“Five thousand. Against your remaining rice lands.”
“I suppose your word is good?”
“If necessary, my Second will assure you it is very good.”
* * *
Neither the Ravanel farmhouse nor town house had air enough for Mammy’s grieving. Little Andrew kept asking when his mother would come back. He couldn’t understand she was gone. He wailed when Mammy was out of his sight, and Dolly made up potions so he’d sleep. Mammy slept no better than the child but wouldn’t take anything.
That winter’s Race Week was notable for its paucity of scandals—which disappointed Charleston’s grande dames, who envied Savannah kinswomen their happy disapproval of the wickedness of a certain rich Frenchman. In Charleston, alas, although young men drank themselves into a stupor and pursued young maidens into improper bedrooms, none of the malefactors were prominent.
Constance Venable Fisher pronounced scandal’s death sentence: “But, nobody knows them.”
The only interesting talk was the matchup between Colonel Jack Ravanel’s Red Stick and Langston Butler’s Valentine for a huge purse held by the respected advocate James Petigru. Jack was popular with young gentlemen, Langston approved by their parents. Families were strained by the rivalry and thousands bet.
Both horses were famous. Red Stick was from the newly elected President Jackson’s stud, and Valentine was out of the famous Lady Lightfoot. As it happened, the horses were distant cousins.
A very few planters stayed on their plantations to prepare for planting, but most and all the most notable were in town. By noon last night’s revelries had been recounted in Charleston’s withdrawing rooms by tsk-tsking ladies. Wednesdays and Fridays, the town was at Washington Racecourse before noon.
Mammy couldn’t think why she’d ever liked Charleston. She’d be walking down any old street when a blue doorframe slapped at her. The rasp of a carpenter’s saw could bring tears to her eyes. So many faces from the Cow Alley church. That church was an empty lot now, and those familiar faces hurried by without greeting. Coloreds who still went to church sat in St. Philip’s garret behind the Browns. Mammy wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The market was the worst. That quick shape ducking into a stall . . . who . . . ? A laugh of purest delight? Behind that stall keeper’s legs, who . . . ?
The Butlers were in town but not at home. At Broughton Plantation, Hercules was preparing Valentine for his big race while Dolly added herbs and potions to his rations.
The Ravanel town house was quiet until noon, when Jack rose up and Ham shaved him. Attended by a cloud of bay rum and last night’s soured whiskey, Colonel Jack and Ham went uptown to the racecourse, where a trusted cousin and his pistols had spent the night outside Red Stick’s stall.
Jack directed Red Stick’s exercise, feed, and training to bring the horse to just shy of peak performance. Ham tasted every bucket of Red Stick’s feed, and a second armed Ravanel cousin attended the horse when it grazed the meadow behind the course.
At Bonner’s saloon tent, Jack drank with friends until the early hours, when they’d repair downtown to Miss Polly’s, where Jack spent liberally but never took a Cyprian upstairs.
Often, the night’s survivors found their way to Jack’s to greet the sunrise from his piazza. When two of Miss Polly’s Cyprians trooped along, they were evicted. While Jack’s companions grumbled, Mammy said, “Your baby son here, Master Jack. Baby Andrew don’t need seein’ all this.”
Andrew clung to Mammy’s legs. When she tucked the boy back in bed, Mammy murmured, “Womens always takin’ care of you, honey. Don’t you fret ’bout no thing.”
Come Race Day, jockeys led beribboned prancing Thoroughbreds up Meeting Street, and Mammy watched from the piazza with Andrew in her lap. It was chilly, and Mammy’s shawl was wrapped round her shoulders. “Child, I’m thinkin’ you be famous with horses one day. Them horses got plenty to make right for you.”
“Momma?”
“Yes, child. You Momma lookin’ out for you. Might you can’t see her, but she lookin’ out.”
A tear rolled down Mammy’s cheek. “Your Papa bet everything on that darned Red Stick. Everything he got and prolly what he ain’t got. Might be you Momma watchin’ after Colonel Jack too. I pray she am.”
