CHAPTER 23

Molly’s Marriage

The tranquility of the Knight plantation was frequently broken by the unannounced arrival of one of Molly’s many suitors. Her popularity was established. Many called at the house, but many others waited at a distance for Molly to slip away from the house and meet them without her father’s knowledge.

But Newt’s sharp eyes had detected the change in his daughter. He knew all along what was going on, but no mention escaped his lips. No word of reproach. No questions.

Rachel had foreseen Molly’s future as a harlot and had warned Newt that his beautiful daughter was destined to become a brazen hussy, unless he provided her with a husband.

The box of Lily White, beside the decanter of Attar of Roses, on Molly’s dressingtable, was a constant reminder that the owner was becoming worldly and sophisticated, but Serena kept her tongue.

She did not blame her daughter, since this was the only way she could be associated with young men, as they were an ostracised family. What young man with any self-respect would be seen in public with the daughter of Newt?

Serena could not forget Molly’s swollen eyes and tear-stained face when she had returned from the dance.

Rachel’s family whispered. They seemed to know what it was all about but were tactful in Molly’s dejected presence, and “made strange” that all was not well.

Together, in their own house, they rejoiced over Molly’s sad plight.

Rachel took the floor.

“My chillurn, wait an’ see! I’ll bring ’em down, one by one. They, who’ve set they selves above us. They who’ve tried to move us off the land. They who’ve been so high an’ mighty has come low. Jest wait an’ watch, an’ I’ll brew a potion that’ll place ’em in my han’!”

Rachel stood, feet apart, hands placed on her widening hips. Her teeth gleamed white as she smiled wickedly.

“My chillurn, list’n! There’s potions to make a man do anything you wants. Come close.”

They obeyed and drew their chairs in a close circle about the speaker, so as not to miss her whispered plans.

The black daughter sat between the two white daughters, and the white negro dropped down beside the fireplace, on the floor. He drew his knees up under his chin and hugged them with his long strong arms, listening to this strange mother.

The other children, varying in color, from pure black to almost pure white, lay about on pallets asleep.

The plot was laid.

The next evening as Rachel was brewing the coffee, a familiar footfall was heard on her gallery.

Rachel’s little negroes ran to welcome the Captain in. But he sat himself down on the porch, as it was warm inside.

Soon Rachel joined him, bringing him a cup to drink and holding in her other hand the fortune cup.

According to plan, she foretold sorrow.

“No good news?” asked the Captain.

“Oh, it won’t be you, but you will hear uv a death,” warned Rachel.

Sometimes it seemed that Newt entirely disbelieved her. This was one of the times.

He got up, and abruptly changed the subject.

“Git that earliest cotton picked out, ’fore you begin on the next cut, an’ see to it that the chillern don’t put in trash with the cotton,” he instructed.

“Yas Sir,” she replied.

“It’s a’ comin’ night, so I’ll git along,” he said, and started at a brisk walk, so as not to be caught out after dark.

Just as he gained the opening between the trees in the lane, a screech owl sent shivers up and down his spine with that eerie foreboding voice that has always been an omen of bad luck. Newt hastened his steps, and was soon inside with his old gun across his knees.

There was nothing to fear. He knew that it was just a superstition, but, “That owl! Rise the hair on yore back,” he said, shivering.

“We’ll hear o’ somebody’s bad luck,” remarked Serena. “And they say if one hollers three times in your yard, there’ll be a death in the family.”

The owl moved from his perch in the oak in the lane to the apple tree in the yard.

There were three distressing wails.

Newt got up and cracked the door and put out his old gunbarrel and shot into the apple tree.

The owl became silent.

It was not long before a rider was dismounting at the picket gate. He brought news that one of Newt’s brothers was dead.

This was the only brother that had associated with Newt, in any way, since he deserted the Confederacy. The two who had been members of his band were killed, one by hanging, two others had lost their lives fighting for the Confederacy, and the others had disowned him and had fled the country in embarrassment.

There were cousins here and there in the country that refused to claim kin with the man who was looked down upon as a black-hearted bandit.

His nieces were cautioned never to speak to him in public and were told to deny kinship with his family.

So many vile things were said of Newt, even his own brothers were led to believe that the governor of the Free State of Jones was banished because he was guilty of mixing the blood of the races.

