Charleston (48 page)

Alex slipped behind the great live oak and peeped out to watch him approach the gate. Ham hadn't yet come home to supper; Maudie had taken Little Bob to a magic lantern show. She was alone in the house and sharply aware of it.

Gibbes looked old, but he was decently dressed, in the traditional summer outfit of a Low Country gentleman—white frock coat and trousers, starched white shirt with black cravat, no vest.

He rang the little bell at the gate. She wanted to hide, but conscience wouldn't allow it. She stepped from behind the tree and went to greet him. Unsightly sweat rings darkened her gray dress beneath her arms.

“Why, Gibbes. This is unexpected.” As had been the unhappy visit after she returned.

He swept off his broad-brimmed planter's hat, a gesture she thought too flamboyant by half. His sangfroid astounded her. He'd called her arrogant when he welcomed her home and she rebuffed him, but to judge from his smarmy smile, it might never have happened.

“Forgive the presumption of an unannounced call, cousin. I have something important to discuss. Might I come in?”

“The house is hot as an oven. Why don't we sit in the swing?”

“As you wish.” He held out his hat so she would precede him to the steps of the piazza, then followed with the peculiar jerky gait caused by the wooden leg. Clouds covered the sky, but it was no cooler. Brief gusts of wind blew dry leaves from the live oak; offshore, another storm muttered.

Gibbes heaved a great sigh as he sat. His white trouser leg stuck out stiffly; his shoe tip touched the jasmine twined on the railing. He'd fortified himself with Dutch courage; Alex smelled the whiskey.

She sat down, careful to leave space between them. He pushed with his crippled leg and the swing moved,
creak
and
creak
.

Out of his sleeve came a soiled white handkerchief. He fanned his face. “Smells like rain.” Another wind gust raised dust from a patch of bare ground. “Is your brother here?”

“He'll be home any minute.”

“Or maybe he won't,” he said with that sly smile she remembered too well. She braked the swing with her foot.

“May we talk about the reason for your visit?”

“Simple enough, cousin. It's your nigger school. You know I hold an elected office. The voters of my district—white men, need I remind you—are angered by what
you're doing. They come to me because you and I are related. They want something done.”

“Why should that be? Down at Penn Center white teachers are helping black people learn. My little classroom's no different.”

“Oh, but it is. Those women on St. Helena migrated from the North. They're part of the locust plague this state is suffering. No matter how you deny or denigrate it, you're a Southerner.”

“I'm an American. So are you.”

His left hand dropped on her leg. “You haven't changed one iota, have you?”

“Nor have you. Take your hand away.”

“When I'm damn good and ready. The school—”

“Will not be closed. I believe that ends our discussion.” She jerked her knee so his hand slipped off, then bolted up. Temper reddened his face as he lunged from the swing. He yanked her by the arm. She'd have fallen if she hadn't seized the swing chain.

“I'll have my way about the school, and maybe I'll just have my way with you.” His fingers went to his flies; he began to unbutton.

“Christ knows you've denied me for years, always acting holier than a nun. Come here.” He hooked an arm around her waist, brought his mouth toward hers. She wrenched her head aside, heard the sound of the gate closing.

“Hallo, who's that?” Ham called. He came quickly across the garden and up the steps. Gibbes stepped back. Both Ham and Alex could see the undone buttons. Ham scowled. “Well, now. Seems I interrupted something unpleasant. I'm entitled to an explanation, Gibbes.”

“He wants the school shut down,” Alex said.

Ham hooked thumbs in the pockets of the black vest that made him look like an undertaker. “Not exactly the explanation I was after, but you should know better, Gibbes. You have no right or authority to ask for such a thing.”

“Don't be so fucking smug. I have friends. I have ways of accomplishing what I want done.”

“Get off this property.”

“A pleasure. I've said my piece. If you don't do what I ask you're damn fools.”

He shot a look at Alex as he jammed his hat on his head. Ham was between Gibbes and the steps. He didn't move. He shoved Gibbes's chest. “Just a minute. It would be a mistake for you to pursue this. We have possession of a letter written by a man who fought in the Hampton Legion. The man saw you at Seven Pines, the very hour you received your wound. His letter contradicts what everyone believes about you. If it became public, it would damage, or should I say destroy, your reputation as a war hero.”

Silence. The wind rushed in again, scattering fallen leaves. The air was pregnant with rain, but only a few large drops fell. Gibbes acted like a man bludgeoned.

“I don't know a thing about any such—”

“The letter was written by a soldier named Plato Hix. Are you familiar with him? It seems he's dropped out of sight mysteriously.”

“I demand to see this letter.”

“No. It's locked away where no one will find it unless we direct them to it.”