At noon sharp, stewards chivied spectators off the track. The rail was three deep at the start line, and well-positioned saloons did a land-office business. At the finish line, planters drank champagne or rum punch while touts cried the odds. “One to two on Orbit.” “Four to one on Mister Sully’s Fancy Foot!”
Six horses lined up for the first one-mile race and four for the next. Only Red Stick and Valentine ran in the fourth and final at five o’clock.
* * *
In the clubhouse afterward, Wade Hampton paid his wager and offered a toast, “To Red Stick and Old Hickory. We may have lost one hell of a horse breeder, but we’ve gained a great president.”
“General Jackson!”
“Red Stick! Huzzah!”
Since Cathecarte Puryear had pocketed three hundred dollars on the race, he forgave Jack. “Red Stick,” he enthused, “has utterly redeemed himself.”
Langston Butler sent Hercules for a little sugar.
The winter sun set, and lanterns illuminated the Jockey Clubhouse, where Colonel Jack bought round after round. Although Jack never said what he’d paid for the horse, it was widely assumed that Red Stick more than doubled his purchase price.
In gathering darkness, jockeys rubbed down their mounts and led them quietly down Meeting Street to home. Their manes were uncombed and ribbons torn or lost; their legs were bandaged and sore.
Ham tugged his Master’s sleeve. “Master Jack: Red, I rubs him down good. You want I should leave him in the stables or walk him home?”
“Saddle him. A ride will clear my head.”
“Master Jack, I takes Red home myself, puts him up. I sleeps in next stall.”
“Ham, you tellin’ me what to do with my own horse? Keep that up and before long niggers tellin’ white men what to do.”
Everybody laughed at Jack’s absurd conceit. To take the sting out of his words, Jack patted the jockey’s shoulder and gave him a gold half eagle. “You rode well today. Still want to run away?”
Ham, who’d ridden the ride of his life, looked down and scuffed the ground, which provoked more amusement.
“Go home. Patrollers stop you tonight, say you the fella rode Red Stick to glory.”
Jack bought one last round before he walked the exhausted Red Stick down Meeting Street to his town house.
Mammy was in the family room sewing when Jack’s key scratched at the lock plate. He stumbled in, tossed his hat on a bench, and grinned.
“I heard what you and that horse done,” she said.
“Are you congratulating me?”
“Andrew, he say he prayers and go to sleep. I guess I can sleep now.”
“Langston Butler was furious.”
“We ask to love our enemies. Some enemies harder love than others.”
“I reminded Langston his loan bought Red Stick.” Jack lifted his flask to his lips without result. With one eye squeezed tight, he inspected the flask, recapped it, and tossed it beside his hat. He lurched to the sideboard to pour a tumbler and after deliberation poured another for Ruth.
Startled, she said, “Master Jack, you know I temperance.”
“Just this one time. To celebrate our victory over Butler.”
She brushed it off. “Master Jack, I didn’t do nothin’ ’bout that. ’Twas you horse beat he horse. I don’t got no horse. Don’t want no horse.”
He set the tumblers down and sat beside her too close. “Ruth, I’ve been so lonely since Frances died.”
“I reckon.”
He put an arm around her shoulders. “Ruth, you lost your spo
use too.”
She shrugged his arm off and stood. “Master Jack, I ain’t Mrs. Jehu Glen no more. I ain’t even Ruth. I’ze Mammy! I was Miss Penny’s Mammy and I be young Master Andrew’s Mammy. That who I is!”
He got to his feet, weaving. “Ruth, you . . . you’re comely, a comely young woman. Whole damn town thinks you’re my lover.”
She backed against the sideboard. “Well, I ain’t!”
“Must I remind you who . . . who’s your Master?”
He groped at her breasts. “A peach,” he said. “A luscious black peach.” He added, “I will have you.” He jerked her blouse, and her breasts fell free. “My, aren’t you the pretty girl.”
“Master Jack . . . MASTER JACK!”
He clamped her head so he could kiss her. “So lonely . . .”
She struck his skull with the heavy crystal decanter, and he wobbled and backpedaled into a love seat, which upended with a crash. Master Jack Ravanel sprawled on the floor with his left leg draped over the upset furniture. With her fingertip, Mammy dabbed a blood drop from the decanter’s glittering crystal and absently put her finger in her mouth.
