She wrapped the gift in gold paper and carried it to the theater one airless afternoon when the sky was yellow and the air ripe with humidity. People moved languidly. Women protected themselves with parasols. Street dogs found shade and lay panting. Her calico dress clung to her and she breathed almost as hard as her father during one of his spells.
Henry answered her knock at the artists’ entrance. The theater was shuttered in the hot months, so Henry worked as day watchman, guarding against intruders and killing the inevitable rats.
“Come in, too hot out there.”
“Hotter than hell’s ovens,” Alex agreed. High up, a grime-coated window filtered yellow light to the dark interior. The theater was no cooler than the street, though perhaps not quite so sticky. Alex offered the present. “For your birthday. How old are you now?”
He laughed and lapsed into Gullah. “The sun done baked out your brains. You know.”
“Eighteen?”
“Tomorrow.”
He pulled off the fancy paper, turned the slim leather-bound book so the light from the window caught the spine. His brown face broke into that smile Alex adored. “Oh, Lord. The Moor play.”
“I knew you wanted it.”
“’Cause I could act that part. Thank you, thank you.” He darted forward, kissed her cheek.
It was a chaste kiss, but he’d never been so bold before, in fact seldom touched her now that they were grown. She supposed he felt the same mysterious stirrings that she did—the sense of a new, exciting, but forbidden experience awaiting you if only you dared say yes to it, as Gibbes claimed he had.
Alex wasn’t naïve about relations between the sexes. Though such things were never mentioned in the family, she’d watched street animals for years. She and Maudie had discussed the mechanics of the act. Yet she was afraid of it. Except in marriage, it was sinful.
“Little cooler in the auditorium. I opened windows behind the boxes.” He led the way. “Sure will miss you when you’re way up there with all those Yankees.”
“I’ll miss you too. I always miss you when we’re not together.”
“Soul mates.”
She laughed and fanned herself with her handkerchief.
He found a pair of gilt chairs left from some production and placed them close together on the stage. He brought a candle from the prop room, fixed it to a saucer with melted wax, set the lighted taper between them. She sat motionless while he turned pages, growing excited.
“If I had some pomatum, and some charcoal dust, I could mix up a greasepaint and blacken up so I’d look like the Moor. We could read parts. The scene where he murders his wife in her bed with a pillow.”
“Would you really need the blacking?”
“Makes it more real. Othello, the general, he’s dark, it says so. Bad man calls him a big black ram.” Henry gave her a swift, unreadable look. “Desdemona, she’s a white lady.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Othello’s tricked so he thinks Desdemona’s not faithful and he kills her. It’s so sad, he really cares for her.” Without looking at the text he spoke slowly, his voice resonant. “‘Then you must speak of one that loved not wisely, but too well.’”
Her legs and breasts felt hot. “If you want to read a scene, I will.”
They sat two feet apart, the candle flickering between them. It was as though some elemental force gathered in both of them, then leapt between them. Henry dropped the book, took one long stride to her chair. She was already standing. He swept his arms around her.
His eyes seemed to ask permission. She let her eyes close because she didn’t know how to grant it, or whether she dared. She hung limp in his arms, waiting.
His sudden embrace crushed her breasts against his shirt. He kissed her. The salty tang of his lips, the strange masculine scent of him, dizzied her, as though she’d drunk too much claret. The kiss grew more fervent. Her hands flew around him to clasp his broad leather belt and pull him closer.
Something shocked them back to reality. They broke the embrace, each stepping away. Their faces reflected a curious confusion of fright and joy. Henry whispered, “Oh, I’m sorry. We can’t do this.”
“No, no, we mustn’t,” she said, although she wanted him to tear her clothes.
“Anyone found out, they’d hang me.”
“I wouldn’t let them.”
He shouted. “Goddammit, you got nothing to say about it, I’m a nigger.”
The cry echoed in the auditorium. He shook himself in a way that reminded her of a spaniel after a bath. “You better go home.”