Lightning painted the garden white; thunder rolled over the harbor. Ham leaned against a post with his arms folded while Gibbes struggled for words. All he managed was “Goddamn you. Goddamn you both.” He crushed his hat in his hand and elbowed Ham out of the way. The capricious wind lifted the skirt of his white coat as he fled, struggling to button his trousers.

The street gate clanged. The wind died. Ham said, “He's guilty as hell, isn't he? And of more than one murder, I'd stake a hundred dollars on it.”

Alex rested her cheek on his shoulder. He hugged and held her until her trembling subsided. “What next?” she said.

“Nothing good, surely. I'm glad we didn't mention Mrs. Hix knowing about the letter. Who knows what he might do to her?”

 

The room was half shadow, half brilliant lamplight. On George Street torches streamed by, borne by hallooing men. Folsey heard a distant popping of gunshots, then a police whistle.

The last of the smoking torches passed out of sight. The crash of the kitchen door made Folsey jump. Gibbes appeared, disheveled and perspiring.

“Hell of a time to pay a call, my friend.”

“Can't help it, the matter's urgent.”

Folsey lifted a pale hand toward the window. “What's all that racket outside?”

“Niggers amok again. One stabbed a white man at Tradd and Meeting last night. That set it off.”

“Didn't know. I rode in from Columbia this afternoon.”

“The rioting's worse tonight. I need a drink.”

Folsey put on his bifocals and poured two whiskeys. Gibbes gulped all of his, then said, “It's time to go after them. Civic disorder provides perfect cover.”

Folsey peered over his spectacles. “Go after who?”

Gibbes glanced at the open door of the library. “My cousins. They've tossed me on the griddle, never mind how, and they're going to fry me if I let them. I have to get rid of them.”

Folsey sipped from his glass. “You know it's my ambition and obligation to rid the world of both of them, but this is a poor time. For one thing, my bones always warn me about bad weather. There's a big blow coming.”

“A double distraction. I want you to do it now, Folsey. I can't risk a delay.”

“It's impossible. You've got to understand my position. I'm allied with Huffington. I can't afford to be involved in—”

Gibbes yelled at him, “You won't be involved in a damn thing if you don't do what I ask. People overlook sin in the dark but not sin in the daylight. Huffington won't associate himself with a pederast. He'll shun you like poison if he hears about that boy you keep upstairs. I'll collect my voting money, but your fantastic profit, as you call it, will go aglimmering. You won't be able to get your foot in the door of a privy.”

Folsey gritted his teeth so hard his jaw trembled. “You bastard, you wouldn't—”

“Indeed I would, sir. I'm desperate. Give me your answer, right now.”

It took Folsey the better part of a minute to calm down. “Suppose I say yes. Could you guarantee I'd be able to take care of both of them at one time?”

“Yes, leave it to me. I'll arrange it so they're at South Battery this time tomorrow. If things misfire, we'll delay to the following night, and every night thereafter till it's done. How many men do you need to help you?”

“I won't be directly in the picture, you understand. It'll take at least two besides Slope. You pay for them, every penny.”

“Agreed.”

Heat lightning washed the windowpanes. A policeman's rattle sounded nearby. Folsey reflected again, then managed a wan smile. “Well, you've got me. I suppose I might as well get it done. Grandpa William, who no doubt is roasting in hell, will be happy to see it, and my father too.” Gibbes knew about Folsey's deathbed promise and had often speculated that Folsey never meant to honor it in his lifetime if he could avoid it.

Folsey refilled their glasses, offered a toast. “Here's to the end of unwanted trouble, then.”

“Unwanted cousins,” Gibbes said. “And Grandpa William and your father resting peacefully at last.” He smiled. Folsey didn't.

 

At five-thirty next morning Gibbes left Snoo snoring and went to his desk. He lit a candle and composed a note to be delivered to the attention of Hampton Bell when the law firm opened.

He signed his initials and rang a small brass handbell. His hired manservant, Desmond, tore into the room.

“Mr. Gibbes, why you ring the bell so hard? You sick?”

In a high state of excitement Gibbes said, “No, I'm feeling good. I am feeling wonderful. Here is what I want you to do.”

The day remained dark, with occasional spits of rain. By four o'clock the wind was blowing steadily off the ocean. Heavier rain fell after six, when Ham arrived home dripping and grumbling. “Nasty out there. I wonder if we're in for more than a soaking.”

Maudie answered. “Yes, sir, I do think so.”

Alex listened to the rain hammering the windows. “Too early in the season for a hurricane.”

“God don't watch the calendar,” Maudie said. She patted Little Bob, who'd taken refuge at her side. “Tide was low about three. Be high in three hours.” When a tropical disturbance made landfall at high tide, the storm surge was that much more dangerous.

