Caleb (21 page)

42

The next afternoon, Big Mose hitched up the wagon, and Jardine and Caleb rode over to the county court in Camden. Jardine insisted that Caleb sit up on the driver’s seat with him and kept reminding him, “Don’t slouch!”

Bart Conroy, the county recorder, looked at the paper Jardine had drawn up as if it were a lease on the moon.

“What is this, Boyd?” he asked.

“What does it look like?”

Conroy scratched his head. “Looks to me like you’re giving this nigger his freedom.” To the recorder, Caleb was not even there.

“I’m not giving him anything,” Jardine insisted. “I’m selling him his freedom for five hundred and fifty dollars. It says so right there.”

“Yes,” Conroy said. “I can see that. But is he worth that much?”

“He thinks so,” Jardine said. “I think so. What’s your problem?”

“Well, nothing, Boyd, but free blacks are scarce in these parts—if you don’t count that one-armed blacksmith over near Jeffers Crossroad, and he was free when he came here.”

“Well,” Jardine said impatiently, “now there’ll be two of them if you’ll get out your stamp and do your job.”

“It’ll cost you ten dollars.”

“I’ll try to live with that,” Jardine said. “How many times have I paid you ten dollars for exercising your right arm a little?”

But Conroy was reading the document. “What’s his name?” he asked.

“What’s it say there, Bart?”

“It says Caleb.”

“Then his name is Caleb,” Jardine said. “Now for Christ’s sake, stamp it.”

“Caleb what?” Conroy asked.

Jardine looked questioningly at Caleb. “Caleb anything?”

“Just Caleb, Mr. Jardine.”

“You heard the man,” Jardine said. “Just Caleb. You want my ten dollars or not?”

“Sorry,” said Conroy. “He’s got to have at least two names. Ain’t a free soul in this county with only one. I can’t do it, Boyd.”

For a moment, Caleb saw his freedom fading away like early mist on a sunny morning, but then Jardine had an inspiration.

“Tell you what,” he said, “make that Caleb Rivers. Caleb T. Rivers. Will that do you?” He was talking to Caleb as much as Conroy. Caleb nodded.

“I suppose so,” Conroy said. “What’s the
T
stand for?”

“Anything in your damned law say it has to stand for anything?” Jardine demanded. “Just Caleb T. Rivers. Here, I’ll write it in.” Grabbing a pen from a marble stand on Conroy’s desk, he completed the name. “Now sign and stamp the damned thing before I decide to vote Republican next time.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that, Boyd,” Conroy said hurriedly. He signed the document with a flourish and then took down from the shelf a wooden box containing a tall device that embossed the county seal over his signature. “Damn, that’s pretty,” he said.

“Yes,” Jardine said. “Ten dollars’ worth of pretty.” He gave Conroy the money.

Conroy shook his hand. “Don’t forget to vote next month,” he said. Motioning to Caleb, he asked, “When’s he leaving?”

“Soon,” Jardine said. “Soon.”

When they got back to Three Rivers, Caleb couldn’t find Drusilla anywhere. One of the house girls said she thought Drusilla was upstairs, and Caleb found her just finishing moving out of his room and into the little room where Missy had lived.

“Where are you going?” Caleb asked.

“Where are
you
going?”

“Nowhere. Least not for six months.”

“And then?”

“North.”

“You going to buy me and take me with you?”

“No.”

“There’s your answer, then,” Drusilla said.

“What answer?”

“You’re leavin’. I’m stayin’,” Drusilla said. “You’re free. I’m a slave. I never had much time for girls who sleep with the master—like that Missy.”

“I’m not the master!” Caleb exclaimed.

“You workin’ on it,” Drusilla stated, picking up the last armload of her belongings.

“You want to keep learning to read and write?” Caleb asked.

“I’d like to,” Drusilla said, “but Marse Boyd won’t like it.”

“Mas—Mr. Jardine won’t know,” Caleb said.

“So you say.” Drusilla continued toward the door. “We’ll see about that.”

Caleb stood aside reluctantly. “You taking them beads?” he asked.

“And why not?” Drusilla asked. “You gave them to me, didn’t you?” And she was gone.

“I was just asking,” Caleb told the empty room.

Jardine, who was clearly enjoying the process, continued Caleb’s education as a free man the very next afternoon. He called Caleb into his study.

“Have a seat, Mr. Rivers.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said, forcing himself to sit well back, not perched on the edge of the chair like, as Jardine said, “a goddamned bird.”

“Well, Mr. Rivers,” Jardine continued, “we better talk about your course of study. What do you think a free man has to know besides how to enter a room? By the way, you still do it like a man looking to steal somebody’s hat. We have to work on that. But what else do you have to learn?”

“I don’t know,” Caleb said.

“Let’s see,” Jardine said, ticking off his fingers. “There’s hunting, fishing, dancing, shooting, fencing—oh, lots of things. Let’s start at the beginning. Have you done much fox hunting?”

“No, Mas—Mr. Jardine,” Caleb confessed. “I used to ride in Boston, but a slave doesn’t have a whole lot of time for hunting.”

Jardine was amazed. “In this county,” he said, “people are born in the saddle and learn to jump before they can feed themselves. That’s where we’ll start. Tell Mose to have two of my hunters saddled and ready at nine tomorrow morning. You, Mr. Rivers, are going to start learning to be a free black huntsman.”

“Yes, Mr. Jardine.”

“By the way,” Jardine said, “do you have any idea what the
T
between your first name and last name stands for?”

“Three?” Caleb guessed.

“Right! What do you think of it?”

“It’s a name,” Caleb said.

