Rhett Butler's people (11 page)

Field hands were commanded to bend this way and that so any ruptures would be apparent. Some were asked to pace rapidly to and fro or prance in place as shrewd buyers evaluated their stamina and wind.

"How often you get to the dispensary, boy?"

"You say you bore three live children? Hips like yours?"

The auctioneer was florid, jolly, and on the best of terms with the buyers. "Say, Mr. Cavanaugh, you needn't bid on this lot. Lot fifty-two's what you want: light-skinned wench, fourteen years old, Lot fifty-two. Don't I keep you in mind? Don't I now?

"Mr. Johnston, if you don't bid more than seven hundred dollars for this prime buck, you ain't as shrewd as I make you to be! Seven, seven, I say seven. Won't you help me out, boys? Seven, going once, going twice. Sold for seven hundred dollars to Drayton Plantation!" The auctioneer took a quick sip of water.

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"I remind you, gentlemen, of our terms. The successful bidder pays one half the winning bid in cash and signs surety for the balance to be remitted no later than thirty days, secured by a mortgage on the purchased negro."

He smiled broadly. "Now, let's get on with the sale. Lot fifty-one: Joe's a prime boy, twelve or thirteen years. Step up on the platform, Joe, so folks can see you. Now, Joe ain't one of your spindle-shanked boys; he's already putting on frame, and in a year or so he'll be a full-task hand. A sharp fellow" -- the auctioneer put his finger to his nose and winked -- "could buy Joe cheap, feed him up, and by next planting he'd own a man, having paid a boy's price! Joe, turn 'round and pull off that shirt. Anyone see a mark on that back? Mr. Huger, he was a fine gentleman, but he weren't scared of the bullwhip, no sir. Joe never needed no whip because Joe's a respectful nigger, ain't you, Joe? Do I hear two hundred, two hundred dollars? Two, two, five, I have five. Do I hear five fifty, five fifty, five fifty? ... Sold to Mr. Owen Ball of Magnolia Plantation."

Andrew Ravanel leaned indolently against an empty stall. His horseman's sinewy legs were cased in fawn-colored trousers, his frilled shirt was framed by the lapels of a short yellow jacket, his broad-brimmed hat was beaver felt, and his boots had the deep transparent gleam of frequent polishing. Andrew raised one indolent finger to Puryear and Kershaw as they came near. Andrew had a nighthawk's complexion, his pale skin so transparent, one could almost see his moods. There was tension under his fashionable languor, as if the fop were a coiled spring.

Edgar Puryear struck a match to light Andrew's cigar and nodded at the high yellow on the block. "Fine wench."

Henry Kershaw craned to identify the bidder. "That's old Cavanaugh. I wonder if Cavanaugh's wife knows she wants a housemaid."

"Maid she may be ..." Andrew drawled. Henry Kershaw guffawed.

Edgar Puryear said, "Isn't that Butler's man? Isaiah Watling? There, behind the stanchion."

Andrew Ravanel said, "One wonders how he could remain at Broughton after Rhett killed his son."

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"Man's cracker trash," Henry Kershaw snorted. "Overseer's jobs ain't as easy to find as sons. If Watling wants more sons, he can go to the quarters and make 'em."

Andrew Ravanel said, "But Watling is said to be pious?"

"Supposed to be. Him and Elizabeth Butler pray together every time ol' Langston's out of town. Course, there's prayin' and prayin'."

"Henry, you are a vulgar fellow," Andrew said without animosity. "Lot sixty-one. That's my Cassius."

Kershaw scratched himself where a vulgar man scratches and said, "My flask's dry. I'm off to the clubhouse. Edgar?"

"I'll stay."

Andrew opened the bidding for Cassius at four hundred dollars.

"I have four hundred.... Six? Sir, are you sure? Yes, sir. I have six hundred for this fine young negro. Banjo throwed in with the man -- one price takes both of 'em."

