The Seige Of Dragonard Hill Part 15

Although the black woman, Malou, served in the mam house, Lloy saw that she not only spent much free time in Town but that the black people here shared a definite camaraderie with her. This puzzled him. He knew that Malou had only been here for a short time from Cuba with her mistress but, yet, he saw her being accepted in Town as a friend.

Croney's throaty voice cut into Lloy's thoughts as she said, 'You've got a gal back home where you come from?' She patted his forearm.

Lloy shook his head.

'Don't be bashful, boy. You hardly talk about yourself. You done nothing but work, eat, sleep since you got here.'

Lloy thought better than to tell Croney and her housemates that he was a free black. He had suggested this to Peter Abdee himself, saying that the fact he was from Tree-top House should emerge at the correct time. It was not unknown in the South for one white planter to lease a slave to another. Peter agreed to allow Lloy to appear as if he were working here until a permanent man was found for the job, to imply that Lloy's presence here might only be temporary.

The time still had not corne for him to make his real ident.i.ty known. Perhaps it never would. He now answered Croney, 'What of us black people know much about ourselves anyway to tell?'

'That's what Malou says,' Curlew called from across the coals blinking on the iron grate. 'Maiou claims that-'

Croney glanced at Curlew and shook her head for him to desist from talking about Malou. Curlew raised his heac toward the smoke hole in the middle of the roof and, point ing to the dark sky outside, he said, 'Look there! A falling star!'

The awkward attempt at diversion did not work. Llo) I87.

had seen Croney's signal of disapproval about Curlew mentioning Malou's name to a stranger. He knew that there was an undercurrent of excitement in Town. He sensed it in the peoples' talk and actions. He had heard that many things had been happening lately on Dragonard Hill, true, but he knew this excitement involved more than workers having a new overseer and a death in the main house.

Lloy remembered Claudia Goss's visit to Treetop House. He was reverting to his original opinion about Claudia Goss, that she was a trouble-maker, but he still felt that she, too, had been a harbinger of changes soon to happen here.

During his first week at Dragonard Hill, though, Lloy decided to keep all these opinions to himself. He still had much to learn about his father who had lived-and had been killed-on this land as well as gleaning what facts he could about his grandmother who had shot her own son to save Peter Abdee.

The first fact which Lloy had learned about his grandmother was from Croney. She had told him how the old black woman, Ta-Ta, had fallen to her death from a window in the old house. Ta-Ta had lived in an attic room there. The black people still held that Ta-Ta had been a witch. And although few field slaves had ever been inside the old house, they told how Ta-Ta had drawn on the ceilings and walls in her attic room, covering every possible s.p.a.ce with cryptic pictures and words which told the history of her- and Peter Abdee's-past. Lloy suspected that such pictures must also reveal details about his own father and, thus, decided that the attic room in the old house was the one place he wanted to visit on Dragonard Hill regardless of how long he stayed here.

Belladonna slopping for Posey... a new n.i.g.g.e.r taking the job of overseer . . the field n.i.g.g.e.rs having secret meetings in Town at night to plot some sneaky up-rising. . . But n.o.body doing a d.a.m.ned thing about nothing. . . These were Imogen's repet.i.tive thoughts as she spent the pa.s.sing days alone in the old house. She had quickly depleted her supply of corn whisky and, sobering long enough to realize that she had not eaten in three days, she made a foray for food I88.

in the cupboards and pantry. She was nearing the end of the few sc.r.a.ps she had found to eat in the old house when she suddenly began discovering food trays left for her on the back steps of the kitchen.

d.a.m.n them! she cursed to herself. d.a.m.n them all to h.e.l.l! They're treating me just like a prisoner. A prisoner here on ... my own land!

Still undecided about what revenge she was going to seek against her father for replacing her with a black man, Imogen concentrated on what she considered to be a more pressing matter, the task of replenis.h.i.+ng her whisky supply. She had always gone to Troy in the past to buy the corn whisky from the patrollers who met at the mercantile store. They distilled it themselves at home.

