a deftness born of long practice. Tom dropped the pistol and ran clumsily to his horse, holding his wrist tightly with his left hand as he ran. Then he was tearing the reins loose from the hitching post and dragging himself atop the horse.

  But Andre was not following him. Instead, he was bending over Stephen, ripping the clothing away with the bloody blade of his sword, and staunching the gaping wound the slug had torn low on Stephen’s left side. It had gone completely through Stephen’s lean body, too low to strike the ribs, and too far to the side to puncture the internal organs. But it bled frightfully. Andre stuffed his own fine linen handkerchief into the wound, then with difficulty he lifted his friend and started up the great stairs.

  Above, Odalie had heard the shots, and had come running out on the gallery. But the now heavy darkness prevented her from seeing much until the fat form of Andre, struggling like a beetle with a far too heavy load, appeared half way up the stairs with Stephen swinging inertly in his arms. Odalie opened her mouth to scream, but only a whisper came out.

  “Stephen!” she said, “Stephen!”

  Then she was cradling her husband’s head in her arms and the two of them got him to the bedroom. And not until Caleen had reached the bedside and taken full charge, did Odalie slip quietly, easily to the floor in a dead faint. Caleen stepped over her without even a downward glance, and went on with her work. There was the water to be heated, and the fresh cloths, and the herbs to be brewed against infections. She worked with lightninglike rapidity, until at last the thick stream of the blood slowed and stopped. Stephen lay back against a pillow, his pale skin almost transparent. But a thin mist of sweat dewed his brow, and his breath sounded ragged and slow through the room.

  “He be all right now, Monsieur Andre,” Caleen said, “soon’s I get some soup in him—make more blood. Hafta wait, though. It would kill him now, yes.”

  Andre lifted Odalie from the floor and crossed the hall to another bedroom. Then he summoned Suzette, and the two of them worked on her until her eyelids fluttered open.

  “Is he—is he . . .” she said.

  “No,” Andre said. “He is not dead—in fact he’s going to get better.”

  He stood up, and his round face was grim.

  “Now, if Madame will excuse me, I have work to do.”

  After he left Harrow, Andre stopped only briefly at La Place des Rivières. He went up into the great study that had been his father’s and took down a long mahogany case. When he opened it, two s
lim-barrelled dueling pistols, rich with silver mountings, gleamed in the dull light. Slowly and carefully he cleaned both of them, then loaded them, ramming the ball far down against the charge, wrapped in its linen wadding, and setting the percussion caps in place where the great curving hammers on the sides of the pieces would strike them truly. In his pockets he put additional charges, and a small bag of shot. The primings he put in a small waterproof box. As he turned, he realized that Amelia had been standing behind him for a long time, watching his every move.

  “You—you’ve quarrelled with someone,” she said, and her voice was high and breathless.

  “No,” Andre said softly. “ ‘Tis no quarrel of my own, Melia. But Stephen Fox lies at the point of death, shot down by a man whom he trusted. He carried no weapon, Melia. Will you see that Ti Demon and some of the other blacks are sent to all the neighboring plantations? Tell them to meet me at the point of the Bayou in four or five hours. ‘Tis there that the murderer is most likely hiding. I go to the city to report this thing, and to seek Mike Farrel and other friends of Stephen’s.”

  “You’ll have wine before you go—or coffee?”

  “Neither. Goodnight, my dear.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. But she caught his arm and clung to him a moment. Then she released him, and her eyes were bright with tears.

  “Aim true, Andre!” she said. And he strode through the doorway murmuring thanks to the blessed saints who had given him such a wife.

  With a fresh horse, it was no great ride to New Orleans from La Place. Andre stopped first at the house of Judge Joachim Bermudez and made formal report of the crime. At once the old jurist was pulling on his coat and taking down his pistols.

  “But, sir,” Andre protested, “ ‘tis hardly fitting in your position and at your age . . .”

  “Silence, lad!” the judge barked. “If the wretch is captured I’ll see that he gets a fair trial—there upon the spot. And no law exists governing how short the interval between the passing of a sentence and its execution may be. Quiet now, before you wake Madame.”