by Gwen Bristow
Philip was shouting through the bars demanding quiet. He slammed the shutter as she reached him, but not soon enough to keep her from seeing his cargo. She cried out in amazement.
He turned to her. They were so close together that in the dwindling daylight she could see his smile, impudent and placating at once. He asked:
“Are you so astonished that I should trade in slaves?”
Judith twisted the end of her kerchief. “Why no,” she answered dubiously. “We’ve seen several slave-traders on the river.”
But she was walking away from him, toward the plank that led from the deck to the shore. He came after her and caught her shoulder.
“Then why are you leaving me like this? Aren’t there any slaves in Connecticut?”
She paused. “Yes, of course there are. Not many—they are no good in winter—we never had any.” But she was still confused. Other slave-traders she had seen didn’t keep their blacks locked up like that. There was something wrong about that boat. Then with a flash of horror she knew what it was.
She jerked back. “Let me go!” she cried. “You’re a smuggler—a pirate—let me go!”
He smiled at her astuteness. “Do you think,” he asked her, “that I look like a pirate?”
“I don’t know what pirates look like,” Judith retorted. “But if you hadn’t stolen those slaves you’d have purchase papers, and if you had papers you wouldn’t be so almighty careful not to let anybody see what’s on this boat. Let me go, I tell you!”
She began to cry. She had heard hair-raising tales of how smugglers on the Mississippi cut men’s throats for the sake of their cargoes, but she was crying less in fear than in disappointment. He had been so suave and charming.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Philip, but Judith covered her face with her hands and choked helplessly. Suddenly she heard her father’s voice from the bank.
“Judith! Mr. Larne! What were those guns?”
Judith pressed back against the cabin wall, drying her eyes on her kerchief. Philip went down to the bank.
“I’m sorry you were disturbed, Mr. Sheramy,” she heard him say, as smoothly as if he had not just proved himself a blackguard. “The men have just killed a panther. The young lady was frightened and ran to the boat. One moment—I’ll help her down.”
He came back, saying clearly as he took her arm, “It will be quite safe for you to go through the brake with your father, Miss Sheramy.” But as they started toward the plank he added under his breath, “Stop crying, you little puritan blockhead. Do you want to get me hanged?”
Judith halted. The night had grown quite black. Her father’s figure was only a cloudy outline on the bank, and Philip was real and warm beside her. She looked up, and he was smiling again, that smile of his that was so teasing and yet so tender.
“I’m not crying,” she whispered. “And I won’t tell. I promise.”
“Thank you,” said Philip, in a voice so low she could hardly hear him.
There was no time to say more. He led her to where her father was waiting, and bowed low.
“Present my compliments to your lady, sir,” said Philip, “and tell her how sorry I am that the necessities of travel prevent my accepting her invitation. Good night.”
He gave Judith’s hand a warm little squeeze as he released it.
The sun flashed on the golden river, and on both banks the orange groves were blossoming with such luxuriance that it looked as if miles of white lace had been thrown over the trees. The air was heavy with sweetness. Judith sat by Philip at the edge of the water, listening. Seven days had passed since their first conversation, and every time the boats had stopped since then Philip had found means to speak to her. At first she said she would not talk to a slave-smuggler, but Philip pled with that singularly sweet smile of his and it was so hard to tell him no to anything. She listened now conscience-plagued but enchanted.
“So up came Bonylegs, climbing the mast with a knife between his teeth and two pistols in his belt, and I thought my luck was over. I can see that knife now, double-edged, and a gap above the blade where one of his teeth was out—”
“Yes—then what happened?”
“I fired my last bullet, Judith, and the Lord’s hand put it right into his chest, for my own hand was shaking so I could hardly hold the gun, and down went Bonylegs like a falling star!”
“Like Lucifer!” she cried.
“Who?”
“In the Bible.”
“Oh yes, yes, of course.—And after that the crew was easy. So we had his ship, with her hold full of slaves, and bales of silks and silver he had taken off the English vessels—”
“What did you do with them?” she gasped.
“Why, we took them, my dear, and it’s my share of slaves and treasure I’m bringing down on my flatboat.”
“But Philip,” she protested in a shocked little voice, “they didn’t belong to you!”
“Why no, honey, but they didn’t belong to Bonylegs either.” He laughed under his breath. “By getting rid of him we did clear the sea for coastwise boats, and don’t you think we deserved some reward for that?”
“But isn’t there a law about pirate ships? That the booty goes to the royal governor, and he gives a reward?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Philip answered merrily. “But the royal governor didn’t risk that knife between his ribs. Don’t you understand?” he exclaimed. “I wanted to come to Louisiana, and I couldn’t come with only my two hands to clear the jungle!”
“I—suppose not,” Judith owned doubtfully. She got up, holding in her apron the sticks she had been gathering. “They’ll be missing me, Philip. I’ve simply got to go.”
“Why don’t your folks invite me over again?” Philip asked as he stood up. “If I knew in advance I could tie up close to you, and we could eat in sight of both boats.”