“Please take Bob upstairs,” Alex said. “Find a secure spot to stay if things get bad.” Maudie led the boy away. “What about our visitor? Do you think he'll come?”

Ham sat at the dining table, peeling off wet stockings. “If it's important to him, and I think it is, I expect he'll try.”

By seven the wind was howling across the Battery, shaking doors and rattling windows. A knock sent Alex to the piazza. There she found Richard, wrapped in an oilskin poncho with his hat dripping rain. “I came soon as I finished work. You'd better batten down for this.”

She touched his hand and gave him a warm look as he stepped inside. Ham appeared, said, “We should nail up the shutters on the water side.” Richard volunteered to help.

It was a struggle to plant a ladder, but fortunately the wind pushed it directly against the front of the house. Richard had to raise his voice to be heard. “You take the ground floor, I'll go up.” He scooped nails from a tin can, bit down on the heads of half a dozen, and climbed.

Wind continually swayed the ladder. He needed one hand to hold a shutter closed while he drove nails. Rain half blinded him, but he managed to secure the first window, climb down, and move the ladder. When the upper windows were done, he helped Ham finish a last one on the ground floor, then called retreat. Before they had a firm hold on the ladder, the wind picked it up and sailed it down the street. They heard it crack, saw rungs fly off. Ham started after it. Richard restrained him. “Leave it for later.”

In the house they peeled off wet clothes; Richard made do with some of Ham's, which were rather too tight for him. Alex served them whiskey toddies. A loud clatter drew attention to the ceiling. “Shingles,” Ham said. “Let's hope it doesn't tear off the whole roof.” Carolina hurricanes had a habit of doing that. Even a relatively small storm could wash away great stretches of low-lying shore and flatten entire buildings.

Ham finished his toddy. “We're expecting a visitor soon.”

“I can leave,” Richard said.

“I don't believe he'll come in this weather,” Alex said. In the kitchen, wind blew the door open so forcefully the window shattered, raining glass. They heard more roof shingles ripping away. The relentless wind and rain got on Alex's nerves. She wished she could hide in a shell, turtle-like. They sat at the dining table toying with the empty toddy mugs and wondering how much worse it would get.

 

About twenty past eight a black depot wagon drawn by two mules turned the corner at Meeting and drew up op
posite the house. Bundled in a greatcoat, scarf, and derby, Folsey held the reins.

A side curtain lifted; three men climbed down from the back. Two were white, wearing dark coats and caps. The third man was a huge Negro with a slanting forehead and a prognathous jaw. Thin strips of light framed the closed shutters of the Bell house. “They must be in there,” Folsey said. “Get it done before the storm gets worse.”

The black man said, “Aye. Boys, keep your pieces dry till we're under cover.” He reached under his coat to grasp a navy Colt in his belt.

He charged across the street, splashing through small rivers of rushing water. Sticks and uprooted plants flew through the air; a broken chair; three feet of picket fence. At the piazza door the big man pulled his navy Colt and signaled the others to do the same. One henchman, a chinless fellow, snickered. “Goin' to be polite an' knock, are you, Mr. Slope?”

“They'll know we're here without that.” Slope kicked the door with his heavy boot, smashing it off its hinges.

 

Alex, Ham, and Richard huddled in the front office. They'd run out of conversation and were waiting for the eye of the storm to pass. The sound of the door breaking brought them to their feet. A powerful draft blew out two of their three lamps.

A man holding a stubby revolver leapt into the room and fired a shot. Ham staggered, blood flowering on the sleeve of his shirt. Richard had no idea who the intruders were, but their intent was plain. He flung a stool at the shooter. The man batted it down. Richard lunged at him and took the stubby revolver by force.

The man jabbed his thumb in Richard's eye, clawed his face. Richard put the revolver to the man's belly and blew him backward into the shelves. Flailing hands tore down books that covered him as he lay moaning.

In the hall a second white man hesitated. An immense Negro with a Colt revolver pushed him aside. The black
man had simian features made all the uglier by his insane grin. Richard threw a chair at him and charged.

The black man sidestepped, tripped him. Richard sprawled facedown on the floor. The man kicked his head twice. Richard rolled onto his back, dizzy and retching.

“You next, missy.” The black man aimed into the office. Alex lunged sideways. The gun roared; she crashed against shelves opposite those where the first assailant had gone down. A sudden memory made her fling books aside, reach through the gap, and pull out Edward's pistol hidden there.

The black man set himself for another shot but the Colt jammed. A touch of Alex's finger released the spring bayonet under the pistol barrel. Crouched low, she ran at the Negro and thrust the point into his thigh. He screamed and swung at her with the barrel of his Colt. It grazed her ear, hurt her shoulder. Striking upward, she drove the bloody bayonet into his throat.

