Lucy Sinclair said accusingly, “You made my little Annabelle love you. She has been very unhappy.”
“Annabelle taught me to love the Lord,” he said. “She loved me the way a shepherd loves a poor lost sheep he is bringing into the fold. I am very poor.”
“What do you want me to do?” Lucy Sinclair asked, with a suddenly decisive manner.
“I have thought,” said Tite gently, “that you might like to give me a reward. Something — not too small — to help me through college.”
New vigour had flowed into the veins of Lucy Sinclair since the coming of the letter. She rose to her feet. “Where is Jerry?” she asked. “He knows where my money is kept.”
Tite’s face, usually inscrutable, now perceptibly fell. “It would be better,” he said, even more gently, “not to send for Jerry. But do not trouble yourself, Madame, I will do without the reward. It is enough for me that your heart is less heavy.”
“You shall have your reward.” She spoke with vehemence. “I will myself bring it. Wait here.”
The house was now quiet. The children had gone with their mother, in the phaeton, to carry pumpkins, ears of corn, clusters of purple grapes, white asters, and pale-blue Michaelmas daisies to the church for the Harvest Festival. Augusta’s dove, being under the impression that spring was approaching, uttered continuous gurgling cooing sounds. These amorous cooings so stimulated the fancy of the parrot, Boney, that he puffed himself to twice his normal size, turned round and round on his perch and rolled his eyes in a madness of lust. The front door stood open. Through it coloured leaves had been blown and lay on the rug.
New hope gave new strength to Lucy Sinclair. She climbed the stairs with less effort than it had cost her to mount them for weeks. In her bedroom she found the wallet her husband had left her, with banknotes for travelling expenses. Several times she had counted this money but the result was never twice the same. She glanced at herself in the looking-glass. There was reflected a face no longer wan and weary from anxiety, but bright with a new hope. She hastened down the stairs. In the sitting room Titus Sharrow awaited her. He stood up very straight, aloof yet watchful.
He gave a little bow.
“Madame,” he said.
Her hands trembled so that she could not properly count the banknotes. One fluttered to the floor. Tite picked it up and looked at it doubtfully. “This is Confederate money,” he said.
“But it’s perfectly reliable,” she answered. “How much would please you? Of course, if I gave you the whole amount it could not repay you for the relief you have given me.”
“I do not like to accept more than you can spare, Madame.” His greedy eyes were on the wallet which bore in gold-embossed letters the initials C.S.
She put it into his hand.
“Count,” she said. “I can’t.”
His deft greedy fingers ran through the notes.
“There seem,” he said, “to be more than six hundred dollars.”
“Take two hundred and I wish I could give you more.”
He returned the somewhat thinner wallet to her. With a deeper bow than usual, his slanting eyes downcast, he said, “Mille remerciements, Madame.” With her he was determinedly French.
“If you are able to bring me any further news of Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “I shall be most grateful.” She smiled a little and suddenly looked pretty, with the appealing prettiness of a girl.
Tite Sharrow, drifting rather than walking from the house, came suddenly on Jerry, or the Negro came purposefully on him. With dignity Tite sought to avoid him. This heavily built black man was not one with whom Tite would be willing to be involved in a quarrel. Not that Tite was a coward but he preferred peaceful ways of settling disputes or rivalries.
Now Jerry, with an incredibly swift movement, whipped out a knife.
“See this,” he growled in his thick voice. “Ah’m gonna run this right into yo’ guts, if yo’ don’ keep away from mah gal Belle.”
“Nigger!” said Tite.
“Yo’ better be careful if yo’ don’ wan’ yo innards ripped out,” Jerry yelled, forgetful of his nearness to the house.
Philip Whiteoak appeared, as it were from nowhere, and placed his stalwart body between them. Like figures of the night dispersed by the sun god they drew away.
“No more of this,” he said, “or I’ll knock your heads together. There’s trouble enough without your getting into a fight.”
