The Black Swan

by Day Taylor

  The streets of Charleston were crowded with militiamen drilling, their flamboyant blue cockaded hats bobbing in time to their marching feet. Vigilance patrols alternately spread or quelled wild rumors of incendiarism and restlessness among the blacks—elsewhere. "Ouah darkies," they said fondly, "is jes' natch'ly tranquil."

  Adam bid Ben and Beau and the Ullah good-bye amid the noise of a busy pier. "Give this to Garrett personally, Ben. I don't want to chance the mails."

  Beau pleaded, "Please, Adam, come with us. You're not safe here."

  Ben's hazel eyes danced. He, no more than Adam, could damp the urge to be a part of this thing he feared but desired. But behind the youthful appreciation of danger lurked a mature worry. "Y'all watch yourself, Adam. Beau's right. The Ullah's gatherin' herself a reputation, an' so's her number one master. Those vigilantes know our business as well as we do, an' they're just itchin' to catch us at it. Steer clear of 'em, will you?"

  Adam saluted briskly, grinning.

  Secession fever showed no signs of abating. Everywhere Adam went during the next month he saw the blue cockades, the marching and drilling troops. Rumor had it that arms were being brought in from the North and being stored. Lincoln's name, when it was spoken at all, was vilified. He was a minority President who had snuck into Washington like a thief in the night. The wave of Southern pride would not crest but kept on gathering voice and force.

  By December Adam had secured five shipping contracts and the promise of three others. Of more immediate importance, he had gained entree to several prominent homes, where information about the Southern temper was as accurate as any to be had: There would be war.

  All Charleston felt it as the city decked itself for the momentous convention of secessionist delegates. State flags were displayed everywhere. Streets were decorated in bunting. On storefronts were artists' paintings symbolic of the bounty and prosperity expected after secession. In Saint Andrew's Hall, convention president D. F. Jamison Bam-well called the convention to order with a gavel on which secession was branded in bold black letters.

  Adam, along with throngs of people in and about Saint Andrew's Hall, reached eagerly for the Charleston Mercury. In bold print he read, "Extra! Passed unanimously at 1:15 o'clock P.M., December 20th, 1860: An Ordinance to dissolve the Union between the State of South Carolina and other States united with her under the compact entitled *The Constitution of the United States of America.'" His

  eyes dropped to the bold print at the bottom of the page. *'The Union Is Dissolved!"

  That evening the delegates marched m procession through the streets. A mob of three thousand thronged the entrance to Saint Andrew's Hall. On either side of President Barnwell's chair stood large palmetto palms. On his desk lay the document. Shouts of "Hurrah" and "Huzzah" burst forth as the delegates placed their names on the paper. At last Barnwell announced, "The Ordinance for Secession has been signed and ratified, and I proclaim the State of South Carolina an independent commonwealth."

  The city went wild. The decorations on Saint Andrew's Hall were torn down and then into small bits so everyone might have a souvenir. The night air was clamorous with the melodious pealing of church bells. Cannons fired salutes. Throngs surging through the streets raised their voices deafeningly. Inspired by their common bond, stranger turned to stranger, avid to share his elation.

  It was a glorious night for prostitutes. Men drunk with power of a war they already imagined having won sought any ear receptive to their braggadocio, any body eager for unquenchable virility. The women made it a night of feminine patriotism. On this happy and historic occasion fees might be lowered or even forgotten.

  After being approached by an odd assortment of women and having his back pounded by hearty men, Adam no longer wished to be a part of the raucous celebration, yet he wanted something, something to break the uncertainty secession had brought. It had fired his blood but given him no outlet. He was restless and discontented.

  He pushed his way through the crowd, ducking the frenetically waved palmetto fronds, avoiding the arms that beckoned him to join the street dancers. Finally he broke free of the milling hordes, hurrying down a darkened residential street. Behind him were jubilant shouts, drunken laughter, and the sounds of thousands of feet.

  He returned to his room in the Mansion House. But once inside, he was skittish. He paced the room, then lay down on his bed, only to rise and begin pacing again. Perhaps he'd go back to the streets after all.