Yet this messenger came in the hour of death, and the family of Newt were requested to attend the funeral.

First, Rachel’s uncanny prediction, then the screech owl, strengthened the family’s belief in the supernatural.

Embalming was almost unheard of in that day. There were no undertakers or florists. So funerals were sad, and burial was crude, with usually the casket homemade. And the only flowers were those old-fashioned bouquets brought by the good women from their gardens, to lay on the new mound.

The body was brought to the cemetery on an oxcart, where neighbors lent a hand when it came to lowering the box into the open ground.

It had been years since Newt had seen Martha, the sister whom he had widowed by slaying her husband, Morgan, the Smithy. But she was there at the funeral of their brother.

When she saw Newt, she ran to him, and embraced him there, publicly, but all the others of the kin ignored him and his family.

In Molly’s arms she carried a huge bouquet of Cape Jasmines (gardenias) to place on her Uncle’s grave. She stood quietly, with head bowed, unaware that many eyes were watching her.

The neighborhood turned out for the burying, back then, as a last respect to the dead.

After she had deposited the flowers, and all were leaving the graveside, an old woman walked up to Molly, and with close scrutiny, she looked at her from under the ruffled edge of a black bonnet.

“So ye’re Newt Knight’s daughter?” she asked.

Molly nodded.

“Why, you’re as white as anybody,” remarked the woman. Molly did not reply. She understood that she was mistaken for one of Rachel’s daughters.

She brushed the old lady aside, and rushed from the cemetery, her face crimson. She mounted her horse ahead of the rest of the family and rode back up to her home in the “no man’s land” of Salsbattery.

Here, she could give to her emotions and cry as hard as she pleased.

When her father arrived, Molly decided to tell him about this terrible thing that was happening to her everywhere she went. She told him that she could no longer bear the insults of the people who believed that Rachel’s white daughters were her half-sisters, and she vowed to never again leave the plantation.

He could not comfort her.

No other member of the family spoke, but the others of the family understood.

Crestfallen, the two brothers walked out of the house, together, without a word.

Rachel and Georgianne stood silent and respectful, awaiting Serena’s orders to begin supper.

Behind her back, in the kitchen, they gleefully hugged each other.

Newt walked up to the wall and lifted his gun from the rack. His head soon disappeared, as he followed the path down by the spring. He rubbed the barrel of his gun with gentle strokes. He could usually find comfort in the touch of it. He worked his mouth, but his thoughts would shape no plan.

Finally, it occurred to him to consult Rachel and leave it up to her to find a way out of this terrible dilemma.

The idea of running away from the country presented itself, but he felt that he could not run away and leave behind him the family of Rachel, people as white as he was, as to the color of their skins, and a people innocent of any wrongdoing.

He knew that they were dependent upon him for a place to live, as no other white family would tolerate a mixed people. And beneath this reasoning there lay upon his conscience a sense of guilt, when memory carried him back to those nights of entertainment, back there with his men, in the hideouts.

Orgies, ghastly in obscenity, where Rachel and another black slave woman writhed and twisted their naked bodies in eerie dances, to the applause of the deserters. Where fiddling and dancing went on for hours, undisturbed, back there in the Devil’s Den, where there was feasting, drinking, and pleasure. Where booze-crazed, prurient, sex-mad men indulged in fornication and evil pleasures of a hideous nature.

More than one man joined the organization of the Knight Company, and upon learning that revolting conditions prevailed, quickly left it and returned to the Confederate army, or joined the Union at New Orleans.

Night drove Newt in, with an even more befuddled mind. He could not sleep, and lack of sleep further incapacitated his overburdened brain.

Serena felt that he was losing his mind, and, although disgusted with him, and her life, her among negroes, she felt a pang of pity for him, as she watched him tremble when he lifted his cup to his lips. The way he continuously worked his mouth, as he sat with his old gun across his lap.

Up early, before the sun was up the next morning, he was on the path to Rachel’s house. With Rachel’s family, he felt free to talk, which he seldom did at home.

He knew all the details of Rachel’s past life, as she had given them, and he believed her. He believed her story that she had been sold away from a rich plantation in Georgia in order to cover the disgrace of the family to whom she had belonged, as her white children, Georgianne and Jeff, were the offspring of an only son, a handsome blond young man.