“Boss,” said Titus Sharrow, “I am a peaceful man. I don’t want a fight with one of my own race. I am above tussling with a nigger.”
“This won’ be no tussle,” growled Jerry. “This will be the end of you. De Lawd is on mah side.”
“The Lord don’t think well of you,” said Tite. “If He did you’d not be a slave.”
Philip Whiteoak said, “Get along with you, Tite. Hand over that knife, Jerry.”
Jerry sullenly parted with the knife. Philip felt its edge with distaste. “This is a nasty weapon,” he said. “We don’t use knives in this country. If you want to fight, go at it with fists.”
Philip watched the two young men disappear, Jerry ambling, Tite gliding; Jerry ebony-faced, Tite dusky as the twilight; Jerry lumpish, Tite lithe. Philip was accustomed to the Indians of the East and thought that helped him to understand Tite. A clever rascal. About Negroes he thought there was little to understand. Animals. Possibly quite useful on a plantation, but not the sort of animal an Englishman would want underfoot in his own house.
He stood watching a pair of red squirrels scampering among the branches of an ancient oak, from the short thick trunk of which massive branches spread. It was also a tree of great height and had produced a vast number of leaves that still were glossy and green. The squirrels were collecting acorns for their winter store but stopped every now and again to chase each other. “Empty-headed little rascals,” Philip said aloud.
He did not see Elihu Busby till he stood beside him.
“Fine old oak,” remarked Busby.
“Yes. It’s been standing here for hundreds of years, I suppose. I’m very fond of it. It branches out so low that my youngsters have no trouble in climbing it.”
“Surely Gussie doesn’t climb trees.”
“She certainly does. Why not?”
“Well, I always look on you as a conventional British father who would insist on his daughters behaving like little ladies.”
“Do you really?”
There was a silence which Philip looked capable of continuing for a long time. However, Elihu Busby had sought him out with a purpose.
“I want to say” — he brought it out doggedly — “that I’m sorry for my harshness towards those Southerners. It must have seemed even unfriendly towards you. But I felt strongly on the subject of slavery and I felt bitter about the way my poor daughter had been treated by that rascally tutor of yours.”
“Have you changed your mind?” asked Philip.
“Not in the least. But I’ve always been on good terms with you folks. My wife seems to blame me for things being different. I know I spoke harshly about the South. My sympathies are strong for the Yankees.”
“You’ve always seemed proud,” said Philip, “that your forebears were United Empire Loyalists and that they came to Canada after the Revolution. If you’re so fond of the Yankees, you must be sorry that your people ever left the States.”
Elihu Busby’s colour rose. He found it hard to be calm. “I would not live in that country,” he said, “not if they gave me back all the valuable property my folks left behind there.”
Philip gave him a bland inscrutable look.
“I took it hard,” said Elihu Busby, “that Jalna should be a centre of plotting by these slave owners. I was glad when I heard that that man Sinclair had been captured before he’d had time to carry out his accursed schemes. I’d have been glad to hear that Lincoln had hanged him.”
“I don’t see why you’re telling me what I already know,” said Philip.
“Bec
ause I want you to understand that I’m sorry for that poor little woman. I hear she’s a gentle soul. She’s in an awful position stranded here with those miserable slaves of hers. I can tell you I’ve lain awake nights worrying over her and being sorry I said the things I did.”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Philip Whiteoak.
Elihu Busby expanded. “I’ve wanted to do something to show that I have only kindly feelings towards her. This morning my chance came. That letter from her husband was intercepted and brought to me to read.”
“Nice teamwork,” said Philip.
“I had guessed it to be a letter of farewell written when he was condemned to be hanged, but when I discovered the good news, I thought I’d bring it straight to her myself.”
Philip’s bright blue eyes rested on Elihu Busby with no expression whatever.
The deliberate voice went on. “However, when I got here I felt sort of shy about coming in. Mrs. Whiteoak has avoided me for months.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” said Philip.
