A Dream of Daring

by Gen LaGreca

  Jerome seemed to sense that his master struggled with the unhappy choice of either being a patsy or a brute. Since Tom rejected the latter, Jerome seemed bent on making him the former.

  “Why didn’t you go when you had the chance?” Tom had scolded Jerome at the time.

  “Jus’ afore I wuz s’posed to go, I sees a snake in my dreams, sir. A snake wid two heads. One head pointin’ north, the other south.” Jerome became agitated, as if he were reliving the dream. “The head pointin’ north wuz hissin’ and flashin’ its tongue. It wuz fixin’ to bite me somethin’ fierce.”

  The ready grin on Jerome’s face had vanished. He looked sincere and troubled. “You see, sir, I wuz more afeared o’ the head pointin’ north than the head pointin’ south.”

  “Did the snake also point you to the shops to spend my money?” Tom sighed, exasperated. But his anger at the theft was tempered by pity at what appeared to be a genuine, paralyzing fear.

  Tom had demanded the money back. He told Jerome to use the area around his cabin to plant crops and raise livestock of his own to sell. That way Jerome could recoup the money he squandered. “Give it back to me, and I’ll hold it for the time when you’re ready to make a second try for freedom,” Tom had said. “I’ll give it to you and write you a pass when you’re ready. I spoke to the captain, and the deal’s still open.”

  But Jerome never did generate the money—or the will—to make a second try for freedom. As Tom now stared at the slave whose sole ambition, apparently, was to irritate him, he thought of that old incident.

  “I’m prepared to write that pass anytime, Jerome.”

  The slave smiled, knowing what Tom meant.

  “If you’d just save the money you get from stealing my stuff and selling it at the docks, you’d have quite enough by now, you know.”

  “I reckon I likes stayin’ put, sir.”

  Of course Jerome liked staying put, Tom thought, because his work output was sparse, while his benefits were plentiful. As long as Tom remained lax with him, why would the bondsman want to trade his happy indolence here for the demands of freedom elsewhere? Oddly, this slave at the bottom of Greenbriar’s social structure reminded Tom of a man at its top. In idleness and pretension, Jerome bore an uncanny resemblance to . . . Nash Nottingham. In Greenbriar’s peculiar interplay of masters and slaves, Tom saw that the distinctions between the two groups were sometimes blurred.

  “Say, whut’s that muddy thing?” Jerome, in his impeccable attire, looked aghast at the vagabond peering at him from behind Tom on the horse.

  “I thought we needed a woman’s touch,” said Tom.

  “C’mon down, girl.” As Jerome approached the damsel and reached for her waist, trying to help her dismount, she placed a dainty foot on his chest and kicked him down. Then she slid off the back of the horse, with Tom dismounting after her.

  “Hey, whut ya think yer doin’?” Jerome got up, brushed himself off, and moved toward the girl, ready to grab her arms and shake some sense into her.

  Tom stepped protectively in front of her, and Jerome backed off.

  “Whut name this wench got?”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “Say, Missy, whut name you got?”

  The young woman’s only answer was a disapproving stare at Jerome.

  “What is your name?” Tom asked more politely, but was equally ignored.

  “Well?” He glared at her, waiting. She glared back, offering nothing.

  “Okay,” he sighed, “we’ll call her . . . hmm . . . ” He pondered the matter. The two slaves stared at him curiously as he stroked his face, considered possibilities, then made up his mind.

  “Solo. We’ll call her Solo.”

  “Whut?” said Jerome. “That ain’t no name.”

  “It’s a good name for someone who wants to be left alone.” Tom looked sympathetically at the silent woman with the big eyes and the slender figure. “Until you’re ready to tell us your real name, you’ll go by that.”

  Not given to lengthy ponderings, Jerome moved on to other matters.

