Jasper County

Chapter 1

A spring rain drenched the red dirt of Jasper County, Georgia, and then bullied its way south towards Macon. A gust caught the mineral scent of freshly plowed cotton fields and the pitchy aroma of Georgia pines. It drifted across the veranda of Arlington Plantation where Frank Arlington leaned his 6-foot-2-inch frame against a whitewashed pillar, taking the weight off his left leg. He surveyed the width and breadth of his land and sucked in the distinctly southern fragrance of his wealth. Inside the house behind him, his wife, Alma, called his daughter for supper.

Frank struck a match across his trousers and lit a cigar. He added the rich tobacco smoke to the departing breezes and watched the gate for the arrival of his visitor. Frank pulled his father’s gold watch from the pocket in his vest. He clicked it open and checked the time. It was after five o’clock. James Fallen had sent a message that he would be there for dinner, but Frank was damned if he was going to let the scoundrel invite himself to a meal at his table. Arlington wanted his legal services not his friendship.

Down by the main gate Earl waved up at his master, signaling Fallen’s arrival. Arlington saw the stout rider making his way south from Jasper along the Seven Islands Stagecoach Road. The road created the eastern boundary of his land and was the direct link to cotton markets on the Ocmulgee River. Frank tucked his watch away, gave Earl a single wave back, and turned abruptly through the front door into the foyer. He crossed the polished oak floor into his study and closed the doors behind him. He intended to let Fallen pace the front hall before he let him know why he’d been summoned to the home of one of the richest men in Jasper County.

At five o’clock, Frank watched James Fallen look around his study. The lawyer’s eyes opened wide at the furniture upholstered with leather, the bookcase that reached to the ten-foot ceiling, and the French doors that opened onto a back terrace blooming with daffodils and crocuses. Watching him from behind the desk, Frank gestured to a chair. Hello, Fallen. Sorry for the delay. Frank noticed small beads of perspiration trickle down the lawyer’s jowls into his collar.

T’ain’t a problem. Fallen settled into the chair across from the desk. His gray wool waistcoat strained at the buttons. He gazed up at the portrait hanging in a gilded frame behind the sideboard. Stern eyes glared back under thick white eyebrows. That your father? he asked pointing to the large painting.

It is. William Arlington was one of the first settlers from Virginia. His parents’ original cabin is slave quarters now.

My daddy came later, after the 1812 war. He was a loader up at Holland Mills. He worked to his bone to get me some schooling. I studied in Virginia, you know.

I know, said Arlington. You’ve bettered yourself by becoming a lawyer, Mr. Fallen. I respect that and I need your services. I’ll pay you well.

Fallen grinned tightly and it pushed his jowls back in a curve around his tie. Indeed, Mr. Arlington? What services do you require?

I need clear titles to my land…to protect it from Yankees when the time comes.

Fallen stood half way out of his chair, then he sat back down and took several deep breaths. Surely you’re not suggesting the Yankees can whup us?

Frank shrugged. War or no war, win or lose, when the dust settles, I plan to have clear title to every inch of Arlington Plantation.

Fallen pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Well, of course, Mr. Arlington, that’s only prudent. He looked around the room again as he wiped his thinning hair. But I don’t rightly know how much land you own. He coughed up a chuckle. You own the best bottom land in Jasper County, sir.

Frank laid his hands down on a neat pile of papers on his desk. I own one thousand acres outright, but I need the deed to five hundred more. My father had the bill of sale from, he picked up a sheet off a stack of documents on the desk, Chester Weaver, but no deed.

Fallen, nodded. He was Jed Weaver’s grandpa. He came upon hard times because of personal problems along with, a terrible drought.

I know. I’ve had the area surveyed from the swamp to Seven Islands Road and from Bear Road to Indio Road. Here’s the survey and bill of sale. He pushed the documents across the desk.

Jed still homesteads the last 25 acres. Fallen took the papers, sat back, thumbed through the pages with his thick fingers, and scowled. The county clerk will have to draw up a new title and Judge Wigley will have to sign it.

Arlington nodded.

The judge and the clerk don’t come cheap.

I’ll pay you well and throw in some for Wigley and the clerk.

How much are you offering?

For you… Two hundred and fifty, one hundred for the judge, and fifty for the clerk.

Well, well… Fallen licked his lips, his face set in the same tight grin. He pulled on his collar and then adjusted his coat tails. Frank knew most of Fallen’s clients paid him less than twenty dollars, if not potatoes and rabbit meat. The lawyer finally sat still and added, I’ll do it, but I’d like twenty acres by Indio Road for my trouble…as well as the cash.

Arlington answered abruptly, Land is not in the deal.

