Gale smiled sweetly at Delia and Jason, as if to say, “He doesn’t really mean that.”
Delia fought the impulse to leap forward and plunge this useless ham-cutting knife into Gale’s pale breast.
“It seems to me,” Jason offered judiciously, “that using Indians as bound slaves would tend to provoke the very attack you might wish to avoid.”
Phil seemed pleased. “Why, that’s what I—that’s what I’ve tried to tell Mr. Harris.”
“Oh, Phil, no, you haven’t!” Gale cried. “I told you and I told you to go along with the majority.”
He ignored her this once. “But Mr. Harris is gunning for a showdown. That’s why he wants to persuade Jackson to bring the militia down here, go up into those mountains, and wipe out the Indian village.”
Delia dropped the slippery silver fork.
“But some of us think the territory is big enough for everyone. If the new Chickasaw chief will make an effort to show peace, why, I think we can have peace.”
“I don’t think Andy Jackson will rush down here,” Jason said, quite decisively.
“You know his mind?” Gale asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
“I know him,” Jason said. “That is, my father does.”
Delia, already startled by the talk of wiping out her ancestral village, now shot an almost fearful glance at Jason. His people knew the terrible, Chula Harjo? They could touch and see and know and converse with him, as some stupid innocent might drink with the devil?
“Jackson can be brutal, and he is certainly decisive,” Jason was explaining, “but he is careful as well. With each year his chances for national power increase. And as those chances mount, he is less and less likely to undertake a sporadic or local conflict. The provocation would have to be great, and the justification for retaliation would have to be clear enough to explain to the liberal reformers back east. They have begun now to champion the fate of the Indian.”
“And we may die, out here in the West, at the hands of the Indian,” Gale said.
As if in counterpoint Bright Badger whimpered in his corner.
“That’s enough—I’m feeding him,” Phil declared, and this time Gale did not offer resistance. She was too busy, anyway, being impressed that Jason knew General Jackson.
“Tomorrow,” she told Delia, “I’ll take you around to all the ladies. Once you know who’s important and who’s not, it’ll be easier for you here.”
Supper eventually reached its conclusion, with only one further moment of danger. Gale, leaning forward over her dessert, a serving of corn cake, asked Delia, “And where were you educated, dear?”
A flicker of alarm showed in Jason’s eyes, and he made as if to speak for her. But Delia had taken her measure of this Gale, at least for the moment.
“At the school of Talking Rock,” she said quietly, with perfect pretense of assurance. “It is a very well-known school in Georgia.”
“Really?” cried Gale. “Of course! I know it well.”
Not much later they sought their separate rooms in the loft, and Jason managed a few words with her.
“We must not stay here too long,” he said. “I smell trouble. The man is not unintelligent, and he seems decent enough—or he might be if he had the chance. But the woman, Gale, is a born troublemaker. If she makes it appear to the townspeople that we are her fast friends, we shall be isolated.”
He was whispering. Delia nodded. It was dark, and he leaned forward, waiting for her to speak. Their foreheads touched, just for a moment, just briefly. But a telling shock passed through them both, and although they did not know it yet—it was something to be considered later, as they waited for sleep—they had, in a short time, become more than two conspirators plotting their futures in the darkness. He is not Torch, Delia would think, but he is a man indeed. I wonder…no, he will wish a girl like himself, whose flaxen hair shines in the sun…
She is lovely, and smart, thought Jason, in his turn, but her heart will be long in mourning for her chieftain lover.
Such thoughts were the companions of imminent sleep. Before the two parted, Delia had another worry.
“There is so little room,” she complained. “I cannot move.”
“In your part of the loft?”
“Yes.”
He looked puzzled. “I know it is a small area, but mine is adequate. And I believe they are the same size, your space and mine.”
“It would be well, if only the soft table were not present.”
“The—what soft table?”
“I have no room to sleep,” she whispered. “The space upon the floor is insufficient.”
