A Good Trade

Some years before the Yankees descended upon Johnny Reb, a decade or so I reckon it was, a former slave by the name of Caesar Freedman pulled up on his horse before a stately home in the heart of Mississippi’s cotton country.

Caesar had once borne the surname of Dockery, but had swiftly dropped it upon gaining his freedom. He had never bothered with any legal formalities, since he was barely human in the eyes of the law, anyway. Instead, he had simply started going by Freedman. He even gave the name to the census taker who came around in 1850 to tally his family and his acreage, even though he had neither. Before long, it took, and he became a sure enough, honest to goodness Freedman.

He had come by his own freedom easily enough. His former owner had willed it to him ‘in gratitude for years of faithful service to the Dockery family.’ That was how the manumission papers had read. He was not freed out of any sense of loving kindness, however. Will Dockery simply had not wanted to burden the plantation with looking after Caesar in his old age, and so had left explicit instructions in his will that Caesar was to be set free, leaving him to fend on his own.

He had not reckoned that Caesar would do as well for himself as he had, or else he might have ever let him go at all. Old Dockery was just that spiteful. Caesar himself was surprised at his own modest success, but natural herbs and remedies came as easily to him as playfulness comes to a child. And so he had prospered, prospered to the point where he was able to purchase his own home and his own mount.

He was so good a healer that many in these parts believed him to be in possession of magical powers, a belief he took no trouble to discourage, since it meant that potential enemies always stayed out of his way.

Now, as he pulled up before the old Dockery place once more, he tugged at his beard and squared his hat firmly atop his head. With a quick motion of the hand, he withdrew a small foldable mirror from his jacket pocket, checking his reflection for smudges of dirt and dust. Verifying that none was in evidence, he replaced the mirror, sighed once, and dismounted from the saddle.

As he strode towards the front gate, a midnight-colored bull with dense shoulders came alongside the wooden fencing and kept pace with him, as if in memory of its very first day, when Caesar had helped birth it and steady it on still wobbly legs. Caesar looked across and nodded to the bovine, who gave a quiet huff and continued alongside him, tracking him as he went.

Approaching the big house, Caesar could detect a flurry of activity behind the dim panels that passed for windows. The nature of this activity, however, eluded him.

It was then that the front door swung open, and a slender house slave in flawless livery stood before him.

“You know this door ain’t for you,” he said. “You’re meant to come around the back.”

“Can’t nobody come around back with that bull in the yard like that,” Caesar answered. “Anyways, Jacob, the gate is locked. Check it yourself. So I can’t rightly go around back now, can I?”

“Well, hurry up, then,” Jacob said with a scowl in his voice. Get on to the back parlor. I’ll have somebody fetch the widow for you.”

Caesar made his way down a claustrophobic passageway smelling of mildew. Candle sconces lined the walls, last night's melted wax still clinging to the stems. A grainy mirror halfway along the hall threw back the image of a man proud in stature, walking with his back erect, untroubled by his troubles.

Finding himself in the back parlor, the room set aside for receiving one such as himself, he took a seat in a rickety handmade chair that gave testimony to the estate’s early days as a primitive frontier settlement. No sooner was he sitting, though, when the Widow Dockery flounced into the room, her black silks rustling as she walked. She carried with her a small ream of papers which she had folded into thirds.

“Lord, Caesar, you’re just a mess of trouble,” she said. “You got these servants of mine all upset about you coming in through the front door like that. I have half a mind to renege on our deal and just keep Bridey and the money you’ve paid me for her on top of it. Teach you to get uppity, it would. What court would even find against me for it? And me a widow in mourning, too.”

Strictly speaking, the Widow Dockery was no longer in mourning and was no longer required to dress in black. Truth be told, she had never been remorseful at her husband’s passing. Indeed, a part of her was even happy to have been liberated from such a burden of a man. She kept her black apparel, though, because it discouraged further gentleman callers from appearing at her doorstep. Her mourning clothes were a talisman against the curse of a second marriage.

“Well, now, Miss Dockery, respectfully speaking and all, you wouldn’t want to do that. The deed would come to haunt you.”

“I do believe that’s some kind of veiled threat. Is it not, Caesar?” the widow asked.

“Not particularly, no,” Caesar answered. “It ain’t wearing a veil at all. Why a person would want to keep a man and his wife separated, though, I couldn’t rightly say. Doing so would only jeopardize the fate of your very soul.”

“The fate of my soul, you say? Now what do you know about the fate of my soul, Caesar? You been after that magic again, Caesar? You know it’s forbidden.”

“The fate of your eternal soul is still in your own hands, ma’am. That much I can tell you right now. It may not always be.” Here, he paused for effect. “But for now it is.”

