Jubal Leatherbury: Book I

By Charlotte Thomas March

On a hot July day in 1894, in a southern city still reeling from the death and destruction wrought by the Civil War, a four-year-old boy is found hanging in a woodshed, his eleven-year-old brother crouching behind a stack of firewood.

Jubal Leatherbury is a little boy of unusual sweetness and beauty, his face a childs version of his handsome father Henrys face. Henry Leatherbury grew up fatherless in New Orleans during the period known as misrule, a bizarre combination of martial law and complete lawlessness, in the years following the Civil War. His own sensuality responded to the licentious atmosphere of the city, and he entered young adulthood as a reckless, undisciplined youth who denied himself little. Married unwisely, and singularly ill-equipped for fatherhood, Henry faces the challenges unique to parents of wounded children when he discovers that his young son has been the victim of ongoing and terrifying abuse. In the story of Jubal Leatherbury, love tests the measure of the power of cruelty in the forming of a man and in the shaping of human society. Set in the post-Civil War South, it takes a unique look at race relations post-slavery, as the races begin the process of viewing each other through different eyes. Characters that quickly become real and memorable experience joy and sorrow, love and hate, human tragedy and triumph, but when the book is closed, it is love that will be remembered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Mar 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504327077

Charlotte Thomas March

Ms. March grew up in a solidly white farming community in North Alabama, the granddaughter of German immigrants. She came of age in the early 60s working as an emergency room nurse in Birmingham at the height of the civil rights struggle. She later worked as a midwife in a refugee camp in Bangladesh and as a home health nurse in the mountains of northern Pakistan. She claims a unique perspective on the commonality of the human condition, a perspective brought to bear in her first novel, a story about people that might have been set anywhere. She lives with her husband in Mobile, Alabama.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 Charlotte March.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2705-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2706-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2707-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901147

Balboa Press rev. date: 05/11/2015

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

Acknowledgements

Photograph of Mobile Yacht Club is from the Erik Overbey Collection, The Doy Leale McCall Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of South Alabama, G-658: Mobile Yacht Club, circa 1910. Used by permission.

Blanche Sumrall’s painting of dueling yachts, Sailing Under the Red, White and Blue, used by permission of Fairhope Yacht Club/Dauphin Island Race Committee.

Painting of the Middle Bay Lighthouse by Blanche Sumrall, used by permission of the artist.

Pencil sketches of horse and buggy, city grid of Mobile and a map of Mobile Bay used by permission of the artist, Rachel Burrows.

Special thanks to Janie Daugherty and Amy Raley, librarians in the Local History and Genealogy Division of the Mobile Public Library, for the hours of assistance they provided during the research phase of this project, which included helping me load hundreds of reels of newspaper microfilm and hand written sexton’s records from the last two centuries.

Most special thanks to my husband, Cary, for his constant encouragement and for writing the fabulous sailboat race in Chapter Ten.

Dedicated to the men in my life:

My father, my husband and my son

Preface

This novel is a work of fiction, but it’s as true to the people, the place and the time as I was able to make it, after spending almost six years in the local history library reading newspaper articles on microfilm and handwritten sexton’s records, pouring over books and papers with descriptions of Mobile and New Orleans at the turn of the century, reading through thousands of pages of Alabama Senate and House Journals in the Mobile Law Library, and walking many miles in Mobile cemeteries.

It is not biographical, but I have used stories, letters, and pictures from friends and family, plus drawn on experiences I have had with people I knew well, and with others I knew less well, to develop the story and the characters. One may be able to recognize something they have done or said, but it never follows that they are that character or even the inspiration for that character. For example, the story of the black dress with the shivery fringe distracting the groom on an errand to a flower shop, actually happened to my dearest friends who were married in Mobile in 1945. But apart from exceptional goodness of character, my friends have nothing in common with the bride and groom in the novel. In fact, the real bride is stunningly beautiful, still, at eighty-something.

The story of the Eisenberg house in Book II is another example of inspiration that in my opinion doesn’t qualify as biography. The house is my grandparents’ home in every detail; the romantic story told about it in the novel is my grandparents’ story. The house was built by my grandfather and his father for the younger man’s bride. The young couple moved in on their wedding day, their six children were born there, their four daughters were married in the living room of that house, and in their turn, both died in the house where their life together began. The Elizabethtown wedding was based on my mother’s wedding, but the dress described was actually my grandmother’s. The wedding night following was also my grandparents’ experience, based on the story told to me by my mother. I remember the house in vivid detail, and I walked through those rooms with every sentence written about events there. But, however much inspiration was drawn from them, neither my parents nor my grandparents appear here in biographical form. Every character is many people, and most of those people are completely imaginary.

The story I’ve told is about a little boy and the incredible sweetness that defined him as a child and as a man. Through his life, a picture is drawn of the mélange in the south in the early years of the twentieth century, from which today’s uniquely southern culture would emerge and grow—old families with generations of southern heritage, new families who came from states outside the south in the years following the American Civil War, and new immigrant families arriving during the same period. It is set in the south and written about southerners. I attempted to provide a realistic sense of the time and place through use of language, but with minimal use of accent to identify the characters either as today’s stereotypically southern white or southern black, or as educated or aristocratic southerners. Some reference was made to the speech patterns of the German immigrants who settled Elizabethtown, and to the influence of a French dialect still spoken in many homes in coastal Louisiana, but in those cases, too, the actual pronunciation is left to imagination. When people of any region or language speak with each other, they hear what is said without the distortion and alteration that can happen through interpretation by people alien to the area. I want everyone to be able to hear what the characters heard when they interacted with each other, and to see with their eyes the things around them.