Then increase my share to three hundred.

Neither man spoke for several minutes. Frank broke the silence, smiled, and said in a near whisper, Well, Mr. Fallen, it looks like I’ll have to find a lawyer down in Macon.

Fallen lurched out of his chair and reached across the desk for Frank’s hand. No, no! We have a deal, sir. I’ll talk to the judge and you shall have your deeds.

Frank stood up as Fallen pumped his hand. He pulled it out of Fallen’s damp grasp and wiped his palm on his trousers. One more thing.

Yes, Mr. Arlington.

I want Wigley to deed 40 acres of that bottomland between the swamp and Bear Road to my man, George Brown. The survey is in with the other papers.

The lawyer gasped But he’s a nigger, Mr. Arlington.

I prefer to call them Negroes and I’ll thank you to do the same. George has earned his freedom. He’s done good work for me selling the shoe leather up north.

And that lot’s next to Jed Weaver’s place. Why are you doing that?

That’s my business, not yours.

Not meaning any disrespect, there’s only a few free nig…Negroes in the whole county that own land and that’s too many for most of us. He’ll squander that good soil, mark my words.

Arlington took Fallen by the arm and walked him toward the study door. I think he’ll grow a bumper crop of cotton. Do you have a problem with that?

Fallen stuttered, No, no, not me, Mr. Arlington, but Jed won’t be too happy about it.

Frank opened the door. Well, that’s Jed’s problem, isn’t it? He put his hand on the small of Fallen’s back, felt the roll of fat under his coat, and gave him a little push. Goodnight, Mr. Fallen. Come back with my deeds.

What about sup… Fallen started to say, but Frank closed the door before he heard the end of the lawyer’s sentence. He sat back down at his desk and turned his chair so he faced the terrace and the wide lawn in back of Arlington House. The sunset cast a pale light on the expanse of spring grass. Several budding golden-rain trees grew down near the white fence that separated the lawn from the pasture. His mother had planted those trees when the house was built in 1820. Their yellow blossoms graced the fence line all summer. Richer than gold, she’d said every morning as she opened the parlor drapes. The real gold, thought Frank, is in the cattle grazing on the other side of the fence and the cotton growing down in the bottomland.

Arlington heard footsteps out in the hall. Ellen swung his office door wide open. Her dark hair was loose and curled around her shoulders. Her frock was simple blue cotton and her shawl trailed off her shoulders. Arlington grinned at his youngest. Ellen always moved with restless abandon even though she was now a young lady. It pleased him as much as it exasperated Alma.

Supper, Daddy, Ellen called to him.

You know you’re not supposed to disturb your father in his office, Alma scolded behind her.

It’s all right, Alma. I’m done. Frank followed them to the dining room. His slight limp made his boots tap an uneven rhythm on the wood floors.

The long mahogany table was set for three. The house girl Jessie stood by the kitchen door in her starched apron. As soon as Frank pulled out the chairs for his wife and daughter and settled at the head of the table, she brought a tray of sliced ham and greens and offered it first to Alma, then Ellen, and then Frank. First greens of de spring, Masta, she said pleasantly.

Thank you, Jessie. He heaped a full spoonful on his plate. You know I love greens.

Why were you visiting with Mr. Fallen, Daddy? asked Ellen

He’s a dreadful man, added Alma. His education does not obscure his lowly origins.

I’m getting the deeds to Arlington Plantation in order. I believe we’ll be in trouble with Yankees soon. He paused and glanced at Alma. And I’m making sure George gets some land down near Bear Road. Alma took in a quick breath.

Ellen put her fork down and looked between him and her mother. Are you giving him his freedom? I thought he was so necessary in the town office.

Frank cleared his throat and took a sip of water out of the crystal his mother had bought Alma for a wedding gift. He’s been back for a year and it’s time. But Fallen’s not the man for that. I’ll draw up George’s papers in Macon.

Alma avoided his gaze. George was born on the plantation and childhood friends with Claire, Ellen’s twin sister. When it was time to end their youthful familiarity, Alma and Frank sent Claire to school in Washington, D.C., and Frank sent George to study business in Chicago. What else did she know? Frank wondered as he watched his wife nervously pick at her food.

Don’t you like that idea, Mother?

Alma touched her napkin to her lip. Your father tends to business. I’m sure I don’t know what arrangements are best.

Come now, Mother, you’ve known George since he was a baby. You must have an opinion.

Alma glanced at Frank then back down at her uneaten food. George is a good man. I’ve known some shiftless free Negroes. I’ve also known a few very good ones. She lifted her head with a slight cock and continued, When I sang at the theater in Atlanta, my piano player was a highly honorable free man.