Ashamed, though, to show her face in Troy for fear of talk having reached it about a black man replacing her as overseer, Imogen decided instead to visit the house of one of the men who served as a patroller, the farmer named Claude Fonk who distilled the whisky on his land.

Imogen saddled her horse in the stable of the old house early the next morning, riding down the weed covered road which had once served as the main entrance to this land. She unlatched-and relatched-the gate hanging from the posts from which had hung a wooden star from its cross beams, and she galloped in the direction of Carterville.

Claude Fonk was a sallow-faced man who wore his greasy brimmed hat turned-up at the front. He sent his wife from the cabin when Imogen arrived at the door. He guessed that she had come here to buy whisky but he also had news which he wished to discuss with her, facts which Fonk believed were not fitting for his wife to hear. He considered Imogen to be more of a man than a woman.

Nodding for Imogen to sit upon a wooden bench alongside the plank table, Fonk shoved a jug of his latest brew across the table for her to sample whilst he asked, 'You talked to your sister?'

'Don't mention that bunch to me!' Imogen lifted the jug to her lips. She had forgotten the relief which good liquor gave her. She already felt better.

Fonk nodded for her to take another swig, saying, Then you don't know about the trouble?'

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Imogen's stomach warmed from the liquor. She enjoyed the rush of heat then asked, 'What trouble?'

'It started with Billy Sandell. Stories have it that your sister-the fancy-dressing one from down Cuba-that she done coaxed young Billy to join her in the bushes alongside the road down back.' Fonk knew he could speak to Imogen about such matters.

Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her nankeen s.h.i.+rt, Imogen muttered, 'You must mean Vicky. . . the s.l.u.t.'

'Billy Sandell, he ain't no angel. But then when he and some other boys were doing a spell of patrolling up north towards Horton, why they run into your other sis!'

Imogen began to show interest. She knew that Veronica had gone north to visit friends from schooldays. She asked, 'Veronica?'

Fonk shrugged. 'Don't know her name but she was travelling with two c.o.o.ns, a buck and a wench-'

Imogen remembered the story more clearly now. Her father had insisted that Veronica take somebody with her for protection. She said, 'That's Veronica all right. She went visiting old friends or something.'

'Don't know about the reason she was trailing around the country. But Billy being the h.o.r.n.y devil he is, he decided to repeat the fun he had with your fancy-a.s.s sister, that Vicky one, but-'

Imogen laughed. 'Billy Sandell! That dirty-p.e.c.k.e.red polecat! He tried to pester old iron drawers?"

'He tried!' Fonk said, also laughing now, shaking his head. 'That danged Billy tried. But it didn't quite work out that way. They got interrupted or something.'

'Just as well,' Imogen said, studying the whisky jug. 'Veronica, she prefers black p.e.c.k.e.r.'

'You don't say?' Fonk nodded for Imogen to help herself to the jug.

'She married that c.o.o.n who my Pa freed. She has three kids by him. They live up in the North.'

'You got a sis married to a... c.o.o.n?'

'Lots of strange things happen over at Dragonard Hill, Claude. Lots of strange things. That's why I ain't the overseer there no more.'

'You ain't the-' This announcement stunned Claude Fonk.

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The corn whisky gave Imogen confidence. She enjoyed talking to someone again. She was ready to start venting her hatred. She took another drink from the jug, wiped her mouth again on the sleeve of her s.h.i.+rt and shoved the jug back across the table toward Fonk. She said, 'Fact is I might be leaving these parts. Pulling up roots.'

'You don't say?' Fonk took his first drink from the jug.

'Fact is, Claude, I think you and the men should keep an eye on the place. A close eye, if you know what I mean. The n.i.g.g.e.rs are having secret meetings at night. And what's more, my Pa's allowing it to happen. That's why him and me ain't seeing eye-to-eye.'

