Caleb

by Charles Alverson

  “Yes,” said Drusilla immediately. “Me!”

  “But you don’t like me.”

  “I don’t have to like you,” Drusilla said. “I’ll do the job well. I know it already. I’ve watched what you and Missy do. It’s easy.”

  “Oh, is it?” Caleb could not help but show his amusement. “Maybe you don’t need me in the dining room, then?”

  “Yes, I do,” Drusilla said. “For a while. I still can learn.”

  “Your modesty amazes me, Drusilla,” Caleb said. “If I give you the job, can one of the other girls take your place?”

  “Teazie is okay,” Drusilla said. “I’ll kick her fat ass, and she’ll do just fine. With an eye on her now and then.”

  “And I suppose you’ve got another girl picked out to join the house girls?” Caleb asked.

  “Yes. There be a girl in the laundry. Thin and not much to look at, but she got promise.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?” Caleb asked with wonder.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Yes. If you want me for your bed, too, there are two things.”

  “You think I might?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what are these things?”

  “First, you have to let Mammy Doc down in the quarter look at you. I’m not catching anything that Missy might have.”

  “You think that might be a problem?” Caleb asked, trying to pin her down with his stare.

  Drusilla did not flinch. “Yes, it might.”

  “I see. And the other thing?”

  “You have to teach me to read and write.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.” She looked at him directly but without defiance.

  “Well,” said Caleb, trying to be businesslike, “I’ll consider what you said and let you know. You can go to the other girls now.”

  Drusilla rose from the chair gracefully and walked out of the tiny room without looking back.

  Caleb tried to believe that he hadn’t made up his mind about Drusilla, but he knew that it had been made up for him.

  27

  It did not take Caleb long to work his way through the newspapers Miss SallyAnne left at Three Rivers. First he read the portions that he thought would be of interest to Jardine aloud. After the first few lines, if Jardine wasn’t interested, he would call out, “Skip that,” and Caleb would move on to another article. Then, in his own room, Caleb would devour the newspapers line by line. Jardine was surprised to find that he missed the newspapers once they were all read. That night after dinner, he said to Caleb, “Well, where’s the newspaper?”

  “All finished, Master.”

  “All?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Well, let’s try reading them again,” Jardine suggested, but it didn’t work. He soon got bored, and on his next trip to Cassatt, Jardine ordered a copy of the Charleston Courier sent once a week. Both Jardine and Caleb waited eagerly for it to arrive and then made it last as long as they could. Soon, Jardine was having Caleb reading almost the entire newspaper to him. He would sit in his armchair sipping brandy as Caleb read.

  “Don’t think I couldn’t read this paper to myself,” Jardine told Caleb more than once. “I could. But what is the point of keeping a literate slave around the place if you don’t use him?” It wasn’t really a question, and Caleb felt no need to answer him.

  As they devoured the papers, one topic began to dominate: the growing conflict between the government in Washington and the slave states. War went from being a remote speculation to a recurring subject and then to an almost definite prospect.

  “All this talk about war,” Jardine said after Caleb had read an editorial on the conflict of aims between the two regions, “is beginning to sound serious. Well, I don’t want any part of it. From what Colonel Braddock says about that affair he got involved in down in Mexico, it’s not a hell of a lot of fun. Do you think it will come, Caleb?”

  “I don’t know, Master, but it sure sounds like people are talking themselves into it.”

  “Well, I’m against it,” said Jardine, pouring himself another glass of brandy. “I may not have been up north very long, but I was there long enough to know that those Yankees are crazy sons of bitches and there is one hell of a lot of them. I like Three Rivers just fine as it is, and I don’t think any old war would improve it.”

  Caleb did not say anything.

  “How about you, Caleb?” Jardine asked, half taunting. “You think that if the Yankees came down here and kicked our raggedy asses, they’d set you free?” When Caleb did not answer, Jardine added, “Maybe give you Three Rivers, and you could hire old Boyd Jardine to work for you. Yes, Master Caleb, no, Master Caleb, right away, Master Caleb. How’d you like that? I bet you would.”

  When Caleb did not answer, Jardine started to say something else but then thought better of it. “Read me some more of that paper, Caleb. Anything but that damned stuff about war.”

  The combination of the warm evening and the brandy soon had Jardine yawning and fighting off sleep. “That’s enough reading for tonight, Caleb,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Yes, Master.” Caleb folded the newspaper, put it in its place on the sideboard, and got to his feet. He was about to leave the study when Jardine stopped him.

  “You still got that idea in your head about being free, Caleb?” Jardine asked.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You think you’d be better off than you are at Three Rivers?” Jardine asked. “I treat you well here, don’t I?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Well, why then? You got a big bag of gold coins hidden somewhere so you can pay for the roof over your head, the food in your belly, and the clothes on your back?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Well, tell me this: What would you do if I said tomorrow, Okay, Caleb, you’re a free man, and gave you a piece of paper to prove it?”

  Caleb thought for a moment. “I don’t know, Master. Probably go back to Boston.”