“So they are not negro,” thought Newt, speaking aloud, “but are white, with no ‘place.’”

He compared these people with his own unfortunate children, and he wondered what the future held in store for them.

All day he stayed at Rachel’s house, and by the time he beat dark in home, a vague plan, instigated by the ingenious Mulatto, was shaping in the back of his mind.

He was, at first, shocked by his own thoughts, but he was becoming rational, and to him the preposterous ideas were becoming logical. But of them he made no mention. He was leaving the details to Rachel, for she had promised to handle the situation in a way that would work out for the good of both families. Hers and his.

Perhaps the constant fear of ambush, and death, and the fear of the future of his children had weakened his mind. Or perhaps the constant and timely predictions of Rachel had cast him under the spell of black magic. He was afraid of he knew not what. And as he could keep his children no longer innocent of the consequences of his past, which he had endeavored to do, in many ways, he decided to abide by Rachel’s wisdom.

There were many angles to be considered. There was young Tom, fair and handsome and a born gentleman. Respectful of his father’s wishes, he had always obeyed him and had accepted the fact that “they were not wanted” by the general public.

Tom was kept under the powers of Newt and Rachel, being told that they were poor, too poor to provide him with clothing, other than that made from the loom at home, and as money was not given him, the youth did not attempt to go abroad in search of pleasure. He and his brother Mat were brought up in ignorance of the outside world.

They grew up simply, on the farm, working along beside Rachel’s family and tolerating them because they were tenants on their father’s farm, and by his will. However, they both had a certain respect for Jeff, because he was good and honest in his dealings and was nice to them.

Having no other boys to play with, and with whom to associate, and it being customary for white children to play with negro children on the place, Tom and his brother occasionally played with Jeff and the younger negroes, but Tom did not place himself as an equal with them, and they were made to understand that he was superior to them.

The attitude of his mother caused Tom to have little or no use for Rachel and her two white daughters, but he accepted little favors from them and in return treated them with kindness.

Going to mill was a “must,” and the two brothers took it, turn about, with Mat going one week, and Tom going the next.

It was several miles from Newt’s place to the Knight’s Old Water Mill where the neighborhood grinding was done.

After supper, it was a fireside job to shell a “millin’ a’ bread corn” after it had been shucked in the cribs, on the night before the grinding day. The children joined in, and soon the task was finished, and the meal sacks tied and ready to be laid across the horse’s back the next morning.

Rachel followed the same custom at her house, and as had always been the case, one of the boys would ride by and carry along her sack on the same trip.

One afternoon before it was Tom’s day to go to mill, Georgianne came up and reminded him that her mother would also like to send “a turn o’ corn.”

He replied that they would, as usual, be glad to carry it for them.

Georgianne loitered around, not ready, it seemed, to leave. It was some time before she got up the courage to begin a conversation.

“Mr. Tom, don’t you sometimes have a long wait, before your turn comes at the mill?” she asked, by way of beginning.

“Yes, there are sometimes a good many ahead, and I have to wait to get mine ground, as it is quite a ways to go,” he replied.

“Then,” said she, “I guess you sometimes git mighty hungry, with having to miss your dinner?”

“Well, yes, sometimes,” he answered civilly.

“Tomorrow, when you come by to get our corn, I’ll have you a little snack prepared,” she promised.

“Now, that would be mighty nice,” said Tom.

Georgianne left, and he soon forgot all about the promise.

But the next morning early, when Tom stopped by, Jeff was on hand to hoist up the heavy sack of corn onto the horse’s back.

Georgianne came up behind him, with a piece of cake wrapped carefully for his lunch.

Tom thanked her and placed it in his pocket.

“Now, that is most unusual,” said Tom, to himself. “They have never done that before. Must be a’ fixin’ to ask me to do ’em a favor, or somethin’, cause, for sure, they know that I don’t like them any better than they do me, which is mighty little.” And with these thoughts running through his mind, as he jogged along, he was suddenly surprised to see Fan, the other white daughter, step out into the road, away from Rachel’s house, and out of sight of her brothers and sisters.

“Oh, stop a minute, Mr. Tom,” she cried, “I must tell you something! Don’t eat that cake my sister gave you, whatever you do, not if you want to keep your right mind. All day, Ma and Georgianne have plotted against you, an’ Ma brewed the potion, an’ they’ve got it in the cake fer you to eat, an’, an’—” she paused for breath, “you’ll be under the spell, if you eat that potion.”