'Meetings? n.i.g.g.e.rs holding meetings? But that's against the law!'

'That's why I think you and the rest of the patrollers should keep an eye on the place. Secret meetings and a black taking over my place.' She paused, deciding that she might as well break the news as anyone else. She lowered her head, saying, 'You see, Pa's got a c.o.o.n now for overseer. I don t know where he got him. He ain't one of ours. But he's a c.o.o.n.'

Shaking his head, Claude Fonk said, 'Your Pa always was a queer fellow. I know he's your Pa and all but-'

"You don't have to make apologies to me for your opinions, Claude. Just do like I suggest. Have the boys keep an eye on the place because once Pa goes broke-'

'Your Pa's going broke?'

'Who do you think has been plowing money into Green-leaf like it was bulls.h.i.+t? Barry Breslin don't know a crop from a t.i.t. Pa's been backing him. Has been throwing good money after bad. He ain't as much as told rne this in so many words but I know he's in trouble. Money troubles. Bad money troubles. So, if he loses Dragonard Hill on account of notes he signed for Greenleaf, and the n.i.g.g.e.rs at home are holding secret meetings. . . well, n.o.body has to be too smart to see that that adds up to trouble/ Claude Fonk shook his head again. He understood the volatile situation she described without listening to any elaborations. He said, 'That could mean trouble for the whole countryside. n.i.g.g.e.rs get tetchy when they know they might be sold off a place. Like living right next to a keg of dynamite.'

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'Worse, Claude. Worse! Like living right next to a keg of dynamite but with a n.i.g.g.e.r holding the candle!'

It's that bad?'

'Worse,' Imogen a.s.sured him, fuelled again by whisky. 'So pa.s.s the word around to the other patrollers. Keep your eye on Dragonard Hill.'

Posey was suspicious of Belladonna coming to work again in the kitchen; she had not been a kitchen helper since the Abdees had moved from the old house. As Lulu could not cope with the many ch.o.r.es Posey needed done, though, he reluctantly agreed to have the black girl a.s.sist him as a helper. He made the fact clear, though, that she was not to sleep in the kitchen. That was his territory at night. If Belladonna were to work with him, and be attached once again to the main house, she must spend her nights in the loft built over the kitchen annex.

Peter Abdee gladly granted Posey his condition. The proposal for Belladonna to sleep in the kitchen loft temporarily solved his quandary about her moving into the main house as his concubine, perhaps even prevent widening the rift between himself and Imogen.

Peter was suffering many misgivings about his relations.h.i.+p with Belladonna. She finally had confessed that it had been Imogen's plan for her to seduce him. The idea repulsed Peter as well as appearing to him to being a rather crude, even infantile gesture.

Preferring not to concentrate on the dilemma which Imogen presented to him, Peter chose to concentrate on clarifying his situation with Belladonna. He saw that the girl would soon become increasingly involved with him. He had wanted and still wanted a physical diversion from his loneliness. Belladonna had provided this. But he now recognized that he had a responsibility to protect her from a hurt which might mar any future she could hope to have for an enduring relations.h.i.+p with someone who could give her a home, a family, or both.

Belladonna noticed Peter's distracted mood as they met to make love tonight on a mossy knoll in the woodlands. She lay curled against his naked body, content to lie on this I92.

warm night snuggled against him. She gently brushed her lips against the side of his naked chest as he lay with both hands locked behind his head.

She whispered, 'You thinking about somebody?'

Peter did not want to tell her that he was thinking about Kate. He answered. 'Uh-huh.'

'About me?'

'What would you like me to be thinking about you?'

She traced the tip of her forefinger up his arm, through the coa.r.s.e hair growing in the pit of his arm, smiling as she saw him flinch with the touch. She answered, 'I don't know exactly just what-'

'I'm thinking that I'd like you to be happy.'

'I am happy/ she said enthusiastically, jumping to straddle his groin with her naked legs.

