Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Garnet tossed her head as if agreeing. This wasn’t so difficult. Kate stepped off the feed box and onto the packed earth, to pace before Garnet. “The vast majority of friendships are based on pleasure, not virtue.” She turned to look at the mare. “Oh yes, for you cannot convince me that your equine eye fell upon me without knowledge of the apple in my pocket. And I know your affection for me is predicated in part upon the hope of future such apples.” Kate smiled.

  Garnet was losing interest, eyes wandering, ears sideways. Kate flourished her hand in the air to attract her horse’s gaze again. “It is true that certain types of friendship exist between persons who are not equal.” She layered her voice with pedantry, amusing herself. “Parents and children, teachers and pupils. Yea, verily, even between a mistress and her mare.” She waved her finger at Garnet’s muzzle. The mare took a tentative nip toward the carrot-like offering, and Kate snatched it back.

  “But the true aim of friendship should be to nurture the same good character which first drew friends together.” Now she was back to the real text of her speech. She should try to imagine Garnet as a human listener. She would envision Garnet as—whom? Professor Hayworth. Garnet’s whiskers were not nearly full enough.

  Kate held up both hands in rhetorical emphasis, as she had seen the young men do in their orations. If she could bring some exaggerated expression to her speech now, traces of it might linger when she faced a more frightening audience. “Cicero reminds us”—she raised her arms even higher, as if she spoke to a whole amphitheater—“that solitary virtue cannot rise to the same height as virtue acting in conjunction with an affectionate and pleasing companion.”

  “Hear, hear,” a masculine voice said from the barn doorway.

  She dropped her hands and spun around. Frederick stood watching her, grinning, handsome in a navy pin-striped linen coat and cream-colored trousers.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “You spoke very well.” He walked toward her and took off his hat to cradle it in his arm. The sunlight behind him outlined his hair.

  “I must look very silly.”

  “Not at all—you look charming, as usual.”

  The waves of heat across her face could ignite the hay in the loft.

  “I know what you’re up to,” he said, smiling. “You’re teaching yourself to speak, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s a capital idea to practice to your horse.”

  She could not respond, rooted there to the straw-littered floor.

  “Maybe I can assist you. You were quite at ease before. Now what if I sit here with your horse and you try again?” He went to the plain bench by the wooden wall and seated himself, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a picture of perfect gentlemanly repose for a lazy summer’s day.

  “I don’t know.” Her heart pattered in her chest, faster and faster.

  “Come.” His hazel eyes were kind. “I’d be glad to think I had helped. Look at your horse and pretend I’m not here.”

  “All right.” She took a breath and gathered her thoughts, staring at Garnet’s forelock. “On the Purpose of True Friendship: An Argument Drawn from Aristotle and Cicero.” She turned to Frederick. “It’s really such a simple topic—I’m ashamed to give it.”

  “Nonsense. It’s true and accurate, and that’s enough. Please continue.”

  His face was distracting—she could not recall the next thought and stood fiddling with her skirt.

  He didn’t seem taken aback. “Maybe you should begin again and avoid stopping. It’s harder to remember if you stop.”

  “Or maybe this is foolhardy.”

  “No backing down now,” he said. “Your secret practice out here tells me it’s important to you to speak, and that is a fine aim. You have exceptional thoughts, and you should share them.”

  “I care little whether I express my own opinions,” she said. “But I would like to speak on behalf of others.”

  “Even better. An admirably feminine sentiment. After all, who will intercede for your future children, if not you?”

  The intimacy of it made her blush hotter, but he presumed too much. She did not have such feminine goals in mind—in fact, speaking up about people like Nelly would be quite the opposite of what Frederick implied.

  Now her mind was focused. “On the Purpose of True Friendship . . .” She launched into the speech and hurried through, not looking at him. Before she knew it, she had finished.

  “Brava!” he said. He stood and bowed to her. “You see, you can be quite eloquent. And no need to ever attempt a topic that might be too much for you. All you must do is satisfy the professor’s requirements, and then you never need speak in public again.” He smiled. “Only to servants or tutors, or perhaps a husband.”

  She forced herself to smile.

  “Are you ready to ride? Your habit is quite smart.” He admired her from hat to boots. “And Garnet is ready, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll lead her out for you.” He slid the bolt and took the reins over the mare’s head. “After you.”

  She preceded him out. Strange how in Frederick’s company, she never felt fully present. His attention was flattering and his admiration clear, but he never looked at her as Ben Hanby did, with that close attention that made her feel more solid and real and alive. Instead, Frederick himself seemed larger than life, which made it more difficult to talk to him.

  But he had been gracious to try to help her. And now she would get to ride for an hour. He would entertain her with constant talk, and he wouldn’t notice if her thoughts should wander. Her mother approved of him, so she would be mollified for the day. And her father’s opinion would not matter—he was hardly at home. Though he was no longer absent for days on end, he had settled into a regular pattern of returning late at night after the women had retired. She suspected he was sleeping in his study. On the few occasions she had seen him, he was unable to meet her eyes. But if he was ashamed of what he had done, one thing had not changed—he still smelled of bourbon.

