The Rebel Wife (21 page)

The square is so quiet. Before the war, the hotel and square bustled with activity. Teamsters and merchants moved back and forth along Alabama Avenue from the riverfront up to the railroad depot and the Cotton Exchange. On market days, there is a hint of the old activity. Bales of cotton piled onto wagons. Men, black and white, flocking the sidewalks and gathering outside the taverns, talking cotton and weather and politics. Today there is only an odd dray with a cursing teamster making his way from the river to the railroad with no sense of rush. The hot air slows the few men who walk between the bank and the courthouse or the remaining merchants and factors who bother keeping their offices here. They watch the man with his wagon from their second-floor windows, waving tired hands at lazy flies and listening to the echo of the horse’s clip-clop bounce from building to building. There are so many empty storefronts. Broken windows gape at the street. Some are boarded over, with for rent painted across the warped, weathered wood.

On the far side of the square is the burnt-out hulk of the old Union League. The building was put up for the Albion Agricultural and Mechanical Society, some long-dead organization Pa had been a part of. After the war, Eli used it for his Union League meetings. The league was not exactly a political party, not that I ever gathered, but it acted like one, organizing all the freedmen in the county to vote. Who else would they vote for but the Republicans? Back then Judge couldn’t vote. Nor could Buck nor Mike, even. All the black men in the county did, and they had marches around the courthouse and up to the depot. Canvassers for state office would come and step off the trains, groups of men, white and black all mixed together, wearing suits and beaver hats, talking about the responsibilities of freedom. Eli took me to some of the speeches until I insisted on indispositions. It was almost enough to make you laugh, seeing master for slave and slave for master. That all went on until the Knights began harassing them, even in broad daylight. There were many Negro men dead from it. I don’t know how many. Probably no one knows, except maybe the Negroes themselves. I wonder whether Rachel would know if I asked her.

The building caught fire a few years ago. They never found out the cause. No one really tried to find it out. People whispered that the Knights had set the fire. The blaze could have taken down the whole town. There were guns and gunpowder in there, secreted away, that blew up with a terrible noise, shattering windows along the square and rattling people out of their sleep as far north as Black’s Cove. The whole block bears the charred scars of that night, piles of blackened rubble and rock.

Eli seemed tired after that. He stayed in his office more, and out at the mill. He seemed to have thrown up his hands and given up on voting and politics. The Union League didn’t disband, it just blew away like smoke.

Simon pulls the buggy up to the curb and helps me down. “I’ll be near,” he says in a low voice.

I take the bundle of papers under one arm. Narrow stairs lead up to Judge’s office. They are high risers. They make me dizzy even with a hand on the banister. On the second floor an antechamber is divided by a baluster that protects his office door. There is a colored boy asleep by the back windows, one arm hanging off the bench, his fingers nearly grazing the floor. I wait, holding my hat and veil in one hand and the papers against my hip. I bite my lip and knock lightly at the door.

Papers rustle, and Judge’s gruff voice calls out, “Come in.”

The heavy door creaks as it opens. “Judge, I’m so sorry to bother you,” I begin. He sits at a wide desk of dark mahogany and glowers at me over the papers spread out before him, his blue eyes like ice freezing me.

“Come in, Augusta. I’ve been waiting for you.” He waves me to one of the empty chairs in front of him, and I sit obediently. That is Judge. With a wave of his hand, you are rendered speechless. He scribbles on a sheet of paper, dipping his pen into a turtle-shell inkwell as he refers to other sheets scattered across his desk. The windows are open and catch a weak breeze that lifts the corners of the papers. The creak of a wagon passes near. It is coming up from the river, moving toward the depot. I can see the crumbling brick of the old Union League hall, like the engravings of Richmond after Grant burnt it.

Judge lays down his pen and looks at me with thinly disguised irritation. He crosses his white and wrinkled hands on the desk and clears his throat. “How was your visit to the mill?” he asks.

“It was fine,” I say, smiling. “Very fine, thank you. It’s quite an enterprise.”

“I sent Buck to join you. I thought it would be best. No need for you to expose yourself traveling alone all over the county with a nigger coachman.” His mouth curls down, and anger burns from his pale blue eyes. I open my mouth to speak, to defend myself, but there are no words. To argue such a vulgar suggestion would be to give merit to it. To suggest that Buck would somehow be a chaperone for me and Simon makes me shudder.