Frank chuckled. That was your finest hour, my dear. That’s where we met, Ellen.

Why haven’t I ever heard you sing, Mother?

It’s not befitting the wife of a gentleman.

I was no gentleman at the time. I was a fool and a gambler.

But you were quite handsome, Mr. Arlington. Alma’s eyes moistened and her blush put some color in her pale cheeks.

I’d lost all my inheritance and…

You were grieving your father’s death, dear.

He waved his hand. No excuse. I squandered my legacy and was one card away from losing Arlington Plantation. Never get involved with a shiftless man, Ellen. Lucky for me your mother began to sing on the little stage above the hall. We all stopped our gaming for her entire show.

Alma patted her bun, now laced with gray. I had a soothing voice.

When I picked up the cards again, I drew the king of diamonds. I had a winning streak a mile long and won enough to come home a prosperous man. I vowed never to gamble again except on the soil and the weather and the strong bodies of Arlington slaves. I also knew a lucky charm when I saw it so I went looking for your mother and proposed to her that very night.

I was entranced by him, Ellen. He was the strongest, most confident man I had ever met.

Oh, I’ve heard this story a thousand times. Ellen leaned on her arm and yawned.

Alma dropped her head and picked up her fork. And it was a long time ago. She pushed at her greens and nibbled a small piece of ham.

Jessie took their dinner plates and brought in slices of pecan pie for desert. Alma waved hers away.

Frank watched her closely. Not feeling well again, Alma? he asked softly.

I am a bit tired. Alma pushed back her chair. Jessie, could you call Sara in the quarters and have her meet me upstairs with some of her elixir?

Yes missus, right away. Jessica disappeared through the swinging door into the kitchen.

As Alma left the table, Frank noticed that she had dressed elegantly for dinner. The dark blue silk shimmered in the candlelight, but it also made her look pale. She was slight under the best of health. Now she looked waiflike. He turned to Ellen. Your mother does look weak. Did she get out today?

Ellen shook her mane of dark hair. I don’t think so. But I was off riding.

By yourself?

She grinned. Yes Daddy. It’s my greatest pleasure. As a matter of fact, I was down near Bear Road. I stopped in at the Weaver’s for a drink of water.

He frowned. Those are not our kind of folk, Ellen.

I like them. I met Mrs. Weaver…she said to call her Ann…and Mary. Mary is my age. She cut off a bite of the pie. And I met her brother, Jay. She forked the desert into her mouth.

I’d rather you not ride there again, Ellen. Mr. Weaver is a difficult man and he shows little respect for women.

How do you mean?

You just take my word for it. I know what’s best and I’m telling you not to ride over there again. Frank dropped his napkin on the table. Now I have work to do. Check in on your mother before you go to bed.

Arlington walked through the dining room doors to the hall. He glanced back at his daughter who scowled after him in the dim light.

Alma rested on the settee in her bedroom and listened to the wind rattle the cottonwood branches against her window. She put her feet up under a throw and lay her head back on the arm. She heard a light knock. Come in, Sara, she called.

The door opened and Sara entered balancing a small tea tray in one hand. She wore a calico blouse and a skirt without an apron. She had a piece of cotton cloth wrapped around her head. She was a strong Negro woman with piercing coffee-colored eyes that always unnerved Alma. She set the tea tray on a side table and Alma stole a glance at her, looking for the familiar scar that ran across the slave’s high cheekbone. Sara looked over at her but she quickly dropped her eyes.

Feel poorly, Missus? asked Sara. Her voice was gentle but there was no warmth in it.

Yes, Sara, I’ve had another day where I can’t lift my head an inch off the pillow.

My potions sometimes help with dat. You’ll surely feel betta in the morning. Sara poured her brew into a cup and brought it to Alma. The mistress sat up a little and took the cup.

Sara, she asked between sips, please brush my hair.

I’m not a house servant, Missus, I might not do it jus right. Sara said this every time and Alma answered, as always, I’ll pay it no mind. My silver brush is on the dressing table.

Sara fetched the brush and pulled a chair behind the arm of the settee. She pulled the pins out of the mistress’s bun and her salt and pepper hair fell across the upholstery.

After a few moments of quiet brushing, Alma asked, Did you hear that Mr. Arlington is deeding some land for George?

My boy be a lucky one. He works hard for Masta Arlington.

How old is he now?

He be ‘bout twenty.

Almost time for him to take a wife.

Sara grunted in neither agreement nor disagreement. She kept a slow rhythm as her strokes brought a shine to Alma’s hair. Alma sipped her tea.

Sara asked, Do you hear from Miss Claire?