Then came a frightened cry. Andrew had been startled awake, and his wail was becoming a howl.
“The apple,” Mammy noted, “never fall far from the tree.”
That night she dreamed about a manioc basket.
Saturday forenoon, three of Jack’s young friends came calling, but Mammy informed them through the closed front door that “Master Jack ain’t seein’ nobody. He ain’t fit be seen.”
They surmised, chuckled, and joked, but went away.
The older friends who arrived to congratulate Jack were rebuffed with the same information.
Jack limped into the kitchen half past three. He drank long swallows from the pitcher, covered his mouth, looked around desperately, and spewed into the dry sink.
Mammy took Andrew to the nursery while Cook cleaned up the mess. “Don’t you worry now, honey. Your Daddy ain’t hurt heself, he just drunk too much.”
“I know,” the child said.
* * *
Mammy found Colonel Jack in the darkened drawing room beside a pitcher of cool water and a tumbler of whiskey.
He considered rising but contented himself with a pitiable smile. “Mammy . . .”
“Yes, you done did what you think you done and you ain’t doin’ it no more. As for me, I am called away. I don’t know why I called, but I is. You gonna write me a pass so I get bought by someone won’t do what you done and are gonna do again sure, next time you drunk.”
Colonel Jack Ravanel said more than he wanted to, but each word fell from his lips with a thud. He didn’t want to lose her, but he already had.
Advantageous Connections
ANTONIA SEVIER BURBLED, “How Louisa would have loved this day!”
Solange, who was rarely startled by Antonia’s unique views, felt her armor slip. “She’d be glad to see her husband marry another woman?”
“Oh, do hold still. How can I pin this collar if you keep wriggling like a fish? Of course Louisa would be pleased. You will make her dear Pierre so happy.”
“Wasn’t Louisa terribly jealous?”
“Why, of course she was! But that was when she was alive and could do something about it!” Antonia stepped back for a better look and set a finger to her chin. She tugged a sleeve. “You should have worn the blue tulle. I preferred the blue tulle.”
“Be that as it may, dear Antonia, I didn’t.”
Antonia stuck out her tongue.
“We must make do with what’s on hand: a thirty . . . uh . . . plus widow who is somewhat enceinte but making the best of it.”
Despite her belief that “forty . . . uh . . . plus” would have been nearer the mark, Antonia dutifully clapped hands. “Indeed you are making the best of it, my dear. Oughtn’t we hurry? Everyone will be waiting.”
“Let them wait. They’re enjoying a delicious scandal.” Solange sighed theatrically. “Dear friend, if my wedding only brought out true friends, there’d be me, Pierre, the girls—and you, dear Antonia.”
Antonia Sevier, whose privileged position inside the scandal had opened Savannah’s finest homes, demurred. “Dear Solange, you have so many advantageous connections.”
“Sans doute that is why so many offered help after poor Wesley died. If it hadn’t been for the few dollars I concealed from his creditors, my babes and I would have been destitute.”
Pauline, the elder of those babes, stormed into Solange’s bedroom. “Maman! I cannot find my earbobs.”
“Then,” her mother informed her, “you must do without them.”
“Maman! One of Jameson’s filthy workmen has stolen my earbobs. Our home is destroyed! I will not go without my earbobs!”
“As you prefer.”
“Maman! It is your wedding day!” She eyed her mother’s slightly protuberant belly. “Or ought I say our wedding day?”
Expressionless, Solange slapped her daughter. “Do find your jewelry.” Relenting slightly, she added, “You have such pretty ears, darling. You must set them off.”
Rubbing her cheek, Pauline departed and soon after could be heard downstairs. “Eulalie, if you have misplaced my earbobs, I shall pinch you until you shriek.”
“Ah, children,” Antonia breathed. “Such a blessing. My own infant daughter . . .”
Pauline was correct: the unfinished mansion she’d known was changed beyond recognition. The drawing room was now a lumber pile, and its canvas-covered window openings provided light without a view. One mounted the circular stairs one third of the way with the help of varnished balustrades, the next third were unvarnished, and the upper third and stair rail had not yet been installed. Mr. Jameson had promised renovations would be finished before the wedding. Ah, well. Builders are the most deceitful of men.
