“Thank you,” he said finally, when he had command of his voice. “Thank you all! Curfew is lifted tonight. You may celebrate as late as you wish.” Canning was turning to go when Jesse spoke up again. “The folk is axing if you gentlemens would join us for the shout,” he said. I looked at Canning. To my pleasure and relief he gave a slight smile and nodded. I answered with genuine enthusiasm. “I would be honored.”
I did not know then that the night would transport me across the seas to some jungle clearing in western Africa, and back into a time beyond the reach of my own past, my own God. I know that what I saw and heard and felt in my body was stirring beyond measure. Yet try as I may, I cannot convey the fullness of the thing in words.
They had brought out a pair of rickety stools for Canning and me to sit upon. As the sun set, streaking the sky all golden and scarlet and indigo, they lit their bonfire and gathered in a wide circle. Someone picked up a pair of old broomsticks and began beating them, one upon the other, in an accelerating, complex rhythm. One by one, the people took up this rhythm in their stomping feet, and began to shuffle around the circle. A voice, Jesse’s voice at first, then others, rose to lead the shout, and the crowd answered with the deep rumble of an assenting hum. It was, truly, a shout: ragged, raw, almost tuneless, as unlike as could be to their sweet-toned singing. There were phrases, some repeated many times. Hands began clapping in yet another fast rhythm, quite counter to the feet, and counter also to the fast-beating broomsticks. I did not know how they managed this-children, old people, and young, all of them in unison. I could not tell all the words that were shouted, but these few I caught:“By myself... by myself... tonight ... you know I got to go ... chariot comin’ down... oh my Lord... oh when when when ...”
Something about the intense, rapid rhythm began to work inside me, making my heart seem to beat faster. I became excited, thrilled, so that I was on my feet and swaying rapidly without even the thought that I had meant to rise registering in my mind. My mind became hollow as a gourd, emptied of all thought. Somehow, I have no idea how, I found myself in the circle, shuffling, clapping, adding my voice to the other raised voices until my throat was raw. I have no idea how much time passed this way, but when I finally fell out of the dance, soaked in my own sweat, my muscles spent and trembling, I looked around for Canning. His stool was empty and he was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER TEN
Saddleback Fever
I woke, as usual, to the clanging of the work bell, but on this day the sound landed like a blow against my eardrums. I opened my eyes, and even the wan half-light through the cracks of the storehouse boards seemed too bright to bear. When I tried to turn over, away from the stabbing fingers of dawn, my muscles rebelled at the effort and I found I could not lift even my shoulder.
I felt foolish. The sinews of a forty-year-old chaplain clearly weren’t made for all-night revels devised by the fit bodies of field hands. I began an inventory of the damage done. Head, aching. Eyes, smarting. Throat, raw as a rasp. I gathered my will and commanded my body to rise, but when I moved my joints it was as if the bone scraped in sockets filled with ground glass. And I was shivering, when usually I woke misted with sweat from the heat of these midsummer nights. There was nothing for it, I thought, grasping my coverlet about me with aching fingers. I would have to rest just a little longer until I could gather my strength ...
I lay there, slipping in and out of an uncomfortable doze, until the shivering turned to a fever that rose so high it sent me delirious. For the details of what happened next I am obliged to the accounts of others.
When Canning heard I had not presented myself at the schoolroom, he laughed, thinking I was sleeping off nothing worse than my own foolish excess, and came to seek me out to make some jests at my expense. He was, according to all accounts, in unaccustomed high spirits, having calculated that the extra bales of fine cotton staple would be sufficient to cover his indebtedness. Whatever the fate of the crop now in the field, he no longer faced the prospect of slinking away from Oak Landing at the end of his lease financially ruined. Now he could look at the new crop, growing robustly, with equanimity. Whatever happened, it could not break him, and it might yet send him home to Illinois a wealthy young man. I saw in him, for the , first time, an image of myself as the young peddler, returning home from the South in triumph.