Good and evil, joy and sorrow, love and hate are to be found within these pages; but when the book is closed, I think it is love that will be remembered.

ctm

Mobile, 2012

horseandbuggyonroad2new.jpg

1

Gabriel Nolan sat on the bank of the creek gazing into the depths of a pool of water. He gave his hook a little jiggle, hoping to catch the eye of a late feeder before giving up. He’d been fishing since early morning without a single bite. That rarely happened and he’d stayed longer than he meant to, expectantly watching the water. The good feeding time was well past now, as he guessed by the sun it must be almost noon. He retrieved his pole and line and methodically arranged his gear in a little wooden caddy he had made himself for the purpose.

Gabriel was thirteen years old. He was big for his age, already as tall as his father. He was strongly built like his father, too, but he would not be able to do the heavy labor his father did at the sawmill. Although otherwise strong and healthy, Gabriel had a club foot which rendered him slow and easily off balance. Working at the mill required surefootedness as well as strength. His mother told him he was smart and there would be work opportunities for him that didn’t require the same physical ability. Gabriel didn’t know, but he thought he might find out this summer. He was going to work afternoons at Mr. Caldwell James’ general mercantile store on Conti Street. He knew he was lucky to have this chance and he was going to do his best. Gabriel was an only child and lived with his parents several miles outside Mobile’s city limits. He would ride their old cob as far as the livery stable, and catch the street car from there to the store. He was anxious to begin; anxious to be able to contribute to the family’s income.

Glancing upward, Gabriel suddenly remembered his promise to help his mother put the mattresses out to sun as soon as the dew was off. He had forgotten, and now all the hours of morning sun were lost.

He quickened his pace as much as he could. If he went through the Leatherburys’ place he could almost halve the length of his walk. He didn’t like to do that because last year he’d been warned off the property by Mrs. Leatherbury. He looked in that direction. It was a big white house with porches that wrapped all around it, set in a grove of old live oaks with Spanish moss hanging from their branches. There were camellia bushes more than head high and a plethora of azaleas and other flowering shrubs. Gabriel thought it was beautiful, but he also thought it had a sort of sad air. It wasn’t exactly shabby, but there was a look of unkemptness about it. His mother said that it looked like it was well kept within the limits of what a woman could do by herself. Outbuildings needing repair, and rotten wood here and there on the house would be outside a woman’s ability to manage on her own. Gabriel didn’t really know the Leatherburys. They were Catholic, and his own family attended the Franklin Street Methodist Episcopal Church. The church was actually on Government Street now, but people still called it the Franklin Street Church. His mother was probably right about the Leatherburys’ place, and he had not missed the subtle reference to the way his father kept their house.

Gabriel loved their house, which was a fairly typical four room dog trot with a screened porch off the kitchen in the back. His father had built the house with his own hands when he’d first come to Mobile in 1866, just after the war. Then he’d married a spinster lady a few years older than himself. She was working as a seamstress in a shop on Joachim Street, which specialized in providing the sturdy work clothes needed by the men who worked in the sawmill and other parts of the timber business, as well as by area farmers. Robert Nolan teased that he’d gone there to get some trousers and come away with a wife.

However their unlikely courtship had taken place, the marriage had been happy, although for many years it had remained a childless one. That had not worried them greatly; it had just served to concentrate their time and attention on each other. Hazel Nolan continued to sew for the public and between Robert’s work at the mill and her sewing, they had managed well and spent their spare time working on the house and planting, harvesting and putting up food from their garden.

Hazel would have said that she was completely happy, but when her son was placed in her arms, she experienced a new dimension of joy. His foot had not bothered her in the least. She thought he was beautiful. At first sight, at first touch, she had adored him. Robert Nolan was equally thrilled by the gift of a son in his advancing years. However, his heart had twisted in pain when he saw the little foot. He understood the limitation it would impose and what that limitation would mean to a working man.

Gabriel looked again at the sun and at the Leatherbury property. If he stayed away from the house, he might avoid being seen. He would be in the edge of the woods most of the way. He hated to disappoint his mother. The outbuilding farthest from the house was visible from where he stood contemplating his course. It was a rather dilapidated looking woodshed. He would have to go very near that building but if he got past there without being seen, there would be cover of woods again.

His decision made, Gabriel limped carefully across the deep ruts made by hay wagons going to the big meadow behind the Leatherbury house, and headed in the direction of the woodshed.

59516.png

Inside the woodshed an eleven year old boy crouched, hidden between one wall of the shed and a stack of firewood. This was Roger Leatherbury. He had come there with a bit of tobacco stolen from his father’s pouch, along with some rolling paper and a few matches. He thought it would be the safest place to hide out and try rolling a cigarette. If he could make a good enough one, he meant to try smoking. His friend Jonah had boasted that he did it regularly, but Roger doubted it, and he meant to have the experience before he had the boast. Jonah was always boasting, but he was a rum fellow to have for a friend. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Roger hated fraidy-cats. He shuddered as an image of his younger brother whimpering, eyes wide with fear, flashed through his mind. Roger himself was afraid of nothing. That’s why he and Jonah were such good friends.

