Benton's Row

by Frank Yerby

  Beyond this, there remained the Harvard, Princeton, occasionally Oxford or Sorbonne trained man; and from him, from whom the South expected and needed leadership, she got rhetoric, oratory. For in this haze-filled, sun-washed land, where everything lacked precision, clarity, even the outlines of the physical world itself, nothing was easier than to forget logic, sense, to believe that cotton was indeed King, that one lordly Southerner could in sober fact whip ten money-grubbing Yankees, to seize upon lovely words, to roll them deep in the throat, to heap them in redundant thunder upon one another, until the last vestige of meaning had disappeared and nothing was left but the wild, sweet intoxication of sound, the tom-tom beat of savage rhythms upon the hidden seat of feeling. So it was. The South talked herself into a suicidal war which from the start she had no chance of winning, and men like Tom Benton, listening, nodded in sage agreement to the wildest outburst of windy bombast; the longest-sustained outpouring of polysyllabic, high-blown nonsense that ever assaulted human intelligence. But the beast that lurks in the darker places of man’s soul has ever found intellect but a feeble foeman; in 1859—60 the beast had burst his chains and went rampaging through the land.

  On the platform the speaker was announcing that if the Black Republicans won, Louisiana would leave the Union; that, further, if the North dared use force, the South could whip the filthy traders to their knees with a handful of beardless boys armed with children’s pop-guns. Tom shook his head a little at that. Many of the men he had fought alongside in Mexico had been Northerners, and they, some of them, had made damned fine soldiers. Others had been knaves and cowards. But, then, so had the Southern boys. He couldn’t see where the section a body came from made much difference. A man was what he was. Brave men, North and South; cowards, North and South. The speaker was a liar and a fool.

  He shook his head and turned to leave the square. Then he saw Randy McGregor coming towards him. Randy was thinner than ever, and his eyes had a deeper, more sombre fire.

  They say he never looks at a woman, Tom mused; because of Sary, I reckon. Lord God, I couldn’t do that—even at my age; I’d bust!

  He could see that Randy’s red hair was plentifully streaked with grey. There wasn’t much difference in their ages really, a year or two at most.

  Must be forty-seven or eight, Tom thought; and me, I’m fifty. Good Lord, who would of thought it? Time just kind of slips away from you, somehow, and afore you know it, you’re . . .

  “Howdy, Tom,” Randy said.

  “Howdy, boy,” Tom said. “You been missing some mighty fine speech-making.”

  “I mean to miss some more,” Randy said. “It riles me to be taken for a fool. I heard the last thing that fat jackass said—about fighting the North with pop-guns. He may be right there. God knows we haven’t anything else to fight with.”

  “Well now—” Tom drawled.

  “Well now, nothing!” Randy snapped. “Where are our munition plants, Tom Benton? Our powder works? Damn it, man, we don’t even have a textile mill to make uniforms, or even a shoe factory to make boots! Come to think of it, we couldn’t even fight them with children’s pop-guns. Every blasted toy gun I’ve ever seen was made in Boston or New York.”

  “Easy, boy,” Tom said. “Ain’t going to be no fight. This here Abe Lincoln ain’t elected yet. Soon as we put a good man up . . .”

  “We won’t,” Randy said gloomily. “We never could agree on anything down here. Look what happened in Charleston last month—convention broke up without making a nomination. I’ll tell you just what’s going to happen, Tom: we’re going to split and split again, and in the end there are going to be two or three men running against Lincoln, cutting the Southern vote into little pieces, and the Republicans are going to enter the White House by default.”

  “You may be right,” Tom said. “But one thing I’m glad of, Randy. I notice that you keep saying ‘we’.”

  Randy stared at him. Then his lean face crinkled into a slow smile.

  “Can’t help that, Tom,” he said. “I’m a Southerner—by adoption, I’ll grant you; but I’m a Southerner all the way through. I don’t like slavery. I think it’s plain damned wrong. I’ve never owned a slave; don’t aim to. But my roots are here. I’ve been very happy. I’ve brought half the younger generation of this town and this parish into the world. I’ve sat by the oldsters’ beds and watched them die. This is my home, Tom. It’s sort of like fighting for your family. Right or wrong, you fight for them.”

