Jacob's Ladder by Donald McCaig Page A

broach the Christmas cask?”
    Though Jack was tone-deaf and indifferent to dancing, he said, “Master, you sure right there,” and sent Rufus for the whiskey.
    As if it were everyday business, Samuel beckoned Jesse. “Jack says you are making a good hand. I trust you are content.”
    â€œLand of milk and honey, Master,” Jesse said.
    â€œUther taught you to read. Though your reading violates Virginia law, it speaks well of your urge for self-improvement.”
    â€œOh, it were right hard to get words through this nappy skull,” Jesse said, rapping his head. With his mouth open his knuckles pro-duced a hollow “tunk,” and kids giggled but older folks looked at their feet.
    â€œDuncan, feel this man’s arm.”
    â€œSir? May I ask . . .”
    â€œHis arm. Can you encircle his arm with your hands?”
    Duncan formed a circle with his hands but did not apply it to Jesse’s arm. “No, sir. I believe I could not.”
    â€œJesse, how much corn can you cut in a day?”
    Jesse shook his head. “I ain’t no great shakes at corn cuttin’. Ten, eleven acres ’twixt can and can’t.”
    â€œFrom can see at sunrise to can’t see at dark,” Gatewood translated. “Rufus here, a reliable man, can’t cut eight.”
    Rufus called out, “I ain’t no worker, Master. I was born for love.”
    Gatewood froze for an instant. Rufus slipped into the darkness. “Jesse, remove your shirt.”
    â€œSamuel, my friend . . .” Catesby cautioned.
    â€œDo you question my management of my property, or the instruction I intend for my sometimes wayward son?”
    Catesby’s face emptied. He turned on his heel and walked away.
    Jesse eyed the Gatewoods, father and son, for a fat moment before he moved slick as a snake shedding his skin and his shirt came over his head and onto the ground.
    â€œSir?” Duncan said.
    â€œNow, Jesse, turn away, if you please.”
    Jesse’s black skin glistened and his shoulder blades were smooth prominences in the lift of his back.
    â€œNote his musculature,” Samuel Gatewood said, his finger not quite touching, tracing muscles from the shoulders to where they bunched above his hips. “Short-coupled and thick in the withers. Like one of Alex Seig’s Percheron stallions. And nary a mark on him. Planters who rely on the whip are fools. A whipped servant can’t work, and if time comes to fetch the speculator, a scarred man won’t command a good price. Thank you, Jesse.”
    Samuel’s guests, who’d only come to wish their own servants a Happy Christmas, stirred uneasily. Andrew Seig called, “Samuel, if you were to broach their cask, we could return to the comforts of your parlor.”
    Master Gatewood’s raised hand commanded silence. “And this is Jesse’s woman, Maggie.”
    â€œMaster . . .” Jack the Driver warned.
    â€œDuncan, you are acquainted with Maggie.”
    Maggie broke into a luminous, tremulous smile as she took a step forward.
    With his finger, Master Gatewood turned Maggie’s face, one profile, then the other. She had the features of a pharaoh’s queen. “Servants like Jesse and Maggie are the firm foundation of Stratford Plantation. That’s right, isn’t it, Jack?”
    â€œMaster, there’s folks waitin’ on that cask. Old George’s banjo anxious in his hand.”
    â€œYour child, Maggie—what do you call the boy?”
    She whispered, “Jacob. I call him Jacob because Jacob got to see the gates of heaven.”
    â€œDuncan, take the infant.”
    â€œSir . . . I cannot.”
    â€œMaggie doesn’t object, do you, Maggie?”
    Silently, Maggie extended the infant toward the young white master.
    Maggie’s eyes cast Duncan adrift. His body felt light as down. The baby stirred and put his tiny fists to his innocent eyes. Baby