Jacob's Ladder by Donald McCaig Page B

Jacob was just as white as he was.
    â€œIt is not unknown for a young man to succumb to temptation,” Samuel droned on. “We pray that error, repented, may be converted into useful knowledge: the master’s assumption of his duties. Son, take this child who will one day be your servant: a field hand perhaps, a woods worker like Rufus or a house nigger like Pompey . . .”
    Duncan jerked his fist into the air and (Elmo Hevener said, afterward) his father flinched. But instead of striking a blow, Duncan pressed his hand to his mouth and bit down, his teeth sinking into the heel of his hand, and a fine spatter of blood sprayed Maggie and the infant and the boy growled the way a bulldog growls when it’s taken hold. Still growling, hunched over his hand, Samuel Gatewood’s son lurched up the lane toward the house. Frightened, the infant began to wail.
    In a strangled voice, Gatewood said, “Jack . . . Jack, you may broach the cask.”
    Maggie’s eyes flooded with tears. “Master, why are you doing this to us?”
    Samuel wiped his face with his linen handkerchief. He said, “You are unaccustomed to strong drink. Use a little sense, will you?”
    â€œYes, Master,” Rufus called in the deadest voice imaginable. “We use all the sense we got.”
    â€œPray put away your wraps,” Catesby Byrd urged Samuel’s guests. “I’m certain the Gatewoods intend you to stay for the dancing. They will rejoin us directly.” He spoke confidentially. “Please. It will demonstrate respect for the family.”
    Reluctantly, Andrew Sieg unbuckled his fiddle case. An oblong leather case another opened contained a harmonium, and Leona Byrd seated herself, with a childlike air, at the pianoforte.
    Sister Kate dozed in a wing chair.
    With Pauline against her knees, Cousin Molly read from Mr. Dickens’s “A Christmas Carol.”
    Having done his duty by fire hazards and extinguished every candle on the tree, Pompey was sitting upright in the corner, feet stuck straight out, fast asleep. Though she usually retired when dancing began, Grandmother Gatewood perched on a straightback chair, hands folded patiently in her lap, eyes glittering.
    When Leona Byrd struck the first chords of the somber. “Lorena,” her husband cried, “Come, dear, this is Christmas. Tempo vivace if you please!”
    Elmo Hevener proposed to call figures and urged the gents to select their partners. Uther Botkin and Sallie were first on the floor.
    Though at first the music was ragged, it soon hit its stride and was at a racehorse clip when Abigail returned and motioned Catesby into the dining room. The house servants had hurried to the celebrations in the Quarters and hadn’t cleaned up. Ruined cakes slumped on the sideboard, platters were yellowed in congealed grease.
    â€œDear Abigail . . .”
    â€œOh, Catesby. I can do nothing with my husband or son. They are in Duncan’s room, Duncan crumpled on his bed, Samuel pacing! Samuel will have the filial obedience that is his due, and Duncan, poor Duncan, has taken leave of his senses. He begs him to rear that negro infant as his in the house.”
    â€œDuncan is young, too imaginative, he . . .”
    â€œHe is confounded, Catesby. Entirely confounded. Duncan freely acknowledges his transgressions but will not see his plain duty. Catesby, both of them trust you, won’t you . . .”
    The tune “Leatherbritches” jangled from the parlor, and the floor vibrated from dancing.
    â€œAbigail, I cannot interpose myself between father and son.”
    â€œCatesby, Duncan dares to speak of matrimony!”
    Catesby had a headache behind his eyes and knew he had drunk too much. The road home would be snow-dusted and vacant, the harshest sound the jingaling of harness bells. “Dearest Abigail, may I find you a restorative?”
    She clutched him so close he could smell