  Frederick assisted her to mount from the block, then stepped up into his own saddle with strength and agility. As the horses walked out through the yard, a hermit thrush whistled in the trees.

  Twenty-Six

  SEPTEMBER

  IT WAS TOO COLD TO GET OUT OF BED. BUT BEN must get to the schoolhouse well before his students arrived. Rolling out of his blanket to his feet, he grabbed his folded clothing from the plank shelf that graced the cabin wall. He donned his trousers, shucked off his nightshirt, and yanked on his shirt, vest, and coat as quickly as possible. He pulled on low boots over his woolen socks and blew on his hands. It was only the end of September. Imagine how cold it would be next month. He would need to keep a fire banked through the night. A dilapidated iron stove stood in the tiny cabin, but last night he had not wanted to waste the wood to light it.

  The town council had told him he would instruct forty students. That was rather a lot, but he would have to make do. They were paying him seventy-five dollars for eleven weeks, which was better wages than most towns offered. At least the hard work would keep his mind off Kate Winter, or so he hoped. He must not dwell on her—as his father had said, if he wanted to see the end of slavery, he had to change hearts. But Rushville seemed a lonely and unlikely place to find God’s plan for his work, especially while Frederick was taking Kate for buggy rides in Westerville.

  He picked up his knapsack and checked to be sure his teaching materials were in it, then added his Bible to the heavy load of paper and pencils. With a heave, he balanced the knapsack on his shoulders and pulled the rickety door of the cabin closed behind him.

  Frost whitened the short grass as he walked through the trees toward the building. There it was. The one-room school had been a place of fear for Ben as a six-year-old. Mr. Morgan, the schoolmaster, was demanding and hot-tempered. Early in the term, he had given all the students the task of learning the multiplication tables in one weekend. When the
y returned on Monday, he stood behind each of them holding a long switch as they recited the tables. Whenever a trembling boy or girl made an error, he lashed their legs mercilessly with his switch. Then he mocked them and told them to resume their seats. Ben had memorized with all his might, but twelve multiplication tables in two days was too much for a six-year-old. His legs were covered in red welts by the time he finished. He hid the stripes from his parents, ashamed of his performance.

  Ben wouldn’t be bringing a switch to class, that much was certain. Whipping was a barbaric way to educate children. Instead, he would run a calm and orderly classroom, just as he had in Blendon Township—a classroom in which learning was not driven by fear.

  The stoop of the schoolhouse sagged to one side, the wood rotted. The door hung from one hinge and dragged on the ground. Once-whitewashed boards had turned grayish brown.

  Inside were similar signs of neglect. Four long tables were rough and scarred. At least two of the benches sported broken or missing legs, and cracks webbed the blackboard. What a shame, as it couldn’t be more than a few years old—blackboards were only now spreading through country schools.

  The walls were covered with writing and drawings. As he moved closer to peer at them, it slowly dawned on him that many of the scribbles were obscene.

  He could not educate children in this building. And yet they had been regarding this filth every day for the past year, and the tabletops were similarly defiled. Who had permitted this? He scanned the room in vain for something to cover the obscenities.

  Voices rose outside—the children were coming. Setting his knapsack on the small pine desk at the front of the classroom, he arranged his supply of papers and pencils to look neat, despite the apparent uselessness of such a gesture in this room. He positioned the tall stool beside the desk and sat on it just as the first students walked through the sagging door.

  At least ten of them came in at once, scattering to take seats all around the room. They were unkempt and dirty, from the smallest girl to the hulking big boy who had immediately seized the spot in the farthest corner of the classroom.

  “Good morning,” Ben said. “I’m Mr. Hanby.”

  They gave him curious stares but no response. More students began to come in, some clean and neatly dressed, others as dirty and ragged as the first group. Holes showed in some of the shoes now ranged under the benches. Forty children had assembled, and a steady, loud buzz of chatter filled the air. It was time to begin. He prepared to call them to attention, waiting for the last group to sit.

  Even as he paused, the procession of children continued. He started counting silently. Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight . . . they would never fit! And how would he teach so many? He struggled to keep his expression impassive. Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six. At last, the parade reached an end. Children lined up along the walls, poking each other and laughing. Some of the boys were almost as tall as Ben, though he knew they could not be above sixteen.

  Gradually the noise quieted. Almost sixty children regarded their new instructor, some with devilish glee, others with worry. Ben only had a few minutes before the rebellion started. Some of the smallest ones goggled at the drawings on the tables and walls.

  He stood up and walked slowly to the space in front of the blackboard.

  “My name is Mr. Hanby.” Lord, give me the words. “This is not a fit place for you to learn.” Surprise stole over many faces. “We need to make it better. Let us begin in prayer.” The younger students folded their hands along with him, curiosity more evident on their faces than reverence. Some of the older boys looked at each other with derision, but Ben ignored them.

  “Father in heaven . . .” He kept his eyes open—the Lord did not need him to close his eyes and risk pranks. “These are your children. Many of them have hard lives at home, and this school may be their only avenue out of hardship.” Silence blanketed the room. “Help us make the school a safe, clean refuge from our troubles. In the name of our Savior, I ask these things and trust that you will provide. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed the children.