“No matter. It is all nothing. You spoke to Hunslow, didn’t you? I guessed you would. And was he clear on the situation at the mill? Are those the papers you took?”

“Yes, Buck said you wanted them, so I brought them right away.” I heft the papers from my lap and lay them on a bare corner of Judge’s desk. “They aren’t of any use to me, but Hunslow insisted.”

He grunts and nods, looking at the papers. “So I gather. Is that all of them?”

“Yes, everything. I just wanted Eli’s personal things, but there didn’t seem to be much there. Only an engraving and some candlesticks.”

Judge stares at me. He is digesting what I say, evaluating it coldly. He looks at the ledger in front of him and taps it with his pen. “I’m going through the books now. Just the past six months. To be honest, there are some very serious irregularities in them.”

The office feels so hot. My palms are wet in my black gloves. I wait, seeing no purpose to further talking. Judge will have his say. He picks up his pen and leans forward, poking at the figures, talking more to himself than to me.

“Purchases of raw cotton. Dozens of bales of it each week. Thousands of pounds of it. It shouldn’t be more than ten or twelve cents a pound, but the mill purchased it at fifteen cents a pound. How do you like that? Fifteen cents. Like it was Sea Island cotton! Some of it for as much as seventeen and eighteen cents.”

His face turns pink. He is shaking his head at the paper, furiously stabbing at it. “I asked Hunslow about the purchase, and do you know what he told me? He told me Eli did all the purchasing and kept all the records. Kept pretty tight control of it. Now, what do you think of that, Augusta?”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Judge. I was never very interested in Eli’s affairs. He was so busy all the time.”

“I’ll tell you what to think of it,” Judge resumes impatiently. “The mill has been having trouble turning a profit because the cotton Eli was buying was so expensive. I’m going to go out to some of these farmers, and I’m going to ask them how much they were paid for their cotton, and I will wager you that they were paid no more than eight cents a pound!” Judge slams the pen down on the desk so hard it rattles the tortoise shell. “Eight cents a pound!” he shouts, and I lean against the back of the chair. “Eli has been robbing the mill!” His face is fiery red and his eyes are wide, bulging at me.

“Judge, that’s impossible,” I say. I must say something. “How could Eli rob the mill if he owned it? Why would he?”

Judge turns quickly back to ice. “Because,” he says, staring down at me. “Those precious dividends you are so interested in did not go exclusively to Eli. There are other investors in the mill.”

“I see. Are you an investor?”

His mouth creases in a disgusted frown. “That is neither here nor there,” he hisses at me. He has the glassy gaze of a reptile.

“That is all over, isn’t it? Eli is dead. Can’t the mill become profitable quickly? That’s what you said. That’s what Mr. Hunslow said. So a dividend could be paid in July?”

“There will be no dividends paid from the mill. Not until it becomes clear how much Eli Branson stole and it is paid back to the other shareholders in full. If those are your future dividends, so be it. You won’t see a penny from that mill until the money is repaid.”

“That’s not fair! I didn’t steal the money!”

“You should thank me. If this wound up in court, you’d be lucky to end up with the clothes on your back. It is high time you fall back on your own resources.” He sits rigidly, watching me.

“My own resources? I don’t have anything. You said you would handle it all.”

“That was before you began meddling in my business. What did you want with all these papers?”

“I didn’t want anything. I don’t know why Hunslow gave them to me.”

He waits, his eyes on me. “Augusta, you are my blood kin. I had a great fondness for your mother, and the things I am doing for you, I know she would want me to do. But don’t test me. You stay out of this business. And don’t go meddling into anything on behalf of the Negroes, either. Do you understand?” He points the pen at me.

“No, I don’t understand. What is all this about? I’ve just lost my husband, and you tell me I am destitute and I have to go begging to you for money? How can you be so hard-hearted?” The tears are working their way up. But I cannot cry now, not yet.