  “Well, Missy, there be things you gotta know ’bout yer place here. Ol’ Jerome’ll learn ya good. First, ya calls the genelman”—he pointed to Tom—“mistah. Not marse or massa. He don’t like bein’ called that, no ma’am. And next, you needs to earn yer keep. Ya gotta work, and work hard!” He pointed his finger at her sanctimoniously. “Mr. Tom, he be a fine genelman, he don’t use no whip, so you can’t take ’vantage o’ that, no Missy. Jerome don’t let you take ’vantage o’ Mr. Tom!”

  Solo stared at Jerome, then at Tom, her forehead wrinkled as she tried to assess the two new characters in her life.

  “Now, Mr. Tom, I thinks Missy here kin help Aunt Bess in the kitchen.” Bess was Tom’s elderly cook. “Bess gettin’ too old fer cookin’. She forgettin’ the sugar in the cake and the eggs in the bread—”

  “And do you eat my food too, Jerome?” Tom inquired. “Never mind. I know the answer.”

  “If not fer Jerome tastin’ and directin’ Aunt Bess, yer food be mighty hard to swallow, sir.”

  “And is that why you drink my sherry? Do you worry that there’s an Aunt Bess in Spain botching the sherry too?”

  Jerome laughed briefly, then continued with his theme. “Us go to the kitchen now, Missy, and see yer new job.” He turned to Tom, as if remembering who had the final word. “Mr. Tom, if you ’low me, I takes care o’ this, sir.”

  Tom hesitated, as he often did when it came to managing the slaves, which led Jerome to take charge by default. The inventor, who was decisive about where to place every nut and bolt on his tractor, had no preference at all for what the new girl, or any of them, did.

  Jerome tried to lead Solo by the arm, but she pulled away from him.

  “Ya can’t jus’ stay here and do nothin’, Missy! Now, c’mon!”

  Solo stood firm.

  “Let her be,” said Tom.

  “But this little squirrel, she gotta do somethin’, and we needs a cook, sir. Why, Aunt Bess, she shaky. She forgettin’. She can’t make yer mama’s dishes no mo’. Us needs young hands there, so’s us kin eat good.” He turned to the girl. “C’mon, now, Missy.”

  Jerome grabbed her arm and prodded her forward. She kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow!” he wailed, clutching his leg. “You hellcat!” Taking great offense, he raised his hand to slap her.

  Tom caught his arm and bent it behind him with a force that made the slave double over in pain.

  “I said let her be.”

  Tom twisted the arm a little tighter, making Jerome wince, then he finally released it. Jerome was stunned by a side of Tom he had never seen.

  “If you ever touch her, I’ll send you to the fields to work there forever.”

  The ruthlessness in Tom’s voice and the fear in Jerome’s eyes were equally unprecedented. Tom’s threat caught the slave by surprise. In the fields Jerome would actually have to work hard, a far cry from his current situation. For once speechless, he backed away from the girl, as if seeing for the first time a line drawn by Tom that he could never cross.

  “We can decide what to do with her later. Right now, I’d like to see what you’ve been up to.”

  Tom walked toward the stable. Jerome took the reins of his horse and walked with him.

  Solo cocked her head in curiosity at the two men, then trailed behind them.

  On the way, Tom saw the wagon full of bricks that had just been hauled up the road. Someone had unhitched it from the horse by the site of the new smokehouse. Tom’s three slaves who were supposed to build the new structure stood around the pile of bricks, talking and joking, while no one made any effort to unload them, lay them out, or begin work.

  As the young master reached the stable and walked around, he gasped in exasperation. There was no water in the horses’ buckets and barely any hay left in their stalls. The animals looked parched and weak. The horse that had just hauled the bricks up the road was standing in the middle of th
e stable. The poor beast had been left sweating, unattended, with saliva dribbling from its mouth.

  “Damn it, Jerome, this animal looks terrible! They all look neglected!”

  “I wuz jus’ gettin’ to them, Mr. Tom!”

  As Jerome approached the sweating horse, Solo pushed him aside. She rushed to the animal, removed its harness, threw a blanket over its back, patted it reassuringly.

  She pushed an empty bucket at Jerome. “Get water,” she said.

  “Why, you little tick! For Gawd, Mr. Tom, you tells her to hold her tongue wid Jerome!”