The Colt clattered at his feet. A red stream spouted from his neck, splashing her dress. The Negro fell into the hall and lay on his side, thrashing his legs as he died.

The third man, the chinless one, ran for the door. Somewhere in the house more windows broke. Richard snatched up the Colt, and chased the fugitive.

Stinging rain made it almost impossible to see. Wild with panic, the man couldn't get the gate open. Richard came up behind him and put a bullet in the back of his knee. The man toppled into a bed of palmettos.

Richard heard a steadily mounting roar in the harbor. He pried the gate open, saw the depot wagon etched in a lightning flash. The driver hauled on the reins, attempting to turn in water already half a foot deep. Richard had seen the driver around town but didn't know his name. He brandished the Colt. “Get down from there.”

The driver lashed the mules. Richard aimed; the Colt jammed. Out of the harbor rose a wall of water twenty feet high. It struck Richard and the wagon, lifted them, and hurled them toward the house. Richard nearly drowned as he tumbled over and over inside the tidal wave. Then the wave passed, leaving the house leaning crookedly on its foundation. The storm surge submerged
the house next door, then found other paths, roaring along South Battery and flooding into Church and Meeting streets.

Richard lay limp against the house where he'd been thrown. The depot wagon was broken apart like matchwood. One of the mules lay on its side, braying in pain.

The wagon driver dragged himself from the wreckage. Confused, he ran the wrong way, through the open gate into the Bell garden. Richard struggled up and chased him.

Leaves and palmetto stalks flew in his face. A grinding sound made him look up. The wind lifted the great live oak out of the ground, its roots dragging up clods of earth. The old tree tilted slowly and fell. The wagon driver blocked his face with his forearm. The tree came down on both men.

 

Alex saw it happen. She jumped off the piazza the moment the live oak crashed, shaking the earth.
Oh, heaven, he's dead,
she thought as she clawed through broken branches.
Don't let him be dead.

She dropped to her knees beside him. A medium-sized limb had fallen across his legs. Pushing, she was able to move it. “Richard?” She stroked his wet face, put her cheek against his lips. Breathing, thank God. Joyfully, she kissed him, then flung herself on him. He writhed and uttered a plaintive, “Oww.”

Wounded Ham was calling out to her. “Over here. It's Folsey, under the tree trunk. His neck's broken. He's dead.”

Alex slowly comprehended that. She and Richard lay half submerged in water flooding the garden. The rain soaked and chilled them; she didn't care. Holding him, she had never been so happy.

 

How they passed the long night without succumbing to hysteria, Alex couldn't clearly recall afterward. Images of certain moments were strung together like beads, but of the connecting thread, the times between, she had no recollection.

She remembered knotting a cloth around Ham's upper arm to stanch the blood. Treatment from a doctor while the storm still raged was an impossibility. Ham insisted he could survive until daylight, though his skin was the color of lard and his face a glistening mask of sweat.

Upset by the gunfire, Little Bob came downstairs crying. Alex succeeded in calming him, then extracted a promise that he wouldn't come down again until morning.

Richard was massively bruised; he hobbled. Even so, he was able to drag the bodies of the two attackers outside and leave them in the garden near Folsey. The man who'd fallen by the gate was gone.

Maudie swept up glass, mopped up water, and lit candles, trying to burn out the charnel-house stench. Blood drying on the heart-pine floor had turned it brown. Expunging the stains was a problem for another day.

Worst of all for Alex was the recurring picture of the bayonet stabbing into the Negro's neck. She had killed him, and the guilt tortured her. It would forever.

About six in the morning, the wind dropped to a whine. She and Richard and Ham met in the dining room to face the inevitable. Alex put it in words.

“The authorities have to be told.”

“I know, sister, I know. Soon as I'm patched up, I'll take care of it.”

“How will you explain it?” Richard said.

“Why, I won't. I'll plead ignorance. We were victims of a senseless, unmotivated attack. I can suggest it may have had something to do with my stand on certain issues, but I'll say it's only a guess. How can they prove anything to the contrary?”

“Why did that Lark fellow have it in for you?”

“Old family grudges. But it goes beyond that.” Ham stared at the nails of his right hand. “I have a strong suspicion someone else sent those men. I'll address that issue, never fear.”

Alex looked around the table. “Is anyone hungry?”

Richard said, “I am.”

“I'll make coffee and fry some bacon.”

By seven the storm had moved inland. Next door, the
upper story of the Daws place was gone. Richard left for an hour and brought back a harried young doctor, who poured claret into Ham, gave him a broom handle to bite, and sutured his wound. Fortunately the bullet had passed through flesh without hitting bone.

Alex was washing the breakfast plates when Maudie found her. “There's an almighty big hole in the ground where that old tree was.”

“I know.”

“The roots pulled up something must have been buried a long time ago. You better come see.”