She wrote last month. She finished her nursing training you know. Alma sighed. She feels the need to be useful. That has always been her way. Fixing up stray animals ever since she was big enough to go outside.

Sara chuckled. Yep. She and George usta bring back the sorriest creatures from de swamp. A salamander with three legs, dat bird with a broken wing, scrawny kittens. It’s a wonder we didn’t all get de plague.

What does George want to do, Sara?

Dat fool wants to own his own land. No harder work on God’s earth.

Cotton has been profitable all these years, though.

And now de shoe leather doin de job. Sara took the brush back to the dresser. If I comb any mo, yo locks be turnin to glass, Missus.

Thank you, Sara. Her servant filled her cup again. The scars on Sara’s back were a few inches away from Alma’s eye. Her chest constricted with the old fear that had once consumed her: the thought of Frank with Sara, alone in his study. After she gave birth to the twins, he started calling his servant in there almost every night after dinner. Was it for counsel about activities in the quarters as he said, or was it for a tryst? She never knew for certain. He’d shut the door solidly behind him and Alma didn’t have the courage to open it. Her jealousy had slowly overwhelmed her gentility. She had no control over her husband. She had once been a singer, free as a bird, but since becoming mistress of Arlington Plantation and raising her two infants, she felt as if her wings were clipped and Frank no longer found her intriguing. Her only power had been to torment Sara. She worked the slave to the bone and found everything wrong with her efforts. Then one day when Frank was in town Alma went too far.

Sara! Did you scrub the halls! I told you to complete your duties before my husband arrives!

I doesn’t recall yo tellin me dat. Ya told me to do de windows. Sara put down the bucket she had used to wash the sills.

I’ll not tolerate you sassing me!

I ain’t sassin, Sara murmured.

Scour these halls now! Sara lowered her head and walked away. Alma yelled, Don’t walk away from me till I’m finished with you!

Sara turned; her eyes narrowed. I be gettin de mop.

Alma walked up to her and slapped her.

Sara didn’t flinch. She slowly lifted her arm and then abruptly smacked Alma back with an open palm.

Hurt only in pride, Alma fell to the floor, began kicking like a child, and screamed, Nigger wench! You’ll pay for this!

Sara stared at her with disgust then kicked the wash bucket and sent suds flowing around the writhing Alma. She strode out the door, off the porch, and down the road to the quarters.

As soon as Sara was gone, Alma stopped crying and ran to the kitchen. Jessie, Alisha the cook, and Hiram the stable boy were sitting at the table. She ordered Hiram to fetch Jed Weaver from down on Bear Road. Jed was the closest white man she could think of.

Are ya sure, missus? warned old Alisha. Masta don’t do business wid dat man. Not even buy apples from de wife’s orchard.

Are you questioning my order? I told Hiram to fetch him. Now go, boy.

Alisha and Hiram exchanged a look but the stable boy did as his mistress ordered. When Jed arrived with his friend Don Brand, Alma took them in the parlor and gave specific instructions on how to deal with her uppity house nigger. She handed Jed a good portion of her household allowance.

Frank later told Alma what happened in the quarters. Jed took the riding crop off his saddle, and he and Don snuck down to the last cabin. They crashed in the front door and stood before Sara.

What y’all want! she asked coldly.

Jed lurched forward and grabbed her hair. Shut up, nigger! You’ll never sassy another white woman.

She tried to twist out of his grasp but Jed was too strong. She kicked and yelled while Don bound her hands with rope. Jed finally slapped her until she sprawled on the dirt floor. Don tossed one end of another rope over a roof beam. He paused a moment as the rope swung in front of his face. He looked at Jed and said, You suppose we doin the right thing? Everybody knows Arlington don’t whup his slaves.

Mrs. Arlington gave us an order and cash. That’s good enough for me. Jed pulled Sara up by her armpits, lifted her onto her feet. He clutched her blouse and ripped it off, exposing her breasts. He grinned and began to slap them.

Don yelled, We’re here to whup her. That’s all.

Jed sniggered, What! Are you a nigger lover? Why you care what I touch on her.

Don shrugged and tied the rope to Sara’s bound wrists. He pulled on the other end until Sara’s feet slowly rose up from the floor. Sara pleaded with the men to release her.

Jed pulled his crop out of his boot and struck the first blow to her back. The second blow ripped her flesh, leaving a long curved gash that dripped blood.

Sara moaned and grit her teeth. Jed raised his crop again and again until her back was a bloody messes and she could only tremble and whimper. He stepped back, sweating, to appraise his handiwork.

What the hell are you men doing? asked a voice from the porch.

Don turned to see Frank Arlington in the doorway. He jumped away from the rope