“And the others? Those who ran away? Was it a simple flight to freedom, then?”
“Hardly simple, sir. But yes, if I take your meaning. They heard the preaching and knew of the approach of your army. They thought the time had come to seek their freedom.”
“‘Preaching,’ Samson? And what preaching would that be?”
“The Reverend Mr. Hitchens, sir. Mr. Will Hitchens. He has erected a tabernacle in the wilderness. He is a Negro, sir, and once was a slave. He went north, but heard the call and returned to us. He is a lamp, sir, and our succor.”
“And this Mr. Hitchens lures slaves from their masters?”
“Oh, no, sir. No luring is required.”
“But he encourages Negroes to run away?”
“He encourages them to embrace the Word. To proclaim the Kingdom. To love one another.” He drew himself back. “Perhaps that sounds common enough, sir. The Christian message unadorned. But Mr. Hitchens is different. He has found Grace. The people go to him of their own accord. He would not take from Caesar what is Caesar’s.”
“Did the Negroes from Shady Grove go to him?”
“Yes, sir. I believe they did.”
“And were massacred?”
“That has not been explained, sir. I’m certain the Reverend Mr. Hitchens would like to know what happened himself. Perhaps you will meet him.”
“It seems unlikely.”
“Much is unlikely, sir. Some say we have come to the end of days.”
I dandled my cane. “I . . . have no wish to offend you, my good man,” I said, more testily than I wished. “But I have heard a bit more about the ‘end of days’ than I care to. And though I would not call myself a well-read man, I have made my way through what books I could. It seems to me that many a man has preached this ‘end of days,’ from olden times until now. Whenever things go awry, see. In plague or war or what have you. Instead of rolling up their sleeves, they call for a messiah. It makes of Jesus no more than the world’s mechanic.” I did not want to tax the poor Negro’s brain with complications, but I felt the need to have my say on this. “Now I will tell you, Samson: I think the Lord will come when he is ready, not before. And none of our wishing or worrying will hurry him. A man should just live proper, do his work, and not go bothering things.”
“Yes, sir. Still, we never know when we may be called.”
“There is true. But let that bide. I have another question.”
“Perhaps we may be called in unusual ways,” the Negro went on, ignoring my attempt to close the matter. “I hear this Mr. Hitchens is a remarkable man, sir. If ever he calls you, perhaps you should go.”
“Well, we will wait and see,” I said to content him. “Now there is a delicate business I must put to you. Even more delicate than the first, perhaps.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Who is Lucy? Or should I say, ‘Who was Lucy?’”
Now, you will say: “We know who Lucy was. This Abel Jones is slower than a sinner at the chapel door. We have the matter figured out long since.” But I will tell you: Some things must be said aloud to make them real.
The Negro did not answer me. I did not need the sun to see his struggles.
“I do not look for disloyalty,” I told him, slapping away another fly. “But the matter must be made plain. If we are to find the murderers in this, I must understand who is who.”
“Lucy was a slave, sir.”
“Yes. A slave here at Shady Grove. And she was among those murdered.”
“It has been so rumored, sir.”
“Samson, I have no wish to torment you. So I will speak the thing out. You have only to stop me when I am wrong. Let us begin. This Lucy was a slave girl. Young. And pretty. Beautiful, perhaps. And she had . . . admirers, let us say. Captain Barclay had . . . let us say that he was close to her. And, perhaps, Lieutenant Raines as well.”
The Negro recoiled. He literally jumped back. “Oh, no, sir. Not Master Francis, sir. He would never force himself upon—” He stopped himself.
“Lucy . . . bore no love toward Captain Barclay?”
Again, the servant hesitated.
“I see,” I told him. For I did. “She did not love him. But he, in his pride, barely noticed. Or believed she loved him. Or didn’t even care. You do not need to speak, if I am right. What was it, then? He believed she loved him, I would guess. For he is proud. On his part, he convinced himself that his passion was uncontrollable. Or that he need not control it. That it was acceptable to indulge it.”
The Negro muttered. Twas not a denial.