Roger wasn’t very worried about being caught. No one came to the woodshed much in the summertime and even if they did, in his position he was completely concealed. Of course, after he lit up you’d be able to smell it. The thought of lighting up pleased him and he smiled. He had just started to carefully lay out the papers on a smooth surface when he heard someone approaching the shed. Listening carefully, he whispered, Oh no! It’s that sniveling, whimpering freak. What’s he done now?

Roger crouched lower as the door was yanked open and a small boy was roughly pushed into the room. The boy fell and immediately scrambled up, trying to put his arms around a woman’s knees. He was crying hysterically, gasping out, Sorry, I sorry, sorry, sorry… then he screamed as the woman’s hand slapped the side of his face so hard, he again fell to the floor. He lay on the dirt floor of the shed, sobbing, eyes wide with terror. Roger couldn’t see the woman now but he could see the child and his stomach heaved with revulsion. He could hear the woman’s voice grating through clenched teeth.

"Sorry, are you? she snarled at him. You’ll know what sorry means, you stinking, disgusting … She stood over the child as she spoke and then suddenly, she kicked him hard. Again came the hideous wail; Roger covered his ears but he could still hear it. Get up! Get up! the furious voice commanded. Climb up on that chair! You’re going to learn the consequences of disobedience, Jubal Leatherbury!"

The boy obeyed, crying quietly now, gasping out, Mama! Mama! Oh Mama …

The terror in the shed was palpable, and it might have entered the older boy’s heart as well, if it had not already, by the tender age of eleven, become sufficiently hardened. If Roger had considered it, he would have admitted the small frisson of excitement he normally experienced when Jubal was to be punished, but not today; this was ruining his carefully laid plans.

He watched as the boy’s hands were tied behind him and a rope was tied around his neck. This rope was thrown across a beam, pulled tight and tied to an open stud near the door. The child stood still on the chair throughout, but he couldn’t control the pitiful screams. As Roger watched, the screams changed in character. The rope was just tight enough that the boy could not fully open his mouth. The cries still came, but now they were coming from between his teeth, eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee… ahmeeeeeeeeeeee. The woman came back into view and stood near the chair.

Now you stand there, Jubal Leatherbury, she hissed at him, and think about what you’ve done. And you’d better say your prayers, little boy, because unless I change my mind, in two hours from now I’m coming back in here and kick that chair out from under you! Do you know what that means, Mister Jubal? That means that you will be hanged by your neck until you are dead! Then she rubbed something brown on the child’s nose and walked out of the shed.

Roger crept forward for a better look. The boy’s face was reddish purple and wet with tears and mucous. The wide, terrified eyes had rolled back in their sockets.

Oh, cripes! Roger thought. He’s messed in his pants!

There was no doubt about that as the odor filled the small shed. The front of his pants was wet, the stain widening to include both legs to his knees. How Roger hated him. He had to get out of there. This was his place and this nasty thing had ruined his afternoon and his big triumph. He couldn’t get out without passing by the boy on the chair. So what, Roger thought, he would pass by him then; he didn’t care. Why, he would kick the damn chair out from under ’im himself. He wasn’t afraid to do it. Roger had never cursed before, even to himself. He felt emboldened by the use of the word damn, even though it was only in his head. He took another look. The little boy’s eyes were open and he was still making the eeeeeeeeeing sound, but he looked odd.

It would take nothing, Roger thought, to kick that chair and then run and keep running to the creek.

Then a sound, this one just above his head, made him gasp. A pane was half broken out of the window above him and he had a fleeting glimpse of a horrified face. Roger flattened himself between the stack of wood and the wall and held his breath.

59518.png

As Gabriel was hurrying across the open space between the trees and the woodshed, he heard an odd noise. Listening closer, he thought it might be the cry of an animal caught in a trap or something. As he neared the woodshed, it became clear that the sound was coming from inside it. It was an awful sound; the sound of suffering. He wondered what could have been trapped in the shed. He looked around for a way to see inside. There was a high window on the woods side of the shed. It was too dirty to see through, but there was a broken pane in the top half through which he could peek if he could find something to stand on.

Seeing nothing near, Gabriel emptied his fishing caddy and turned it on one end. Putting his good foot on it, he hoisted himself up enough to see into the shed. What he saw almost stopped his heart and for a few seconds he stood frozen, unable to move. Then in his haste to get down, he lost his balance and fell heavily. Getting to his feet, he hurried around the building and entered the door.

Oh, God! Oh, God! he cried in shock and in prayer to the Almighty. Oh, God! Oh, God!

The sound the boy was making stopped and his head dropped to one side. Trembling and weeping, Gabriel untied the rope from the stud by the door and the little body tumbled to the floor. Gabriel screamed and fell on his knees, frantically trying to unknot the rope under the child’s chin and around his wrists. Freeing him at last, Gabriel picked the child up in his arms, rushed out the door, and with all the speed his handicap would allow, made for the woods and home.

59521.png

Hazel Nolan was in the back yard doing the wash as Gabriel hobbled out of the woods with his burden. Mama! Mama! he called, as he hurried toward her.

What in the world, Gabe? she cried, seeing the small, inert form in his arms and Gabriel’s face, red, sweating and streaked with tears. What happened?