  He left the Mansion House by the front door and walked east on Broad Street toward the Cooper River. He came to the comer of East Bay and stood looking at the Old Exchange. Stede Bonnet had been captured and imprisoned

  there in 1718. Adam smiled ruefully. He wasn't far from bein^g a pirate himself. It was a strange night, he mused, strange thoughts, strange feelings. Suddenly, his legs crumpled. He was on his hands and knees staring at the boots of the "Chastn Vijlanty Comity."

  "Tor ya Ah wou'n't fergit. Git 'im, boys! Show 'im how we feel 'bout nigger lovers in Charleston. Give 'im a taste o' our hospitality afore we hang 'im!"

  Adam tried to get up. The man's boot cracked against his ribs. He gasped, the wind forced painfully from him. A boot crunched down on his hand. Adam screamed. Pain jabbed as he was kicked from behind. "Nigger-lovin' bastard!" A frenzy of blows rained down on his back, neck, and head. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. No time— fists, boots, distorted faces. He curled into fetal position, his hands and arms drawn up to protect his face and head. One man viciously pummeled his kidney. Another kicked at his knees, wildly seeking his groin.

  Over the grunting noise of the cursing men and their blows, came a high, piercing wail. Electrified, the men halted.

  In the soft winter darkness stood a dusky, beautiful woman. She seemed to float in her ethereal pink satin gown. In her steady hand was a pearl-handed derringer. Her unearthly high-pitched laughter rang out. "Pahty's ovah, boys. Li'l ol' Melody wants the leavin's."

  Silence. Then: "Hell, that's only the nigger-bitch from the hat shop!" The man turned and hit Adam sharply in the back. Then as Adam kicked out, the vigilante screamed, falling to the ground, moaning, crying, grasping his shattered kneecap.

  "Good-bye now, boys—lessen y'all wants to die. Ah only got one mo' shot, an' it's gonna be fo' keeps."

  "Jeezuz Chris', Melody. You know us* This bastard's a—"

  "Sho' Ah know you, Jeb. You too. Bill . . . Bob. 'Cou'se Ah ain't met yo' wives. Think mebbe Ah should."

  Muttering and threatening, the men shuffled, then slowly left, two of them carrying their wounded companion.

  "Kin you git up, Cap'n?"

  Adam struggled painfully to his knees, taking Melody's offered hand.

  "Y'all right?"

  He groaned, then smiled crookedly. "I hurt like hell."

  "Not too much, Ah hope, Cap'n." She smiled cryptically. "Ah got a surprise fo' you. Ah sho' would be disappointed if that bag o' white trash spoiled it fo' me. Hoi' onto me. We kin make it back to yo' hotel."

  She walked him to his door but refused to go in. "No, Cap'n. You go on, clean yo'seff up. Ah'U be back, jes' Tike nothin' ever happened." Again she flashed her dark eyes at him, her smile seductively mysterious.

  He had just splashed cold water on his face when she knocked at the door. Hastily he mopped himself with the towel. He opened the door and stared in amazement.

  In the dim hallway, carrying an oversized hatbox, stood Melody Cox, as though nothing had happened. Her dark, suggestive eyes glowed like coals in her tawny-complex-ioned face. She said, smiling, "Jes' bringin' you a li'l some-thin' you din't ordah, Cap'n Tremain."

  Occasionally on his trips to Charleston he'd gone to Melody's shop to purchase a bonnet for his mother or Leona. Melody's talents were legendary among the ladies. She ran her exclusive shop because she hked to, and she ran it as she wished, catering to no one's tastes but her own. Melody didn't have to, nor did she answer to anyone but herself.

  She was equally well known and sought after
by men. A well-trained New Orleans quadroon, she had been the pampered mistress of a prominent young Creole gentleman until he married. Then Melody had removed herself and her financial settlement to Charleston, to become one of its most discussed courtesans. Her actual talents in this respect, however, were known privily to only a small, select clientele. Melody Cox dispensed her personal favors v^dth the same lofty arrogance she ran her hat shop—^with authoritarian selectivity and at an unconscionable cost to the client.

  The scent of her perfume pervaded the air. Once in the room. Melody posed, teasing with her eyes and body. "Here's a li'l somethin' y'all might be needin' in the future to recall who y'all are," she said lightly, presenting him with the box.

  He opened it and brought forth a hat topped by a ridiculously large rosette of blue ribbons. His own blue cockade. With a laugh he placed it on his head, tapping and poking until it had a jaunty tilt. "You think I need this to know who I am. Melody?"