"Why's Watling bidding?" Edgar Puryear asked. "Langston has no need of a banjo player."

At eight hundred, everyone had dropped out except Isaiah Watling and Andrew Ravanel.

Isaiah Watling bid nine fifty.

When Andrew Ravanel bid one thousand dollars, Watling lifted his hand until he had everyone's attention. He climbed onto a tack box, head and shoulders above the crowd. "Mr. Ravanel, sir. I have my instructions from Master Langston Butler. I'm to ask how, if you win this nigger, you will pay for him. Where's the cash to be paid today? Where's your five hundred dollars?"

Andrew Ravanel stiffened as if struck. Surprise, outrage, and embarrassment chased across his face. When Andrew turned to Edgar Allan, his friend was gone. Those closest to Andrew pretended they weren't looking at him. Those farther away concealed grins.

"Good sirs, good sirs!" the auctioneer cried.

"You gave us the rules," Watling reminded the auctioneer. "I suppose you'll stick to 'em."

Someone cried, "Yes, yes."

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Another: "Rules are rules."

"Stick to the damn rules."

Andrew shouted, "Watling, by God, I'll -- "

"Mr. Ravanel, I ain't actin' for Isaiah Watling. I ain't my own man no more. I'm actin' for Master Langston Butler. It's Master Butler askin' Mr. Ravanel: 'Where's your five hundred?'"

"Are you saying, my word, the sworn word of Andrew Ravanel -- "

"His

word?"

an anonymous voice.

"A Ravanel's

word?"

an anonymous guffaw.

"If Mr. Ravanel ain't got it, Mr. Auctioneer, my nine hundred fifty dollars buys the nigger. I'll pay cash in full."

The news of Andrew Ravanel's humiliation (some called it his "comeuppance") flashed through the clubhouse. Jamie Fisher felt like someone had punched him under the heart.

When Jamie found his friend Andrew Ravanel was clutching the grandstand rail, white-knuckled.

"My friend Edgar saw it coming. Edgar Puryear can spot these plays a mile off. But when I turned to Edgar, Edgar wasn't there. I've seen Henry Kershaw lose a thousand on the turn of a card. But where was friend Henry?" Andrew's wounded eyes passed over the crowd, which was more indifferent to Andrew Ravanel than that young man imagined. "My little friend, Jamie Fisher. They tell me Jamie is the richest gent in the Carolinas. Five hundred dollars is pocket change to young Fisher!"

"I'm sorry, Andrew. If I'd been there ..."

"Christ, Jamie. How can I bear it! In front of everyone -- everyone! Christ! You should have heard them laughing at me. Andrew Ravanel, An-drew'll bid when he can't pay! Oh my God, Jamie, I wish I were dead!"

"Should you challenge Watling, I will second -- "

"Jamie, Jamie. I cannot challenge Watling." Andrew's voice was weak as a ragpicker's horse. "Isaiah Watling is no more a gentleman than his son was. If I challenge Watling, I confess Andrew Ravanel is no gentleman."

"But Rhett fought Shad Watling."

"I don't want to talk about Rhett Butler! Jamie. I have never wished

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to talk about Rhett Butler! Surely I have made myself clear!" When he tried to light a cigar, his hands shook and he flung the match down. "Damn Langston Butler! I know that auctioneer; he would have taken my IOU."

"It's only a banjo player, Andrew."

" 'Only a banjo player'?" Andrew's tight laugh condescended to Jamie's naiveté. "Is Langston Butler planning a musicale? Perhaps Langston Butler wants instruction in banjo picking? Do you think so, Jamie? I think Langston Butler has purchased an unusually expensive rice hand." Andrew continued as if explaining to a child. "Langston Butler revenged himself on Jack Ravanel by humiliating his son. All Charleston has the measure of Andrew Ravanel now. Andrew Ravanel is a sham!"