There was a long silence, and then he seemed to be choking. It was a moment before she realized that he was trying to hold back his laughter. What was so amusing? For a moment she felt ignorant and offended.
“That is a bed,” he informed her. “One sleeps upon it, not beside it on the floor.”
“For sleeping?” she wondered.
“Some of the time,” Jason said, with an inflection she did not immediately interpret.
Chapter VII
The first few days in Harrisville were filled with constant activity, with so many new things to learn. And yet it seemed to Delia, as she first observed the activity and then began to participate in it, that the routine of these white jackals in their strange boxy village of stone and wood was not so greatly different from the daily exercises and observances of her own tribe, separated from her now by mountains, and much more.
Rupert Harris packed saddlebags, loaded his rifle, stuck a knife and a big pistol in his belt. Then the villagers gathered around as he mounted his horse and rode off to visit Chula Harjo, and the scene was quite like that among the Chickasaw when braves set forth upon a war party, or when the chieftain left to hold counsel with warriors of another tribe. Delia put it into perspective. Harris was a small chief, Jacksa a greater one. And Monroe, far away in Washington, was the greatest of all. But, as among her people, an old chief could depart and a new one take his place. Jacksa could become the great chief, so—her mind leaped ahead of her—so why could Jason not become chief here?
Maybe Harris would never come back. Maybe a mountain lion would leap from a tree, to rend and devour his pale, stinking flesh. Or perhaps a Choctaw would send an arrow into his hard heart. Or a crocodile might be sleeping on the river bank when Harris sought to ford a stream…
Among the villagers, occupations, relationships, feuds and alliances, stresses and strains, grew more and more obvious. Jason went out into the country, to inspect parcels of land for the plantation he intended to mold, by effort of will as well as of muscle, from the surrounding wilderness. “Ten thousand years have made the earth rich,” he told her. “It will grow cotton plants ten feet tall.” While he was away from the village, she helped perform whatever tasks were necessary. At Gale’s house she learned how to replace the soft covering of the bed after she awoke in the morning, and how to position what Gale called the silver on the table at which they ate. She also learned how to listen to Gale without saying anything of importance herself, because she had grasped quickly that anything she told the other girl was quickly repeated to everyone else who would listen, yet always with strange twists and turnings. At dinner that first night, to spare herself an inquisition, she had made it appear that Talking Rock had been a school, and a distinguished one at that, rather than the deadly place in memory where her parents had been killed by Chula. Gale had clearly never heard of the school at Talking Rock, but she had spoken of its renown to the women of the village.
“Of course I don’t know much,” said Mrs. Hawkes, the blacksmith’s wife, when the women were at work hoeing the garden. “I haven’t had a fine education.”
And she gave Delia a stare that was like the shaft of an arrow with snake venom on the point.
Delia did not understand at first. Instead she was chagrined, and accused herself of not trying hard enough to contribute to the efforts of the community. Then, when
they stopped working and took lunch, Mrs. Randall, a farmer’s wife, handed the water dipper to Delia before anyone else had drunk. “I suppose you’re used to being first,” she said with an unsettling smile, “so we’d best coddle you.”
Immediately Delia knew that her own instincts had been correct, knew Jason had been right. Whatever it was in the awful soul of Gale Foley, she was born to scatter bitterness and strife upon the earth. From her mouth poured twisted words, like evil seeds, and they fell always upon the ever-present human soil of suspicion. Gale was at once pretending to be Delia’s friend, then misrepresenting everything she said, thus giving the other women the idea that Delia thought herself better than all the rest. Which, in fact, was Gale’s unfounded opinion of herself!
Humiliated, burning with anger, Delia took the dipper from Mrs. Randall. “I thank you,” she said, “and I drink to the kindness of your offer.” She drank. “But it is not necessary. I am in no way used to coming first.”
