The Soldier's Lady (6 page)

“You jes' git back from town, Jeremiah?” she asked.

“Yeah, a couple minutes ago.”

“You seen Mayme out dere?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“She went ter take dat Micah Duff some breakfas', but dat wuz an hour ago an' I ain't seen her since.”

Jeremiah sat without replying. Slowly he got up.

“Well, I reckon I ought ter git dat wagon unloaded.”

“You need some help, Jeremiah? I's jes' 'bout done wiff dis bread.”

“Uh, yeah . . . sure, Emma—thanks. Won't be quite da adventure we had wiff dose cows, but I'd sure appreciate da help.”

“I's be out ter join you in a jiffy.”

A
MBITIONS

6

S
OME FOUR MILES FROM
G
REENS
C
ROSSING, IN THE
house of a wealthy plantation notable for the absence of any black person anywhere on it, a man of approximately thirty-two years sat in the leather chair of his upstairs office. He was thinking about the excursion he had planned for the following day.

He was not the master of the place but rather the owner's son. He had spent his whole life here, and hadn't minded it. And while he had a certain grudging respect for his father, whose name he shared, the fact was, his father was only fifty-three and was still strong as an ox. His mother had died years before, but his father would be master of the plantation for years to come. His own wife was mistress of the place, but he would just be his father's son until he had grey hair of his own. If he didn't make something of his life soon, it would be too late.

He had realized for some time that there was no future around here sufficient to satisfy his ambitions. He was meant for bigger things.

He hoped tomorrow's trip to the state capital would set him on the path to a future with more promise than merely growing wheat and cotton for his father.

What this man could possibly have to do with the plantation called Rosewood and its assortment of blacks and whites may have been a mystery to some. But the fact was, there were more connections between the two plantations and its people than most people in the community had any idea.

Why I would want to tell about this man, and even how I could, is a mite hard to explain. All I can say is that it wasn't easy to find out some of the things that happened. I had to ask a lot of people a lot of questions, and some of what I found out I didn't find out until a long time later.

But concerning the why I need to tell about this man is because my own story is interwoven with his in so many ways I could not possibly explain them all.

In fact, I grew up on the very plantation where he now sat thinking. Back when I was young, there were dozens of black slaves all about the place, including me and my family, and a house mammy called Josepha and a dim-witted black house girl a year older than me called Emma. Back then we were all slaves and this man's father was the man we called Massa. And the Massa's sons were mean and ornery and I'd felt the sting of their whips on my bare
back more times than I can remember and have still got the scars to prove it.

So when I say that this man's story and my own were all tied up together, you can see what I mean. He was the kind of man a former slave never forgets.

And he had a secret he didn't want anyone to find out about. There were only a handful of people who knew his secret.

I was one of them.

When William McSimmons, Jr. walked into the Raleigh office of North Carolina congressman Robinson Galbreath, a brief thrill surged through him. This might be
his
office two years from now! He did his best, however, to hide his lustful glances at the well-appointed décor and what it represented. He needed this man's help. It would not be wise to appear too eager.

He greeted the congressman with a shake of the hand and took the chair that was offered him. The congressman glanced over the letter that had been lying on his desk when his guest arrived and which had prompted the meeting.

“Your father says you are planning a congressional run for my seat,” said Galbreath. “And that you want my support.”

“He told me you were plainspoken,” smiled the younger McSimmons.

“You can't succeed in politics any other way,” replied the congressman without returning the smile. He had seen no humor in it. “Try to hide something from the public
and they will always find you out in the end.”

“I couldn't agree more, sir,” said McSimmons. “To answer your question—yes, I am considering a run and would be most grateful for your support. When word reached us of your retirement after this term, I began to consider the possibility. My father thought I should talk to you.”

“Your father and I are old friends. I owe him a great deal. So for his sake I will give the matter due consideration. What makes you feel you are the man to represent the people of North Carolina in Washington?”

