It is my honor to welcome Dot Ryan, author of Corrigans' Pool, to Cafe of Dreams today! I am also thrilled to be able to share with readers this wonderful and uplifting guest post written by Ms. Ryan. I know that everyone can take something wonderful away from reading her words. So sit back, relax, and enjoy!!
Primp My Dream
By Dot Ryan,
Author of historical novel, Corrigans’ Pool
By Dot Ryan,
Author of historical novel, Corrigans’ Pool
Have you ever cherished a dream for years that, due to twists and turns in your life, you thought were impossible to achieve? Maybe you were a child of poverty, born and reared in the rural South in the 40’s, 50’s or 60’s … where the differences between rich and poor, black and white, Catholic and Protestant were as visible as Burma-Shave signs on barbed wire fences. Perhaps you came from a long line of trade folks— farmers, ranchers, blacksmiths, construction workers, waiters and waitresses, etc.—whose belief in education went no further than learning to read, write, and do sums, as Granddad called the basics of arithmetic. Higher education was for the upper crust of society, the banker’s sons and daughters, the doctor’s offspring, and the affluent merchant’s brood. Just the same, perhaps you had a dream to go beyond the rudiments of your inherent livelihood and to do something no one else in you family had ever done or even wanted to do. Besides, there was no financial aid back in those days, especially for women wanting an education.
Well, I am here to tell you that you are never too poor, never too uneducated, and never too old … to primp a life-long dream into reality. Forget about why you shoved your dream aside in the first place. Forget about how long it’s lain dormant in the back of your mind. Forget about blame. Most importantly, forget about the time limit you may have set on your dream—time does not apply to dreams, unless it is the worthwhile hours, days, and years spent primping them into actuality! Those personal dreams of achievement do not die until you die. Dreams are for everyone from every walk of life, the very young and the very old; as proof, let me tell you my dream of becoming a writer and how I made it come true against odds that may have become insurmountable had I let them.
I think I must have been five years old when I decided to become a writer. My Irish paternal great-great grandparents came to Texas from Pennsylvania in 1819, and my maternal German grandfather was born in New York harbor aboard an immigration boat coming from Germany. Stories passed down from generation to generation about the hazards they and others faced in their new homeland, especially Texas, piqued my interest in history even before I was old enough to read and write. In time, my interests gravitated to novels, books with strong characters struggling to survive, in one way or another, through an era of American’s diverse past. I grew up dreaming of someday becoming a writer of historic novels. Bits and pieces of Corrigans’ Pool popped into my head and into my dreams years before I actually wrote it, but first, there were a few obstacles I had to overcome, none of them minor.
I suppose one could say I wrote Corrigans’ Pool the hard way, discovering, as I went along that the desire to write a book is all well and good … but first, one must learn to write! My dream to write had not precluded my dream of love and marriage, when I wed at seventeen and settled down to family life. College had not been an option and I’m not sure I would have taken off the blinders of youth long enough to choose education over the promise of love ever after, anyway. I wrote bits and pieces of Corrigans’ Pool in the 60s’ and 70s’, then put it away for months and years at a time while I struggled with the knowledge that I needed more knowledge. I needed to primp my dream, and the two years of college business courses that I had completed a few years after marriage, so that I could go to work, were not enough.
With a thirst for knowledge that, after a while, surprised me with the elation I experienced in seeking it, I began a campaign of self-study, hours in libraries doing research, reading and re-reading dozens of books on writing, subscribing to every writer’s magazine I came across in, enrolling in every writer’s course available within reasonable driving distance from my rural home and, of course, reading as many novels as I could. By the time I felt that I could truly call myself a writer, I had a son and daughter in high school and a third daughter just starting junior high. Yes, I lamented the fleeting years; like most everyone else, I believed that achievements in life were so much more enjoyable if one was young. How foolish that belief turned out to be! I finished Corrigans’ Pool in 1982 … and lost every page of it in a fire a few months later, along with most of my research notes.
Devastated is not a strong enough word for what I felt. After struggling against bouts of anger and self-pity and, after going through a divorce that ended twenty-eight years of marriage, I began anew to primp my dream and started Corrigans’ Pool all over again. Six years later, with time off to run a business, my novel was a hefty tome of 1012 pages. More work was ahead in that it had to be shortened by more than half. I queried about a dozen New York agents, and when one suggested I rewrite Corrigans’ Pool in a way that enhanced the romance issue, I thought long and hard about it, and decided against turning my story into something I had not intended. Although there is romance in the book, it is not, in my opinion, the single aspect of Corrigans’ Pool that makes the story appealing throughout.
With faith that I had written an exceptional novel—and fully aware of the stigma against self-published books—I decided then and there to self-publish. I wanted to spend the rest of my years writing, not pursuing agents and publishers who, perhaps because of the economy, are not as open to new talent as they once were, no matter how promising. On the other hand, I do not believe that book buyers and the publishing world punish writers who have enough faith in their creative abilities to self-publish their first novels … or their second or their third. Judging from reader’s reviews of Corrigans’ Pool and comments I have received, I made the right decision.
