3
On Christmas Eve the servants all grew tense and garrulous with excitement. The field workers, freed from toil for three days, were in and out of their cabins, hanging around the kitchen door till Betty’s sharp tongue sent them packing. The rain had ended but the day was bleak and cloudy with the air bringing a threat of snow. But a wind rose and though it whined in the great chimneys and sent whorls of smoke and ashes drifting out into the rooms, Rachel was grateful for the wind.
At least it would dry up the mud so that the rutted, marshy road out to the Hermitage would be passable for the carriages and wagons of the Christmas guests. Some who had a long way to come would arrive before night, and there was a frantic activity of black women airing blankets, ironing the stored dampness out of bed linen, making down pallets in the upper rooms and even in the hall. George lugged in ticks freshly stuffed with hay and these were beaten flat with whacking brooms before feather beds and quilts were spread over them.
The long tables in the dining room were set with the second-best linen and china. The ceremonial draping with the finest cloths would wait for Christmas morning. In the cellar the General and black Joey counted bottles of Madeira, of good Jamaica rum and peach brandy, broached charred kegs of whisky pounding in spigots, filling jugs that would be set out for the holiday “dram” for every slave on the plantation.
In the smokehouse Rachel directed the slicing of the heavy slabs of fat middling that would go, one to every cabin. There would be a chicken for each family too, and this year every hand on the place would be measured for a new pair of shoes. The shoemaker would come and stay for weeks and the smell of the cured hides would be heavy on the air, but at least every one of the more than a hundred black feet would be shod. That was the big worry for Rachel, shoes. In summer the field hands preferred to trudge behind a plow or drag a cotton sack barefooted, but in winter the frosty ground brought chills and lung fevers and there was an endless sound of coughing in the quarters and inevitably some of the people died.
A fearful responsibility, all these black souls, but today they were all happy and noisy, adding to the confusion in the house by their laughter and singing—singing hushed whenever the voice of the master was heard belowstairs but begun again as soon as a door slammed on him.
In her room Emily lovingly folded the Christmas gift she had knitted for Jack Donelson. A crimson muffler with stripes and a fringe of bright blue at either end. It narrowed a little in the middle where she had knitted a bit too tight, but she stretched it to make it even before she wrapped it in a square of white paper and tied it with a ribbon bow, sticking a tiny bunch of holly jauntily on top. She had gifts for aunt Rachel and uncle Jackson too, linen handkerchiefs she had hemstitched with neat, tiny stitches, then washed and bleached and ironed, with Sary standing around to keep the irons hot. She wrapped these too, along with the gifts for her own family, aware of the curious eyes of the two girls who were making an extra bed in the corner of the room. Some of the cousins would sleep in here, likely enough two of them with her in her own bed.
They would giggle and whisper about their beaus half the night and ply her with questions that she would evade, quite certain that she was fooling no one. She and Jack were a family anxiety, she knew. It was all part of that silly old superstition that cousins should not marry. Jack had more brains than all his relatives put together, she was fiercely certain; he was the cleverest and steadiest of all the Donelson clan; he was almost as smart as uncle Jackson. How could a brilliant young man like Jack have children that were idiots?
“And I’m not a stupid fool either!” she said suddenly, aloud.
The women, shaking out quilts, broke into delighted laughter. “No, Miss Emily, you sho’ ain’t no fool,” cried the older one, “You about the smartest white Miss we got, savin’ Mis’ Rachel herself.”
“Thank you, ’Relia. Don’t use that pillowcase. It’s got a rip in the seam.”
“Hit the very las’ one, Miss Emily. Done use every pillowcase Mis’ Jackson got.”
“Give it to me then. I’ll mend it. We can’t have guests sleeping on rags.”
“Not Miss Mary Eastin, no ways. She want everything mighty fine. Best we got ain’t none too good for Miss Mary.”
“Oh, Mary will sleep with me. She always does.”
“Her hair mighty pretty. Smooth and shiny as a new colt. Got a nice long nose too.”
“We’ve all got long noses. It’s the Donelson curse. Mine’s longest of all. All of us but aunt Rachel. Somehow it passed her by,” sighed Emily, threading a needle.
“Ain’t flat like mine, anyhow,” ’Relia echoed the sigh. “If the good Lord was to give me my dearest wish it would be to have a nice long nose like you got, Miss Emily.”
“Ain’t nobody satisfy,” stated Becky, the other maid. “White folks all wantin’ hair be curly. Colored folks all putting grease on they hair, make it straight. You reckon we be white when we git to Heaven, Miss Emily?”