  “Good!” Tom said. “What’s that you got there, boy—the Picayune?”

  Randy looked down at the folded newspaper he had been slapping against his knee. Then he gave it to Tom.

  “I brought it to you,” he grinned. “Little item on page three is going to interest you a lot, or I miss my guess.”

  Tom took the paper, thumbed through it.

  “I don’t see . . .” he growled.

  “Bottom of the page,” Randy said; “just a few lines.”

  He could see Tom’s forehead crease with the effort of reading; then the big man straightened up, his blue eyes gazing out upon time, upon memory.

  “So,” he said at last, “Lolette’s come back.”

  “Yes,” Randy said, watching him.

  “And her husband’s dead,” Tom muttered.

  “But Sarah isn’t,” Randy said grimly. “Don’t forget that, Tom.”

  “I won’t,” Tom said. “It’s too late now, Randy-boy. Years and years too late. . . . Still . . .”

  “You want to see her.”

  “Yep. Her and the boy. Hell, Randy, you realise that kid is sixteen years old now—same age as Wade?”

  “A good age—sixteen, no troubles then, no worries,” Randy said. “How about a snort, Tom?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Tom said automatically.

  “All right, then. Come on.”

  They crossed the square together, two tall men, so unlike that they seemed deliberately juxtaposed for contrast. Just before they entered Tim’s place, Tom stopped.

  “That boy of mine,” he grinned, “looks like he’s going to turn out all right after all.”

  Randy looked up in time to see Wade Benton passing in a smart little rig. Beside him Babette Dupré sat. The two of them were talking so earnestly that they didn’t see either Tom or Randy.

  “Louis knows about that?” Randy demanded.

  “Yep. In fact, I told him. Wade’s serious, Randy. Wants to marry the girl. I explained that to Louis. He ain’t happy over it; but he’s no fool. After all, my boy ain’t the worst catch in the parish. And both them kids promised him they’d behave themselves. Got to wait, anyhow. Wade’s still too young.”

  “Younger than Babette, isn’t he?”

  “By about three years. But, heck, Randy, any kid of Louis’ is bound to be all right—three years don’t matter one way or another.”

  “Strange,” Randy smiled.

  “What’s strange?” Tom demanded.

  “How different a man’s thoughts are about his son—and his daughter,” Randy said.

  Tom stopped dead.

  “What do you mean about that, Randy?” he growled.

  “Nothing—nothing at all,” Randy said, and pushed open the swinging doors.

  “But, Babette,” Wade groaned, “I still don’t see why . . .”

  “Look, Wade,” Babette said patiently, “I’ve told you a dozen times. I like you very much. You’re a very nice boy. That’s just the trouble: you’re too nice—and too much a boy.”

  “Just because you’re a little older . . .”

  “I’m a lot older. I’ll soon be twenty, Wade. And you’re sixteen. I feel like a fool being seen with you. All my friends are calling me ‘cradle robber’. I wouldn’t be seen with you but for two reasons: my papa rather likes the idea of my marrying the son of the richest man in the parish; and I don’t like to hurt his feelings—or yours.”

  “It isn’t like it’s going to be right away,” Wade argued. “By the time I’m tw
enty—”

  “I’ll be twenty-four. It’s more than that. If you even looked a little older, more like your—”

  “My father?” Wade snapped. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Babette smiled, and her eyes were soft. “There’s a man for you! I used to think he was too stern, maybe even mean; but now . . .”

  “But now you’d rather have him than me, wouldn’t you?” Wade said.

  “Yes,” Babette said tartly. “Yes, I would. I reckon most any girl would who had the chance. He sure is something, him!”

  “Don’t talk that Cajun dialect to me!” Wade growled. “You know what, Babs? I wish my father was dead!”