  “You think they love niggers up there?” Jardine asked incredulously. “You think someone’s going to take poor Caleb in and look after him? Because he has a piece of paper saying he’s a free, free man?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Well, you bet they won’t. The world’s not like that. There’s a saying I learned up there at Harvard. It goes like this: Nothing for nothing. And that’s what they’d give you. Nothing! Damn it, Caleb, you’re going to close the house up now and then go to bed, right?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Well, just suppose Caleb was just a little bit hungry. What would Caleb do?”

  Before Caleb could open his mouth to answer, Jardine continued. “I’ll tell you what he would do. He’d go back in that kitchen, cut him a couple of big slices off of a ham, and grab a big chunk of fresh-baked bread and maybe even a jug of that new batch of beer brewed last week. Does that sound possible, Caleb?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You bet it does,” Jardine said triumphantly. “Damn, it sounds all right to me. Now tell me this, Caleb,” Jardine continued more seriously, “do you know any house in goddamned Boston where you could do that?”

  “No, Master.”

  “No is right,” Jardine crowed. “I think I’ve made my point. Now, get me a candle, Caleb. I’m going to bed.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Later, lying in bed with his lamp blown out, Caleb thought about what Jardine had said. It was true that he hadn’t thought much beyond the very idea of freedom. And he knew that when it came, if it came, he would be exchanging a solid known—in fact, a not-so-bad present—for a totally unknown future. But there was something deep inside Caleb that could not settle for anything less than freedom.

  In his own l
arger, more luxurious bed below, Jardine was bothered by no such thoughts. The combination of brandy and fatigue allowed him to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  28

  A few weeks later, Jardine went for a visit to Charleston with the Bentleys and a party of other local people.

  “I don’t know how you can leave that darkie in sole charge of Three Rivers for this long. I couldn’t sleep at night.” Jardine was sitting with Martha Bentley on the top deck of a paddle wheeler as it churned down the Wateree River through the black night.

  “That’s because you don’t know Caleb,” Jardine said.

  “Nor would I want to,” she responded. “I wouldn’t have a bumptious slave like that on the place. That boy thinks he’s white. Who knows what on earth he is up to?”

  What Caleb was up to was a complete turnout of the house. With the exception of Jardine’s bedroom and study, everything came out, including the contents of the kitchen, larder, brewery, bakery, and dry stores. The field slaves were brought up from the quarter to do the carrying.

  “I swear,” said Big Mose, struggling with one end of the vast sofa from the big reception room, “that Caleb is worse than Marse Boyd ever could be. I was goin’ fishin’ this afternoon.”

  “Plenty of time for fishing when we get finished, Mose,” said Caleb, carrying a big leather chair down the broad front steps. “Plenty of time, plenty of beer, and plenty of barbecue. But right now there’s plenty of work to do. Let’s get it done.” The grumbling continued but so did the work, and nobody worked harder than Caleb.

  Coming down from the attic, which had been cleared for the first time in over twenty years, Caleb nearly bumped into Missy. Since Missy had moved into the nursery with little Boyd, now called Birdie by everyone but his father, Caleb had spent little time alone with her. He wasn’t particularly happy to see her now, but she stood in his way without moving.

  “How are you doing, Caleb?” she asked.

  “Just fine,” Caleb said.

  “And how’s Drusilla getting on with her new job and otherwise?” Missy’s big smile was cold.

  “She’s learning the dining room right smartly,” Caleb said. “As for the otherwise, that’s a personal matter, Missy, and nothing for you to concern yourself with. I’d have thought that you had enough to do in the nursery.”

  “Oh, I do,” said Missy. “You know, Caleb, you really ought to visit us in the nursery once in a way while Marse Boyd is away. Birdie has got so used to the presence of a man, and he does miss it.”

  “I might do that, Missy,” Caleb said, “and I might bring Drusilla along with me. She likes babies.”

  “Is that necessary?” Missy asked. “I thought maybe, just for old time’s sake—”

  “You thought wrong,” Caleb said abruptly. “If you’ve got any wayward thoughts, you can just forget them. Things are the way they are, and they’re going to stay that way. You understand me?” His face was hard.

  Missy weakened. “I miss you, Caleb. He’s not the man you are,” she said softly.

  “You’d better be getting back to your nursery, Missy, and get ready,” Caleb said. “We’ll be coming there before long to clear it, and you better be all packed up.”

  “You afraid of Drusilla, Caleb?” Missy’s catlike smile was back.

  “No, but you ought to be. If she finds out you’re even thinkin’ of messing around where you don’t belong, that girl is likely to rip your heart out.”

  “She’s obviously got your heart where she wants it,” Missy replied.

  “Go to your nursery, Missy,” Caleb said sternly and stared at her until she did.

  A little later, Caleb was in the dining room with one of the house girls, packing up the linens, when Drusilla came in with a determined look on her face.

  “Get out,” she told the house girl.

  But before the frightened girl could move, Caleb said quietly, “You keep on packing, girl. I’ll be right back.” He motioned with his head for Drusilla to follow him out through the big double doors to the garden. When they got out of earshot, he stood looking calmly at Drusilla until she spoke.