The widow studied the smoothness of his face, her eyes dancing nervously to his and then just as quickly away. A silence filled the room, roaring in both of their ears.

Then the widow picked up a small handbell and rang it in a delicate manner that belied all her other clumsy motions. At once, a slave woman appeared in the doorway, dressed in the outfit of a parlor maid.

“Yes’m?” she asked of the widow.

“Send for Bridey, June,” the widow Dockery instructed her, sighing as she spoke.

“Yes’m,” the maid said once more before suddenly disappearing.

“That’s the only thing she ever says to me,” the widow complained. “Yes’m. Nothing more. Ever.”

Then silence filled the room once more as the two met each other’s gaze.

“I believe you’re supposed to lower your eyes in the presence of a white woman . . .” the widow began, but then was cut short by the sudden appearance of Caesar's wife, who graced him with a brief yet sincere smile that arced across the horizon of her cheeks.

Bridey stood meekly before the pair, her beauty radiant even beneath the grime of her morning labors.

“Now, Bridey,” the woman addressed her. “Caesar has come to fetch you away from me. You know good and well he’s been making payments to me for some time now, real regular like.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bridey answered her.

“Only, I ain’t inclined to let you go for something as easy to come by as money,” the widow went on. “I instructed Caesar last time to bring me something of greater value. So let’s see it, Caesar, what have you got for me?”

Caesar sat quietly for a moment. Then he coughed and reached into an inner waistcoat pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief tied firmly around a small jewelry box.

Undoing the handkerchief, he began to speak, winking playfully at Bridey as he did. “Now, Miss Dockery, what’s in this here box is a most unusual item. I prepared it for you myself.”

“I knew you been tinkering with that magic again,” the widow interrupted.

“Yes, Ma’am, I have,” he went on, “and you’ll be glad of it.”

“Is that so?” she asked.

“It is, indeed,” he said, before resuming. “You see, what’s in here is more powerful than anything else in all of God’s creation. Only, you must not open it until you absolutely need it. Don’t go looking at it out of curiosity, or it will sure enough vanish on you before you can even see it. Carry it with you at all times, so you will have it handy. The thing in here,” he said, raising the box aloft, “is possessed of the most powerful magic there is. Use it only in your hour of direst need. It will save you from certain death and kill anyone who tries to bring you harm.”

“Well, what is it, then?” the widow demanded.

“I ain't at liberty to say, Miss Dockery,” Caesar answered. “To describe it would be to kill its power. It's just that delicate.”

Then silence fell upon the room once more. After a spell, the widow took up the thread of the conversation.

“Very well, Caesar,” she said, “I do believe you mean why you say. I can tell it from your eyes. I always know when a man is lying.” She paused. “Surrender that box to me, and Bridey is yours for life. I will accept it as your final payment.”

At once, Caesar handed the box across to the widow, who extended the papers in his direction. He reached for them, but she held tight her grip, refusing to unclench her fingers.

Then Caesar spoke again. “Be very gentle with that box, Miss Dockery. Knocking it about could ruin the thing inside.” At this, the widow relaxed her grip and Caesar took the folded papers, glancing at them quickly before filing them away in the same pocket from which he had drawn the box.

“Much obliged, Miss Dockery,” he said. “I will send for Bridey’s things directly.” Then he boldly stood before the widow had a chance to collect herself, took his wife by the hand, and led her back along the dim passageway.

Outside, he sat her atop the saddle, before climbing on behind her. The mare began to trot slowly, and he did not bother to hasten its pace. Once again, the bull came to the fence and eyed him with nostalgia.

Suddenly, Bridey fell to laughing. It was an honest laugh, originating in the belly. “You lied to her,” she said.

“I did no such thing,” he retorted mirthfully.

“Why, but you did,” Bridey countered him. “What could you possibly give Widow Dockery that is more powerful than anything else in all of God’s creation?”

“Well, nothing,” Caesar acknowledged.

“Alright, then, what thing disappears if you decide to examine it just out of curiosity?”

Again, Caesar answered her. “Nothing.”

“Well, then, what could possibly save a person from certain death?”

Caesar coughed uncomfortably before again confirming. “Nothing,” he said.

“And what could magically kill all those who intend one harm?”

Once more, Caesar had to admit: “nothing.”

“So, then, you lied to her,” Bridey challenged him as the horse moved along the roadway.

“I most certainly did not,” her husband insisted.

“So, what was in the box, then?” Bridie demanded.

“Haven’t I already said it plenty times enough?” Caesar asked her. “Nothing. Nothing is in the box.”

And with that they both fell into merry laughter, letting Caesar’s mount carry them off the premises of the plantation, towards the web of roads leading northwards, stretching up to Canada, from whence they could never be retrieved.