  Solo turned to Tom, staring at him pointedly, as if his next move would set the limits—or liberties—on hers.

  “But she’s right, Jerome. You need to get water. You needed to do that a while ago.”

  The girl turned back to the slave, triumphantly. “Go! And be quick about it!”

  She preceded to rub the animal down.

  “Darn that Willie! Comin’ back wid that big load,” Jerome whined. “It too much for one po’ beast! Why don’t he take two? How’s it be Jerome’s fault that horse sweatin’ so?” He turned to Solo. “Now, I handles this, Missy. I works here. You git to the kitchen!”

  “You get to the kitchen! I’m staying here,” said Solo.

  She turned to the horse, rubbing it down and patting its nose. The animal seemed to like the petting, because when she stopped, it nudged her with its muzzle for more.

  “Whut you doin’, woman?” Jerome persisted. “This here Jerome’s bizness. You stays out!”

  “Get the water. Now!” she replied.

  Tom noticed that the new addition to his household spoke correct English.

  “Mr. Tom, this she-beast need whippin’ bad!”

  “Get the water, Jerome.”

  “Everybody ’round here mind Jerome, ’cept her.” He punctuated his remark with a finger jabbing at her face.

  When no one paid any attention, he left with the bucket, deflated and grumbling. “Maybe Jerome get lucky and this she-beast run away.”

  “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and you’ll both run away.” Tom sighed.

  CHAPTER 8

  The planters’ church in Greenbriar was the tallest structure in town. Its steeple rose higher than the town’s other buildings, and its pointed arches pierced the sky like spears above the softer curves of the trees around it. With its towering presence, the church seemed a fitting place for Wiley Barnwell’s memorial service.

  The thick stone cross embedded like a tombstone at the entrance cast a shadow over the winter camellias at its base just as the day’s event cast its shadow on the arriving guests. Ornate carriages deposited plantation families and prominent public figures at the front steps. Tom stood at the door in top hat and tails, alongside Charlotte and Rachel in black bonnets and mourning dresses. As the wealthy and politically powerful guests entered the church, they offered condolences to the widow and daughter.

  “Charlotte, dear,” said plantation mistress Emma Turndale, a stout woman with a kindly face. “I can’t believe he’s gone!” The women embraced. “Why, just recently I was telling my niece from New Orleans about Ruby Manor, and how our senator built a home for his wife that surrounded her with roses! How can we ever forget him?”

  “Thank you, Emma.” Charlotte smiled gently beneath her veil.

  Then Claire Winfield, a descendant of one of the town’s oldest families, approached. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m heartbroken for you!”

  “Hello, Claire.” Charlotte embraced her friend.

  “My dear, you’ve volunteered so much of your time through the years for our social activities and charity drives. Now it’s our turn to relieve you of these tasks in your time of sorrow.”

  “Oh my, Claire, I forgot all about the events coming up in March!”

  “Of course you did, and well you should. I spoke to Millie Browning, and we’re ready to pitch in. We’ll arrange the church fair and the spring dance.”

  “Thank you, dear. That’s a big help,” said Charlotte.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, honey. Of course, we can never fill your shoes, just as no one can ever fill Wiley’s shoes in the senate. But we’ll manage. You needn’t give it a thought.” Mrs. Winfield clasped Charlotte’s hands in sympathy.

  “Claire, you’re a dear friend.”

  The next guest to pay his respects was a person whom everyone recognized and many knew personally.

  “My dear Mrs. Barnwell,” said the man, taking Charlotte’s hand.

  “Governor, it’s so good of you to honor us.”

  “It was Wiley who honored us, Mrs. Barnwell, by his distinguished service to the people of Louisiana. And he couldn’t have found a wife of greater poise, grace, and gentility to adorn his life than you.”

  Charlotte inclined her head at the compliment.

  “I’m deeply saddened for your loss and ours.” He bowed solemnly and kissed her hand.

  “I appreciate your kindness, Governor.”