  “I hear you been talking to that Missy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about?”

  “That’s my business,” said Caleb, “but I’ll tell you that it’s nothing for you to worry about. If it was, you’d be the first to hear about it—from me.”

  “I don’t want you talking to her.”

  “I talk to everyone on this farm, Drusilla,” Caleb told her calmly, “including Missy. There’s not a damned thing you can do about it but trust me to tell you the truth. And I am. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “You sure?” Drusilla looked at him with narrowed eyes.

  “As sure as sure can be,” Caleb said. “Let us understand each other. You’re in the dining room because I chose you to be. You are in my bed because you chose to be. You can stay in or leave either, or both. They do not depend on each other. Now, you had better think about that. In the meantime, I want you to go back in that dining room and apologize to that little girl. You about frightened her to death. When I’m working with someone, you have no right to order them about. Is that clear?”

  “That’s clear,” Drusilla said, but she avoided his eyes. She turned without another word and walked back into the dining room.

  29

  When Jardine came back from Charleston, he wasn’t alone. With him were two women: a pretty young woman with masses of curly blonde hair and an older woman dressed all in black with a face like a closed barn door. Strapped on the back of the buggy was a big trunk. When Jardine had helped the two women down, Caleb came forward. The rest of the house staff stood on the veranda, wondering who the visitors were.

  “Caleb,” said Jardine, “Miss Lacey and her aunt Mrs. Brooks are visiting for a while. Get some bedrooms ready.”

  “They are ready, Master,” Caleb said, signaling for two of the boys to come forward to get the visitors’ luggage.

  Jardine gave Caleb a quizzical look and then said, “This is Caleb, Lacey. I think I told you about him.”

  “Yes, you did.” Her smile was wide, but her voice was cut glass. “And how did you get along, Caleb,” she asked, “with your master away?”

  “Just fine, Miss Lacey,” said Caleb.

  The visitor let her gaze traverse the front of the house as if to say, We’ll see about that.

  “And where, Boyd,” she asked in a completely different tone of voice, “is that precious baby of yours?”

  Jardine’s eyes scanned the veranda, but Missy was already coming forward with Birdie in her arms. She dropped the two women a curtsy as Caleb had taught her and the other house girls, and held the baby up like a bouquet of fresh flowers for them to admire.

  The women made all the appropriate noises, but Caleb noticed that the younger woman was paying at least as much attention to Missy. Her violet-blue eyes ran over the pretty young slave without missing a thing. This, Caleb thought, was not a good thing. At least, not for Missy.

  After Caleb and Drusilla had settled the ladies in the guestrooms at the front of the house so that they could freshen up after the dusty trip from the river, Jardine motioned Caleb into his study and closed the door behind them.

  “What the hell have you been doing here, Caleb?”

  “Just a bit of cleaning up.”

  “Just a bit?” Jardine said. “The old place looks like new. Except for this study.” He looked around.

  “And your room,” Caleb said. “I thought we’d leave those two until you came back.”

  “You thought right,” Jardine said, “but how did you know I’d be bringing guests back?”

  “I didn’t, Master. I just thought that with you being away it was a good time to get some work done. I know how you hate upset.”

  “Upset,�
� said Jardine. “Yes, that’s the word for it. Well, Caleb, so far you are doing fine, but I want things to go smoothly while Miss Lacey and her aunt are here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “It’s very important.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “By the way, Caleb,” Jardine said, as the slave was leaving the room. “When you unpack my bags, you’ll find a batch of newspapers from Charleston. I saved them for you.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  Dinner, which was augmented by the Bentleys, Pastor Buchanan, and young Jim Braddock, who was home on leave and proudly wore his gray uniform from the Citadel, went well. Everyone—even Martha Bentley—seemed impressed with the way that Caleb and Drusilla served the meal: smoothly, swiftly, and unobtrusively.

  “Damn, Jardine,” Rafe Bentley said between the salad and the fish course. “I’m going to get you over to Bellevue to see what you can do about smartenin’ up our house darkies. I can’t do a thing with them.”

  “That would cost you a bundle, Rafe. Skills like mine don’t come cheap.”

  “Is it true, Boyd,” Martha Bentley asked, ignoring the fact that Caleb was serving her at that very moment, “that your Caleb can read and write?”

  “Some, Martha, some,” Jardine said. He was not eager to discuss the subject. Caleb kept his face blank but could not help thinking of the new stack of newspapers under his bed, including a month-old copy of the New York Times.

  As he helped Drusilla serve dinner, Caleb noticed that Miss Lacey’s eyes kept going back to the large oil portrait of Jardine and the late mistress of Three Rivers that hung in a heavy gilt frame. Once, while they’d polished the silver, Miss Nancy had told Caleb that it was painted the year before by a wandering artist. He’d turned up at their door and offered to paint their portrait in exchange for the cost of materials, room and board, and fifty dollars cash if the likeness was satisfactory. Jardine had wanted to turn the fellow away, but it was getting dark and storm clouds were gathering. The artist was emaciated and wearing only a thin coat and no hat.