Charleston by John Jakes Page A

Edward didn’t jump away in time. A hoof slashed his forehead, nearly knocking him over.
    Lark reeled and swayed, trying not to fall out of his saddle. One of his men shot at Edward, missed. Suddenly light flared up; a rider spurred past Lark and hurled a pine torch over Eliza’s body and through the open door. Lark shrieked, “Not yet, not yet.” He was too late; the torch ignited a wall hanging in the foyer. The man who’d thrown it yanked his mount’s head around, charged toward Edward, who shot him in the forehead with his other pistol.
    All that in the space of a few heartbeats. Then, chaos.
    Maids who slept in the big house ran from a side door, exclaiming and sobbing. Lark’s three remaining men separated to outflank the defenders. Big Walter dropped one of them with his musket. Another ducked his head and rode straight at Big Walter. He chopped down with his right hand, burying a tomahawk in Big Walter’s skull. The slave went over like a felled tree.
    Poorly’s musket boomed. The tomahawk man flew sideways, blown off his horse. Edward meantime was running toward the house, clutching two empty pistols. He dropped them, skidded to his mother’s side on his knees. The red stain on her bed coat was the size of a plate.
    He slipped his arms under her, lifted her against him, heedless of the blood. He began rocking her. “Mother, don’t, you can’t.” He sounded like a terrified child.
    Eliza’s head lolled. He felt no breath from her open mouth. After a faint tremor her body relaxed and her bowels released. Blood ran off his gashed forehead to mingle with sudden tears.
    One of Lark’s men was unhorsed. Poorly swung his musket like a club, striking the man from behind, dropping him on his knees, then on his face. Poorly beat him till he stopped moving.
    The fire in the house spread to the dining room on one side of the entrance hall, the sitting room on the other. Floors and walls caught and blazed with a roar. Lark had ridden to the periphery of the light, grasping his left thigh. Blood leaked between his fingers.
    His eyes caught Edward’s, promising another meeting. Edward’s eyes, black holes in his wet red face, said he’d welcome it. Lark wheeled his horse and disappeared down the dirt track, his pigtail ribbon gone, his hair spreading out behind him like a peacock’s tail.
    Heat flayed Edward’s face. The fire was consuming the wall of the house behind his mother’s body. He lifted Eliza and carried her off the piazza. Her blood smeared him a second time. He put her on the ground gently.
    â€œPoorly, find Sam.”
    â€œIs your mama—?”
    â€œShe’s dead.”
    So was Sam; Poorly discovered him strangled on the lawn not two yards from where Eliza Trott Bell had sat reading Cowper. Four of Lark’s partisans lay dead in the coarse grass, but the instigator was gone into the night, along with his two remaining men.
    Sally appeared, disheveled and frantic. She called Poorly’s name until she found him in the dancing firelight. The slaves crept from the cabins in frightened pairs and family groups, asking no questions, only staring in a stricken way. As the fire consumed the big house, many of them wept.
    The roof fell in, a crashing cascade of burning timbers and flying sparks. By morning the Malvern big house no longer existed, except as a larger version of the black ruins of Pertwee’s store.
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    Numb with grief, Edward nevertheless forced himself to think and act. He sent a slave to meet the waterman and tell him to wait as long as necessary. They would need a larger boat. He found an older slave to put in charge of the plantation. At two o’clock, in a tiny burying ground at the end of the lane between the slave cabins, he presided at the last rites for Big Walter and Sam. A slave funeral in daylight was unusual. Customarily they were held at midnight, so as not to rob the master of an