  He smiled, taking leave of Charlotte, then turned to Rachel. “Miss Barnwell,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand, “let me offer my deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you, Governor.”

  “We will profoundly miss your father in the state senate. That chamber will not be the same without his leadership.”

  “He would be honored by your presence here today.”

  “My God, child, it infuriates me to think that your father met an untimely end over some foolish, harebrained invention!”

  Rachel’s eyes darted to Tom, and she fidgeted nervously. The governor looked from her to Tom, as if expecting an introduction. The newspapers had reported the story but without photographs of the people involved, and Tom and the governor had never met.

  “Governor,” she said, her voice suddenly tentative, “this is . . . uh . . . our neighbor.”

  The governor paused, expecting Rachel to provide a name. When it was not forthcoming, he shook hands with Tom.

  “Governor,” said Tom, “I should mention that I’m the in—”

  “He’s a planter! A planter, like Papa!”

  “I see. How very nice.” The governor looked confused.

  Rachel changed the subject. “And how’s your family, Governor? I remember the lovely dinners we had together.”

  “They’re very well, thank you.”

  The governor tipped his hat to take leave of them, and then walked into the church.

  Tom looked at Rachel, his face hurt and disappointed, but she avoided his eyes. Then he reproached himself for feeling slighted. After all, he wasn’t the one who should expect consideration at this tragic time. It was his obligation to provide comfort to the real victims: Rachel and her mother.

  “I’m going inside,” said Rachel.

  He curled her hand around his arm, wanting to escort her. But Rachel removed her hand and walked in without his assistance.

  As she entered the church, a man approached to pat her arm reassuringly. Walking behind her, Tom overheard them speaking.

  “You poor dear, having to go through this terrible ordeal! How are you holding up?”

  “I’m doing well. It’s nice of you to ask,” said Rachel softly.

  The pale face above the collar ruffles belonged to Nash. He and Tom looked at each other without greeting.

  “I want to be here for you, Rachel, to help you recover from this most unfortunate ordeal,” Nash continued. “When you feel up to it, I’d like to take you to our place for a stroll through our peach orchard and a taste of Mother’s fine peach brandy. It’ll relax you, dear, and get your mind off this terrible business, this truly . . . senseless tragedy.” His eyes slid to Tom.

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Rachel.

  “I want to be sure you maintain all the comforts your dear father gave you.”

  Rachel smiled politely.

  “You need to be in the company of a man like your father was, a man who can properly provide for your needs.”

  As his banker, Tom knew
that the one man who did not fit that bill was Nash.

  The women’s skirts rustled against the pews, their giant hoops swaying to and fro, as the guests filled the church. Rachel and her mother sat in the front, with Tom and Nash in the row behind them.

  Only one planter in the area was missing, Ted Cooper, who sat in a cell, awaiting trial. The evidence against him was deemed to be strong, providing grounds for holding him without bail.

  Ushers gave songbooks to the guests, the church organist took his seat, and the ceremony opened with the group singing hymns. The solemn music moved Tom. His sorrow, grief, and admiration for the man being honored seemed to converge on his throat so that he couldn’t find his voice to join in.

  When the singing stopped, Greenbriar’s mayor, a short, stocky man with shrewd eyes that were the same cool gray as his tailcoat, took the podium to deliver his eulogy.

  “Where do I begin to honor my close friend, the man who was like a brother to me since childhood? Perhaps I should commence by honoring those who gave us Wiley Barnwell. His parents came here from Virginia and cleared a spot in the vast alluvial forest, where they built a home, raised a family, and started a successful plantation out of the wilderness. Then they passed their land on to Wiley and his generation.”

  The audience listened attentively.

  “But the man who was to become a leader of our town and state wasn’t content merely to take what was given him by his kinfolk. Where his papa planted a good crop, Wiley planted a great one. Where his papa built a simple cottage, Wiley built a mansion. Wiley Barnwell was a planter and businessman second to none!”

  Tom’s face showed admiration for the master planter who had generously reached out to him after his own father’s death, teaching him the fine points of cotton farming that were instrumental to his own success.