There was among the rest of the women, Gale included, a subdued, satirical titter. Delia knew from experience among her own people—and certainly from her disastrous attempts to engage Little Swallow in open conflict—that shrewdness and discretion must serve her. Open anger would be the doom Gale seemed so eagerly to be awaiting. Why? Delia didn’t know. Perhaps it was simply the way Gale was. Or maybe it was the way Delia looked, or acted, or spoke. There did not need to be a reason. Gale had to be countered, and quickly, in a manner all would understand. This was a thing in which Jason, gone into the country, could not help her.
So Delia drew upon her own past, her own strength.
All during lunch she did not speak, though the hot blood of her heritage surged often when she heard Gale say, “Yes, Mr. Randolph says he knows Andy Jackson, but we shall see!” and “Sure, everyone could come into Harrisville high and mighty if they pretended to be a Virginia Randolph. Virginia! Hah! Maybe he can spell the letters if he thinks about it long enough!” and “You all know I tell the truth, and this one truth is that we’d better be very careful whom we befriend around here!”
That made it seem almost as if Delia were being accused of thievery or some wrongdoing within Gale’s own “inn.” Or did it have something to do with Jason Randolph, and the two of them sleeping upstairs?
Yes! That must be it! Gale had said so many other things that she must have made insinuations about sex.
One part of Delia’s nature pressed her to respond, but then—based upon her hard-earned wisdom from clashes with Little Swallow—she saw that such a response would be deadly, the end of everything before anything had begun.
In the moment of restraint that she forced upon herself, Delia saw, read, knew, divined, the feelings of the women. They knew in their hearts, whether or not they would fully admit it to themselves, exactly what Gale was and what she was doing to Delia. But they did nothing, because they were afraid Gale would, out of her bottomless supply of snide rancor, do the same to them! So Delia waited until lunch was over, rose with the rest of them, and calmly picked up her hoe.
The land, rich as it was, had taken each planted seed—corn, beans, peas, squash, turnips, beets, potatoes—and transformed it into rich and flowing fruit. But, curse of lost Eden, weeds grew, thrived, ran riot among the flowering plants. Between the rows of vegetables curled carpets of weeds that must be hacked to death by brutal labor if the harvest were to be good. After an hour of such chopping, the muscles of even the hardiest person cried for relief. To advance fifty feet in one hour, hoeing and chopping, was a feat for the best of these women, and some of them were very tough. They had not left their homes in the little white villages of New England, they had not left the big red barns, the rich red earth of Pennsylvania and the sweet old estates along the Tidewater, they had not left the raw, rugged life of Georgia and the Carolinas because they were not strong, or followed venturous husbands because they were not bold! No, these were hard, strong people, brave as any, and Delia knew it. Thus it was doubly revolting that a simpering wisp of a girl, with poison on her brain and tongue, should cow them so.
Delia began to hoe. In an hour she was twenty feet in front of the rest. In two hours she had completed one row and started another. In three hours, not stopping, slacking, or even appearing to be making great effort, she was midway up her third row, while the others paused for water, barely beginning their second rows.
They had at first tried to keep up with Delia, and thus had further outpaced Gale, who could barely keep up with them on normal days. But this day was far from normal. Gasping with thirst, the women did not want to stop, lest Delia, whom they had at lunch conspired to defame, take the revenge of satisfaction. But how did she do it? Where did she get the strength, the endurance? Was there something in her heritage, her fiber, just as strong as in their own, or stronger?
Finally Mrs. Randall called out, “Delia—rest—water.”
But Delia went on hoeing and did not appear to hear. The women were discomfited. This beautiful young slip of a girl was made of iron. Taking no water in the heat of the Tennessee afternoon was hard enough, but hoeing in the heat was even worse.
“She is just trying to show off!” gasped Gale, coming up from way behind. She received no answer from the other women. The dipper reached her last. She gulped pathetically and said nothing, though hatred burned in her eyes.