“Thank you, Fan, I’ll not eat it,” he replied and smiled at the serious-faced girl.

He rode on down the road, amused, and somewhat puzzled.

“Now, that’s just like a nigger,” he said to himself. “Crazy thing, but they are all superstitious. They’ve got Pa believing in that stuff. Potion! Pshaw! There couldn’t be nothin’ to put me under a spell, but thanks to Fan, I’ll not eat the stuff.”

He was crossing a little creek, where a swift stream ran under a rustic bridge. He stopped and took the piece of cake from his pocket and threw it into the water. He watched it whirl around and be swept downward by the current.

“Well, that’s the last of the potion,” he laughed to himself. “Why Pa wants to keep foolin’ with them niggers, I can’t see. He b’lieves everything old Rachel tells him. And, honest to goodness, I do believe if it weren’t for me to keep the niggers in their place, he’d let them come right in, an’ run over mother.

“Mat is too timid and innocent to know how to handle ’em. And they’re smart ones! It’s that white blood in ’em that makes ’em smart. But as long as there is a drop a’ nigger blood in one, he’s still a nigger,” ran Tom’s thoughts, as he rode on to the mill.

It was late Indian summer, but there were a few days of hot weather, like mid-summer, and the sun shone hot and bright. The sky was blue and unclouded.

Much work was done during these pre-winter days, and the Captain, his sons, and the tenants were all tired when night came.

After supper, the house was warm inside, and Newt did a thing most unusual. He asked Georgianne to bring a quilt and fold it into a pallet at the end of the front porch, where there was a cooling breeze, before she washed the supper dishes. He turned a chair down, with the front edge of the seat resting on the floor and the legs turned upward. The chair, in that position, made a backrest, and with the quilt pulled up over the slats in the chairback, Newt had a comfortable place in which to relax.

Tom brought out himself a quilt and likewise made himself a pallet at the other end of the porch.

They lay there a long time, and rested, and watched the full moon.

“Well, it won’t rain fer a few days, yet,” remarked Newt, “and we’re about through. We’re about to get the crops in. Jest a few more days’ pretty weather, an’ we’ll be through.”

Clouds were beginning to drift, now and then, between them and the moon.

A whip-poor-will hollered in an oak down the lane. All was quiet and peaceful, with only faint night sounds, and a tinkling of the tiny bell on the old nanny, as she licked the salt-block in the lane.

Presently, Georgianne came out, and started on her way home for the night.

Others of the family came out, and got a last drink from the cedar bucket on the watershelf, and went to bed.

Finally, there was only the man and the boy, alone on the porch. All was quiet.

“Pa, hadn’t we ought to get up an’ go to bed?” asked Tom, yawning.

Newt did not reply. He lay very still and quiet, and Tom thought he had gone to sleep. After a long silence, he said, “Son, there is something I want to talk to you about,” but he did not get up off his pallet.

Tom got up and moved closer, as his father had spoken in a confidential tone.

“I have been a thinkin’ what’s to become of youall,” he paused, and Tom was filled with wonder.

Tom asked, “What, Pa?”

“Oh, I have thought and thought about what would become of you, an’ I’ve thought about what was to become of old Rachel’s children, since they are not negroes—,” he paused again, and Tom put in, “But they are niggers, Pa, and superstitious, an’—”

“No,” interrupted Newt, “they are not negro, therefore they can never marry negroes, because they have in them better blood than a common nigger. Their father was white, and Rachel, herself, is only part negro, so they are almost white people, yet they cannot have the privileges of white people, because of that little streak of negro blood.” He said no more.

Tom did not answer but waited for his father to finish.

Newt cleared his throat and started again.

“I have been a’ thinkin’ the way you children are a bein’ treated, by other folks, that you can’t marry either, because nobody would have you,” he paused again, and cleared his throat, unnecessarily.

“We are a people up here to ourselves, and nobody wants us. I don’t know why, but they don’t.” His voice trembled.

Tom was awed beyond speech. His father had never spoken to him privately on the matter of their banishment from society.