He came to the storeroom at noontime, on his way from the fields to the house, and flung open the door with a hearty hello, deliberately letting the bright noon sunlight fall full across my face. When it revealed my state, the jests died on his lips. He strode quickly to my side, dropped to his haunches, and laid a hand on my brow, snatching it back immediately as if my flesh scorched him. “Bring cold water !” he cried. “Saddle Aster! Mr. March is most gravely ill!”
Instructing Ptolemy to bathe me and enlisting several children to wield fans that might help bring down my fever, Canning galloped all the way to Waterbank and demanded to see the Union medic. When told that the gentleman was not at home to him, he barged into the officers’ mess and insisted that the surgeon attend me, arguing that as I still held the rank of captain in the Union army, he, as army surgeon, was responsible for my care. But the doctor apparently had as little time for “nigger lovers” as he had for the oppressed race itself, and would not budge from his repast. He opined that I had contracted river ague, the commonest of the region’s summer afflictions. He sent Canning off with a bottle of turpentine and instructions to administer it in small doses. When Canning asked for how long, the medic shrugged. “Till he improves-or until it kills him,” and turned back to his plate.
Apparently, the only effect of the turpentine was to induce violent vomiting. I lay delirious, moaning and thrashing, for two days, but during the second night the fever broke and I fell into a healthy sleep. When I woke the next morning, the child Cilla was crouched, asleep, in the corner. She woke with a start, and then a radiant smile, when I sat up on my pallet. It seemed that a roster of my pupils had sat watch over me, placing quilts when I had the chills, bathing me with tansy-infused well water when the fever rose. When I adjusted my coverlid, a sprinkling of small round seeds rolled to the floor. “They’s mustard seed,” she said, her eyes wide. “Zannah done scattered them on you, every night, to keep the witch hag ’way.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “She wait till Marse Canning leave you, late at night, for the marse doan hold with notions ’bout witches.” Jesse confirmed that Canning had spent many hours at my bedside. I received this news, and its evidence of concerned affection, with the easy tears of the convalescent, embarrassing myself and Jesse both.
That first day, I reveled in my recovery, feeling fortunate that the ague, if fierce, had been but brief. Jesse had been obliged to carry me, so enfeebled was I, to a much-mended wicker chaise placed on the shady, shuttered loggia. I sat there, enjoying the simple pleasure of wellness, and the leisure of scratching out a few lines home.
You must not think, my dearest dear, that because my letters are not so frequent these last weeks, my thoughts of you are any less than constant. You are before me the first moment I awaken and the last before I sleep, and often you, or one or other of my little women, or all in merry concert, visit in my dreams. I am wearing the set of shirts made by the dear hands of our Meg, and each time I put them on I see the fine white hands that toiled so in their making, and if I could, I would place a tender kiss on each dear finger.
Will you think less of me if I lay the blame for my slowing correspondence not on any large matter of war or policy, but indeed upon a very small excuse?
I speak of the mosquito, which is become so horrible a plague here that I cannot generally write anything at all in the evening, when I have the leisure and was used to do it. I tried getting under the net I had fixed to the rafters to protect my sleep from these marauding friends, but my candle set the thing aflame and you would have laughed to see me dancing a jig as I tried to stomp it out. You could say that my words to you on that occasion were warm one
s!
So, while I have the rare pleasure of a daylight hour at my disposal, I want to give you an idea of what I see as I walk the fields here now. The cotton has come into full blossom. The shy flowers open in the night, a delicate creamy white that seems to emit its own light, or reflect the moon glow. The blooms are glorious through the morning, but by noon the relentless heat has proved too much,, and the petals begin to wilt and decay. By the following day they are russet and by afternoon have fallen, leaving the tiny nugget they call a “form, which ripens to the boll. Very soon-too soon, it seems to those whose toil it is-we must begin to organize the gangs for picking. The extreme lateness of the prior crop has left the people with too little respite, I fear; they are not ready to be plunged so soon into another round of such relentless work. And we have many ill of ague. It is the season for it.
