Seaward Plantation
War clouds epilogue
"Right there!" said Mark Appleby, striking the ground with his cane, "and all along there and there," he continued, pointing to the left and right with the stick, "is where the shoreline used to be. Before we had to push out. Got all that fill on barges from Charleston. Thought we were crazy, but we got all this space!" And then he bent over, wheezing and coughing, fighting for breath. Blossom patted him gently but firmly on the back while Battle held on to the old man's arm. The medium brown man and dark brown woman looked at each other over the thin, bent back and shook their heads. The spasm subsided and slowly, slowly Appleby straightened up, fighting for breath, wheezing constantly.
There was a clumping sound behind them. It was Troy, smiting the ground in annoyance with his own cane at every step. "Did I not warn you, old man?" he said. "Did I not say not to walk all the way down here?"
"Who are you calling an old man?" whispered Appleby, the breath coming easier but still each one a struggle. Troy came up to him and lifted the white man's chin with his hand to look him in the eyes. They held the gaze for a while, as Appleby slowly, slowly regained his breath. Then he nodded at Troy, who nodded back. "It's 1910, not 1850," Troy said, more gently. "You can't be charging all over Seaward island any longer," he said. And then he added, under his breath, "and neither can I." Appleby nodded and gulped, composing himself. "Well, I was right," he said, adding irrelevantly, "we got all this space and built all these buildings. Had to grow with all you youngsters!" and he glared with mock ferocity at the middle-aged man and woman on either side of him.
"You didn't come down here to look at all these storage and utility buildings that you've seen a hundred times before," muttered Troy as they slowly turned to head back up the incline. "You came down to see the new artillery. Well?"
A few more yards and they passed the weapons in question. Appleby stopped to pat the nearest one. "French 75mm artillery, imported directly from Brest," he said. Then a spark of his old fire returned and he wheeled, glaring at the mainland. "Let another one of those damn Klan sheriffs come out here meddling and we'll get a little practice in." Then slowly, slowly, he began the long walk back, Troy at his side, Blossom and Battle shaking their heads at his side and behind him. They took it step by step.
"Remember those old cannon from the War Between the States?" asked Battle, mainly to cover the sound of Appleby's labored breathing with conversation. "They seemed so happy to get them for the courthouse on the mainland, didn't even stop to think of their history!" More steps, more labored breathing. Blossom took up the theme: "Yes, but I'm glad for those French 75's, the old breech-loaders we had were so outdated." Slowly and even slower, the group made its way back through well-tended fields to the lawn, then up the verandah steps one at a time. Finally they made it to a rocker, where Appleby slumped, ashen-white. Blossom slipped quickly into the house and soon brought out Portia, whose white hair was tied in a bun.
"Drink this, Master Mark," she said, holding the cup to Appleby's lips. It was all he could do to take some and swallow, but it seemed to help. His vacant eyes focused and snapped back into attention, his breathing became stronger. Moments passed, and so did the crisis. But the people around him exchanged worried looks, and more than one head was shaken in sadness.
"Any mail?" he rasped out. "What's the news?"
Portia went back into the house and came out with a packet of opened letters. "Well," she said, "there is something from Harriet at the Sorbonne, and Matthew at Yale. Their studies are going well. They expect to receive their law degrees this spring, as planned. Oh, and Marcus and Bundit are reporting from Cuba that our investments are going very well there. It seems as if we were wise to buy land as we did just as the war with Spain ended. Its value has greatly increased." She went on through other mail, some letters from the far-flung Seaward family, some news or reports on financial investments. Appleby was silent but he heard every word.
How thankful he was that he had insisted on some children from each generation going to law school or to study business. It was his own training that had originally secured the legal and financial defenses of the island. Well, that and a judicious program of contributing to political parties on the mainland, and even outright bribery of officials when needed. Especially since Federal troops had left the South some years ago, conditions for former slaves and their descendents had become perilous all over the country, but especially in the South. White leaders in Charleston and South Carolina were no more tolerant than they were anyplace else, but Appleby consistently made it worth their while to turn a blind eye to the extraordinary community on Seaward--and to accept its residents for who and what they were whenever they came ashore. Oh, the occasional sheriff or other functionary hoping for public office, and sometimes simply a band of thugs, would make the mistake of thinking they could come out to Seaward in force and do them harm. Appleby smiled grimly, thinking of the new artillery and of its well-used predecessors. What money couldn't buy, high-explosive shells could.
Wise investments during the War had continued to build the bedrock on which Seaward's prosperity, and hence independence, was based. The whole island was wrapped around with layers and layers of legal protections: trusts, special zoning dispensations, semi-autonomous status, laws passed by the legislature---Seaward was entangled in a protective web, and Appleby was the benevolent spider who had spun it. Now a new generation was learning that craft, and the old man felt that in that way among many others, he could let go.
Appleby rocked on the porch, Troy seated next to him, for the rest of the morning. Around lunchtime, Hector came around the end of the verandah with a tray. Smiling broadly, he set the tray gently on Appleby's lap. "Master Mark!" he said gently, and Appleby jerked awake from a slumber--as did Troy, next to him. Hector nodded, smiling. "Here's a little lunch, master. Think you can eat?" Gently, almost surreptitiously, he cupped the old man's neck with his big, meaty hand--a look of worry passed like a cloud across his smiling face. Appleby grinned back and nodded. Troy rose from his rocker to get something for his own lunch, stumping off with his cane in the direction of the kitchen, while Hector settled down in his place. Again, he reached a big hand over and kept it on Appleby's neck and shoulder, gently massaging as he picked at his food.