“The trouble with you,” said Elihu Busby, “is that you don’t take a proper interest in the affairs of this young country. A man like you could be a real power for good but you concentrate on your own affairs. You’re more interested in your Jersey cows than in the fate of those poor helpless slaves.”
“Their fate is none of my business.”
“Do you or do you not think Lincoln is a great man?”
“I never give him a second thought.”
“Do you ever think, Captain Whiteoak?”
“Not if I can avoid it. I leave that to my wife.”
“It would be easy to quarrel with you, sir. But I didn’t come here to quarrel. I came to deliver a letter to Mrs. Sinclair. On the way I met Titus Sharrow and gave it to him with instructions to put it into the lady’s hand. Now I want to know whether he did this.”
“He did indeed.”
“That’s good. I gave him a York shilling for delivering it. I consider he was well paid, so don’t let him wheedle anything more out of you.”
“No, indeed,” said Philip.
“I guess Mrs. Sinclair is overjoyed by the news.”
“She is indeed — and so are the slaves overjoyed.”
“Perhaps you will tell her that it was through me she got the letter?”
“I’ll see to that,” said Philip laconically.
They parted. At the same time the half-breed returned to Wilmott’s house, along the winding moist green path.
Tite was in good spirits and remarked as he entered, “I hope you’re as glad to see me, Boss, as I am glad to be back.”
“I am indeed,” said Wilmott, “for you left a confounded mess here. Nothing in order — every pot and pan dirty — no kindling for lighting the fire. Where have you been?”
“I have been visiting my grandmother, Boss. I should have come sooner but I found her very sick, with no one to wait on her. Then, as I was coming back, I met Mr. Busby who confided to me that he had a letter for Madame Sinclair, telling her that her husband is still alive. Mr. Busby was afraid to bring the letter to her.…”
“Why?” interrupted Wilmott.
“I do not know, Boss, but he was afraid. He gave me a York shilling to deliver it for him.” Tite drew the coin from his pocket and looked at it pensively. He said, “It is not much but enough to buy me a good notebook for my lectures which will soon begin. I think I had better lay it here on the clock shelf for safe keeping. Then I will make your lunch. I’m afraid you don’t eat enough when I’m not here.”
Wilmott’s voice cracked with self-pity. “I have not had one decent meal,” he said.
Very soon the rattle of dishes being washed came from the kitchen, and after that the smell of sausages frying and the aroma of coffee. Tite spread a clean cloth on the table and laid places for two. Wilmott drew up a chair, his mobile face expressing both annoyance and hunger. “This is an enormous meal you’ve given me,” he said, eyeing the six sausages and the mound of fried potatoes.
“The sausages are pure pork, which are the only good ones,” said Tite, “and the potatoes are this season’s. Let me help you to some of these ripe tomatoes that I lifted from the tomato patch at Jalna as I passed. Let me pour you a cup of coffee. The cream is thick as pudding, Boss.”
Wilmott’s sense of well-being returned. There was no doubt that Tite spoilt him, as he, in spite of suspicions, tolerated Tite. Now the half-breed remarked, “I have a very interesting life, Boss. Every day something curious happens to me. I am never dull. I always find something to do. Right after lunch I am going to pluck the fat goose I see hanging in the kitchen.”
Some time later he came to Wilmott carrying the goose. He held it close to Wilmott’s nose.
“Would you say, Boss,” he enquired, “that this goose smells high?”
Wilmott sniffed, then shouted, “Take it away! It’s horrible.”
Tite sniffed the carcass, it almost appeared, with relish.
“It is,” he said, “pretty high.”
“Take it away and bury it,” ordered Wilmott.
Yet when, a little later, he came into the kitchen, Tite was sitting on a low stool plucking the goose. “It would be a pity, Boss,” he explained, “to waste these fine feathers. As for the stink, it’s surprising how one can get used to it.”
“I can’t,” said Wilmott and slammed the door.