“Well—” She peeled a bit of bark off a stick. “I’m afraid my father doesn’t think very much of you, Philip. He told mother not to ask you again. He—he said you wouldn’t be a good influence on Caleb and me.”
Philip chuckled. “I couldn’t possibly influence a stony young man like your brother. And as for you, my dear—”
“I’ve got to go,” said Judith again. She ran off through the grove.
As she mended the fire she thought of Philip’s last interrupted phrase. Oh, he was influencing her, dangerously. She was defying her father’s wishes and listening secretly with less and less horror to yarns of plunder and blood—if somebody had told her a week ago that she would be entranced with such wickedness! Though she suspected that even yet Philip had not told her all about his dreadful past, already she knew he was a sinful man unconcerned about the bliss of heaven or the pains of hell, and she was not reminding him. For when she was with him she forgot that men and women were put on earth to prepare their immortal souls for eternity. She forgot everything except how handsome he was in spite of the scar on his face and how dull her life had been until she met him. Judith took the venison off the fire and called to the men that dinner was ready. Her father filled his bowl and beckoned her.
“Daughter,” he said as she sat on the grass, “were you talking to that Mr. Larne awhile ago?”
Judith dropped her eyes. “Yes sir.”
“I thought I heard your voices,” said Mark gravely. “Judith, you must not allow him to speak to you when you are alone. We know nothing of him.”
“But we do!” Judith protested. “I mean—he told me his father was a rice planter on the Carolina coast.”
Mark shrugged. “They’re a giddy lot, I understand. Reading atheistic French books and doubting the word of God.”
“He said he went to school in England,” Judith went on defensively, “and after that they sent him to Paris to learn polite conversation—”
“Hm,” said Mark. “Young gentlemen are
likely to learn a good deal in Paris besides polite conversation.”
Mrs. Sheramy interposed. “Mark! The child is only fifteen!”
He did not answer and they ate in silence. Judith watched the glittering water, wondering what he had meant. She didn’t know, unless it was something else about atheistic literature.
When the boatmen had finished their dinner she went to wash the pots in a pool made by a projecting arm of the river. While she was dipping them in the water something cold trickled across her neck and inside her kerchief.
The pot fell with a splash. By the bushes at her elbow stood Philip, smiling his naughty, teasing, provocative smile. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said, and bent to rescue the pot.
Judith sat back on her heels, her hands twisting together. “Please go away. My father said I mustn’t talk to you.”
“I thought he would.” Philip coolly sat down beside her.
Judith glanced over her shoulder, but the bushes hid her from the others. “What did you put into my kerchief?” she asked, feeling it lying shamefully hidden between her breasts.
“A little present I’ve wanted to give you since I saw you first. See if you like it.”
She took it out, a thin gold chain set with jewels. “Oh Philip,” she cried, “how beautiful! What are they?”
“Topazes. You’re the only girl I ever saw who had eyes the color of topazes.”
Judith watched the sun flash through the stones, finding it hard to believe her eyes were as golden as that. But after a moment her conscience struck a blow at her heart and she demanded:
“Philip, did you come by this honestly?”
“I’m afraid not, now that you ask me,” he returned laughing, “but it’s no less beautiful for that, is it? Please take it, Judith! I’ll never trouble a ship again as long as I live. I’ll be as honest a planter as ever came to Louisiana—”
Then all of a sudden he was holding her in an embrace so tight it hurt, and was covering her lips with his. Judith had wondered sometimes what it was like to be kissed by a man, and had thought it would be embarrassing. But she found it quite the most glorious thing that had ever happened to her, though after a moment’s yielding she pushed herself away from him.
“Don’t do that!” she cried. “You’re a pirate—a thief—a murderer—”
Philip moved back as though to keep himself from touching her again. His smile was no longer amused, but very tender and sweet. “Yes,” he said. “But you’ll never find anybody else who loves you as much as I do.”
Tears were rushing into her eyes. “You dear girl,” said Philip. He took her hands in his, tangling the topaz chain through her fingers. “Don’t you love me too?” he asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” she returned brokenly. “Only I know—if I do it’s wrong. You’ve done such dreadful things—you must have broken all the Ten Commandments—”
“Every single one,” said Philip promptly, “and I’ll break them all again for your sake, or keep them for your sake, which is harder. Won’t you let me tell you from the beginning, Judith?”
They sat down together on the grass. Judith was thinking that if the Lord could create anything as splendid as Philip Larne and then send him to hell it would be a sad waste.
“Dearest,” said Philip, “I want to marry you. Funny—I never thought I’d want to marry anybody. May I go on?”
She nodded. Philip wrapped his arms around his knees.
“Judith, I’m a good-for-nothing younger son. But if one is a younger son on the gullah coast it’s hard to be anything but good-for-nothing. For there are only the church, the army and the law, and if you won’t have one of those you’re condemned to idleness. Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to be a planter, but the plantation went to my oldest brother. After my father died my brother and I were always quarreling, for having nothing to do I drank too much and gambled too much and made a general nuisance of myself, so he finally bought me a commission in the army and packed me off to fight the French.”