  “Wade!” Babette’s voice was genuinely shocked.

  “Well, I do,” Wade said doggedly. “All my life he’s been there, getting in my way. People never could see me for him. He can ride and shoot and spark the girls, and that’s all right for a young man. Only he isn’t young any more. He’s fifty. Time he was getting out of the way, letting me take over. But he won’t. He still talks and acts like a young man.”

  “And looks like a young man, too,” Babette said. “No, I take that back. No young man could be that handsome. That white hair around his temples and streaking the top of his head, and the way his face looks wind-beaten, and sunburnt—that takes time. You, for instance, are kind of a pretty little boy—soft and pink and white and golden; but your papa’s a man, and the way he looks is better than just plain handsome: he looks strong and fine and—and . . .”

  “And what?” Wade demanded.

  “I can’t explain it. I don’t know how to say it. It’s kind of a feeling. I just know that if he touched me, his finger-tips would brand me; if he kissed me, I’d melt all over; and I’d do anything he wanted me to without even thinking about whether it was right or wrong.”

  “Oh, hell!” Wade half wept.

  Babette stretched out her hand and touched his arm.

  “I’m sorry, Wade,” she whispered. “There’ll be some nice girl for you, and—”

  “But I don’t want some nice girl!” Wade got out. “I want you!”

  “You’ll get over it,” Babette said. “Now take me home, Wade. I’ve got to get packed.”

  “Packed?” Wade’s voice had pure misery in it. “You’re going away, Babs?”

  “Only to New Orleans. You see, my sister Lolette has come back. Papa’s just dying to see her. She always was his favourite.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister,” Wade said wonderingly.

  “Well, I do. She’s much older than I am. She’s thirty-six, about the same age as your mother. She’s got a son as old as you are.”

  “Funny I never heard tell of her,” Wade said.

  “No, it’s not. People don’t mention her much because they’re scared of Papa. There was a scandal about her. They say she had her baby before she was married. But that’s not the main reason you never heard of her.”

  “No?” Wade gulped. “Then why didn’t I?”

  “Folks say that her baby is—your brother—your half-brother, Wade.”

  “You mean that my father—?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard that. Anyhow, it’s been a long time, and she’s come up in the world since then. Her husband—he was a Metroyer, you know—died in France last year and left her rich. She’s got a house on Royal Street, and fine clothes, and servants, and all. I’m dying to see her, too. Papa says she’s the most beautiful thing you ever laid eyes on.”

  “She couldn’t be prettier than you,” Wade said stubbornly.

  “Thank you, Wade,” Babs laughed; and, leaning over, she kissed his soft cheek. “Come on, now; drive me home.”

  “My father,” Wade said bitterly. “Damn him, if he ever touches you I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him dead!”

  Babette smiled at him. She was all woman, and very complete—even to the fine bitchery, the instinctive, feline cruelty.

  “How do you know he hasn’t?” she said.

  North and South, the land brooded. Men neglected their accustomed pursuits, stood long in public squares, listened, talked gravely, slowly, among themselves, knowing the time out of joint, half-conscious of the weight of silence, of waiting, so that it seemed in the chenieres no birds sang, no hound went sorrowing through the pine wood; the slave voices sadder now, the burden of sorrow deeper—intolerably, crushingly deeper in their songs, so that the white men, listening to the dark voices soaring up from the cabins in the night, shivered and muttered:

  “Damn them! Wish to hell they’d shut up!”

  It was a fearsome time; a sorrowing time. Only the fools made merry. Only the little men, drunk with the bombast of their own oratory, were sure; but the others—the Randy McGregors, the Tom Bentons and their like—were far from sure.

  Which was why, perhaps, Tom Benton was reluctant to leave Randy’s company that afternoon, and Randy equally reluctant to have him go. They, the two of them, felt more at ease in each other’s society than they did in that of any other person, and this despite the potential cause of conflict resting between them, unchanging over the years. They understood each other; they trusted each other; more, in sober truth, they were fond of each other, though both of them would have hotly denied it. So it was when Randy said:

  “Come, ride with me on a few calls, Tom. You don’t have a damned thing to do, and you know it.”