“I have been a thinkin’ that the negro blood could be bred out o’ Rachel’s family. A white man could marry one of Rachel’s daughters, and there would be only one more generation to carry the stain of negro blood—,” again he paused, and before he could begin, Tom interrupted his thoughts with, “I wonder what white man you think would have one of them yaller niggers?”

“I was a comin’ to that,” replied Newt. “I was a thinkin’ as it is impossible for Molly to ever marry a decent white man, that she could marry Jeff, and you and Mat could marry the other two. Mat could take Fan, and you could take Georgianne.”

Newt had risen to his feet and was picking up the chair, as nonchalantly as if he had been discussing the weather.

Tom was too stunned for a moment to say anything; his voice seemed to stick to his throat. The strength to stand left his legs, and he leaned against the gallery post for support.

“Pa, you’ve gone crazy. As crazy as a bat,” he answered, weakly. “Surely, you in your right mind, wouldn’t ask your own flesh and blood—”

Newt towered above him, “But I tell you, these people are not negro, but are white like you.”

Anger got the best of Tom, and he was ready for a scrap.

“You, and your damned niggers!” he stormed. “You can’t make me marry a damned negro!”

Newt swung the hickory chair.

Tom dodged, and came up under the chair, to knock it against the wall with such force as to shatter it. They tangled, and rolled over to the edge of the porch, which was about four feet from the ground, with Newt apparently having the advantage. Newt’s arms and legs were longer, but Tom was a vicious fighter, once his gentle nature was aroused, and he fought from savage rage.

As Newt sought to roll him off the porch, Tom purposely rolled off suddenly, pulling his father on top of him. In doing that he got him further from his gun.

They lay there, panting like two animals. Neither would release his hold.

Finally, Newt asked his son to let him up.

Tom held on for a minute, contemplating his father’s next move. Instinctively, he knew that once up, his father would kill him, but he released his hold, and as he did, Newt whistled for his bull dog.

By that time, the family was awakened and ran out to see what the ruckus was about.

The dog made a dive for Tom, but Tom was trying to gain the picket fence and was almost in the act of scaling the palings, so the dog did not get a good hold, but tore Tom’s pants leg off.

“You, son-of-a-bitch! Gol durn ye!” shouted Tom to the dog.

Newt rushed for his gun.

“You can’t cuss me, damn you. I’ll blow your head off!” cried Newt, thinking his son meant him, instead of the dog.

By that time, Tom had gone over the pickets, at the place where the gourd vines grew thick and rank, and next to them was a weed-grown plot that had once been a fertile garden, so the vegetation, together with the clouds flitting over the moon, gave him cover.

Tom did not tarry. He sneaked through the weeds, on to the cotton rows, and there, half crawling to keep out of sight, he wondered why he had ever been afraid.

Tom had always been afraid of the dark and had never, that he could remember of, ventured out alone in the night. Now, the darkness became his friend, shielding him from the wrath of the madman, who was out with shotgun and blazing torch, seeking to kill him.

At a safe distance, up in the field, Tom stopped crawling beneath the cotton stalks, and stood up to see if he had been discovered.

He could make out the figure of his father, carrying the light high in his hand, lowering it, now and then, to look under the house, under the pomegranate’s low-hanging branches, behind the big Cape Jasmine in the corner of the yard, and finally, the torch seemed to be bobbing along, in the opposite direction, up towards old Rachel’s house.

Tom stood there a long time, indecisive and shaking, although the night was warm. He was cold, yet sweat was oozing from his pores.

A few yards up to his left was the old graveyard, where his twin brother was buried.

Tom cast his eyes in that direction, and found himself wishing that he too were there, at rest beneath the cedars that sheltered the graves. The hot tears streamed down his cheeks.

He turned his steps back across the high level, to within a few yards of the old Huckaby house. There, he turned right, and headed out of the field to a thicket that jutted out into the fenced-in land.

He stopped here and rested awhile, not knowing what to do or where to go. But there was one thing certain, he would never return to his home and submit to the demands of his father.

Tom had never prayed, and he was at a loss for words, but there in the dark thicket, he dropped down on his knees and prayed his first prayer for Divine guidance. How long he stayed there, and just what he asked for, he could not remember, but evidently his prayer was answered.