“He did not even pause when he married, did he?” I continued. “Or not for long. And his wife discovered the . . . the liaison. Did she not? That is why she left. Oh, perhaps there were other matters, as well. But that tie of the flesh drove her decision. She left him because she would not share him. Because, whether from pride or morality or human decency, she would not have him in the bed of a slave and in her bed, as well. Forgive me. That was indelicately put. Is there anything you wish to say, Samson?”
His head moved faintly from side to side. “There is nothing I need say, sir.”
“And she left him. This Emily Stone. Emily Barclay. And he redoubled his attentions to the slave girl. Perhaps enraged. Even violent. Vengeful. Then he went off to war, only to come back with a broken body and a worsened temper. Perhaps the girl feared him. Despite his physical impairments. Perhaps there is more to passion than a straightforward animal act? Perhaps that animal act was the easiest of it for her, and she feared what must come in its absence? I only speculate, now. And I have become vulgar, I know it. But I am not one of these high gentlemen, Samson. I am only a small man sent to get the truth.”
“There is . . . something more, sir. I admire your grasp, sir. Indeed, I wonder at it. But there is something more.”
“Yes?” For I was at the end of my piercing of the thing.
“Lucy was married, sir. Not in a church, of course, for Captain Barclay would never have permitted it. He would have whipped the man to death. But we love, too, sir. And Lucy and Jase loved deeply. They were married back in the grove, sir. As Christian as the matter could be arranged.”
“By this Mr. Hitchens?”
“No, sir. The matter was settled before he came. And there is more still, although it likely does not bear upon your quest, sir. Lucy had an admirer. A terribly fierce fellow. Another Shady Grove slave, sir. He was unhappy when Lucy wed. We feared blood, sir. But he only disappeared. Then . . . then he returned, sir. Not six weeks ago. A changed man, sir. With a message of salvation. He led the slaves to Mr. Hitchens. And then, so rumor has it, to their deaths. The whisper is that all of them perished. Lucy, her husband, her admirer . . .” The Negro’s voice ached of a sudden. “He meant to lead them north, sir, to your army. But it was not to be.”
“Do you know who killed them, Samson?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have a suspicion?”
“No, sir.”
“Back to Lucy. And her husband. And this admirer. Captain Barclay knew nothing of this?”
“Oh, no, sir. His reaction would have been intemperate.”
“But how could he . . .”
“How could he fail to see, sir? Of course, you wonder. It’s as difficult for you to understand as it was for Miss Emily. Yet you have touched upon it yourself. It is pride. And, perhaps, not a little fear. The masters know nothing of what occurs in the quarters. Because, sir, the masters do not wish to know. It is the great struggle of their lives, sir, to avoid any evidence of our humanity. It is their cross, and they bear it with their eyes closed, from cradle to grave.”
“But you believe that Captain Barclay loved the girl? This Lucy? Whatever his violence or wickedness?”
“We cannot see into another’s heart, sir. But it appeared he loved her. Even desperately, perhaps. It is a thing not unheard of in this country. Though it is not a thing of which men speak. Not without resorting to pistols.”
“So Ca
ptain Barclay didn’t love his wife?”
Samson gave another visible start. “I would not say that, sir. Indeed, he seemed to love Miss Emily as much as such a man might love anyone or anything. He almost seemed to worship her.” He spread a black sleeve through a veil of darkness. “All this was for her, sir. The grandeur of Shady Grove. All for her. I do believe he loved Miss Emily. Although it can be difficult, sir, to distinguish love from pride of possession. But . . . don’t you think a man can love two women? And slight neither in his heart?”
This time it was myself who did not answer.
“I believe he loved the two of them,” Samson continued. “And now he has lost them both. And much else, besides.” He was a man of splendid posture. But now his silhouette had slumped, as if a great weariness had come over him, and I glimpsed a sliver of window light over his shoulder. Twas from an upper story, for the house was going to bed.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked.
“No. Thank you, Samson. You have been helpful.”
“Then may I say good-night, sir?” He began to turn away, but stopped. “Sir? If I do not presume too much . . . should you have the opportunity to meet the Reverend Mr. Hitchens, I hope you will seize it. I fear there is still vengeance in my heart. I would like to see justice done in these murders. Mortal justice.”