  She shugged and her shawl fell free revealing one naked shoulder. "Everybody else goin' mad, you might's well do the same. Do you like it? Ah made it mahseff, jes' fo' you." She stood close against him as she meticulously adjusted the hat, then swept it off, throwing it to the floor.

  His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her closer yet. Melody offered no resistance. Her slow smile disclosed beautifully white teeth as she raised her head exposing the long golden curve of her throat.

  "How did you know I'd need you?" he asked between kisses he rained on her neck and shoulders. Her perfume and the uniquely feminine scent of her skin was intoxicating.

  "Ah watched you. Saw all those girls comin' up to you an' you sendin' them away jes' as fast. Ah say to mahseff, *Melody, there's a man who ain't gwine know what he wants 'til he's all alone in his room an' he ain't got it. Then them men—"

  Adam laughed softly. "Are you here to give me what I want, Melody?"

  "No, sir, Cap'n, Ah'm here to get somethin' Ah been wantin' mahseff," she murmured. With silken expertise she began to loosen his clothing. "Now, y'all jes' turn youah back an' be patient fo' a minute, Cap'n. Ah got somethin* Ah wanta show y'all." Her dress fell to the floor in a pool of pink satin. Immediately his hand caressed the soft roundness of her buttocks. "Youah not s'posed to be lookin', Cap'n. Youah gwine spoil mah show," she said petulantly. "Now, get back ovah theah on the bed an' let me come to you the way Ah likes."

  He kissed the nape of her neck, then went to the bed to await Melody's sensuous, well-choreographed progress toward him.

  This was what Melody enjoyed most. She blossomed under the deep, slow gaze of a man's eyes as he devoured the contours of her undulating body. Melody smiled. The sight of her naked body never failed to excite a man or herself. Since she'd lost her Creole lover to his wife, about the only pleasure she got from these passing gentlemen was what she gave herself. She hoped, but didn't expect Adam to be different. Few men were good in bed. They were too eager, too rough, too cock-minded to know how to pleasure a woman. She had learned to pleasure herself.

  She arched her back, thrusting out her bosom, the flat of

  her hands moving down the curving length of her torso. "Ain't Ah jes' about the prettiest thing you evah did see, Cap'n?" Sidestepping his slight movement, she said, "Ah, no! Not yet. Melody ain't ready fo' you yet, Cap'n." Her voice grew huskier as she moved about the room, unwilling to be hurried or cheated of her pleasure. She danced and postured, glorying in her own sensuality. She played with her shawl, using it as a veil, drawing it across Adam's naked body as she danced toward him, then away. Mesmerized, he watched, the heat mounting in his loins, as she neared him again.

  Then he was springing from the bed, pulling her toward him, forcing her to move to his rhythm. His mouth crushed against hers, hard and demanding. Melody laughed, deep and throaty, girlishly giggling at having a man take command of her. "Not yet, Cap'n. Not quite yet. Ah ain't ready yet."

  He pulled her to the bed, caressing her, his hands, moving over her lush body, his lips and tongue touching her and titillating her until she cried out for him. "Now, Cap'n. Now!"

  Chapter Seven

  When Adam awakened the next morning, Melody was gone. All that was left to give evidence that the strange girl had been there at all was the blue cockade hat she had placed on the post of the bed. Slowly the memories of Melody's indefatigable body washed away, and he began to think of other things. He sat on the edge of the bed in numbed silence, to give the moment the respectful awe it deserved. It had happened. The secession of the South had begun.

  The rest of the week Adam spent talking to every planter he knew, reaffirming their shipping contracts and gleaning whatever other information he could regarding the intentions of the other states either to follow South Carolina's lead or to remain in the Union.

  He sought out Melody only once, just before he was due to leave Charleston. As he walked into her shop, she looked

  up, saw him, and smiled broadly. With a wave of her well-manicured hand she turned her customer over to her shopgirl and led Adam to a small refined sitting room at the rear. She refused his invitation to dinner that evening in his hotel.

  As sure of her charms as ever, she walked around the room as she talked, giving him full view of herself. "Ah cain't afford to come with you, Cap'n."

  He laughed. "From what I've been told, it is I who am likely not to be able to afford your company." He took her hand, drawing her onto his lap.