"He was hanging, Mama, Gabriel sobbed out, hanging in the Leatherburys’ woodshed!"

What? She said the word softly, in one long syllable, as she quickly started to examine the boy’s face and neck.

Is he dead, Mama? Is he dead? Gabriel cried in anguish as her nimble fingers opened the boy’s clothes.

No, Gabe, no, she said. He’s breathing. See the little chest rise and fall? Grabbing some towels from the line, Gabriel’s mother told him to go quickly into the house and fetch a basin of water. She removed the soiled clothes and when Gabriel returned, quickly and carefully washed the little body and wrapped the child in dry towels. Let’s take him inside, Gabe, she said, and I need to understand what happened and how you are involved.

Gabriel explained, omitting nothing, including his tardiness and his decision to go where he had been forbidden. When he described how he’d run for the woods, she asked, Why did you do that, Gabe? Why didn’t you go to the house and try to find his mother?

I don’t know, Mama, he said. I didn’t exactly decide.

He needed immediate attention, Gabe, she said. He might have died bringing him all this way.

I know, Mama, he whispered. I thought that, too, but my feet just kept coming this way. She put her hand tenderly on his shoulder.

I think he’ll be all right, Gabriel, she said. I think he may have fainted and now just be in a deep sleep. That’s what I think, but I can’t be sure. We have to have help.

Gabriel’s lips began to tremble and his face flushed darkly. Mama! he said, starting to sob again, how could this be? Who could have done this?

Hazel Nolan repeated, We must have help, Gabe. You go to your Pa; go on horseback. Tell your father what happened and bring him quickly. He’ll know what to do. And Gabriel, she added unnecessarily, don’t tell anyone else.

59523.png

Leaving the boy sleeping, Hazel Nolan went into the backyard and using the hot, soapy water left from her washing, she cleaned the little clothes and hung them out to dry in the sun. Then she went inside to sit beside the child until Gabe and his Pa got there. She knew he could wake at any time, but she thought it was likely to be many hours.

She looked closely at his face. It was a beautiful face. The eyes were closed, but she knew that they were large and dark. She had seen the child a few times. He had the stamp of Henry Leatherbury on his face, but his hair was a little different. It was dark and abundant—de Guersy hair, probably, she thought. Henry’s hair was dark—curly too, but the color was not the same. She gently touched his hair; he didn’t move. It was soft and curling but the curls were loose, unlike Gabe’s hair. Her son had his father’s hair to a tee; a very light brown in the winter but going blond by early summer, with tight corkscrew curls. The curls made cutting it easy. Her mistakes didn’t matter; the hair just curled snugly back against his head. This child’s hair would be easy to cut, too.

He continued breathing softly as one sleeping deeply. His color was good and his skin was warm. She felt sure he was just sleeping. She dreaded being alone with him when he woke up. What would he think about being there? What had he endured today? And other days, she thought. It had been impossible not to see the stripes and the various stages of bruising on his back and buttocks when she’d washed him.

Hazel Nolan had not been exposed to this kind of cruelty herself, but she knew that it existed. She was a woman who looked at life as it was, and however it might break her heart, she had no difficulty in correctly assessing this situation. Almost her first thought, her first alarm, had been for her own boy. How had he become involved? Could he possibly be blamed? What repercussions might fall on her family for Gabriel having taken the child away? He had said that he didn’t know why he’d come straight home; he didn’t remember deciding. Hazel thanked God for Gabe’s good instincts. If he had taken the child to the house, the only path open to the mother would have been to blame him. That was still possible, but she thought that she and Robert could protect him. They would have to apply to the father for help. Henry Leatherbury was a charming, good looking man, but Robert didn’t think there was much to him. His appetites are stronger than his character, he’d said to her once. She thought he meant drink, but maybe there was more. Still, that’s where they would have to go.

Looking again at the sleeping face she thought, Poor little creature. What has your life been like? He was a little short of five, she guessed. She remembered when he was expected because Henry had brought some dresses round for her to alter.

Hazel smiled a little. Odd that she thought of him as Henry. She always said Mr. Leatherbury when she spoke to him, although he invariably called her Hazel. She had never been able to clearly define the difference in their social status. It is simply that they are Leatherburys and we are Nolans, she thought. But Robert had said once that the only real dividing line between any two people, or groups of people, was the assumption on both their parts that the line was there. He’d said that was the basis of most divisions of class in the world. Without both sides responding to that assumption, the class system could not be sustained. One side must in some manner acknowledge the assumed superiority of the other, maybe by some deferential behavior (Mr. Leatherbury? She smiled again) or the line would fade and classes blur. He thought that human resistance to acknowledging superiority without a basis had underlain rebellion and war in other parts of the world. There was nothing serious like that here, of course, just some subtle and rather silly social distinctions that did no real harm to anyone.

It didn’t occur to her to apply this formula to colored and white. In the year 1894, that was still too new a way of thinking.

59525.png

Roger Leatherbury continued completely still and quiet for some minutes after the unknown person had left the shed, carrying his brother with him. He had not recognized the face at the window but even in that second’s glimpse, he had recognized the expression. It was horror, and Roger knew instinctively that it meant trouble. What trouble, he had no idea and he didn’t try to imagine. Roger had one thought, and that was that the trouble should not involve him. He had to get out of there and fast.