He got up and felt an impulse to climb over the split rail fence and hit the old cavalry trail. The trail that was beaten out in a deep rut, where horses, bearing riders of three different armies, had repeatedly trod the earth, cutting down the red clay, and forming banks on either side. He followed this trail to a path that was familiar.

The Welborns were still friendly, and remembering this, Tom went to them for food and shelter. There he was welcome. There the young ladies of the household treated him royally.

They made him new clothes, as he had brought none with him, and soon he was attending church services with them.

After a few weeks of living with the Welborn family, Tom found himself in love with one of the daughters, whom he later married.

In many ways, Newt was good to his family.

He had let each boy have a cotton patch of his own, that year. But poor Tom had been forced to run away in self-defense, and leave his cotton, white and full in the field.

It happened that his patch was a good distance from the house, so he decided to arm himself with an old pistol, and sneak in from the back side of the field, and gather his cotton. He planned to shoot first, and kill his father, if he came near, and offered to harm him, or tried to make him return to marry the quadroon daughter of Rachel.

One day as Tom was busy picking his cotton, he happened to look up, and saw his father approaching.

“He is coming, now to kill me,” thought Tom. “I shall be ready.” So he touched his gun in his blouse, as if to make sure that it was still there. His body had warmed the steel, and he had become accustomed to its feel against his body. It was right there, and ready, but in his eagerness to be first on the trigger, Tom could not wait.

He removed it carefully, and held it concealed behind his cotton sack, as he watched the slouched figure of the man, whom he had sworn to hate, pick a fluffy boll here and there, with one hand.

After he had more than he could hold in one hand, he transferred the fluffs to the crook of his elbow, where he held his arm against his bosom.

“He carries a gun concealed there,” said Tom, “but that is all right. I, too, have a gun.” And he made a motion to stroke the weapon to reassure himself, and found that he was shaking, and his heart was beating rapidly and loudly. So loudly, Tom felt that it could be heard.

Newt kept picking a handful here and there, unhurriedly, as he gradually came up to within speaking distance of his son.

“I see you’re a’ pickin’ your cotton, Son,” said Newt, pleasantly, as if Tom had left the house only that morning to pick cotton.

“Yes Sir,” replied Tom.

Newt kept picking.

“I hear as how you’re a’ seen at meetin’ wi’ the Welborn gal,” said Newt.

“Yes Sir,” answered Tom.

His father waited for him to add words to the conversation, but Tom was silent, thinking he was being tricked, as no gun was in evidence.

“Well, go ahead and marry her, Son, if she’ll have you, and I’ll build you a house here on the place.”

“Thank you Sir,” replied Tom.

Neither spoke another word, and Tom gathered his cotton with no objection from his father, but the offer to build him a house had made no difference in the attitude of the boy, for he had severed relations with his father, and he had no intention of ever becoming friendly with him again, as long as he lived.

Away from his home and family, Tom found a new life of happiness that he had thought impossible on earth. He was content to bask in this new warmth, and forget his bitter past.

He knew not what was taking place back there with his people. And it was little he cared, until the news reached him of the fate of his sister and brother. He would have preferred to hear of their deaths! Then he blamed himself for not staying, and protecting them, but it was too late!

With Serena afraid to cross Newt, since she knew that he was anxious for an excuse to kill her, she made no verbal objection to his preposterous scheme, and with Tom, the obstacle removed, there was no interference with the plan of Rachel and Newt to have their children intermarry.

There was no further mention in Serena’s presence, and she thought that her husband had been driven to insanity, especially since he had sicked the bull dog on his own son, and had stalked him with a gun to shoot him, but she was helpless, and afraid. And she hoped that this was just another of his wild obsessions that would soon pass, and he would return to normalcy. But poor Serena’s hopes were in vain.

October’s bright blue days brought cool nights, and the month of November came with a cold snap that sent the wild geese over by droves, southward, to the winter feeding grounds in the marshes and lagoons along the Gulf of Mexico.

As they were passing over the year before, a young bird gave out, and dropped from flight, and joined the tame geese on the plantation. He became tame and ate corn with the tame flock around Rachel’s door.

During the summer he had padded along, and pulled the blades of grass from among the young cotton plants, like any ordinary goose.

He had not forgotten! The cries of the wild ones stirred in him the memory of the past, and he craned his neck, and cocked his head and listened; he looked skyward toward the black line of little specks that was moving in a V formation. The cries came nearer, and he spread his wings, grown strong and black, and rose to join the flight.