Meekly, she said, “I will. I hope your birthday’s fine.”
“Thank you.” He picked up the play. “Thank you for this.”
“We’ll see each other when summer’s over.”
“Guess we will.” He didn’t sound confident.
They gazed at one another and Alex felt the dizziness again, the sense of sliding toward an abyss. He was right, it would be catastrophic if they were caught. After Newport she’d pull away from him.
“Alex, don’t stand there, get the hell home ’fore somebody sees us.”
She fled through the dark. At the artists’ door she threw herself into the fierce yellow daylight and slumped against the building. They’d come so close. What if he’d taken her?
It must never happen. She could love him forever, but never that way.
36
Dangerous Times
Alex told no one of the shattering experience at the theater. In Rhode Island she sat on a windy Atlantic beach with her banjo and began a new song, slow and melancholy.
“I know a man who loves
Not wisely, but too well,
And what his love portends,
My heart cannot foretell.”
She wrote it down on music paper, though when she sang it to herself, she changed the lyric to I love a man who loves. Usually she had no trouble finishing a song, but she couldn’t take this one beyond the first quatrain.
For all his hostility to Calhoun and proponents of nullification, Edgar was a man of his time and place. He was now forty-seven and, following the pattern of generations before him, becoming more reactionary than he had been at twenty-five. He was angered by the mounting attacks on his city and state from Northern politicians, preachers, pamphleteers, and the press. One evening in late August, after a heavy dinner washed down with ale cocktails, he fell into conversation with a burly ginger-haired man on the veranda of Newport’s Harbor Vista Hotel. Cassandra and the children had gone off to watch fireworks.
The gentleman, dressed in sober black despite the heat, introduced himself as Reverend Justus Drew of Boston. “Of the Unitarian faith,” he said pleasantly, laying aside his book, Washington Irving’s Conquest of Granada. Lanterns on sailboats in the harbor gleamed in the dusk. “Your speech would suggest you hail from the South, sir.”
“Charleston. We enjoy vacationing here, away from the heat and summer maladies. My name is Edgar Bell.”
They shook hands.
A stocky young man of about twenty arrived with two young ladies. Drew introduced his son, William, who strongly resembled him. “We’re going for ice cream, see you in the morning.” Off they went, the girls giggling, the young man squeezing their waists. Edgar sighed; he felt his age.
“May I ask a question about last summer’s slave uprising in Virginia?” Reverend Drew asked.
“Nat Turner? Certainly.”
“How did it affect South Carolina?”
“It terrified and inflamed the whole state. For weeks after my family and I returned from Newport, we heard rumors of impending uprisings in various counties. The legislature funded a special hundred-man cavalry unit to patrol Charleston. The uprising stiffened resolve to resist those who inspired Turner’s crimes.”
“I understood his inspiration was Holy Scripture. The Book of Revelation. His disciples called him the Prophet.”
Edgar remembered reports of Turner’s fearsome visions—black and
white angels locked in a death struggle; fields afire, streams running with blood. “Prophet from hell,” he said. “I’m sure Turner was influenced by the kind of Northerners who claim to know how we Southerners should live our lives. They export their propaganda to incite the ignorant. In Columbia, our capital, citizens are offering a thousand dollars for apprehension of anyone distributing such literature. I’m speaking of work by misguided missionaries like Garrison.”
Drew lowered his massive head, squinted at Edgar. “A friend of mine, sir. Surely writing and speaking the truth can’t do mischief.”
“You think not? Gangs of black runaways are living in our Low Country marshes right now. They prey on isolated farms. An overseer was strangled the week I left home. On July 4 some ladies and gentlemen picnicking at the site of Fort Sumter were poisoned by their cook. Two died. Garrison and his kind will bring anarchy and ruin if they persist.”
“Mr. Garrison won’t be swayed by your objections, Mr. Bell. He’s determined to be heard. So are thousands like him.”
“I’d say they all deserve a good horsewhipping.”
“The kind you administer to your poor niggers?”