“Law, we be angels with big white wings,” declared ’Relia. “Lord don’t want no black angels around, he got to make us white. I wants me a pyure white robe, white as Mis’ Rachel’s tablecloth. I goin’ put on my robe and sing praises to the Throne, day and night.”
“Are you going to sing tonight, Becky—all of you? It wouldn’t be Christmas if you people didn’t build a big fire out there behind the smokehouse and all gather round and sing.”
“Look a little like snow,” said Becky, peering out the window. Becky hated the cold. She burned more wood in her cabin than any other servant on the place, Emily had heard her aunt complain. From the window now she could see the wagon coming down the lane loaded with firewood, George walking beside the team, cracking his whip and shouting. Great fires would roar in every fireplace in the house, over the holidays. Rachel Jackson was nervous about fire. Someday the General was going to burn the Hermitage to the ground, she was always prophesying.[1]
A carriageload of cousins and aunts arrived shortly after the family had finished dinner, and there was a confusion of greetings, band boxes and parcels to be carried in, shawls, bonnets and cloaks laid off to be hung up by maids, cold hands and feet to be warmed by the fires, the scurry of excited children. Then all the food had to be warmed up and brought in again and the guests fed.
Emily hurried about, setting out plates, getting down glasses for the General, who insisted that everyone must have a tot of hot spiced rum to ward off a chill. She had little chance to slip to the front of the house to watch the drive from the windows, but while the company were eating, with Rachel hovering around and the General being the affable host, she did steal away to stand behind the long curtains, searching the approaching avenue anxiously.
Dusk was beginning to gather under the great trees. The smoke from the many chimneys eddied and settled to the ground. A few thin snowflakes drifted by on the wind, then drops of rain spattered the windowpanes. Bad weather for a young man riding alone. So many things could happen on a long journey. A horse stumbling at a ford, footpads on the road lying in wait for a solitary traveler, even the danger from Indians was not ended.
She was growing more tense with anxiety by the minute but she must not betray her unease, must keep her demeanor calm and be most surprised of all when Jack came riding in, or her uncle would never forgive her for hiding her letter. She had let the curtains fall when Andrew, Junior, came up behind her.
“Who you watching for, Emmy?”
She managed a light laugh. “Anybody! I hope if more are coming tonight they’ll get here before dark. We’d better light the candles. It’s going to be a gloomy night.”
“George is getting his fire going,” Andy looked from the window. “I suppose I’ll have to go out and help Papa dole out the Christmas Eve gifts all around. Looky yonder, the people are coming out with their cups and mugs and sacks already! You’ll have to light the candles, Emily. I’ve got to go out and be Young Marse Jackson.”
“It’s an honor, Andy. There are a lot of Donelson boys. You were the one chosen.”
“I know. It’s hard to live up to sometimes, ’specially when Jack’s around. I know he’s smarter than I am and Jack’s a fool for work and duty as I get reminded all the time.”
“You mustn’t be jealous. After all, they did pick you to be their son and heir. You’ll have everything, being Andrew Jackson’s son.”
“You have to admit, though, that Papa’s a hard man to follow. Came up from the direst kind of poverty, made it all for himself. I hear that too. And how he got thrown into that prison where his brother died, because he wouldn’t black some British officer’s boots.”
“He was no older than you are now, then, Andy. He’s just trying to inspire you. You’d better hurry. I hear the cellar door slamming. That means uncle Jackson and Joey are fetching out the jugs. Oh, Heaven, there’s aunt Rachel out there without her cloak! I’ll get it before she takes a chill. Run, Andy!”
Under the big trees all the Negroes on the place were gathering. George had persuaded the big bonfire to burn in spite of the thin, misting rain. Children, black and white, crowded close to it, their voices shrill with excitement. Little Negro boys poked sticks into the blazing fire, waved them smoking in air, dancing about till Betty laid about her with a switch, ordering the brands extinguished.
“You set the young Misses’ dresses afire,” she screamed at them.
On long trestles the parcels of meat were laid out and the chickens, tied by the feet and squawking, were brought from the chicken house and handed around, one hen or rooster to a family. Instantly there was a bedlam of screaming joy, chickens’ necks being wrung, cries of, “Thank you, Massa, thank you, Mist’iss!” The General with Andy beside him and Joey at hand to lift a jug stood at the end of the table. A line formed, cups in hand.