In a short while the two were seated amicably in the flat-bottomed boat that always was tied waiting at the little wharf. Tite leisurely rowed, while Wilmott lounged on an old faded cushion in the stern. He was trolling with bits of the goose for bait. The river was glassy smooth. The ripples left by the boat were enough to rock the painted leaves of the willows that floated there. A mysterious birdsong thrilled the air but the little singers were unseen. They congregated among the fading foliage to presage their perilous migration to the South. But the blue jays and other birds that were to remain here spread their wings and swept in unconcern above the river, casting their reflections on a glassy surface which before long would become ice.
“I still am thinking,” said Tite, “of what an interesting life I lead, Boss. Something unexpected happens to me almost every day. Though I may have problems they are always somehow solved for me. Do you find it so, Boss?”
“I ask no better life,” said Wilmott.
XIII
DEPARTURE
From the hour of receiving the letter from Curtis Sinclair, Lucy was almost visibly quivering in a state of high excitement. She could not settle down to anything, not even to make any real preparation for the journey southward which she looked on as imminent. She would command Cindy and Belle to lay out all her dresses, her flounced petticoats, lace-trimmed chemises and nightgowns, that they might be put in order, but when she beheld this array of finery she became utterly confused and bade the women put it out of her sight. She constantly worried about money and would count over and over what she had left, quite forgetting the sum she had given Tite Sharrow. She slept badly and would wake sobbing from nightmares in which she saw her husband with the halter round his neck. Cindy now slept on a mattress on the floor in Lucy’s room. When the sound of her mistress’s grief woke her, the Negress would join in her lamentations. Belle, in the next room, would be roused and the loud talk, the noisy weeping of the slaves would wake the children. Adeline and Philip, in their room on the ground floor, would not be woken, but Nero, who slept on the mat outside their door, would stalk up the stairs and look in on the visitors with dark disapproval. He would utter a deep-throated “woof” of protest and then return downstairs.
The life of the three elder children was strangely coloured by the unsettled state of the household. Now they were under very little supervision. They did what their erratic wills prompted them to do. They wore what clothes they chose, ate when and what they chose. They (that is to say, Augusta and Nicholas) had invented a game, a kind of serial play, in which they had the roles of Elizabethan adventurers, discoverers of new
lands, sometimes pirates. Nicholas was known as Sir Francis Drake, sometimes as Sir Walter Raleigh, but Augusta was faithful to the role of Sir Richard Grenville. There being no special character for Ernest to play, he was made to represent all the coloured peoples of the strange lands discovered, or even the Spaniards of the Armada. He threw himself into these various parts with the greatest enthusiasm, executing war dances or bartering his lands for a few beads, or being converted to Christianity, as was demanded of him.
Now Sir Richard Grenville was captured by the Spaniards. He, in the person of Augusta, stood upon the deck of their flagship. “Old Sir Richard caught at last!” Nicholas quoted in his best manner:
And they praised him to his face with their courtly
foreign grace …
Reverting to ordinary speech he said to Ernest:
“You are the Spaniards. Go ahead and praise him.”
Promptly Ernest declaimed, “You done well, Musha.”
“Listen to him,” Nicholas said in an aside to an imaginary audience. “You done well! That’s not the way a stately Spaniard would speak.”
“He’d speak broken English, wouldn’t he?” Ernest defended himself.
“You done well isn’t broken English. It’s just bad grammar. Besides, no Spaniard would say Musha. Musha’s French. A Spaniard would say Señor.”
“Señor, my eye,” Ernest said crossly. He felt that he was too often criticized.
During this altercation Sir Richard had stood noble and aloof on the deck of the Spanish galleon.
Now Ernest brought out with clarity (he knew that if he did not give satisfaction in his parts they might be taken from him) “You did well, noble Señor.”
At last Sir Richard was able to continue.
I have fought for Queen and country like a gallant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do.
With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die.
With these words Augusta fell at full length on the floor. Her long black hair lay spread on the Axminster carpet. Ernest examined her prostrate form with some concern.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 47