  "What you cain't afford is money. What Ah cain't afford is bein' spoiled by you." Her hands were busy as she talked, moving across the broad muscles of his chest. Then her hand slipped inside the soft material of his shirt front, her fingers twining in the hair of his chest and belly as her searching fingers moved downward. "Mebbe jes' once more," she murmured, leaning back and allowing him to carry her to the sofa.

  It was a memory-filled farewell Adam bid to Charleston when the Ullah came into port. He returned to Wilmington on January 9, 1861, the day Mississippi seceded, Florida and Alabama followed suit. Then all eyes turned to Georgia: Her central location made her a vital link between the Atlantic Seaboard states and those of the Gulf. Of all the Southern states, Georgia possessed the greatest industrial strength, desperately needed for the economic and military well-being of a Southern nation.

  Garrett, sharing news over cigars and whiskey with Adam, sighed heavily. "The whole bloody conflict may still be avoided, Adam, if Georgia refuses to secede."

  "And if South Carolina, Florida, and Alabama refuse to reenter the Union, they'd bear the brunt of any reprisal alone," Adam retorted.

  "What reprisal? Put yourself in Lincoln's place. Would you not be more than happy to see the Union intact once again?"

  "What, then, about the questions of slavery and states' rights?"

  Garrett shrugged unhappily. "Another postponement. Perhaps another compromise. Perhaps the Crittenden Compromise could be made into something, given the chance. My God, Adam, anything is better than secession!"

  "I don't know what's good and what's better. On the one

  hand, we are destroying the Union of a nation bom of a dedication to freedom. How can this be good? And yet, so long as that Union exists, the North will judge us morally and dictate to us legislatively. That cannot be better."

  "That is why time is so valuable," Garrett said tensely. "If we regain our objectivity, surely Congress will recognize the desperation of our situation. We must pray that the people of Georgia listen to men like Alexander Stephens who speak for unity."

  But there were other voices in Georgia. Senator Robert Toombs said, "Throw the bloody spear into the den of incendiaries!" Then, "Make another war of independence. Fight its battles over again; reconquer liberty and independence." TTiese voices the people followed.

  Governor Joseph Brown ordered Fort Pulaski on the Savannah to be occupied on January 3, 1861. By January 19 the Georgia State Convention had voted 208-89 in favor of secession. Georgia left the Union. Governor Brown secured the surrender of the Federal arsenal at
Augusta on the twenty-fourth.

  A chain reaction began. By the first of February, Louisiana and Texas had seceded. Three days later representatives from all seceded states except Texas met at Montgomery, Alabama, to form a provisional government for the Confederate States of America. In the eyes of the secessionists a new nation had been bom.

  With the news of the appointment of Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens as President and Vice-President, Garrett stood in the entry of Zoe's house looking dumbfounded. To Zbe's eyes Garrett had seemed to age hourly since word of secession reached them two months before.

  "Adam is in the study, Garrett," she said, then indicated the door as he gave no sign of having heard her.

  Adam looked up from his ledger. He immediately rose, coming over to the older man. "Sit down, Garrett, I'll get you a drink."

  Garrett fumbled his way to a chair. Adam, making him a stiff whiskey and soda, was seriously worried. His friend's face was pale and strained. He had seen men look so just before they collapsed. He handed him the glass, making sure Garrett had ahold of it. "Drink this, sir."

  Garrett drank slowly. "I'm all right, Adam, as all right as a man can be amid so much wrong." He stared at the

  wall and sipped his whiskey. At last his eyes rested on Adam's face. "What will you do now?"

  "I don't know. We'll keep the Ullah running, but I don't know where that leaves us with Mr. Courtland. I doubt he's going to want much to do with a Southern vessel."

  "I'd hardly given Rod's position in this a thought. His desire to free the blacks most likely will override his repugnancy to Southern trade."

  "Perhaps, but I'd like to be prepared to buy him out should he decide to make things difficult for us."

  "You don't like Rod?" Garrett suddenly realized the latent hostility in Adam's voice.

  Adam shook his head, smiling. "I like him immensely. He's a fine man, and I admire him. I'm merely beginning to realize how much of a Southerner I am. This hatred of the damned avaricious Yankees is contagious. I find myself envious of the damned fools who parade in full dress uniform. I'm tempted to join the glorious fight for liberty and right!"