Since I was recovered, I saw no reason to alarm her with the news that I had been among its victims. Indeed, I was thinking whether to strike out the last two sentences, when a clattering on the drive distracted me. I raised a hand to greet Canning, who had taken the cart into Waterbank to fetch some few supplies—the poor imitation of coffee and some rusty bread and, for his sole consumption, the pickled beef he referred to disparagingly as “salt horse,” and complained of, but said he must have, since there was only so much pork meat a Northern man could stomach.
Canning had been in fine spirits when he left, jubilant about my recovery and newly optimistic about the world at large. So I was surprised to see his face pinched again into its former frowns as he limped up the drive, kicking angrily at the weeds grown up between the gravel stones.
“Ethan, whatever is the matter?” I asked.
He pulled off his riding gloves and slapped them furiously against his palm. “They are drawing down the garrison at Waterbank. By month’s end the Union presence will be reduced to company strength.”
“But ... are you sure of this? Perhaps it is only a feint to mislead the rebels?”
He shook his head. “I am perfectly sure,” he replied.
“But what madness is this? There was little enough cavalry there already. We are not the only lessees in the area. What is the decision based upon?”
“What do you think it is based upon?” he snapped. “It is based upon the fact that this war is being lost, because Lincoln’s generals are the most incompetent ever to lead an army on the field of battle!” Ptolemy had appeared at his side with a pitcher of water. Canning took the proffered cup with such an impatient gesture that the handle slid from his grip and the cup shattered on the bricks at his feet. He turned, about to abuse the stooped old man. I rose, with dif ficulty, and moved between them.
“Ethan,” I said softly. “Please contain yourself I know this is a disappointment ...”
“Disappointment! It is utter ruin! How long do you think before the irregulars-or even the regular Confederate forces-set about retaking every inch of this rich country? They will know how to value it, I assure you, even if our side does not ...”
Ptolemy was on his knees, picking up the broken shards. I could see his hands trembling beyond his usual palsy. I motioned my head toward him and raised a hand to my lips. The last thing we wanted to provoke was a general panic in the quarters. Canning caught my meaning. “Of course,” he said quickly, “Union forces dominate the river. The Confederates will not dare to attack a property like this one, in range of the gunboats, whether Waterbank is fully garrisoned or no.”
I assented warmly. “So there’s really no cause for concern,” I said. Ptolemy got up, creakily, the pieces of broken pottery rattling in his hands. He turned toward the house, but not before I saw his face, which was thatched with worry.
“Of course, I went to see the colonel, who counseled that we put an overseer in place here, rent premises in Waterbank, near the barracks of the rump force, and take counsel regarding enemy movements before hazarding a brief daily visit.” .
“Well,” I said, “the risk of a raid is higher by night, and I am sure a man like Zeke, who you say has ties to the guerrillas, might be a safe choice for overseer—”
He cut me off angrily. “How long do you think these people would keep their hand to the plow under the direction of one of their own? How long do you think before my mules ‘wandered off’ to be profitably sold, or the hogs turned themselves into hams and vanished down greedy gullets? No; it is folly to leave, and yet imprudent to stay. You, however, may do as you like. Perhaps you can continue to scold these people into a little learning from a safe distance ; I cannot run a plantation that way.”
“Ethan,” I said quietly. “Do not think I am any less committed to my crop than you are to yours. I am working for a harvest, too; did you not know? In any case, if you think I would abandon you here, to face danger alone, you have not come to know me very well these past months ...”
Once again, my labile convalescent emotions betrayed me, and my voice broke. Canning’s face softened. He gave me his arm. “You shouldn’t be standing,” he said, easing me back into the wicker chair, which groaned as I sat. “Has Ptolemy brought you anything to eat?” he asked. “You must get your strength back. I shall have him bring you something from our delicious ‘fresh’ supplies,” he said, and managed a wan grin.
He limped off into the house. I listened to him giving orders for the cart to be unloaded. I turned to my lap desk, but I was too distracted to continue my letter in any meaningful way. The end of the month, Canning had said. Two weeks. And then we should see.