“I find that remark offensive, Reverend.”
“It’s you slavocrats who are offensive. To the nation, and to the Almighty.” Along the veranda conversations broke off as people overheard the quarrel. “Are you a slave owner?”
“I am, but—”
“Do you keep black concubines? I understand it’s common for owners to lie with them to breed more slaves now that the trade is outlawed.”
Edgar rose from his teak chair. “That is even more offensive.” He poked Drew’s shoulder. “I respect your calling but I will not suffer insults.”
Drew revealed himself as huge, a head taller than Edgar when he unfolded himself from his chair. “There’s a limit to Christian forbearance, Mr. Bell. Don’t lay hands on me again.”
“I will if I choose.”
“The devil.” The reverend pushed Edgar hard enough to jam him against the rail. Someone down the veranda stood up, exclaimed, “Gentlemen, if you please.” Edgar knocked Drew’s arm aside. His blood-suffused face contorted. He sagged forward against Drew, almost carrying them both to the floor. Red and white star clusters exploded over the harbor.
When Cassandra, Alex, and Ham returned an hour later, they found Edgar in bed with a Newport doctor attending. Alex clutched her mother’s hand as they stared at Edgar’s waxy face.
“He fainted, Mrs. Bell,” the doctor said. “It is a symptom not to be taken lightly. I gather there was a discussion of sectional issues on the porch. Words exchanged.”
“I know nothing of that. Who brought him upstairs?”
“A Unitarian minister. He’s left the premises. I advise you to let your husband rest for a day or two. Then you should return him to Carolina speedily, so his own physician can examine him. Despite his robust appearance his heart may be fragile. A person in that state should not become unduly excited.”
They left Newport three days later. Edgar said he felt fine, though his pallor and labored breathing denied it. Alex worried. Fortunately there were no repetitions of the disturbing incident during the winter.
Edgar wrapped the white cloth around his coat sleeve, knotted it. White showed up well in the dark. In the midst of a melee Unionist friends could be identified.
The nullification crowd wore blue rosettes in their lapels, blue cockades on their hats. Charleston Nullifiers included town-dwelling planters such as Simms, and younger gentry, including Gibbes, already expelled from the state college at Columbia for brawling.
It was Monday night, October 8, 1832, the first of two days of voting for state legislators. For weeks the city had been plagued by confrontations, fights, and near riots as the factions campaigned for their candidates. Governor Hamilton and Edgar’s friend Petigru, political foes, had acted together to prevent a major bloodletting in King Street after rival meetings let out at Seyle’s Hall and the Circus Tavern at the same hour. Bricks thrown in the dark bloodied the governor’s head and that of William Drayton. Petigru and others drew the Unionists away east on Hasell Street.
“After I leave, put Titus on watch,” Edgar said to Cassandra.
“Titus is far too old. He couldn’t fend off an attack from a puppy.”
“Then lock the doors.”
“I will when Alex returns.”
“What? Where the devil is she?”
“She ran to John Street with a tin of fish chowder. Henry Strong’s mother has been ill with influenza. She’s recovering. Alex wanted to visit.”
“And you allowed it?”
“Edgar, your daughter is seventeen. Strong willed.”
“Muleheaded. Something’s changed her lately. She’s quiet, less forthcoming. Is it a boy?”
“I don’t know of one.”
“Well, roaming the streets is unsafe. The Nullies are waylaying derelicts and holding them in houses where they’ll be given whiskey all night and sent to vote tomorrow. They’re terrified of a defeat upstate. They even stoop to voting dead men whose names are copied from headstones.”
“If the streets are dangerous, why are you going out?”
“To prevent more chicanery.”
“Alex will be fine, she’s hardy,” Cassandra assured him, though her glance expressed anxiety. “Please don’t excite yourself. The doctor—”
“Hang the doctor. If something happens to her, it’s on your head.”
He stalked out. On the steps he was caught by a last ray of daylight; Cassandra saw the choler in his face. She blamed herself.