Jamie Fisher's throat constricted. "Andrew, I ... I don't know ... Andrew. You are so fine and rare. I'd -- "

Andrew cut him off with a gesture.

Negroes with Jockey Club armbands were clearing people off the track.

"Andrew?"

"For God's sake, Jamie. Won't you be silent!"

As the track emptied, a horsewoman trotted through the officials, ignoring their gestures to leave the track.

Andrew froze: a hawk who sees its future. He breathed, "Why, there's Rosemary."

"Looking for you, surely." Relief at the distraction lifted Jamie's voice an octave. "Andrew, I must tell you about Juliet's amusing wager...."

"Oh dear, Jamie. Something's wrong. Rosemary's upset. Look how she saws the bit, asks her horse to trot, then curbs it."

Jockey Club functionaries cried, "Miss!" and "The race, miss!" but jumped out of her way. Rosemary searched faces along the rail, her yellow silk scarf streaming behind her, a defiant banner.

"My," Andrew Ravanel said thoughtfully, "Rosemary

is

angry, isn't she?"

Rosemary's horse reared when she jerked its reins. "Goddamn you, horse, settle! Andrew! Where is my father? Have you seen my father?"

Andrew Ravanel fell into a deep, cool stillness. Time had slowed to this

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simple moment. "Beautiful Rosemary," Andrew said almost wistfully, "your esteemed parent has left the racecourse."

A Jockey Club steward, a white man with a his green sash of office, hurried toward them. "Madam! Madam!"

"Damn you, horse! Damn you!

Will

you stand still!" Rosemary used her quirt. "I must find my father." Rosemary's face twisted. "I have news. This day I have learned why my father is truly damned."

With an imperious gesture, Andrew Ravanel stopped the steward in his tracks, stepped onto the track, caught Rosemary's bridle, and brought her agitated horse to a standstill.

One steward, one horsewoman, one gentleman holding her horse -- otherwise, the racecourse was empty.

The rage at the core of their tableau drew every eye.

On the clubhouse veranda, a Yankee visitor turned to his Charleston host, "What the devil?"

His host replied, "You're in Charleston now, Sam. Enjoy the fireworks."

If Rosemary hadn't been adrift in helpless, inarticulate fury, she would have been alerted by Andrew's too-sweet tone. "Stay a moment, dear Rosemary. We'll sort things out. Here, let me help." Andrew formed a stirrup with his hands.

Hastily, Rosemary dismounted. "Must I still call Langston Butler 'father,' Andrew? He has lied to me. He has destroyed my brother. He ..."

"Langston Butler has so much to answer for."

Andrew Ravanel took Rosemary into his arms and, in the full view of all Charleston, kissed her fiercely and lingeringly on the lips.

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Chapter

Chapter Seven

Ma

trimony Is an Honorable Estate

I believe Rosemary rather enjoyed it," Andrew Ravanel said carelessly. Andrew, his father, Jack, and Langston Butler stood in the foyer of Colonel Jack's King Street town house. The room had been hard used -- the broad plank floor scarred by spurs, the benches scuffed from serving as bootjacks.

Butler had neither removed his hat nor relinquished his cane to the stand. He gripped that cane as if it might become a weapon. "My daughter's romantic impulses are not at issue."

Langston Butler emptied a pouch onto the hall table. His disdainful index finger stirred the due bills, notes, and promises to pay. "Twenty cents on the dollar is the fair market value of Ravanel honor."

"Perhaps, sir, you intend my son to be affianced to your daughter?" Colonel Jack hoped.

"A Ravanel for a son-in-law?" Red spots blossomed on Langston Butler's pale cheeks. "A Ravanel for

my

son-in-law?"

Andrew Ravanel took a step forward, but his father caught his arm.

"I have come to advise I have purchased your notes and mortgages and they are of this date due and payable. This house and your remaining properties will be sold to satisfy your debts. Henceforth, Chapultapec will race under Butler colors."