Hurriedly he scooped up his treasured cigarette makings and creeping to the door peeped out. No one in sight! Quickly and quietly he started around the shed, meaning to run for the woods. As he rounded the corner of the shed he saw the overturned caddy and fishing gear. These, too, he quickly picked up and carried with him as he made a dash for the cover of the nearest trees.

He ran until he felt sure there was enough distance between him and the house to be safe, then he looked around for a place to hide the fishing things. He jammed the caddy between a fallen tree trunk and a rock. The pole he placed close up against the tree and covered everything over with leaves and dead branches. Then he sat down on a rock and stayed very still until he was breathing normally. Looking around, he sighed contentedly. I should have come here in the first place, he said aloud, and taking the tobacco pouch and papers from his pocket, he began carefully rolling a cigarette.

59527.png

Gabriel’s father did not go straight home after hearing his son’s story. He sent Gabriel home with a message for his wife, and went himself directly to Henry Leatherbury’s work place. His first thought had also been for his own son and he saw the danger clearly.

Mr. Leatherbury worked in a counting house on Water Street, but he was not there when Robert arrived. A colored man washing the windows on the front of the building told him that Mr. Henry often spent the noontime hour at a carnival warehouse over on St. Joseph Street, where Mardi Gras floats were built and stored.

Robert hurried there. It was, in fact, a regular practice, not only of Henry’s but of a number of other men engaged in various occupations downtown, to congregate at this warehouse in the middle of the day. Robert asked the first person he saw whether Mr. Henry Leatherbury was there.

The man smiled and said, He might be. Who wants to know?

My name is Nolan, Robert said, and it’s important that I get in touch with him.

You wait here and I’ll see what I can do. He smiled again. Robert thought that he must be drinking although he didn’t smell it on him.

The man disappeared inside the warehouse. He walked over to a table where Henry was lounging and playing cards.

A gentleman to see you, Henry, he said, smiling, and he looks disgruntled. I think he’s a little old for that kind of trouble but… shall I come with you?

Did the gentleman give a name? Henry growled. He had a good hand and didn’t like to be interrupted.

Nolan, the grinning man said.

Nolan? Henry repeated, looking up. Nolan’s a neighbor of mine, he said. He wouldn’t be here on any nonsense. After another thoughtful moment, he dropped his cards on the table and picked up his hat. Feeling slight unease, he wondered what Nolan could be doing there.

Robert Nolan was standing on the sidewalk with the bridle reins in his hand when Henry appeared.

Robert, he said, extending his hand. What brings you here?

I’ve come with bad news, Mr. Leatherbury. Your boy Jubal’s been hurt and I’m here to fetch you as quickly as possible, Robert Nolan answered.

Hurt? How? Tell me quickly, Robert.

My Hazel thinks he’ll be all right, but it’s not a nice story, Mr. Leatherbury. Get your horse and I’ll tell you the whole of it as we go.

I have the trap, Henry told him. We can tie your horse on to follow.

When the two men were seated and en route, Robert Nolan told him the story just as Gabriel had related it to him. I’ll not spare you, sir, he began, although it pains me to tell it. A man can’t decide what to do about a matter if the details of the thing have been fuzzied up to ease his feelings.

Henry heard the tale in silence and then asked whether they had sent for a doctor.

No, Mr. Leatherbury, Robert answered. Hazel must have been confident enough to wait for us before doing anything further. She told Gabriel to tell me that his color was good and that he was breathing easy. She thinks he’s in a kind of exhausted sleep.

I see, Henry Leatherbury answered.

59529.png

Just before Gabriel reached home the little boy started to stir. His mouth shaped itself to cry, but no sound came and neither did consciousness. Hazel heard Gabriel putting the horse away, but she dared not leave the child to go to him. She waited impatiently, and when he appeared in the door, she threw her arms around him. Then she took his face in her hands and kissed him over and over—cheeks, nose, lips and forehead. When she stopped kissing him, she continued to hold him in a tight embrace.

It’s been a long time since you did that, he said, laughing softly, a little embarrassed.

Did what? she asked.

Kissed my face off, he said with a smile.

Hazel smiled, too. It had been a long time since she’d kissed him like that and a long time since she had used that phrase. When he was little, she often grabbed him, and covering his face with kisses, she would say that she was kissing his face off. Once when her sister was coming from Eufaula to visit, Gabriel had said, Mama, don’t kiss my face off while Aunt Dottie is here. I think I’m too big now. I won’t, Gabe, she had promised. He had been about four then.

At a little sound, both turned to see the child open his eyes. He looked at them unmoving.

Hey, Jube, Gabriel said, and then stepped back a little to allow Hazel to stand beside him. This here is my mama, he said to the little boy. Did you ever see her before? After a pause he added, She cuts my hair, wondering even as he spoke why he had blurted out something so dumb. But Hazel understood. Desperately wanting the child to stay calm, he’d probably thought normal talk would help and just said the first thing that popped into his head.

Again, grateful for Gabriel’s good instincts, and remembering her earlier thoughts about their hair, Hazel joined the effort. Gabe’s hair is so curly it doesn’t matter if I make a mistake when I cut it—if I leave it too long in places or cut it too short in others. The hair just curls itself up and hides my mistake. Look, I’ll show you.

Gabriel sank to his knees beside the cot on which the boy lay. He leaned his head forward so the child could see his hair. Hazel picked up one curl and stretched it out. When she let go, it sprang back into a nest with the other curls.