“A wild gander again,” said Molly, as she watched him leave as suddenly as he had come.

“I wish I could do that,” thought she, “and leave behind me forever, No Man’s Land, all of its unhappiness, and all of its people.”

Jeff came around the house with a wheelbarrow load of fire wood, which he proceeded to lift off, and lay, by pieces on his strong arms to take inside and lay upon the hearth.

Night was coming on, and the air was chilly.

“Heavy frost, tonight,” remarked the Captain. “Did you hear them geese?”

“Yes Sir, that was the second flight to go over, an’ ole Abe went with ’em!” replied Jeff.

“Pshaw! And ole Abe went! That just goes to show that you can’t change that which is natural. Abe knew that he belonged wi’ the flock, an’ he knew that he warn’t no cotton patch goose. Funny, but everything knows his place,” said Newt.

“After you’ve laid on the fire, Jeff, set down an’ warm yourself,” invited Newt.

Jeff obeyed in silence. He knew that he was being detained for a reason, but he had no idea what it was. His landlord was ready with conversation, here of late, and often talked with him, more than he ever had. Almost as if he were a member of the family.

Newt sat before the fire, while Jeff chose the chair over in the corner, as a negro has always sat in the chair nearest the corner, before a white man’s fire.

Jeff watched as Newt gazed strangely into the fire, his mouth moving into a freakish shape, and he knew that he was deep in thought.

They were alone together, and after a moment’s hesitation, Newt came to the point, and started, “Jeff, you are almost a white man. You are as white as anybody. You could pass for a full white man anywhere, so I have decided that you shall be treated so in my house. From now on, you are to enter by the front door.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Jeff.

“Your white sisters may also enter by the front door.”

“Yes, sir,” was the only reply.

“You may go. That is all,” said the Captain, curtly.

Jeff got up from his chair, and from habit, started to depart by the back door, then he paused, turned on his heel, and walked out the front door.

Autumn in the hill lands of Mississippi surpassed the beauty of the fresh fragrant spring. The paintbrush of nature colored the landscape with a riot of exciting shades. The shumake shone brilliantly, like red fruit at a distance in the sun. While the leaves from other trees flitted through the air like red and gold birds, alighting upon a brown carpet. The tall grasses, bowed with the weight of brown seed, humbled down by the frost which had heightened the brilliance of the purple wild mulberry. The green pine plumes glistened and shone richly black against the wintry skies.

Squirrels chattered in the hickory and beeches, and the acorns fell among the dead dry leaves, like a peppering of pebbles.

The potatoes were dug and banked for the winter, and the blue sugar-cane was stripped in the fields, and the cattle were turned in to fatten on the waste from the harvest.

Coveys of quail soared over the fields in search of grain, and the turtle doves followed the cattle by droves.

The hunting season was on, and the Captain stayed away from the house during the daylight hours.

When he came in home, Jeff was on hand to take the game bag, which he carried into the kitchen, where Fan had now joined Georgianne as helper.

It happened that every time Jeff came into the kitchen, the Captain detained him, in order that Molly might observe him, and become accustomed to his presence. Now, they were sitting across the table from each other, drinking coffee, as two white men would.

But Newt would not sit at Rachel’s table, and he made it plain to his wife when she objected to his having Jeff sit at their table, that these three, the boy and his two sisters, were unfortunate white people.

The murderous look he gave her silenced her, and although she would not seat herself with them, she made no objection to anything that her husband chose to do or say.

Gradually, Molly found herself agreeing with her father, because Jeff’s manners, now that he was losing some of his inferiority complex, were gentlemanly, and he was intelligent, and very personable.

He was as handsome as any white man Molly had ever seen. His features were not negroid, and his eyes were clear, wide open, honest in expression, and were a beautiful shade of blue. His hair was a light sandy color, and very straight and fine textured.

“It’s just a shame,” thought Molly, “that he has negro blood in his veins.” And soon she found herself pitying this young man, whose misery must be equal to hers.

Soon the leaves were all off the trees, and winter, heavy with black rain clouds, was upon the settlement. Cold winds and wet weather kept the family indoors, where carding, spinning, and quilting was done, as a necessity, and as a pastime, by the women.