“No crowding now—and no sneaking back to the end of the line for a second drink!” warned Andrew Jackson.
Headless chickens flopped on the ground, prodded by shrieking little Negroes with sticks. Emily wrapped a heavy cloak around her aunt’s shoulders, pulled her own shawl tighter as they watched the line of people file by to receive their portion of Christmas cheer. Even the small ones got a tot, weakened with water, and as each child passed Andrew Jackson tweaked a lock of kinky hair or pulled an ear, sending the small black person off into a hysteria of shrieks and giggles.
George had put a great washpot over the flames and when the water was hot the women would douse their fowls in the steaming cauldron and there would be a great chattering and ripping off of feathers, but before that all the people would gather in a phalanx to sing.
“We must go in and light all the candles,” Emily told a group of women. “The house must be bright when they sing.”
“You go, Emily,” Rachel said. “I ought to stay here. Becky and Dilsey both wanted that white rooster and they’re sure to get into a fight.”
“Let Mr. Field attend to it. It’s his business to keep the people in order, aunt Rachel. You are a hostess with a houseful of guests, you have enough to worry you.”
Rachel went reluctantly into the house, and presently every room was ablaze with firelight and candlelight. The other women and children drifted in, and Andy came too, standing before the fire balancing uneasily on first one foot, then the other.
“Mama,” he began abruptly, “you know Papa said he was going to give me that chestnut colt. Why can’t he give it to me for Christmas? He gave Jack the sorrel and promised the chestnut to me when it was grown. Now every time I speak to Philip about it he says it’s not old enough to break yet. A two-year-old colt ought to be old enough to break to the saddle. You know that, Mama.”
Rachel looked harassed. “Son, Philip knows about the horses more than I. Your Papa has every confidence in Philip’s judgment. You have horses to ride. Good safe horses too. And that new saddle and bridle and everything. Goodness knows they cost plenty.”
“You’re too young to ride a stallion colt, Andy,” put in one of his Donelson aunts.
“I should ride some old bag of bones like Duke, I suppose?” flared the boy.
“Duke is a noble old horse,” stated Rachel sternly. “He carried your Papa through two wars. He’s earned his rest and feed.”
“And he still pays for his keep by dancing on three feet whenever anybody whistles ‘Yankee Doodle’,” laughed Emily. “Andy, you’re only fourteen. Plenty of time for you to wrestle fractious stallion colts.”
“You could be killed,” worried his mother, “and you’ve got to live to comfort me in my old age. Sometimes I feel like it’s coming on mighty fast.”
“Nonsense, Rachel, you’ve got twenty good years ahead of you,” argued one of her sisters-in-law, “and all the struggle is behind. This fine house now—and everything fine in it and all the worry behind you.”
“If only they don’t decide that Mr. Jackson has to save the country in some other awful place far from home!” sighed Rachel. “I declare, with millions of men now in this country there ought to be enough to keep it going peacefully without Mr. Jackson being dragged away from this place again.”
“The trouble is,” remarked the other woman, “that Andrew Jackson was never born for peace. Not that he starts any trouble but the minute anything does start Andrew is the man they look for to put an end to it.”
“He’d start a fight soon enough if anybody picked on Mama,” declared Andy. “He’s done that already. That’s why he’s carrying that bullet around right close to his heart.”
“Andy!” protested Emily, shocked at the quick whitening of Rachel’s face.
The Dickinson duel was never spoken of in her presence.
“That was very bad taste, Andy,” reproved his aunt, “and you should know better.”
“But it’s true!” protested the boy, his voice breaking in a contralto tremolo. “Even when I was little, boys used to yell at me that my father had killed a man—on account of Mama.”
Rachel walked away quickly and they heard the door of her room close.
“Andy, how dreadful—on Christmas Eve!” scolded an aunt, “I’ll go—”
“No,” urged Emily, “she’ll want to be alone, aunt Mary. But I’m ashamed of Andy.”
“Everybody picks on me,” mourned the boy.
“Go outside and help your father. And remember that there are things never mentioned in your mother’s presence. One of them is Charles Dickinson and that tragic duel that happened before you were ever born.”
“Papa did kill him!”
“My boy, I hope that when you are grown a man you will find a woman as fine and faithful as Rachel Jackson,” said the older woman gravely. “If you are so fortunate as to win a wife like that and a man cast slurs on her in public, I think you will be moved to kill him too. Now go on out of here before I get the itch to box your ears, big as you are!”