  Tom replied gruffly:

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  They rode through the bayou country, tying up their horses, and being poled out to the shacks of the trappers.

  “Call this a civilised country?” Randy snorted. “Know what’s wrong with most of these children, Tom? Plain filth and bad food.”

  Tom looked at the tiny Cajun child, spotted all over with running sores, and having a particularly unlovely eye-sickness, which had crusted her lids so that she couldn’t open them.

  “Les moustiques, Docteur,” the trapper said. “They’re something fierce, them. They bite the bébé, and she scratches herself, yes—that’s what makes them sores.”

  “I know,” Randy growled. “But, damn it, Jules, haven’t you ever heard of mosquito-netting? It doesn’t cost much.”

  “We don’t see much cash money, us,” the trapper said sadly. “Takes it all for clothes and food, yes. Ain’t like we was farming people. Can’t grow no legumes in the bayou, Docteur.”

  “I’ll send you over five yards of netting tomorrow,” Randy said. “You keep this baby’s bed covered, you hear me? As for those eyes—use this salve. And you’ve got to see that this child gets more green vegetables and more meat. Fish is fine food, but you’ve got to eat something else from time to time.”

  “Yessir, Docteur,” Jules said; “I do my best, me.”

  Only he could not do any better, and both Randy and Tom knew it. As they got out of the pirogue and remounted, Randy turned upon Tom.

  “There is your number one argument against slavery,” he said angrily. “That child there!”

  Tom stared at him.

  “That there Cajun brat ain’t no slave,” he said. “I don’t see what in hell-fire you’re talking about, Randy.”

  “Simple. That white child is not a slave—right. But she is, none the less, a direct victim of slavery. Ever see a negro child look that bad?”

  “No,” Tom said. “Still—”

  “Still, nothing!” Randy spat. “You’ll never see a black baby who looks like that, because a negro child is worth something—has an economic value in the scale of things. That child has none. Her folks subsist, rather than live, on the fringes of our economy, because slavery keeps us from having any need of them, and they’re reduced to making a living by a way that doesn’t concern us, except the few of us that serve as middle-men and rob them blind in the process. We don’t have to wear furs down here, so they depend entirely upon the Northern and foreign markets. And by the time the pelts of the animals they trap pass through half a dozen hands, they’ve p
recious little left.”

  “That’s true,” Tom said heavily; “but all of it ain’t our fault, Randy. If they’re robbed, you can bet your bottom dollar the Yankees have got a finger in it.”

  “Right. I’ve never said the Northerners were saints. All I’m saying is that their sins are on their own consciences, and are no excuse for ours—the way we try to make them. Perhaps, to your mind, the Cajuns aren’t a clean-cut example of what slavery does to white people. But I’m going to take you to visit some people who are. Come on.”

  Three hours and five families later, the argument was still raging.

  “All right! All right!” Tom Benton roared. “So them pine-barren crackers is starved into eating clay—and them swampers got skin disease from bad food; but whose fault is it? Their own, damn it! Look at ‘em! They’re half-wits, one and all! Different stock, Randy. Their folks warn’t nothing in the old country. Had any grit in their craws, it’d be different. I come, from poor folks, and look at me. Only difference was my folks was sober, God-fearing people with a mite of gumption and a mighty heap of git up and git about them. Blood talks, Randy—you can’t deny that.”

  Randy smiled at him a little mockingly.

  “Like the Landsdownes, for instance?” he said. “Gerald Landsdowne would deny it on a stack of Bibles, but the fact remains that he and old Pete Landsdowne who we just left under a tree whittling a pine stick with a jug of bust-head beside him, while his kids looked at us from behind their mother’s exceedingly filthy skirts like wild creatures—are first cousins. Pete’s father and Gerald’s were brothers. What’s more, Pete’s mother was a Taylor of the Virginia Taylors.”