The child’s eyes fixed briefly on the cooperative curl, then looking at Hazel, he asked quietly, Where are my clothes?

I washed them, Jubal, Hazel answered kindly but matter-of-factly. They’re on the line drying but I expect they’re ready by now. You and Gabe can visit and I’ll run check on them. Neither boy spoke until Hazel returned with the clothes. Do you need any help dressing? she asked.

No, Jubal answered. I can dress myself.

All right then, Hazel said, laying the clothes on the foot of the cot. I’ll just go in the kitchen and fix you boys something nice to eat. She spoke as though Jubal had come for a visit with Gabe and at the same time left the hint that Gabriel should stay. She went into the kitchen, rummaging for something that might comfort a physically and emotionally affronted child. There were buttered biscuits left from breakfast in the pie safe. She could sprinkle them with sugar; Gabe always liked that. She also had this morning’s milk cooling in the well. That should do. Supper would be late tonight; Robert would understand.

In his room, (the cot on which they had placed the child was his bed), Gabriel sat on a chair near the door while Jubal dressed in silence. When he was finished, they walked out onto the porch that split the house into two halves.

This is my favorite place, Gabriel said. Sometimes I eat out here. Shall we do that? It’s nice and cool here this time of day.

Without speaking, Jubal sat down beside a small table. Gabriel sat, too, and in moments Hazel appeared with the buttered biscuits and glasses of milk. The little boy accepted the food and they ate in silence. Then they waited in silence—Hazel and Gabriel waiting for the men they knew were coming—Jubal, just waiting.

It wasn’t a long wait for any of them. Within ten to fifteen minutes they heard horses on the road and the men soon appeared. Henry Leatherbury dropped the reins and bounded up the steps and onto the porch. He stopped when he saw Jubal sitting with Hazel Nolan and her son.

Hello, old man, he said, looking at Jubal.

Papa, Jubal whispered.

I’ve come to get you; are you ready for a ride in the trap?

Yes, Papa, Jubal answered.

Well, come on then. He nodded toward the Nolans. Hazel, he said, Gabe, and taking his son’s hand he led him to the steps.

I’ll hand him up, Mr. Leatherbury, Robert Nolan said, and when Henry was seated, the child was passed from one father to the other and placed carefully on the seat beside his own.

Again nodding in the direction of the Nolans collectively, Henry walked the horse to the road and in the direction of his house. After several minutes of silence, he asked, Did you get into a bit of trouble today, Jubal?

Yes, Papa, the little boy answered quietly.

Do you want to tell me what you did? Henry asked.

After a moment Jubal replied, I stepped in some dog doo-doo.

Well, that happens, Henry said.

I didn’t know it, Jubal went on, and I went inside. It got on the floor and Mama got upset. She told me to run outside and I ran the wrong way.

Which way did you run? Henry asked.

I ran out the front, Jubal answered.

Did you run across the big rug in the living room?

Yes, Jubal whispered.

Why did you run that way, Jube? Henry asked.

She just said to run outside, Jubal answered.

But why not run back out the way you came in, old man? Henry continued.

Jubal said quietly, She was standing beside that door.

59531.png

In the quiet of early evening, Imogene Leatherbury could hear the trap while it was still a good distance away. She was standing on the porch when they arrived. Dusk was deepening, but she could see that it was Henry and that the boy was with him.

She stayed on the porch, alternately clenching her fists and wringing her hands while they went to the barn to unhitch and put the horse away. Anxious thoughts chased each other through her mind as she grappled for a defense. What had happened? Where had the child gone? What was coming now? A profound dread seized her. What would Henry do? Strike her? She didn’t think so; he never had. No … if only she knew where the brat had been.

They were coming up the path from the barn. She could see that Henry was holding the boy’s hand. Rage took over at the sight of that, and drove out every other concern.

Where have you been? she shrieked at the child, and running down the steps, she drew back her arm to slap him.

Henry caught her arm and held it briefly.

Calm down, he said. Give him a chance to answer your question.

You protect him, Henry? she screamed. You protect this disobedient, ungrateful child! You’re one of the reasons I have so much trouble with him! Did he tell you that he ran off today? Did he tell you that Roger and I have been searching these woods half out of our minds? We were thinking he might have been bitten by a snake or maybe got to the creek and drowned! And you not here, of course, and me with no way to get to you. I had nobody but an eleven year old boy to help me! Her rage increased and she flew at her husband with both fists raised, And I am not to discipline him? With another shriek, she struck out in Henry’s direction with both fists.

Henry caught her hands at the wrists and held them firmly. He spoke softly, and very slowly, so that each word could penetrate the veil of her rage.

I have seen to it, Imogene. I’m his parent, too, and I have seen to his discipline. He dropped her hands and she stepped back, clenching them in front of her. Will you deny that I have a parent’s right to discipline him? he asked.

No, Henry, she answered.

Then the matter is settled, he said, and taking Jubal’s hand again, he walked into the house.

Imogene followed them and said, I hope you aren’t expecting supper, Henry! I hope I’m not expected to search the county for a runaway boy and still cook supper for a family!

Never mind supper, Imogene, Henry said, as he started up the stairs. I’m putting Jubal to bed and then I have something to tell you.

