Overview

Stanton Roget, a widowed northern businessman, gets more than he bargained for when he inherits a New Orleans plantation on the eve of the Civil War. After being drafted into the Confederate army and escaping, only the love of a beautiful slave can sustain him as he finds his way home. (75,000 words)

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Excerpt

Chapter One

A Curious Request

The cemetary, as always in the late, waning afternoon, was still and quiet. I stood alone among the vast hordes of the dead. But of all the alabaster monuments, in row upon row, as far as my eyes could see, I doted only over one—that of my dear wife Madeline, who had passed from this world a year before, whilst it was yet gripped in Spring, as a flower, at once fair blooming, quickly perishes. It was the day before departing on the journey this narrative will relate, and I went to bid farewell to the light that illumined my life for twelve happy years, but which was cruelly extinguished, leaving me in a contemptible darkness.

Her mound was already well covered with grass. I had witnessed the growth progress from a few blades out of the brown loose earth to a lush carpet. What an irony that though my wife lay underneath, the top, for all to see, grew verdant with life. That grass was a part of her: the final reminder of her bodily existence, for I could point to it and say—See! Her very flesh is the nourishment and fodder of it;—but Whitman stated it better than I.

As I stood meditating on the forgone joys of our life together, and the sorrows of my present life alone, the sudden grinding of wheels upon gravel startled me. I turned to see a cart stop not far from me. The old driver removed his cap and waved it in the air calling : "Hullo, sir!—we're closing now! Do you hear, sir?" I lingered for another moment with my love, then bade farewell and followed the path out through the great iron gates. It did not take long to hire a cab, and took my seat therein across from a man who felt obliged to move his walking stick off the seat I came to utilize. We exchanged greetings, but I, not desirous of further converse, turned to look out of the window. The man, presently withdrew a folded newspaper from under his arm and splayed it on his lap.

"I'd say a few more weeks now," said he, "and we'll have an all out war."

I glanced at the newspaper. There was an item about President Lincoln proclaiming a blockade of southern ports.

"They'll take the yard in Norfolk," he continued. "I know they will. When that happens, all hell will break loose. First Sumter, and then all hell."

Without another word, for which I was thankful, the man folded his paper, tapped his walking stick against the ceiling of the cab, and left me alone to continue home.

Not far from the village, at about two miles, rested a little valley surrounded by high hills. I possessed a modest home in its quietest corner, nestled among tall walnut-trees. Only two lights shone within as I reached it: one in the kitchen and other in the dining room, — both windows bright and beckoning against the darkness descending on the valley.

The front door opened ere I reached it, and my small daughter ran out to embrace me as she was wont to do at my late arrivals. I walked into the house with her sitting on my neck, and with my brows covered by her miniscule hands. My old negro Frederick came to remove my little bundle.

"She'll catch her death in cold, someday, I tell her," he said in his peculiar mumbling fashion, due to lack of teeth, as he placed Andrea on her seat at the dinner table.

"How are you, Frederick?" I inquired.

"Well, sir; and yourself?" asked he, helping me with my coat.

"Well and thankful," said I.

"Hello, Poppa," said my eldest daughter Madeline from her place at the table. I went to her and kissd her, holding her tender face in my hands as I admired, not for the first time, the resemblance to her namesake.

"Set yourself, sir, and I'll get supper," said Frederick. He left and returned from the kitchen with several trays somehow balanced in his thin arms. I sat between my daughters, they at each end of the table, and assisted him in setting the table.

"Are you truly going to-morrow, Poppa?" asked Madeline.

"Yes: early tomorrow."

"How long will you be?"

"Several weeks, I am sure.

"Will you miss us?"

"Very much."

"You think Grampie will be well?"

"I hope so," said I, but not without the proper amount of empathy. My daughters had never seen their grandfather in the flesh; even I—his son—had seen him last while still a boy, when he separated from my mother and headed South to make his fortune. And yet, I had strangely cultivated in my children's hearts the idea they had a relative dear and to be cherished. Grampie never failed to send them gifts at Christmas-time, and through that act alone secured an immortal and esteemed place in their universe.

"You're going to take a steam-boat, Poppa?" asked Andrea.

"Yes; a big, old steamer."

"I wish I could go with you."

"What about your schoolwork?"

"You're only in your first lessons, too!" her older sister chided.

"We'll all go together some day," said I to palliate them. The proposition so pleased them that they smiled triumphantly at one another.

After supper I sent little Andrea and Madeline each to their rooms with a kiss on the forehead. I remained at the table until Frederick reappeared to clear it.

"Sit down," said I, and poured him a glass from the nearly empty wine bottle. Frederick sat down across from me in the chair where my Madeline would sit.

"You have been with the family a long time," I observed.

"Yes, sir; I served the late missus' father."

"Take a drink, please."

The old negro took the glass in his ashen, bony hands, and with his eyes shut took a mouthful of the liquid.

"May I say something, sir?"

"What is it?"

"You've taken to drinking a lot of wine lately, sir."

I glanced at the bit of wine left in the bottle. Frederick only contemplated me with with his large, yellowed eyes. After a moment of reflection I left my seat and walked about the room until I came to a photograph of my wife on the wall. Madeline looked askance and far away in the sepia oval portrait. "I know," I finally responded.

"I watched the late missus grow up into a fine lady, sir. But the Lord was pleased to take her to his kingdom. I know she watches over you and over the children; and if she could come down and talk to you, she would tell you that it ain't good for a man to be alone, just like the Scriptures say. Yes, sir, a man always needs a woman, especially if there are children that need minding. I'm an old man, sir, and I don't know how much longer I can be of service to you, though it's my pleasure to do so.

"What I want to say, sir, is that you should find yourself a lady—though none, I know, will ever be as fine as the late missus—to marry who'll be a good mother to these children because an old man like me can do his best, but a mother he'll never be."

I returned to the table and sat. "It's been a year."

"A bit more than that, sir."

"It has felt like an eternity. I stayed by her side to the end, hoping the sickness would leave her and come to me. Who would ever think, Frederick, that a woman like her would die so young? She was so strong, so ruddy, so full of health and vigor!"

I felt my eyes begin to water, and, now wanting Frederick to see my frailty, covered them with my hand. My other hand, resting on the table, I felt Frederick cover with his own. I wanted to reach down an kiss the hand of so faithful and compassionate a fellow! When I composed myself and looked at him, he pulled his hand back as if guilty of some terrible breach of formality.

"I want to be out around four on the morrow," said I, heading toward the staircase.

"Everything will be ready for you, sir," I heard Frederick say.

Reaching my chamber, I removed my shoes and lay down on the bed. From my pocket I removed the letter that had its abode therein since I had received it a fortnight past. By the light of the lamp beside me I read it again:

Saint Odile Sanatorium
New Orleans, Louisiana
March 23rd, 1861

Dear Mr. Roget— It is our regret to inform you that your father, Mr. Alistair Roget, has been admitted to our facility for treatment of severe lung paroxysms. On the 12th he collapsed in his home. Until now his condition has been stable, but we fear it will not improve. Mr. Roget has requested that you come to see him as soon as permissible. Enclosed you will find several bank notes which he entrusted us to send for the expenses of your journey.

Yours most truly, &c,
Dr. Martin Penaud

I was on the eve of departing, and what awaited me south in that port city I could not then imagine. We were almost in an inevitable war, and here I was like some Dante headed into the heart of the furnace. My father had to be seriously ill to ask to see me, a request never existent all the long years he was well.

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