Alex said good-bye to Mrs. Strong in her sickroom, and to Henry’s sister washing dishes in the kitchen. Henry sat on the chopping block, whittling. Alex glanced at him and went out.
In the shop Hamnet was busy with his latest handiwork, a mahogany clothespress with casters and a beautiful scrolled pediment. “For your relative, Mrs. Simms Bell.”
“They get all their furniture from London,” Alex said. “Uncle Simms told me so.”
Amused, Hamnet said, “Maybe that’s the story they peddle in town. I’ve made their pieces for years. Charge ’em about a third of what an import costs and I still make a profit. But I practically have to swear a blood oath to keep the business a secret. To see how I’m coming with a piece, Mrs. Simms Bell and her stuck-up daughter creep around here like spies. Some folks are passing strange.”
He escorted her outside. A luminous azure sky spread over them, speckled with stars. The air smelled of the ocean. With the coming of autumn it had turned cooler.
“Kind of you to come visit. Mary’s a whole lot better.”
“I was so glad to see that, Mr. Strong.”
“Soup will go down just fine, her appetite’s back. You best hurry home. There’s a lot of trouble in town, the election and all.”
“I saw men idling on Meeting Street, but nothing worse. My father was out on patrol last night. I suppose he will be again.”
“How’s he feeling?”
“Not as well as he should.” A distant sound like a gunshot startled them. “I’ll tell him you asked.” She shook the carpenter’s big hand. As she arranged her ivory shawl, she heard footsteps behind her. Henry appeared, still awkwardly silent.
His nearness produced more of those strange, excited feelings Alex remembered from the theater. The sonorous peal of St. Michael’s bells reached them. Hamnet Strong frowned.
“Too early for curfew warning. Could be a fire.”
“My father saw two last night,” Alex said.
“Henry, I want you to keep Alex company on the way home. Still plenty of time before curfew. Stay a ways behind her, you don’t want to be stopped for walking with a white girl.”
“Really, Mr. Strong, I don’t need—”
“Best you let him go along, never can tell what you’ll run into, night like this.” Reluctantly she thanked Hamnet and left through the gate to John Street.
Deepening shadow
s seemed all the darker because of the luminous sky. A few steps brought her to Meeting, where she saw St. Michael’s white steeple in the distance, painted a lovely dark blue by the evening light. Down by the city market lanterns flashed. All at once she was grateful for Henry’s steady step a half block behind.
37
Dangerous Streets
Few people were abroad north of Boundary Street, but to the south lanterns and brandished torches spoke of a large, possibly volatile crowd. Henry called softly, “Best we go another way. Let’s ease over to Anson Street.”
Despite Hamnet’s caution about walking separately, he took her hand. She shivered pleasurably. When he broke into a trot she kept pace. The rising moon limned his forehead and strong chin.
They jogged from Anson over to Church. Odors of garbage and fish and human ordure swirled around them. No one bothered them on the desolate streets. All the hullabaloo seemed to be in the direction of Meeting and King. Above the roof peaks the sky had a hazy copper cast.
St. Michael’s bells pealed again. They listened. “Another fire,” Henry decided. “Sounds big this time.”
On Liberty Street west of King a rickety two-story house was burning. Edgar and two friends were among the first to reach it. They’d been mingling with the crowd in Meeting Street, trying to spot Nullies rounding up illegal voters. Apart from glares and occasional shouted obscenities prompted by their white armbands, they weren’t molested, perhaps because all three were well known: Edgar; gray-eyed James Petigru, attorney of St. Michael’s Alley; and Morris Marburg, the rosy-faced banker. He carried a truncheon.
Edgar was the conservative and retiring one. Petigru, who mesmerized juries with his theatrics and a yellow silk handkerchief he waved about during his arguments, was the most liberal and outspoken. Where Petigru preferred simplicity, seldom throwing legalistic Latin at his listeners, Marburg liked to display his erudition by lacing his speech with Latin and German.