Georgianne and Fan were in the house every day, helping, and every day were becoming more as girls of the same family. They joined in the conversation, and helped to pass off the bleak days.

Nothing was ever said about their color, or their station in life. They were becoming accepted, much to the satisfaction of their mother, and much to Serena’s chagrin.

Where there was joy in other homes, in anticipation of the Christmas season, which was rapidly approaching, there was melancholy in the house of Newt.

Tom was gone from them forever. And although Serena was happy to know that he had escaped a fate, which would have been worse than hers, she missed him at home. She knew that he would have stood firmly with her, and together, they might have prevented Newt’s taking in the mixed-bloods as equals.

Alone, poor Serena was helpless.

On Christmas Eve, 1884, there came a blanket of snow, changing the countryside into a glistening white fairyland. Icicles hung to the bare limbs of the trees, and their beauty was enhanced by the towering frozen pines. Snow was as welcome as Santa Claus, and the children, so seldom able to see a snow this far South, made snow men and rolled snowballs.

Inside the Knight home, the fire logs burned brightly, replenished often by the faithful Jeff. Red berries, holly, mistletoe, and bouquets made by Rachel’s family adorned the rooms.

Half the cedar sprays, with their tiny leaves, were dipped into a thin flour paste, and dried, and then arranged among the sprigs of green cedar to form a Christmas bouquet.

The odor of good Christmas cooking drifted from the kitchen, where Georgianne and Fan were preparing wild roast turkey, with plenty of “cush.”

The cushion was prepared from cornbread crumbs, which had been softened with the broth from the fowl, and to which had been added onions and other seasoning. There were also the other choice meats and delicacies in season, and in the kitchen there was merry making among the young women and Mat.

But in the house, the Captain sat sad and silent before the fire. Serena sat opposite him, at the other side of the fireplace, knitting. She was also silent, but her silence was not unusual, for Serena never knew when to speak, and if she did, she expected for answer, that glowering look from her husband.

He sat with his hat on his head. He usually wore it inside the house. Finally, he arose from his chair, removed his hat, and stood before his wife, his back towards the fire.

“I have made the decision,” he announced. “This is Molly’s and Mat’s wedding day.”

Serena opened her mouth, but no word would come. She clasped her hand to her breast, as the color drained from her face.

He spread his hands, palms upward, and outward, as if to hold out to someone else, the burden that had lain within him.

“That is the only thing that can be done,” he said. “Molly can never marry any other white man, and her children will not be, ah, negro—,” he did not finish.

Serena’s knitting fell to the floor, unnoticed, as she jumped up and rushed into the kitchen, where her children were.

Before she could gather strength, and gain control of her voice, Newt burst in behind her. He seized her roughly by the wrist, with fingers having the grip of steel.

All in the kitchen were amazed and shocked at the sudden intrusion of Newt standing there, crushing Serena’s frail arm. A pin dropping would have sounded like a crash, so still was the kitchen.

“We were a talkin’ about you a marryin’, Molly,” explained Newt “an yore Ma is sorta cut down about it.”

“But I didn’t know I was a marryin’, Pa!” exclaimed Molly, in surprise.

“Yes. It is arranged. This Christmas,” replied her father, “Today!”

So many strange things had happened, and this strange man who was her father, was capable of anything. So Molly was not too surprised to hear that he had spoken to some young man about marrying her. And she knew that whatever he willed, would be done. There was no use for her to ask questions, or raise objections.

And true to his promise to wipe out a mixed race in Jones County, Newt Knight began by sacrificing his own son, and his only daughter.

There, up in the hills bordering Jones County, Jeff, the mixed-blood son of Rachel the Mulatto, became the husband of Molly, the full white daughter of Serena and Newt.

And Fan, the white skinned girl born to Rachel, who was conceived at the time when Rachel lived as an harlot with the men of the deserter band, became the wife of the full white son, Mat, in a double wedding ceremony, performed on that horrible Christmas Eve, not by their choice, but because they would have been murdered by the madman, if his request had been denied.

When Tom learned that his sister and his brother had been forced to become legally united in marriage with the son and daughter of a Mulatto, he became distraught with grief. He did not blame them, because he knew what had happened, how it had all come about. And he remembered how his father would have killed him if he had not escaped.

The person that he did blame was Rachel.