By twos and threes, children began gathering on the lawn to play after their lunches. Appleby smiled broadly, and his appetite seemed to improve. Once again he marveled at the wonderful variety of skin tones and hair textures. With each generation the strains of Africa, Europe, and Asia that had been planted on Seaward mixed and cross-mixed, producing a flower garden of people who were "hard to place" to outsiders but nevertheless had their own undeniable beauty. "We make some pretty children here, you know?" said Appleby, and Hector could but agree.
Troy came back, accompanied by Pan and Bacchus, still tall and erect in their old age but their springy hair now chalk white. Within their aged bodies the spark of their youthful vigor still glowed. Each one hugged Appleby, and Pan said, "I hear you overdid it, Master Mark!"
Appleby shook his head. "Did not. Not at all. And I'm not done for the day." Pan and Bacchus exchanged a worried look. "What do you mean, master?" asked Bacchus.
By way of answer, Appleby rose to his feet and seized his cane. True, there was no hesitation or shakiness as he rose, but now Hector and Troy rose as well, with frowns on their faces. Appleby struck off for the steps, gripping the handrail as he clumped down one step at a time, before anybody could stop him.
"Master, no!" cried Hector, and Pan and Bacchus stepped after Appleby. But the old man stopped at the bottom of the steps and without looking back raised a hand. "Just Troy," he said. There was a moment of silence; he had spoken in a tone that seemed to brook no disagreement. The other men shared frowns all around, but Troy, muttering under his breath, collected his own cane and clumped down the steps after him. He took Appleby by the arm. Half-turning, Appleby looked back at the men on the steps and verandah. "See you later," he said, adding, "one way or another." And then began walking off, Troy by his side.
"Where are you going now, Master Mark?" asked Troy, love and exasperation weighing equally in his voice. Appleby plodded on down a path, slowly but with a sense of purpose. He let the question hang for a moment, then said in a raspy voice, "The cemetery."
Troy stopped still and tugged at Appleby's arm. "Now, be reasonable, master, that's quite a climb. You've had enough for one day."
"The cemetery," repeated Appleby. "I want to visit Priam." Troy knew he meant old Priam, not young Priam who was off in England with Haven and Free at the moment looking into some investment possibilities for Seaward. Then without waiting for comment or permission, Appleby started off down the path again.
Troy kept pace with him, but even with as slow a progress as they made, it was difficult. He could not imagine the strain it must be putting on Appleby. Even with stops for rest, Appleby was panting and wheezing ominously as the path played out and the cemetery came into view. Now staggering, Appleby made for a large, flat stone and half sat, half collapsed onto it. The stone was placed near three graves, topped by headstones marked "Priam," "Cassandra," and "Juno." Troy, panting almost as hard, sank down next to him. But he had no regard for his own condition. Instead he was looking hard at Appleby, now white as a sheet and breathing raggedly.
"You overdid it, master," said Troy.
"I....I think.....you're right this time," said Appleby, gasping. Then he winced. "It... it hurts Troy. Very much so."
Really worried now, Troy pulled Appleby in toward him with his hand. "Here, now, Master Mark, just rest your head on my shoulder. Just rest. Just rest." Appleby did so, laying his head of thin white hair on Troy's shoulder. "Just rest...." he repeated it like a lullaby. Appleby nodded. And he whispered, "I love you, Troy." Troy swallowed hard and nodded.
A moment passed, and another. The sharp pain subsided. Appleby's breathing cleared instantly, becoming light and easy. "That's much better," said Appleby. "I may have overdone it, Troy. But I had to see Priam, to talk to him. I do from time to time, you know, I come up here and talk to him." Appleby sighed deeply, all pain now gone.
"Well, here I am, master," rumbled the familiar voice. "What did you want to say?"
Startled, Appleby lifted his head from Troy's shoulder. It was Priam; was he surprised to see him? or had he known he would be here, and was that why he had made the effort to come up that hill?
"Priam....is it you? I.... I thought you died years ago."
"Well, master, what's dying after all?" Priam said, stepping around to perch on his own headstone. "Doesn't mean you go away, not really. You're still here, aren't you?" Appleby frowned, not quite understanding what Priam had said.
"He's right you know," said Cass, walking up on the left, nodding at Juno who stood on the right. "Especially Seaward," said Juno. "You'll find you take it with you. Not an ordinary place, Seaward Plantation."
"I told you so in that letter I left you, oh! ages ago," said a trim old white woman who stepped up behind Priam and put her arms around his neck, embracing him.
"Aunt.... Aunt Lucy?!" said Appleby.
"Well, of course. Learn to love these people, didn't I say so? Well you did, and so you will take that love with you. It will in fact be where you end up."
Appleby looked left and right, confused, shaking his head. Turning to Priam he said, "But Priam, you died so long ago.... yet you look as you did the day you died. How can that be?"
Priam chuckled. "This is how you want me to look," he said. "Have you been on Seaward all this time and not learned that how someone looks is beautiful, but not who they really, truly are? I can look another way," he said, slyly, turning halfway around to look at Lucy, and for an instant the years dropped away from both of them and they were young and strong--then their images changed back to the ones Appleby recalled. "Look, see for yourself," said Priam, holding out the palm of his hand toward Appleby. It shimmered and shone, and in the quicksilver mirror finish of the palm Appleby saw his own reflection, a handsome young man of twenty-five. Priam turned his hand over and the image vanished. But he kept his hand held out.
"Time to go, Master Mark," he said, rising. Appleby took his hand and rose, the first steps light and airy. Another step and another. "But wait," he said, and looked back, and now down a bit, to a flat stone where an old black man held an old white man in his lap, rocking back and forth, weeping without consolation. "Will Troy be alright?"
"Yes," said Cass, "we won't have long to wait. You can come back and get him yourself--soon." Appleby nodded and took another step.
And then but another, and one more.
And there, on the horizon directly in their path, was a smudge of brown and green lying on a blue sea. It looked a lot like Seaward Plantation.