I was back in my schoolroom for an hour or two the following day, although I was obliged to ride a mule to and from, and to sit throughout the giving of lessons. My pupils were touchingly glad to see me back, and even more anxious than usual to do their best. At the end of the class, Jesse helped me onto the mule. One of the children had been instructed to walk with me, to bring the mule back to the fields when I had done with it, and a cluster of them was arguing over who should have this privilege, when Jesse shooed them all away and took the bridle himself When we were a little distance from the others, he spoke in a low voice.
“I just wanted to ax you, is you and Marse Canning fixing to stay here ... ?”
“Well of course, Jesse; why ever not?”
He looked at me then, his dark eyes very bloodshot. “I think you knows why not.” I did not reply, and we plodded on. The heat of late afternoon closed in around us like an animate thing; you could feel it on your skin, warm and moist, like a great beast panting. The air was so dense it seemed to require a huge effort even to inhale it. It lay thick in the lungs and seemed to give no refreshment. The thrumming and buzz of insects filled the silence between us. When I continued to say nothing, Jesse mumbled, his eyes on the ground. “If they come, they’ll kill you, and that a fact.”
“Is it?” I said. “I think that’s a rather extreme assumption. First, the Union forces in Waterbank are not withdrawing completely. Second, the Union presence on the river is strong. And third, Mr. Canning and I are noncombatants-you know what that means?”
“Means you don’t got no gun to ’tect youself.”
“Jesse, the Confederate soldier is a hard and desperate fighter, but he is not a savage. There are rules, even in war .. :”
He stopped then arid gave me a look of the kind I had become all too familiar with in the course of my life, a look that combined pity and exasperation. “Marse, them men round here what hides out in the woods-they’s thicker’n fleas in there—they ain’t even rightly in the army, and they sure enough don’t follow no rules. The folk in the quarters, them ones what ain’t from here-the folk what got sent on up here from that camp at Darwin’s Bend-they’s scared. For us who’s from Oak Landing, we knows those boys and they knows us, and likely they’ll just burn the cotton and let us be if we says we ain’t a-plantin’ no mo’. But those that ain’t from here, well, some’s talking ’bout running off from here ’fore they get sold on off someplace:’
I did not know what to say to this. I had no wa
y of knowing whether such fears were well founded. I could hardly counsel people to abandon Mr. Canning, but neither could I exhort them to stay if they were right to think their liberty imperiled. We had reached the garden. The mule brushed against an overhanging branch of crape myrtle and loosed a cascade of pink blossoms upon us. I managed to dismount unassisted and handed the bridle to Jesse.
He turned to take the mule back to the fields. The shaggy petals lay in his hair like a garland. He looked back over his shoulder and regarded me sadly. “I was you, Marse March, I’d git on aways from here, and take the young marse wit you.”
I meant to raise the subject with Canning over dinner, but he came in looking gray and rubbing at his chest as if it pained him. Saying he had no appetite, he went to lie down. I ate my hominy and some salat leaves I’d plucked for myself, and went off to my bed still troubled by Jesse’s words. That night I began a little project: scooping out a tunnel in the pile of cotton seed that stood mounded upon the storeroom floor, and shoring it up with filled sacks. Eventually, I had scraped out a retreat sufficient to hide me and my few effects. I placed a canteen full of water there, and a quantity of hard-tack. I masked the small entryway with an empty molasses barrel. From the inside, I could shift a single sack, and a fall of loose seed in front of it would mask the way in entirely. If the guerrillas did come, I could hunt my hole.
As I mounted the mule to go to my classroom the next day, Canning, who was usually in the fields by that hour, limped up to me, his face as creased as a rumpled bed. He looked as though he hadn’t slept. “I’m going into Waterbank again,” he said. “I have to try and hire some kind of guards—perhaps I can get the mulattos who were working at the post-I can’t have the Negroes getting it into their heads to run off.”
“Ethan! You cannot be serious!”