“Send that boy of yours,” said Mrs. Randall after a time. “You, Gale, send that pathetic little redskin you call a servant. Have him take water out to Delia.” Mrs. Randall glanced at the others. “I think Delia’s tried to show us something here today—and, by God, I think she’s done it!”
Mrs. Randall, nearly six feet tall and at least a hundred and eighty pounds, had borne six children, lost three more, outlived two husbands, more than kept up with a third, and had once, alone, managed a plantation in Mississippi. She knew well what she could do, but she knew that she could not do what Delia was doing out there under the sun this day.
“That is a woman!” she told the others with a kind of contained pride. “I don’t care if she went to school with Marie Antoinette.”
“Who’s Marie Antoin—?” gulped Gale Foley, before she stopped. But before she stopped, she realized how totally she had been outdone.
The vicious, catty, mendacious chatter she had practiced so long, to give herself the appearance of superiority—well, she could no longer have recourse to it now. Talk and babble, however bitter, can never approach the proof of hard work and accomplishment. Gale had to learn the hard way.
And there out in the field was Delia, still without water, still chopping unceasingly, apparently without great effort.
The women tittered and snickered, but this time Delia was not the object.
“Boy!” gasped Gale, all but sagging down along a row of gloriously thriving cane stalks. “Boy!” she called to Bright Badger. “Bring that woman water. The one out there.” She pointed to Delia. “Out there. She looks like you, you beggar. She looks like an Indian.”
She did not plan to say it. She did not, then, consciously know it.
Delia paused and leaned on her hoe, looking down at the child. His eyes were on the ground. He did not look at her. His tongue was lolling. Gale had not given him water!
“Drink first,” she told him in the Chickasaw tongue, when he proffered the dipper. “And do not be afraid to look at me.”
Bright Badger raised his eyes, and remembered the fateful day in the forest by the berry bushes. He fought the tears, he was still a child, and no brave. Yet he had borne up well enough, here in these terrible surroundings. He had nothing to be ashamed of, much to be proud of, and she told him so. “Now drink.”
He drank, then passed the dipper to her. She sipped, waited, sipped again. The other women were watching in the distance, but with interest and not animosity. Delia sensed that she had accomplished much this afternoon.
Then she spoke quickly to the boy. “If you left here, could you find your way back through the mountains to our hom
e?”
She felt a thrill, saying “our home.”
He answered immediately. “Just let me leave here, and that is enough.”
“But you are young. I would not want—”
“Death is better than this. To the south I see the twin mountains. In our village I looked north and saw them. Do not worry for me. Get me away, and I will know in which direction to go.”
“It may take some time.”
“The Red Beard is gone now, for some days. No other time will be better.”
“But if they catch you on the run, they will kill you.”
“What matters? If I remain, I will die, too, and my heart first.”
Delia looked at him. He stood there bleakly, close to defeat, the marks of beatings all about him. Some day Gale would pay for that, too.
“Can you untie the knot by which you are bound in the corner?”
“I have tried. My fingers are not strong enough.”
“If you had a knife?”
“Those are kept where I cannot reach.”
“Boy! Boy!” Gale was calling—afraid, perhaps, that Delia and Bright Badger were talking about her.
“If you had a knife to cut the rope?”
“Then I could do it, but the bar on the door is too heavy for me.”
Delia thought of the inside of the Foleys’ house. A thick oaken beam, set in iron brackets on the door frame, secured the house during the night. It was true. Bright Badger would not be able to lift it by himself. He would not even be able to reach it without standing on something. So he would need help.
But the Foleys slept in a small back room downstairs. If Delia came down from the loft to help Bright Badger, how could she do so without making a colossal noise on the rickety, creaking stairs?
“I will think about it,” she told him.
“Boy! Get over here at once!”
“Do not lose heart and do not betray the fact that we know each other.”
“I shall not.”
With that, he ran off, and Delia once again picked up her hoe, her mind working furiously on the problem of Bright Badger’s escape.
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