“You made your bed when you married Eli. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“You let Mama force me into marrying him!” I feel almost as if I am choking. That I cannot get any words out. “I didn’t want to! And now you want to punish me for his sins? I thought you were kin to me. I thought you were a friend.” I stand up, trembling. I can barely hold myself upright. The tears come. Tears of hot rage from my eyes, not weakness, like Judge would think.

Judge stands and comes to me from behind the desk. “Now, now,” he says in a calmer voice. He reaches a hand out to my shoulder. He feels guilty, that is clear, and I cannot let the advantage go.

“I don’t think I’m asking for anything outrageous. Just a little money so that I can go away for the summer. And with the sickness,” I say, a handkerchief to my face. Yes, the sickness, too. “I saw a woman collapse at the mill, covered in blood. And to be spoken to like this. To be followed—and by Buck! You act as if you hate me!”

Judge lays a cold hand on my arm and I shudder away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I spoke too passionately. I thought you were—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Here, take some money.” He goes to his desk and pulls out some bills. “Here’s fifty dollars. More than enough to get you and your family up to Monte Sano. Why don’t you go up there with Bama? You’ll feel better once you’re away.”

He looks at me as if he is truly concerned. “You’re tired,” he says. “You need to rest. Why don’t you go home, and I’ll have Greer come to see you.”

“Ask Dr. Greer, Judge,” I say. “Ask him what it was like with Eli.”

“I know all that already. I don’t need to ask Greer anything. You are beginning to get me worried. I’ll send Buck over to keep you company. I want you to be good friends now. The past is the past.”

“No, I don’t want to see him. I need to get away from Albion. To get out of that house.”

He walks me out of his office to the narrow stairs. The colored boy is sitting up on the bench, rubbing his eyes. He watches as Judge takes hold of me and walks me down each step. We are pressed together, shoulder to shoulder. I gather my skirts so I do not trip on them.

“There is nothing wrong with the house. Or you. Or Henry. Or the servants. You are all fine. We will get you up to Monte Sano if that will make you happy. As soon as things are worked out down here, Buck and I will join you. Would you like that?”

We reach the bottom step. He leads me outside into the heat and light.

“Yes. I think Monte Sano would be the right place for now.”

“That’s right,” he says, keeping his hand on my arm. “Now go on home, and I’ll send Greer over to you to give you something to calm your nerves.”

The sunlight is almost blinding. Simon stands at the curb, waiting with the carriage reins in his hands. Judge gives a start when he sees Simon, then recovers himself. He hands me into the buggy without acknowledging Simon, even though Simon nods to him and says, “Sir.” I lean back against the seat, fanning myself, watching Simon as he mounts the horse.

“Get some rest, Augusta,” Judge says through the slats of the carriage bonnet. “You’ll be up in Monte Sano before you know it.” The horse starts and the carriage pulls away. We round the square. I don’t need to look back. He will already be gone up to his office, scribbling notes for his Negro runner to take to the doctor and Bama. To go to Monte Sano. When we all know there is far more than fifty dollars somewhere.

Simon turns the buggy onto Greene Street, and trees reach their long arms over us.

“I’ll take the carriage to the back, ma’am?” Simon has read my mind. After the ugly things Judge said, I should avoid exposing myself.

“Yes, Simon. Please.” We turn up Elm Street and then onto the narrow lane that divides the homes facing Pulaski Street from the ones on Greene Street. The dirt path leads to outbuildings—carriage houses and stables and servants’ quarters that mostly show neglect, with weatherworn clapboard where the paint has peeled, broken windows and shutters, or loose shingles. The gardens aren’t so much gardens as weed beds, untended flowers and hedges choked out by loosestrife and chickweed. We turn in to the back of my house, and Simon stops the carriage before the open stable doors. Big John sits in the shadows of the stable, polishing harnesses. He salutes us as Simon climbs down from the horse.

“Simon?” I say. He holds my hand as I step down onto the grass.

“Yes, ma’am?” His voice is quiet.

“He knows. He suspected something. I don’t think he suspects anymore, but he did.” The harness John is polishing makes an irregular jingling noise that sounds like pennies in a can.

Simon’s eyes dart to John and back. “What did he say?” Simon whispers. John can’t possibly hear us.

“He said I should fall back on my own resources. He thinks—or he thought—I have money hidden away. Do you think he meant the package?”