“You believe this Mr. Hitchens might be of assistance?”
“I cannot say with certainty, sir. I am a limited man. But Mr. Hitchens was the last to see our people alive.”
“And how would I find this Mr. Hitchens? This preacher fellow?”
For the first time, Samson’s voice took on a hint of insincerity. “I do not know, sir. But perhaps he will find you. Good night, sir.”
“Samson? Just a moment. I do have a last requirement.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Show me where Mr. Barnaby has his bed.”
I FEARED that I would need to wake the fellow, but he was reading a book by candlelight. In a meager room at the back of the house. He looked too great for any bed, protuberant and vast, and the quilt he had drawn up seemed but a dishcloth upon him. The window was open, but the air reeked of digestion.
He had not risen at my knock, for he likely thought it was Samson. When I stepped in at his bidding he looked surprised, then embarrassed.
He marked his place with a ribbon and closed the book.
“Anything wrong, then, sir? Anything wrong? Old Barnaby’s the man to put it right.” With a struggle, he rolled himself onto the edge of the bed, where he paused to gather the strength to gain his feet. He looked gray and hard used in the wavering light.
“Please,” I said, “don’t rise, Mr. Barnaby. I have but a question or two.” I looked toward a lonesome wooden chair.
“Take yourself a seat then, sir. Be so kind, sir. For a day like this one do weary a body, don’t it?”
I sat down. Wondering how to broach a matter of enormous sensitivity. “Reading, then?” I said to start our talking.
“I does love a book, sir.”
“You read a great deal, Mr. Barnaby? A great many books, then?”
“Oh, I does and I don’t, sir. I mean, Barnaby B. Barnaby’s a reading man, when he’s let the time for it. But I knows what I likes to read and reads it over, for I like my books dependable, sir. Once a fellow’s found a book what’s good enough, I don’t see why he needs to waste time on another. ‘Stick to the tried and true,’ me governor always said.”
Referring to the Bible, that might have been an enviable sentiment. But the book he had in hand did not look holy.
“And what book have you found that is good enough to merit such devotion, Mr. Barnaby?”
“Oh, the adventures of Mr. Pickwick, sir. It’s a jolly lark, sir. Makes me laugh, it do. Have you read it yourself, sir?”
“I believe that is a novel. Is it not?”
“Well, I believes it is, sir. For there’s plentiful exaggeration in it. You’ll never meet a fellow quite like Pickwick.”
“A work of fiction, then?”
I suppose the tone of my voice betrayed my disappointment.
“You doesn’t approve, sir?”
“Mr. Barnaby . . . I understand the virtues of Mr. Shakespeare. Although I do not mean upon the stage, sir, but taken as edifying reading and with the avoidance of unfit passages. We may even admire the beauties of poetry, although we must beware of moral laxity. But fiction, sir? Think you. It’s nothing but lies! Stories made up! Why should we pay a fellow to do what a child would be chastised for doing? Then praise him for good measure?”
Barnaby appeared suitably dismayed at my counsel. “But . . . it’s only that I likes it, sir. It makes me laugh. And the world do seem a bit short of laughter some days. It’s . . . it’s a comfort, sir. That’s what a good book is, sir. A comfort!”
“For comfort we have the Gospels. But I do not wish to interfere with your pleasures, Mr. Barnaby. I have come on a matter of business.”
“About the matter of the Negroes, sir?”
“Perhaps. I cannot say. For I have not got halfway through the matter. But I must put a set of questions to you. Not from idle curiosity, I hope. In the interests of truth, sir.”
He looked at me dolefully. Perhaps it was my advice as to his reading. Or maybe he already saw far more than I knew. Perhaps he had been waiting up for me.
I decided to take the approach I had taken with Samson.
“I have no wish to embarrass you, Mr. Barnaby. Or to erode the trust between you and Lieutenant Raines. Perhaps it will be easier if I speak the matter out. And you may simply stop me when I am in error. Raise your hand or give me another sign, if you are uncomfortable with speech.”
