Beyond All Price

by Carolyn Poling Schriber

  Thinking the front door was probably locked, Nellie walked back down the hall and stepped out the back door onto the porch. What had seemed only a scene of mass confusion when she had arrived now resolved itself into a working yard that stretched far back to the next street. On the east side, a long stucco building was a scene of bustling activity as slaves went about their tasks. The carriage in which she had arrived still stood on the paving bricks outside what was obviously a carriage house. Further along, multiple arched doors opened into stables, from which restless horses whinnied their request for breakfast. And near the end of the building stood what appeared to be workshops. One, already issuing smoke and a fiery glow, suggested a blacksmith at work.

  Across the yard to the west was a matching building, but this one seemed to be spewing small black children. Several of them were lined up on the edge of a makeshift porch, swinging their bare legs and feet as they ate from wooden bowls, some with spoons, some with nimble little fingers. Slave women made their way in and out of the kitchen, which was giving off fragrant wood smoke and the smells of coffee and frying meat. Just past the porch, steam drifted from another door as women carrying bundles of cloth passed through into what must have been a laundry room.

  Looking upward, Nellie noted the second level of these building had small open windows with flapping shutters as their only closure. Beyond the buildings, a grassy yard extended to a back wall with a firmly closed gateway. Huge live oak and pecan trees overhung the grassy areas, but there, too, was evidence of hard work going on. A chicken coop, a vegetable plot with something newly green sprouting up in rows, a couple of peach trees, a pigpen, a woodpile, and several small storage sheds filled the yard.

  The porch on which Nellie stood was too shallow to let her get a good look back at the main house without venturing into the yard. She glanced to the foot of the stairs, wondering if she dared go down and do some exploring. As if he had read her thoughts, a elderly but dignified black man approached and came up the stairs toward her. “Begging pardon, M’am, but dis here’s de slave quarters. It be best if you goes back inside.”

  “I didn’t mean to snoop,” Nellie said, “but there didn’t seem to be anyone around in the house, and I smelled coffee.”

  “The gen’mens is all still sleepin’, I reckon,” the man replied. “You come back inside now, M’am, and I do sumwhat ‘bout you breakfus’.”

  “You are . . .?”

  “You kin calls me Uncle Bob,” he offered. “When de Rev’nd and his family lived here, I runned de house. Mrs. Leverett liked to call me her butler. Now I jes’ try to keep everythin’ goin’ smooth wit’ us black folk.” He opened the back door for Nellie, then followed her inside and opened the door nearest the stairs. “Dis here be de dinin’ room. You kin sit a spell and I’s gonna get Maybelle stirrin’ y’all up some breakfus’.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother. Is there somewhere I could fix my own? We brought provisions with us.”

  “No, M’am. Dat’s not hows we do it. Cookhouse be out in de yard, so as not to set de house on fire. Cook bring de food over to de warming room below here, and Maybelle bring it up de back stairs fo’ you.”

  “Just coffee will do.”

  “Yes’m. I’se gonna git dat right now, but de gen’mens be gonna want somethin’ to stick to dere ribs. I’se gonna take care of it. You jes’ rest a spell.”

  Nellie sank onto one of the cane chairs arranged around the heavy dining table. She felt terribly awkward and out of place after so many months in the primitive eating arrangements of mess tents and shipboard mess halls. I’ve fallen off the edge of the earth, she mused to herself.

  In a few minutes Uncle Bob returned with a steaming cup of coffee, and a heavy pot, which he placed on the serving buffet against the far wall. Nellie took the cup gratefully and inhaled its fragrant steam, realizing she was indeed hungry.

  “Should I speak with Maybelle about what we might have for breakfast?” she asked.

  “No, M’am. You wants somethin,’ you tell me, and I be de one to tell Cook. Maybelle jes’ bring de dishes in. For now, I’se ‘fraid y’all be settlin’ for what’s already cookin.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

  “No, M’am. You ‘n’ me—we’ll work together jes fine to keep dis ol’ house runnin’ de way you like it.”

  “Well, but I’m not the one in charge, Uncle Bob. You’ll probably have to work with the Colonel on things like that.”

  “No, M’am. I ain’t workin’ wit’ no kernel. Dis be de way it be. White menfolk be in charge of what be outside. Womenfolk be in charge inside de house. I done see’d but one white woman ‘round here, so you be in charge.” He nodded vigorously and stomped out of the room.

  The edge of the world, indeed, Nellie sighed.

  Not long after Uncle Bob’s dramatic exit, the colonel himself appeared in the doorway to the dining room. “Do I smell coffee?” he asked.

  Nellie turned to greet him. She realized she was absurdly relieved to see someone else from the regiment, to make sure she was not dreaming this whole encounter with the plantation house and its slave staff. “Good morning, Colonel Leasure. Yes, it’s good coffee, too, and there’s a whole pot of it on the sideboard. May I pour you a cup?”

  “Yes, please. And then you can tell me how you managed to find it.”

  But before Nellie could move to the sideboard, a slave woman scurried into the room from a doorway concealed in the wall paneling. She made a dash for the coffee pot, murmuring, “S’cuse,” and poured the colonel’s coffee herself.

