“As if I were a bird,” said the old lady. Grangerville was a backwater place, badly served by the railway, and it would take the best part of a day to get there by ordinary means.
“A car will get you there inside a couple of hours,” said Pinckney.
“As if he couldn’t have sent for Susan Revenall,” went on she as though oblivious to the suggestion, “but I suppose he’s fought with them again. I patched up a peace between them last midsummer, but I suppose the patches didn’t stick; he’s fought with the Revenalls, he’s fought with the Calhouns, he’s fought with the Beauregards, he’s fought with the Tredegars—that man would fight with his own front teeth if he couldn’t get anything better to fight with, and now he’s dying I expect he reckons to have a fight with me, just to finish off with. He killed his poor wife, and Dick Grangerson would never have gone off and got drowned only for him—Oh, he’s not so bad,” turning to Phyl, “he’s good enough only for that—will fight.”
“Too much pep,” said Pinckney.
“I’m sure I don’t know what it is. They’re the queerest lot the Almighty ever put feet on, and I don’t mind saying it, even though they are relatives.” Turning to Phyl. “I suppose you know, least I suppose you think, that the Civil War was fought for the emancipation of the darkies and that they were emancipated.”
“Yes!”
“Well, they weren’t—at least not at Grangersons. While the Colonel’s father was fighting in the Civil War, his first wife, she was a Dawson, kept things going at home, and after the war was over and he was back he took up the rule again. Emancipation—no one would have dared to say the word to him, he’d have killed you with a look. The North never beat Grangerson, it beat Davis and one man and another but it never beat Grangerson, he carried on after the war just as he carried on before, told the darkies that emancipation was nigger talk and they believed him. People came round telling them they were free, and all they got was broken heads. They were a very tetchy lot, those niggers, are still what are left of them. You see, they’ve always been proud of being Grangerson’s niggers, that’s the sort of man he is, able to make them feel like that.”
“Silas helps to carry on the place, doesn’t he?” asked Pinckney.
“Yes, and just in the same tradition, only he’s finding it doesn’t work, I suspect. You see, the old darkies are all right, but when he’s forced to get new labour he has to get the new darkies and they’re all wrong, and he thrashes them and they run away. They never take the law of him either. I reckon when they get clear of Silas they don’t stop running till they get to Galveston.”
They talked of other things and then, breakfast over, Miss Pinckney turned to Richard.