The next morning, Mose was waiting in front of the stable with the hunters. Rumors had been flying in the quarter about the strange doings of Caleb and Marse Boyd, but up until then there hadn’t been any riding involved. When Caleb came out of the house dressed in one of old Mr. Jardine’s riding jackets, Mose could not believe his eyes.

“Stop gawking, Mose,” Jardine said, “and give Mr. Rivers a leg up on that horse. Haven’t you ever seen a free black before?”

Mose did as he was told and stood watching in wonder as the horses trotted through the gate and toward the woods.

After observing for a while to see whether Caleb could ride at all and then deciding that he was surprisingly adept for a city boy, Jardine led him on the route the local hunt usually took when it worked Three Rivers. “Of course,” Jardine told him, “we’re not likely to raise a fox today, and we have no dogs, but the principle of the thing is about the same. If you see something in your way, jump the hell out of it and try to stay in the saddle. For instance,” he said, pointing, “see where that fence meets that line of magnolia bushes?” Caleb said that he did. “Well,” Jardine continued, “last winter, when Millie Holborn’s big bay ran away with her, she cleared that. She’s been bragging on it ever since. Do you want to take your chances?” Without waiting for an answer, Jardine spurred his hunter and lit out in that direction. After a brief hesitation, Caleb followed.

As his horse pounded over the slight decline toward the fence, Jardine had no time to worry about how Caleb was doing. Since Nancy’s death, he’d had little taste for hunting and less practice, so he needed to concentrate on his own ride. Besides, a free black’s neck was his own responsibility. Nearing the fence and feeling the horse beneath him gathering for the jump, Jardine forgot about everything else. Then, man and horse were flying through the air and landing with a solid thump that jolted every bone in his body. Regaining control of the horse, Jardine glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Caleb. He’d started to rein the hunter around when he looked to the right and saw Caleb sitting on his hunter calmly looking at him.

“How’d you get here?” Jardine demanded with astonishment.

“Same way you did, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said, trying not to look too proud of himself.

“You lied to me,” Jardine accused. “You have hunted before.”

“No, sir,” said Caleb.

“Then, how?”

“Well, Brent and I did do some jumping, though we weren’t supposed to,” Caleb said. “Mr. Staunton didn’t approve. Said it was dangerous.”

“Some jumping,” Jardine repeated suspiciously. “Like how high?”

“Oh,” Caleb said, “five, six, sometimes seven feet. Of course, we came off a lot.”

“Seven feet!” Jardine scoffed. “Well, we’ll just see about that. Follow me.” Jardine kicked his horse into motion, and Caleb followed.

When Jardine and Caleb rode back into the stable yard in the early afternoon, they both looked as though they’d been dragged backward through a hawthorn bush. Jardine had lost one sleeve of his riding jacket, and the right side of his face was deeply scratched from jumping through a hedge rather than over it. Caleb looked even worse. He’d been in two rivers and Thorndike Ditch. His old riding clothes looked like something off a scarecrow.

“Well,” said Jardine as he threw his reins to Mose, “I think we can scratch hunting off the list. With the chances you take, much more of that and you won’t live long enough to get up north. I’d dearly love to see you ride with the Kershaw hunt, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Caleb was too exhausted from the morning’s activity to even answer, so Jardine continued, “Now, get me some lunch. I’m starving.”

Drusilla had lunch all laid out by the time Jardine had drenched his head under the pump in the yard and dried his hair. Jardine sat down at the long dining table, and Caleb, who had quickly changed into his own clothes, assumed his usual position behind and to the left of Jardine’s chair. He didn’t have much to do except to see that Drusilla didn’t make any mistakes.

Jardine started to dig in but then stopped and looked up at Drusilla. “Set another place, Dru,” he said and then added to Caleb, “You’re going to eat lunch with me today, Mr. Rivers. Let’s see if you are as good at eating like a free man as you are at jumping.” When Caleb hesitated, Jardine snapped, “You heard me. Sit down.”

When Drusilla, her face stony, had set another place to Jardine’s right, Caleb sat uneasily, his eyes flicking from Jardine to the serving dishes and back. He didn’t know what to do first.

“Didn’t you eat with the Stauntons,” Jardine asked him, “up in Boston?”

“Usually Brent and me ate in the kitchen,” said Caleb.

“Brent and
I
,” Jardine corrected
.
“Well,” he said, reaching for a dish of potatoes, “the main object of civilized dining is to get your belly full without neglecting table conversation.” He helped himself, saying, “That was a splendid run this morning, Mr. Rivers. I especially enjoyed seeing you go head over heels into Little Creek. Potatoes?” He offered Caleb the dish.

“Thank you, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said, taking the potatoes and helping himself. He tried to think of something to say. Finally he said, “It was a very refreshing experience.”

“I’ll bet,” Jardine said. “If I may suggest, Mr. Rivers, that most free people prefer to eat potatoes with a fork?”

“So I’ve heard, but thank you, Mr. Jardine, for that reminder. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Mr. Rivers,” Jardine said. “Do you think you could pass me the meat platter?”

For the next few months, Caleb—when he wasn’t working—attended the Boyd Jardine Academy for the Education of Free Blacks. One by one, Jardine tested his skills and, where he could, improved them. When it came to swordsmanship, Jardine, who’d received training at the Citadel, had the advantage with the foil, harrying Caleb from one end of the barn to the other crying, “Gotcha!”

“I can’t tell you
how
many times I’ve killed you today, Mr. Rivers,” he told Caleb during a break, “but let me assure you, if this were the real thing, you’d be deader than chivalry.”

But when it came to the sabers, Caleb’s superior size and strength combined with his natural ferocity gave him the advantage. Forgetting, in the heat of the moment, that Jardine was his former master and present employer, Caleb pressed Jardine until his back was flat against a wall of hay bales.