  “Are you Maybelle?” Nellie asked.

  The woman nodded, ducked her head, and disappeared back through the wall passage.

  Leasure stood gaping at the little scene he had just witnessed. “Nellie? What’s going on?”

  Nellie chuckled at his bemused expression. “We are caught in the middle of a pecking order. That was Maybelle, I think. Her job is to bring us food, which she gets from somebody called Cook. And Cook takes orders from Uncle Bob, who is a formidable black butler. I have nothing to do with any of this. Uncle Bob sat me down in here and informed me of the process by which we will get breakfast—eventually.”

  “And where is this ‘Uncle Bob’ getting his orders?”

  “From himself, apparently. He has been at pains to explain to me how things are done around here. But you’ll have to talk to him yourself. I’m hesitant to try to explain his point of view.”

  As if on cue, the door panel slipped open again and Uncle Bob himself appeared, leading Maybelle and Maudy, the young woman Nellie had encountered in her bedroom. The two women carried trays of dishes, which they arranged on the sideboard. Uncle Bob stood by, watching the procedure critically. He reached over to adjust an item or two, and then came to Nellie, pulling out her chair. “M’am, you breakfus’ be ready.’ Only then did he turn and acknowledge the presence of the colonel with a curt, “Sir.”

  “Good morning. Are you the ‘Uncle Bob’ Nellie was telling me about?” the colonel asked.

  “Yessir. I’se Uncle Bob and I’se in charge here.”

  “Oh.” Leasure seemed a bit taken aback by the finality of that statement. “You are responsible for this meal?”

  “I’se responsible for de whole house. I’se here to do whatever Miss Nellie tell me to do, and she agree dat you gen’mens prob’ly be hungry dis mornin’.”

  Leasure was not sure how to respond to that explanation. Instead he turned his attention to the sideboard, where the slave women were waiting to help him fill his plate. “What have we here? Eggs, I see, and country ham and biscuits, and . . . .” His voice trailed off as he uncovered two more bowls, both containing viscous white substances. “Which is the oatmeal?”

  “Dat not oatmeal, Sir. Ain’t you never see’d grits before? Nor sassige gravy?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, no,” Leasure said. “I’ve never heard of grits, and I’ve certainly not eaten white gravy. Does it go over the h
am?”

  Uncle Bob signed in exasperation at the backwardness of these northerners. “Southern folk eat dese all de time,” he said. Then he delivered a lecture, as if to backward children. “Grits is ground up hominy. We eats ‘em for ever’ meal. Dey’s starchy and fillin’, and you can flavor ‘em however you likes. Fo’ breakfast you kin pour some of dat sorghum over ‘em. Fo’ dinner dey’s good wit’ fishes or shrimps. As for de sassige gravy, dat go on de biscuits, of course. What does you folks eat on you biscuits?”

  Nelly tucked her chin into her collar to control her giggles at Uncle Bob’s explanation and the colonel’s look of bemusement. She knew he had never heard of sorghum, either, but this time he was clever enough not to reveal his ignorance.

  “Well, thank you, Uncle Bob,” he said. “I’m sure we will all enjoy this wonderful spread. I’ll want to talk to you later about arrangements for the day-to-day operation of our headquarters here.”

  “Miss Nellie be lettin’ me know whatever you need,” Uncle Bob answered as he left the room.

  “Did I miss something?” the colonel asked.

  Nellie flushed. “That was not my idea. I tried to tell Uncle Bob he needed to talk to you, but he would only explain that as far as the slaves are concerned, white men rule outside, and white women are in control inside the house. He sees me as the woman in charge, just as Mrs. Leverett was when they were living here. I’m sorry, Sir. Maybe you’ll be able to dissuade him of his notions.”

  “Actually, Nellie, it might be a pretty workable plan. Have you had time to explore the house?”

  “Not really. I’ve only peered into the front parlors and looked out the back door. Then Uncle Bob caught me, and I’ve been doing as he says ever since.”

  “Well, my plan is to use one parlor as my office, and Doctor Ludington will have his surgery in the other. We’ll hold the officer mess in here, and you will have your small sitting bedroom across the hall. Upstairs there are two bedrooms, one for my son and me and the other for Reverend Browne. Then there is a huge sleeping porch that stretches all across the back of the house. There’s room for a dozen beds or hammocks there, and it should serve well as a convalescent ward for those officers who are not ill but are recuperating or hobbled by injury. The rest of the medical staff and the regular patients will be next door in the Tabby Manse.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s what folks here call the Fuller House next door. It’s going to hold our main hospital wards. As our regimental matron, you should be able to handle supplies and provisions for both houses from here. I’m sure Uncle Bob will help you coordinate that.” Colonel Leasure allowed himself to laugh at last. “I’ll wager you’ll be a tougher boss than I would have been.”

  “But, Sir, I don’t know how to handle slaves. I don’t even know if it is right for us to be using them at all. We came here to abolish slavery, I thought.”