What? she asked urgently. What lies have you been told about me? Tell me now!

Henry kept walking. When Jubal was dressed for bed, Henry kissed him soundly and tucked the sheet under his chin.

I’ll sit here for a bit if that’s all right, Jubal, Henry said.

Oh, that’s all right, Papa, Jubal answered, and burrowed his face into the pillow. The soft, slowly spoken words had also penetrated the storm of emotion rocking the little being that was Jubal. I have seen to it. I have seen to his discipline. Breathing the comforting smell that was his father’s presence, Jubal quickly went to sleep.

When he was sure that his son slept, Henry Leatherbury went out, locking the door behind him. His wife was waiting in the parlor and leapt to her feet as he came in.

You were such a long time, Henry, she said. I’ve had to send Roger to bed without saying goodnight to you.

Henry sat down without responding. I’ve had a letter from my mother, he said. She has asked whether Jubal might come for a visit, and I’ve decided to allow it.

Why just Jubal? his wife asked heatedly. Why not both boys?

She’s old, Imogene; both boys would be too much for her.

Then why not Roger instead of Jubal? He’s the oldest; he should have first consideration, Imogene responded.

Henry said, I thought it might be helpful to you to have Jubal off your hands for a while.

Off my hands? she cried. What mother wants her child ‘off her hands’? What kind of mother do you think I am? Her voice rising, she said, Accuse me, Henry! What lies have you been told? Give me a chance to defend myself! Henry looked toward the hallway door where Roger stood, looking unsure whether he should enter. Imogene followed his gaze.

What is it, son? she asked.

I thought you should know that Jubal has locked hisself in his room.

What? Imogene started to speak, but silence fell on the room as Henry took the key to Jubal’s bedroom from his pocket and held it up.

What were you doing at his door, Roger? Henry asked.

I just went to say goodnight, sir, and found the door locked. Mama don’t allow us to lock ourselves inside, Roger explained.

Go to bed now, son, Henry said, and rising, he started toward the stairs himself. Roger turned quickly and ran in the direction of his room. He had not, in fact, gone to Jubal’s room to say goodnight. He had seen his father approach with Jubal in hand and had hoped to get some information from the younger boy about where he had been and who was involved in his family’s affairs.

On the stairs, Henry turned back toward his wife and asked, Where was Roger this afternoon, Imogene?

"What do you mean, where was he? she asked. I told you—he was with me, searching for Jubal."

Before that, Henry said.

I don’t know where he was before, Henry! she cried. What do you mean?

Henry mounted the stairs without answering. Unlocking the door, he went quietly into Jubal’s room and sat down again beside the bed.

59533.png

Downstairs Imogene walked the floor, wringing her hands in agitation. It wasn’t fair that he wouldn’t tell her what had been said to him, and how he’d come to have Jubal with him. She felt she had to know and she would have done anything to make him speak, but Henry was the most stubborn man ever born and she knew there was no way that she could influence him.

When she’d found the shed empty, her thoughts and activities had been directed by a strong survival instinct. After some frantic searching and thinking, she had concluded that someone had taken him down. It first occurred to her that Roger had done it, but when he turned up green around the gills and smelling like tobacco, she hadn’t bothered asking. If someone else had interfered, who was it? The thought of such exposure was unbearable, so she chose to think that the rope had come loose and the child had run away. When Henry came home with the boy in tow, she knew that she was exposed, and again the instinct for survival took over, driving her to attack her husband and renewing her fury at the child. Nature bound as we are to hate those whom we injure, Imogene cast about for ways of assigning culpability to him, even as she considered with a cooler head this latest encounter with her young son.

Hours passed and she knew that Henry was not coming back. She went to their bedroom and prepared herself for bed. She tried the door to Jubal’s room and finding it unlocked, she walked inside. Henry was still sitting beside the bed. A lamp burned very low on the bedside table. She stood looking down at the sleeping child.

He’s such a beautiful boy, Henry, she said. He looks just like you. She placed her hand tentatively on his shoulder. Henry covered it with his, pressed it briefly and then laid his hand back on his knee. It ran through his mind that Jubal’s favoring him might be part of the problem. He remained silent and after a while Imogene withdrew.

He didn’t come to their room that night and in the wee hours she lay down alone. Her mouth was dry and her stomach hurt. I wish I were dead, she thought desperately, before she finally slept.

Around four in the morning, Henry left the room and went rummaging in a storage closet for an old portmanteau, which he took back to Jubal’s room. By the dim light of the lamp, he began looking for Jubal’s clothes. He found them all stacked neatly in the drawers. The little pants were all folded exactly alike; the shirts were buttoned and neatly folded as if on a sales display. Even the underwear was folded into neat triangles. Henry shuddered and quickly filled the portmanteau with all he could find.

Just before daylight, he shook Jubal gently. Wake up, old man, he said. We’re going on a trip. Jubal opened his eyes. His first feeling of alarm faded as his father smiled and repeated, Come on fellow, time to get up and dress. We’re going on a trip today and we need to make an early start.

Where are we going, Papa? Jubal asked, climbing out of bed and pulling on the trousers his father held out to him.

We’re going to New Orleans to see my mother, Jubal—your grandmother. Can you remember her?

Jubal couldn’t, and the unease he had felt on awakening started to trickle back. Is everyone going, Papa? he asked. He had pulled the shirt on and Henry was helping with the buttons.