'This is ... physical happiness. I mean truly happy. Like you marrying. . . someone who could make you truly happy.'

She hung her head. She was not pouting. She looked reflective, pensive.

He asked in a quiet voice, 'Have you ever thought about having children?'

Belladonna began, 'Imogen says-' She stopped. She had promised herself never again to discuss Imogen. To try to block her completely out of her mind. She answered his question with a shrug of her bare brown shoulders.

Peter reached forward and, rubbing the back of his fingers against her forearm, he said, 'Girl, I never want to hurt someone as sweet as you. Never. And there are so many ways I could.'

'You could never hurt-' Belladonna stopped. She threw back her head and, looking at the stars twinkling in the sky, she took a deep sigh. She closed her eyes and, as if the night air were a spray from a waterfall, she gyrated herself in its imaginary pinpoints of mist. Then, quickly scooting back on Peter's naked legs, she lowered her head to his groin. She buried her face in his crotch and, holding his p.e.n.i.s to her mouth with both hands, she began to suck him for hardness.

Peter remained motionless with his hands clasped behind his neck. He felt the warmth of Belladonna's mouth awakening excitement in him. He felt how she had finally 193.

learned to satisfy him without allowing her teeth to cut against his phallus, to take long and deep pulls, swallowing him deep into her throat and then pulling up her head to his crown whilst slicking one hand with her saliva to keep the movement constant, perpetual, one long cycle of satisfaction for him. But Peter suspected that he must soon forego this satisfaction. He believed that no physical satisfaction was worth an eternal wound in somebody else's soul. He must not allow Belladonna to become his mere concubine. She had helped him accept his loneliness after Kate's death but he must not transfer his suffering to her. He did not believe that love was a sequence of pa.s.sing pain from one person to another like a child's game involving a handkerchief, a ring, an apricot pit.

Maybelle and Ham kept close to their long-legged house after they returned to Dragonard Hill with Veronica. They worried about Veronica recovering from the shock of the patroller attacking her; they were satisfied at last that her condition would not be serious.

They also were pleased that they had not been here on the night when Imogen Abdee had barged unexpectedly into Malou's meeting in the Chapel. They were certain that they would have been amongst the black people attending that meeting.

Although speaking little when they were alone about Malou-her teachings that black people should include African G.o.ds and frenzied devotional habits in their religion-Ham and Maybelle knew that one another was thinking of the Cuban slave's preaching. Ham and Maybelle also knew that they were both remembering the physical comforts they had enjoyed in the white people's homes with Veronica.

Maybelle's only vague reference toward that joyful time spent with Miss Veronica in the outside world were the words, 'We've got something to pray for. We've seen how people's supposed to live and we've got something to pray for.' She did not expand beyond that.

The first intimation that Ham was thinking about their future life came when he asked Maybelle about their young 194.

son when she returned from the Shed. He called the boy by the name they had given him. He asked Maybelle, 'How's Tim? He growing well?'

Maybelle had made a practise not to think of Tim as their son. That was the only way she could accept the land's law that she must not claim a child born from her womb. She tried to think of all of the black children at The Shed as her children, tried to show them all an equal amount of love. She answered Ham that the boy would be strong.

Ham and Maybelle's one moment of luxury in these first days following their return to Dragonard Hill was their few hours spent alone in the long-legged house. They lay curled together tonight; Maybelle's naked legs were wrapped around Ham's b.u.t.tocks. His love-making was particularly tender tonight. Hers was hungry, showing a need for his attentions. He knelt between her legs, holding her up on the incline of his muscled thighs, pumping his hips toward her, feeling the sensation grow more tingling inside his p.e.n.i.s. He did not want to stop. He could not stop. They had long-ago decided that they did not want to have any more children, to give no more slaves to this land. But as they clung desperately to one another, as Ham's hard p.e.n.i.s drove deeper, quicker into Maybelle's moistness, he whispered, 'Let's make a baby, Honey. Let's make a baby in you.' Maybelle clung onto his neck, digging her fingernails into the mahogany-brown skin stretched over his back, whispering, 'Make a baby in me. Make your baby in me for good.' She testified her words with a kiss, taking Ham's long tongue into her mouth as he thrust his groin in strong, final movements against her stretched thighs. The seed exploded deep inside Maybelle like a long-held secret as they clutched one another in this unexpected moment of joy and fear.