Antonia had envied Solange’s maternal remonstrance and sighed dramatically. “Our Mammy indulges little Antoinette’s every whim! But what to do? My daughter is so attached to the creature!”
Solange suggested the fault might lie in her friend’s management. “Mammies provide the affection for which mothers haven’t time or inclination. I dislike my daughters and fully expect to dislike”—she tapped her belly—“Baby Ellen. Men are far more amusing than the consequences of their attentions.”
Mrs. Sevier tapped her friend on the arm. “Tsk!”
“How is my face?” Solange turned it this way and that.
“You make a beautiful bride.”
“Practice, my dear, makes perfect.” She called, “Eulalie, Pauline. Must your mother become an honest woman without you?”
* * *
Pierre Robillard was conservative by inclination and habit. One could set one’s watch by him. Mornings, he arrived at L’Ancien Régime at nine o’clock precisely, when he’d peruse newspapers over coffee and the day’s first cigar. If some mischance delayed his newspapers, he reread old ones. After the affairs of the world had been reduced to ink, Pierre went through his business correspondence and accounts until noon. Supper was noon to two, dinner at seven. Although many Savannahians didn’t sit down at table until 9:00 P.M., Pierre Robillard was abed by then.
So why was this paragon of predictability standing outside St. John the Baptist Church, surrounded by chattering Irish and clutching an enormous orange blossom bouquet? Pierre Robillard didn’t really know how he’d come to be here or who he’d become. Pierre Romeo? He had served with the much lamented Napoleon Bonaparte in the Emperor’s first command! Orange blossoms?
“You be fine, Master,” Nehemiah whispered.
How had he, a mature widower blessedly free from domestic disturbance, with a satisfactory competence and so very many friends, been caught in the net of desire?
Pierre Romeo? Captive of Love? Dear,
dear . . .
O’Haras, O’Hara wives, O’Hara children, and O’Hara grandchildren surrounded the groom, while Pierre’s peers, those (or the grandchildren of those) who’d once groveled for invitations to Robillard balls, hid inside carriages lining Drayton Street. Pierre felt a decided urge to give each varnished conveyance a sharp thump. What a boy he had become!
Solange Evans had reignited fires Pierre’d thought long dead. Louisa—and how he’d loved dear Louisa—had acquiesced to his mild spousal desires; Solange had fanned decidedly unspousal desires to a blaze that consumed him, Pierre blushed to think, sometimes twice in one night. Even on this sacred and very public occasion, Pierre Robillard felt an unseemly stirring in unholy regions. Protestant Pierre Robillard had even consented to be married in a Roman church and raise his children as Catholics. Unthinkable, Pierre thought with a broad smile.
“You be fine, Master,” Nehemiah said. As resplendent in his Master’s discarded frock coat as Pierre was rumpled in his new one, Nehemiah’s solemn phiz insisted on the dignity of the occasion.
* * *
The prophet wrote: “Learn to do well; seek judgment, relieve the oppressed. Judge the fatherless, plead for the widow.”
It took Pierre some time to get around to it.
Wesley Evans was killed too soon after Louisa and Clara’s passing, when Pierre couldn’t help anyone. At Wesley’s funeral, when Solange asked him to repurchase R & E Cotton Factors, the grieving Pierre assured the widow he was content in the import business, where Nehemiah did all the work. Solange didn’t seem to appreciate his little joke.
Then, just as Pierre emerged from mourning, his cousin Philippe died, and, to Pierre’s dismay, his cousin had named him executor.
Although Philippe had introduced his Indian bride to Savannah society, he hadn’t carved out a place for her, and places for an exotic Indian princess were fewer than they’d been. Gold had been discovered in North Georgia, and settlers poured into Muscogee lands, which became towns and counties and plantations. The Indian Princess who’d been regarded with equanimity and curiosity became uninteresting and odd.
Ruth's Journey: The Authorized Novel of Mammy From Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind Page 20