Twas better here than in that darkened garden. For the candle lit Barnaby’s eyes, and eyes tell true.
“Now there is a scramble of things to be put together,” I said. “Beginning with this Emily Stone of Boston. Or Emily Barclay. Lieutenant Raines attended this Harvard College, I believe? And Harvard College is in a situation near Boston, is it not?”
Barnaby nodded. Warily. For he saw immediately where I was going.
“And it was in those environs that your Master Francis met this Miss Stone. And fell in love with her. Intending to marry her. And he invited her to visit his family. Perhaps to persuade them, perhaps to persuade her. Perhaps she came at Christmas, in the coolness? Or was it in the summer’s heat? No matter. She arrived and Captain Barclay, who was not yet a captain, of course, laid his eyes upon her. And she saw him. From that day on, young Raines could not compete. Not for a young girl’s heart. Barclay stole her away. And married her.”
The big man’s face was scribbled full of sorrow. For he loved the young man whom he had in charge. Question what you might, but trust to that.
“Master William,” he said, slowly, “has ever been jealous of Master Francis. He always took things from him when he could.”
“But . . .” Now I was confused. “ . . . I thought . . . it seems to me that Barclay was the elder, the stronger, the handsomer. Begging your pardon, Mr. Barnaby, perhaps young Raines has more intelligence, more of a leaning to the books . . . but I would have thought the jealousy would be the other way round.”
Barnaby shook his head. “Jealousy got no more sense to it than love, sir. It’s the queerest thing. Master Francis has a gentle heart, sir. The gentlest of hearts, he has. And true enough it is that Master William was the stronger, and the faster, and all such like. Still, Master William always wanted what little Master Francis had. And the more Master Francis prized the thing, the more Master William craved it. And there weren’t nothing in his life that Master Francis wanted how’s he wanted that girl, sir. He was a calf in love, sir. And Master William slaughtered him. Now I suppose Master William will be wanting Master Francis’s legs.” The fellow caught himself. “Begging your pardon, sir. That was terrible improper of me.”
“But . . . in the end . . . the girl chose Captain Barclay. It was her decision, af
ter all. She had her choice and made it.”
“She did, sir. That she did. And perhaps it was a blessing. For there was deep cuttings in that one, sir. Deep cuttings. I ain’t sure as how she wanted to be happy, sir. Though I’m speaking out of turn now. But there’s women like that, and look out for ’em, says Barnaby B. Barnaby. And mum’s the word hereafter.”
“The young are foolish,” I said.
His eyes found mine. “And are we so much the wiser, the likes of us, sir? Or is there only different kinds of foolishness, for different times of a man’s life? Oh, sir, sometimes I wish life was a book, so’s a fellow might close it when he needs a breather.”
I looked at the broad-plank floor. And the chipped pot tucked beneath the bed.
“You’ve figured out a terrible lot, you have,” Barnaby told me. “It’s a right inspiration of the human mind, sir. Terrible clever. But . . . what has all this to do with the murdered Negroes?”
That was, indeed, the problem.
“Nothing, I’m afraid. I thought I saw a thing. But I fear I’m no more than a meddling gossip, Mr. Barnaby. We are easily led astray. You have my apologies.”
He gave me a smile. “That’s our lot, ain’t it? Led astray for wanting to go straight.”
I wondered if I wanted to go straight. Or if I was but a sorry little man, given to interfering.
I rose to go. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Barnaby.”
“Barnaby don’t mind, sir. It weren’t like I was sleeping. For I never can drift off when old Sam Weller’s on the page, sir. He’s a corker, that Sam.”
Just at the door, I thought of something else. Twas more of my low curiosity. But I am one for knowing all of a thing.
“What did Lieutenant Raines study at this Harvard, if I may ask?”
“Divinity, sir.”
“Divinity?”
“Yes, sir.”
That cast the fellow in another light. “He intends to take the cloth? After the war?”
“Oh, no, sir. He give that all up, he has. Ever since Miss Emily broke his heart. No, he’s set his eyes on other pastures now, sir. He’s got great ambitions, he does.”
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