Chapter Sixteen.

TWO SISTERS.

The figure of the darkly featured patrolier still haunted Veronica's dreams, the rapist appearing to her In a variety of disturbing spectres ranging from a man towering over her with threatening talons which she had to keep from rending her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s into b.l.o.o.d.y shreds, another image being of a s.h.i.+ny black horse rearing over her rec.u.mbent body, a stallion that whinnied as urine gushed forth from a greasy shaft between its hind legs. Veronica tried to conquer the fears in her awakening hours by prayer, thankfulness for having been spared the basest of degradations.

Having had ample opportunity to rea.s.semble the words which the patrolier had threatened her with by the time she finally returned to Dragonard Hill, Veronica now clearly remembered him taunting her with stories about Vicky, lurid tales how Vicky had accompanied him into the bushes alongside the public road.

Veronica saw that her father's troubles had increased in her absence; she heard that Imogen had been replaced in her position as overseer by a black man; that Belladonna now worked for Posey in the kitchen annex. Veronica did not want to add to her father's burden by reporting to him about narrowly escaping being raped on a country roadside; she pleaded with Maybelle and Ham also to remain silent about the incident. But there was no reason not to confront Vicky and demand an explanation for her scandalous activities.

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A month had almost pa.s.sed since Vicky's arrival from Cuba and she still showed no signs of going home. Veronica knew her own reason for lingering at Dragonard Hill but she could not understand why Vicky remained here, especially when she obviously hated the place and all her family, Veronica received the opportunity to speak to Vicky on the second morning back at Dragonard Hill about the matter of her conduct with the patroller. Vicky was bored with rural life and had been going to bed early. She often came down to the breakfast alcove when Peter and Veronica were finis.h.i.+ng their coffee. This morning Vicky arrived after Peter had already departed from the main house.

Veronica began her accusation slowly, confidently, commencing with the words 'I am surprised at you, Vicky', reaching a pitch in this opening attack with 'You should at least have more respect for your family!'

Vicky stared at Veronica sitting across the rosewood table from her, first, in shock at the sudden accusation for behaving indecently with a white farmer alongside the public road. Next, her expression turned to anger and she flared, 'How dare you believe the gossip of white trash farmers!'

'Then you do not deny it!'

'I will not dignify your shabby accusation by even answering you.' Vicky pulled the ruffled edge of her robe de chambre tightly around her throat, 'Victoria Abdee!' Veronica screamed. 'Or Condesa Ver-adaga as you so grandly call yourself these days. You and I both know that you have no control over your wicked tastes. Father has overlooked it all his life. Everyone always said, "Poor Vicky! Oh, Poor Vicky! She suffered that nasty incident as a girl with that pedlar man!" Well, Vicky, let me tell you this! I do not believe that story about a pedlar man raping you. I never did. If anyone was raped I believe that you were the aggressor! Even as a child. I know you too well. So do not try to play holier-than-thou with me. Do not forget, we were at school together in Boston. Do not forget that I saw how you conducted yourself with . . . Duncan Webb!'

Vicky's voice was low, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with hate. She warned, 'Do not mention his name to me or-'

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'Oh, yes, that is just the reaction I expect! "Do not mention his name!" You followed Duncan Webb to New Orleans, didn't you? You married him! You let him make a fool out of you here at home. In front of all your family. You foisted him and his insolent ways on everyone. You let him beat the house-slaves-one of whom turned out to be my husband! But you still say "Oh, do not mention his name".'