  “Ah, Nellie, there’s your good heart speaking again. But think for a moment. What would happen if I said we would not use slaves here? What if I told them they were free and they should go on their way? Where would they go? What would they do?”

  “But. . . .”

  “We’re not going to be slave owners, Nellie. We’re not going to beat them, or sell them, or keep them in chains. I plan to pay the blacks as civilian workers. But you must remember. Those quarters you saw out in the yard are their homes. Their families, their jobs, their tools and possessions are all here, and we have no right to take those things away from them. In a few months or years, this war will be over, and we will be the ones to leave. The slaves belong here, and we’ll help them remain.”

  As Nellie and the colonel filled their plates, the other officers began to filter into the dining room. As each man sniffed at the contents of the sideboard, Nellie and the colonel tried to explain the unfamiliar dishes. But now their explanations were accompanied by the first-hand experience of the others.

  “Try some of that sausage gravy over a biscuit. It’s real good.”

  “Don’t much care for that sorghum.”

  “Yes, but the grits ain’t bad with butter and salt and pepper. Try mixing ‘em with your eggs.”

  “Coffee’s especially good, although it has a bitter aftertaste, like there’s something in it besides coffee.”

  “Here’s Uncle Bob. Maybe he can tell us what’s different about the coffee.”

  “Oh, dem’s de acorns you be tasting.” Bob explained with a shrug.

  “Acorns!” Several men spluttered and set their mugs down in haste. But one look at the colonel’s face warned them not to make a fuss.

  Hoping to change the subject, Colonel Leasure looked around and asked, “Where’s Robert Browne? It’s not like him to miss a meal.”

  “The door to his room was still closed when I came down, Papa,” Geordie replied. “But you’re right. He should have been down long ago. Furthermore, it’s Sunday, when he’ll be wanting to preach to somebody. Shall I go up and see what’s keeping him?”

  “Please do that, Geordy.”

  The officers returned to the remains of their meal with gusto. Then came a voice from the top of the stairs. “Pa! Doctor Ludington! Come quick! Reverend Browne’s taken ill.”

  Nellie followed the Colonel and Doctor Ludington up the stairs but stopped to talk to Tony, Browne’s adopted slave boy who now served as his personal servant. He was hovering outside the door to the guest bedroom, eyes wide with fright and wringing his hands in distress. When he saw Nellie, his emotions boiled over.

  “I doesn’t . . . don’t . . . know what be happenin’, Miss Nellie. Las’ night, de Revern’, he cold. Had me stoke de fire right up, but dat didn’t help. I brought extra quilts down from de attic, an’ he bundled up in dem when he went to bed.”

  “Did he complain of feeling sick, Tony?”

  “No, M’am, jes’ cold. But dis mornin’ when I goes in to wake him, all de quilts in a pile on de floor, an’ he be red in de face and thrashin’ ‘round. I put my hand on his shoulder to wake him, and he be jes’ burnin’ up and talkin’ foolish. Den he start shoutin’ and askin’ for Mary somebody. An’ he call me ‘Willie’ when he knowed my name be Tony. I was jes’ comin’ fo’ to git some help when young Massa Leasure come up de stairs. I’se sorry.”

  It was an ominous description. She had watched enough soldiers suffer and die from malaria since they arrived in South Carolina to recognize the symptoms. A disease that killed the young and healthy was even more dangerous for a middle-aged man. Still, panic would not help. She patted Tony on the back and assured him he had done everything correctly. “He’s in good hands, Tony. The doctors will take care of him from here on. But they will probably need you to run errands, so you stay close by, all right?”

  “Yes, M’am. I surely will do dat.” He still looked terribly frightened.

  When Nellie entered the room, she could see why. Reverend Browne was in the throes of delirium, rolling his head from side to side and mumbling incoherently. His lips were dry and cracked; his breathing labored and interrupted by dry coughing.

  Doctor Ludington glanced up and nodded at her. “Nellie, do you know where we packed our supply of quinine?”

  “Yes, Sir. I can find it. All the boxes of medical supplies are labeled, although I’m not sure we have much real quinine left.”

  “Get me whatever you can find. And Nellie, if you see any slaves along the way, send them for cool water and towels.”

  That was a job for Tony. She caught his arm and dragged him with her as she hurried downstairs. He scurried one way in the downstairs hall, heading for the cistern located outside the back door, while Nellie went in search of the medical supplies.

  That was the start of two long weeks. Reverend Browne’s illness followed the expected four-day cycle. After the fever reached its peak, he broke into a heavy sweat that cooled him down and relieved most of his symptoms. He experienced one day during which he felt weak but was sure he had recovered. Then the chills returned, followed
by another bout of fever. His demeanor fluctuated with the various stages. Each time the chills returned, he plunged into a black depression, angry he could not achieve any control over whatever was ravaging his body. Then the fevers and delirium took over, making him irrational and difficult to control. When the sweat broke, he experienced a state of euphoria, sure each time he was cured. By each fourth day, he demanded to be allowed to get up and go back to work. At best, he kept himself occupied by asking Tony and Nellie to rearrange his room for greater comfort. And then once again, came the plunge into blackness.