  A rough-looking boy with blond hair and buckteeth called from the back, “God ain’t gonna do nothing for you or for us! He ain’t never done nothing so far, so why would he start now?”

  “What’s your name? You may sit, children,” he added to the rest, who did as they were told, some sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall.

  The boy glared at Ben. “Jimmy.”

  “Well, Jimmy, you are entitled to your own beliefs. But you must raise your hand before speaking in class.”

  Jimmy and the other children regarded him with amazement. A little dark-haired girl slowly raised her hand.

  “You have a question, young lady?”

  “Ain’t you gonna whip him, mister?”

  “No, I’m not. I leave that decision to your parents. This is a schoolhouse, not a prison.”

  “Then I’m leaving!” Jimmy blurted. He walked to the door.

  “None of us big ones are gonna come back anyhow. We just come to see the new teacher.”

  “Yeah,” a couple of the older boys echoed. A herd of them went out the door, including all but one of the big boys and a couple of the medium-sized ones to boot.

  Ben’s class was reduced to fifty, at most. The parents would complain against him.

  He disguised his sense of failure by turning to the remaining students. “Line up at the door, please.”

  With much rustling and chatter, the children bunched together, the room being too small to allow an organized line. Ben moved to the front of the little mob. “Follow me, and be careful on the stoop.” He led them out.

  The school stood adjacent to the village marketplace. As Ben rounded the corner of the school building, women in the market set out their produce and jellies for sale. Now that the harvest was over and the weather so cold, most of the fruits and vegetables were dried or in jars.

  Everyone in the marketplace watched the schoolmaster and his many charges. Ben led the throng past the curious women and onto Main Street, which would take them to the shops in the heart of Rushville.

  He felt a tug on his coat.

  “Mister . . . mister . . .” A little girl skipped to keep up with him.

  He slowed down for her. “It’s Mr. Hanby.” He smiled. “What is it?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see in a moment.” This girl was one of the smallest, probably six or seven. Her brown hair was plaited in two long braids that fell over her shoulders, and she had a cherubic face with upturned nose and huge blue eyes. “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Jane.”

  “Jane, do you have a last name?” he asked, teasing.

  “Yes, sir, it’s Lefort.” She rambled on in the single-minded way of young children. “My daddy says you’re not a good man. But I like you.” Her eyes were bright with hero worship.

  The Leforts must be one of the families his father had mentioned. Naturally, the pro-slavery families would remember the Hanbys less than fondly. And with a surname like Lefort, he guessed that this family had Louisiana roots.

  “I like you too, Jane,” he said. He looked over his shoulder and saw an older girl following a few steps behind. She had the same chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes, though she looked somber. “Are you Jane’s sister?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what’s your name?” He projected as much goodwill as he could.

  “Sally Lefort.” She quickened her step and came forward to take her little sister’s hand. She looked as if she would like to drag the little girl away from Ben, but daren’t be so rude. She put a little more space between them as they walked.

  “Well, Miss Sally, I will need your help in a moment. I hope you have strong arms.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They walked within view of the town center.

  The Sumners still ran the general store in Rushville. As the large posse of children approa
ched it, a boy ran up to the front of the group and addressed Ben.

  “That’s my father’s store,” he said. “Are we going in?”

  “Your father is Ted Sumner?” he asked the boy.

  “Yes. I’m Stuart.” The young boy was as well groomed as the Lefort girls, but mischievous looking, with white-blond hair sticking up in a cowlick above his forehead.

  “I’ve known your family since I was a boy,” Ben said. He climbed one step to the store porch and paused to speak to the children. “Stay outside and behave yourselves like ladies and gentlemen, if you please. Stuart and Sally, come with me.”

  In the musty dimness of the store, Ted Sumner perched on a stool behind the counter, scratching figures in a ledger. At the sound of customers, he looked up.

  “Ben! What brings you here?” He saw the children come in behind Ben and understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah. How may I help you, Mr. Hanby?” He winked. Like his son, he was blond, but his hair had thinned at the temples.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sumner,” Ben said with equal formality. “We need some whitewash and brushes. About five gallons, and—let’s see,” he said, taking out his wallet, “how much are the brushes?”

  “One dollar each,” Ted replied. “And seventy-five cents a gallon for the whitewash.”

  Ben disguised a wince. He only had ten dollars to last two weeks, until he received the first installment of his teaching wages. “Will you consider a discount for a good cause, Mr. Sumner?”

  “Let me hazard a guess,” Ted said. “You’re whitewashing the schoolhouse?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Then I’ll let you have them at cost. Fifty cents per gallon and the same per brush.”

  “Thank you.” He calculated rapidly in his head. “I’ll take six brushes with the whitewash.”

  “That’ll be five-fifty. And thank you, Mr. Hanby, for taking on the task. That building is a disgrace.” He added, “I’d have done the job myself, but there was no point as long as your predecessor was here. As you can see for yourself, there wasn’t any order in the classroom. Plenty of thrashing, but no order.”