No, Henry answered. This trip, it’s just going to be you and me. What do you think of that?

Jubal didn’t answer as an almost equal mixture of happiness and fear fought for supremacy in his heart. Crossing his legs and leaning slightly forward, he said, Papa, I have to go to the toilet.

Henry had shoes and socks in his hands and was unrolling the socks. If you just need to pee, Jubal, use the jar, he said.

I can’t, Papa, Jubal said nervously. Mama doesn’t allow …

Just this once, old man, it’ll be all right. I’ll take care of it. Jubal pulled the jar from its cabinet and turned his back to his father.

Get your shoes and socks on and clean your teeth, Henry said. I’ll take care of this and make your bed. He went quietly down a back stairway and into the yard with the jar. When he returned, Jubal was dressed and had cleaned his teeth. They made the bed together, then taking the portmanteau, they went quietly down the main stairs and out the front door. Henry had hitched the horse and deposited boy and bag in the trap when he heard the front door open, and Imogene calling his name. He got into the trap, drove up to the front steps and stopped.

Imogene ignored Jubal and ran to her husband. What are you doing, Henry? she cried. Will you take a mother’s child away without even giving her a chance to kiss him? She stood beside the trap clutching at Henry’s sleeve.

He looked down at her and said gently, I told you I was taking him to visit my mother. We have to make an early start to catch the train.

She dropped his sleeve and said softly, Henry, have you no pity at all?

He lifted the reins and the horse started to move. It wouldn’t appear so, he answered, and made a little clicking sound to the animal. As it moved into a trot down the driveway, none of the three realized that the longed for kiss had not been delivered.

It was two weeks before Henry returned to Mobile, leaving Jubal in New Orleans. Two weeks until, wrapped in silken arms that smelled of gardenias, Henry wept for his son.

2

Henry’s mother, Theresa Odette de Guersy was born on March 27, 1835, to Theresa Marie Milhet de Guersy and Jean Paul de Guersy, in Orleans Parish, in the state of Louisiana. Louisiana had been a state for only 23 years in 1835, but settlement had begun there in the early 1700s. Both families, de Guersy and Milhet, could legitimately claim ties to the earliest settlers.

The de Guersys traced their family history back into the seventeenth century to the Duchy of Brabant in northern Europe. The southern region of that province had been their ancestral home. At the end of the Eighty Years’ War (1568-1648), the northern provinces became independent, but the southern region remained under Spanish rule. Many citizens in the south, especially its financial, intellectual and cultural elite, fled to the north to escape Spanish oppression, the family of de Guersy among them. Not many years later, some of the family emigrated to Canada. Near the end of the century, they joined some French Canadian adventurers exploring the coastal lands of the Louisiana Territory. There, they established themselves in the business of raising and processing sugar cane. Over time, those early efforts grew into a vast enterprise, the seat of which the original de Guersy had named Brabant, Latin for new region. No doubt the name of the plantation was meant to tie the family to their old world roots, but perhaps even more, it reflected the emotions of a family three times transplanted over great distances to this new place.

The Milhet family was less certain about their European forebears, but their French Canadian ancestors had also established a sugar cane plantation in Louisiana in the early 1700s.

Odette was the only daughter born to the union of Theresa Milhet and Jean Paul de Guersy, and that, many years after the birth of their only son, Charles François Milhet de Guersy. Her mother developed tuberculosis when Odette was fourteen, and died shortly after her sixteenth birthday.

Odette was beautiful, poised and gracious in heart as well as in manner. She had been raised to be a wife and mother after the pattern of her own mother, but due to the depth and length of time she mourned her mother’s death, she was largely absent from the social scene that would probably have produced an early marriage.

In 1855, the year she turned 20, her brother Charles brought a man from Mobile, Alabama, to the plantation to show him what he was doing with Narragansett Pacers and American Saddlebreds. They had met just the week before in Natchez, where they were both looking at horses. Charles was a great horseman and he kept much busier breeding and trading horses than he did with the other business of the plantation. This was a cause of some concern to the elder de Guersy. The plantation at that time operated with over 200 slaves, plus overseers and managers. Charles and his father ran the operation through these subordinate men. It was efficient, extremely profitable, and allowed considerable leisure time for father and son. Their attention was required, however, and the father hoped to see Charles take on a greater share of responsibility as his own diminished due to age and health.

The young man accompanying Charles on his return from Natchez was named Henry Leatherbury. His father was in the timber business in the Mobile area and Henry, like Charles, was an avid and accomplished horseman. They spent most of a week together in Natchez and Charles spoke with such enthusiasm about his horses, his new friend was anxious to see them and perhaps talk Charles into a sale.

In 1855, there was still a good stock of Narragansett Pacers on the de Guersy plantation, but due to inability to get additional stock, there’d been little outside influence for many years. The popularity and demand for the breed by planters, particularly in the British West Indies, had depleted it almost to extinction. Charles hoped to upgrade the stock by introducing a number of Saddlebred mares. The Saddlebred was the result of selective breeding being done in several southern states, particularly Kentucky. He had bought the first ones five years earlier and he was excited about the results. Every foal that had resulted from breeding the Saddlebred mares had surpassed expectation. He wanted to produce a work horse able to pull a plow and carry a rider in comfort, but also one that would add style to a carriage. The Saddlebred