Judith looked at the river. The water was dark gold like the topazes in her hand. Philip went on.
“I liked the war at first, but I got bored with that too, so when it ended I came back to Carolina. One evening when I had drunk too much I quarreled with a cousin of mine about a lady who mattered not two pins to either of us, and the next day we met and he slashed my face with a rapier—”
“You got that scar in a duel, Philip?” she asked reproachfully.
“Yes, honey child, and if I’d only slashed his face I don’t suppose I’d be on the river now, but I’m afraid I must confess to you that I ripped him open from his belly to his collarbone—”
“Philip!”
“He died three days later in a great deal of agony, and after that I simply had to leave. So when I heard King George was rewarding soldiers of the French war with grants of land in Louisiana I asked for mine. It’s on the Dalroy bluff—”
“The Dalroy bluff? That’s where my father’s grant is too.”
“We’re both fortunate. It’s choice land. But how could I go to it without plows or slaves or money to buy them?”
“So you—” She paused questioningly.
“So I went out and got what I had to have,” he said, “from ships bringing to the houses of older sons on the Carolina coast things they had bought but didn’t need. Then we got Bonylegs’ treasure and I quit the sea. I stole everything I’ve got, but it’s only about as much as my patrimony might have been were I not punished for the crime of having been born later than my brother.” He leaned over and looked at her searchingly. “Do you think I’m hopelessly wicked, Judith?”
She put her forehead on her hands. “I don’t know! I always thought people should do their duty in the state to which God had called them. I’m all mixed up.”
“Look,” said Philip. He was spreading a map on her knees, and the lace at his wrist covered New England as his finger pointed to Louisiana. “Here is the river, and here, four days’ journey above New Orleans, is the Dalroy bluff. Three thousand acres of the richest land on this continent are waiting there for you and me. Such a home we will have!—orange groves and fields of indigo, and its name will be Ardeith Plantation—all the way down I’ve thought of what I would name it. Do you like that?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Judith, and thought feebly of her immortal soul.
“We’ll build a manor,” Philip went on, “and have a city of slaves in the cabins behind it. Our house will be made of clay and this gray Spanish moss plastered over cypress lathes. Clay is more durable than wood and keeps out the heat. We’ll have a double line of oaks leading to the door, and before we’re old they’ll be vast and spreading like these in the forest, with long draperies of moss brushing our shoulders as we ride underneath. You’ll be a great lady, Judith. We’ll found a dynasty, you and I, and a hundred years from now the rulers of Ardeith will be proud to remember us, first of the house, who came down the river together.”
Judith stood up slowly, catching her hands across her breast. She looked around at the oranges and palmettoes, the dark pomegranate trees and the creeping seductive river, as though she were seeing them for the first time. With a protesting movement she put her hands over her eyes, seeing too the little white house among the hills of corn and herself a little girl on the doorstep working a sampler that said “Thou God Seest Me, Judith Sheramy, July 4, 1768,” three letters in red cross-stitch every morning before she could go out to play. She remembered the cruel beauty of storms and trees etched as though in ink against the bitter sky, and knew with sudden nostalgia that she would never see snowdrifts again, nor icicles a yard long hanging from the eaves, nor the parson giving thanks for the coming of a cold timid April on the hills. Slowly she took her hands off her eyes and looked at Philip, recalling through an enormous distance the words of the royal governor that the king’s s
oldiers were going to found another New England on the river.
Philip, who had stood watching her, seemed to understand what she was thinking. He took her hands in his and came very close, saying simply:
“Tomorrow if the boatmen are right we should come to the port that the English call New Richmond and the French Baton Rouge. Your father is going to tie up there several days to give his boatmen a rest. I had planned to rest there too, but I won’t. I’ll press down to Dalroy. And when you come I’ll find you.”
She said tremulously, “Yes.”
“But until then,” Philip went on gently, “you’ll be with your own people, to do all the thinking you like.”
She said again, “Yes.”
“You darling,” said Philip. He drew her to him, and this time she did not resist nor even try to make herself do so. She put her arms around him and held him close in a surge of adoration that thrust out of her everything but the awareness that Philip loved her. How long they held each other there she did not know, but suddenly a stern hand caught her shoulder and flung her back. She staggered and nearly fell, but as she caught her balance she saw that her father was there, speaking furiously to Philip. Judith thrust the topaz chain into her bosom and heard Philip answer:
“Very well, Mr. Sheramy. But I haven’t hurt her.”
Mark held his gun at his side. “Mr. Larne,” he said, hardly opening his lips, “if you touch my daughter again I shall kill you.”
Philip bowed. “Mr. Sheramy, it has been my intention for some time to ask your permission to marry your daughter. I trust you will do me the honor of granting it.” He smiled at Judith as though to assure her that her father’s answer would not matter very much.
Judith felt the chain cold on her breast as her father returned:
“Under no circumstances, Mr. Larne, would I consent to such a marriage. Good evening.”