“I would hope, sir, that my age and vision for the future of the South could be seen as representing, as it were, the
New South.
My contacts with certain men of influence with capital to invest in our region will make for new opportunities for our people which I believe will enhance North Carolina's growth.”

“Carpetbaggers, you mean?”

“I would prefer to think of them as men, like myself, looking realistically toward the future now that the war is behind us.”

“And there's nothing in your resume, no past indiscretions, no skeletons in any closets, that could come back to bite you? I don't want my name mixed up in anything—”

“I assure you, sir,” said McSimmons, “there is nothing I would not be willing to have completely known. I am happily married to a dear woman and my life is an open book.”

“And your wife,” said the congressman. “What does she think?”

“She is very supportive. She would be willing to relocate to Washington.”

McSimmons did not add that the congressional seat had originally been his wife's idea, and that she was a more opportunistic social climber than he. She had, in fact, been urging him to run
against
Galbreath before the announcement of his retirement.

The two men continued to chat informally for another five or ten minutes. Neither particularly liked the other. But in politics that hardly mattered.

When William McSimmons boarded the train two hours later to return to Charlotte and then to Oakwood, it was with a smile of satisfaction. He had done well, he thought, to endear himself to the old man. With Galbreath's endorsement, his own election would be in the bag.

It was time to make plans for a formal announcement, probably sometime this spring. His wife would want to make an event of it. And why not? The more publicity involved, and the more influential people they could invite, the better.

In the meantime, he would make himself more visible and respectable in the community. He was not thinking about his secret right then. But it wouldn't be long before he would start thinking about it.

And wondering what to do about it.

A M
IGHTY
F
INE
-L
OOKING
M
AN

7

M
icah Duff gradually gained his strength and before long was out of his bed and back on his feet. With the ploughing and planting already under way, there was plenty to be done, and Micah and Jeremiah were better friends than ever—more like brothers than anything. They were almost inseparable.

Spring advanced and again the shoots of cotton and wheat and other crops began to color the landscape with carpets of green. The earth warmed and rich smells rose from it, and life at Rosewood seemed a good thing to us all. There had been no more incidents with the men dressed in white robes, and we hoped maybe people were at last getting used to how things were at Rosewood. Having Micah with us added new interest and excitement and zest to our lives.

It wasn't every day we had a newspaper around the house, but whenever Uncle Ward or my papa
went into town, they usually bought one from Mrs. Hammond, which might have been every couple of weeks.

I heard some muttering one day as I walked toward the kitchen from the parlor and came in to see Josepha sitting at the table humphing to herself over the paper they'd brought home yesterday. Then she went back to reading and seemed engrossed in it for another minute.

“I didn't know you could read so well, Josepha,” I said. “I've never seen you with a newspaper before.”

“I kin read well enuff, Mayme chil'. Dere wuz a time in my life when I had as much learnin' as any white lady. It's jes' dat I don't git much occasion ter use all dat no more.”

“It sounds like you were reading something that upset you.”

“I jes' oughta keep my big mouf shut,” she said. “It's jes' dat when a man goes struttin' 'bout like he's somebody important when I used ter take him on my own knee fo his mama before he got old enuff ter take the whip in his own hand, well, den I ain't got no use fo a man like dat.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Jes' dat blamed McSimmons boy here,” she said, pointing to the paper. “It says he's fixin' ter run fo Congress or somethin'. Dat boy ain't fit ter lick his daddy's boots. Now he's settin' hisse'f up as a big important man, when he ain't—”

Josepha stopped whatever she had been about to say. Emma had walked in a few seconds behind me
and now stood listening. She always got both quiet and afraid when the subject of William McSimmons came up. I could never tell what she was thinking, fondness for her son's father, or fear of him.

At almost the same time the men all came in together, talking and chatting. Micah Duff was doing his best to help with some of the chores around the place, though his shoulder was still a little weak. That would have put an end to anything more being said about William McSimmons, except that my papa saw the newspaper lying on the table where Josepha had been reading.