But had it not been for my resolution to primp my dream, all that would remained of Corrigans’ Pool would be the cold, forgotten little pile of ashes left by that fire in 1982. So, fellow dreamers, go ahead and primp you dream, no matter the obstacle. You can overcome any barrier. Don’t let anyone or anything take your dream away. If your hurdle is a lack of knowledge, then enroll in classes, and if you can’t do that, make the library your second home. It is absolutely possible to teach yourself! The old saying “if there’s a will there’s a way” is true—your dreams just may require a little primping, that’s all.
About Dot Ryan:
Dot Ryan was raised in the small South Texas towns of Beeville and Skidmore, Texas by her cheerful, but no-nonsense mother and an army of maternal and paternal grandparents, aunts and uncles and, periodically during her formidable years between six and sixteen, Catholic school clergy. In childhood, Dot was a pigtail haired tomboy with a passion for horses, swimming in the Aransas River , hanging by her heels from loft oak tree branches, and running barefooted through the burning, Texas sands. Dot attributes her lifelong interest in history to the diverse cultures and personalities of her Irish and German kin, most significantly, her two grandmothers. Because of these two incredibly strong women, Dot’s ardor for writing and researching began early in her childhood, although neither love was validated until she had raised a family of her owner and completed her first novel, Corrigans’ Pool.
Dot and her husband, Sam, make their home in “The Sparkling City by the Sea,” Corpus Christi , Texas near their sons and daughters and grandchildren. She is busy writing her second and third works of historical fiction. You can visit her website at www.dotryanbooks.com or pick up a copy of Corrigans’ Pool at Amazon.
About Corrigans' Pool:Bitter with thoughts of the darkly handsome stranger who promised to marry her and then left town without a word, Ella Corrigan hastily weds a neighboring planter—a man whose cold indifference is merely a disguise for cunning insanity. His cruelty to his slaves horrifies her and, even though her family has owned slaves for generations, she questions the concept of human bondage for the first time while desperately missing her cherished Greenpoole plantation and Corrigan’s Pool … a beautiful phenomenon of nature that the slaves call “Conjuring Pool” for reasons they cannot explain when asked.
The South is embroiled in a bitter Civil War by the time Ella Corrigan discovers that Corrigans’ Pool is much more than the exquisitely beautiful pond she had thought it to be all her life. But by the time she learns its dangerous secret she is deeply entangled in a secret of her own … one that has made her a virtual prisoner, hopelessly trapped in a world dreadfully different from her previous existence as mistress of her gentle father’s palatial plantation home along the Savannah River. Stunned by what she sees, she must harden herself to her new surroundings or perish … along with the cowed and scarred Negroes who toil in her husband’s rice swamps and cotton fields. Always in the back of her mind, are memories of the man who loved her and left her, the man she has long blamed for her misery.
Excerpt:
THE DOWNTOWN REVELRY CARRIED all the way across town, even as
far as Beatrice Corrigan’s house on the corner of Bull and Taylor
streets, as Timon tapped at her door.“Good mornin’ to you Reverend, suh. Come right in.” The
elderly Joseph ushered Timon to a chair pushed up against the foyer
wall and indicated that the preacher should be seated. “Miz Bea
sayed you was to make youself to home. She be back directly. Her
friend, Miss Tessie, been feeling poorly, and old Bootsie cook up a
fine kettle of root potion for Miz Bea to take over to her. Miz Bea
sayed you gonna be mighty happy with the funds she done collect
for to build the new rectory over at the church.”
“I suspect I will, Joseph. Miz Corrigan is the Lord’s handmaiden,
a saint to the needy of Savannah and to the needs of his church.”
“Yes, suh. The preacher from over at the Baptist church done
sayed the same thing just yesterday. She done give them folks over
at the orphans’ home a fine donation too.”
“God bless her generous soul.”
“Yes, suh. He sure do that,” Joseph said, excusing himself as he
shuffled back to the open front door. “Jube!” he called out in a loud
voice. “Saddle up a hoss. There be a letter on the front table in here
to be took to Miss Ella. Mista Gen’te say when he drop it off he be
mighty pleased iffen it got took to Miss Ella real fast.”
Without Joseph’s remarks, Timon would not have given a second
glance at the table next to his chair, but now his eyes dropped to
the envelope with “Miss Ella Corrigan” scrawled in a strong, bold
hand. The low, husky drawl suddenly awakened in Timon’s memory
was like a dose of quinine clinging to the back of his tongue: “Ah!
Reverend Pledger … Come right in. Miss Corrigan has something
to tell you.”
“When you leave out, Jube,” Joseph continued, still shouting
instructions through the door, “ride up Bull Street and tell Miz Bea
where you is going. She most likely comin’ home in the buggy by
now since she be expecting the Reverend.” Then he closed the door
and disappeared down the hall without another word to Timon,
leaving an awkward silence behind him.
Ten minutes later, Jube padded into the foyer. He dragged his
slouch hat from his head and nodded respectfully to Timon before
looking at the table. Then he immediately moved away to gaze at
another table across the room.
After nodding a return greeting to Jube, the reverend turned his
attention to the open Bible in his lap, moving his shaky fingers slowly
down each line of text. His lips were moving as he silently mouthed
the words he appeared to be reading. Then he lifted his head slightly
and, from the corner of his eye, he watched Jube scratch his head as
he scanned both tables again and the floor around them. He trotted
away and returned shortly with Joseph.
“Lawd, help me,” the old servant said after looking left and
right. “Miz Bea been saying how I gettin’ mighty forgetful lately.
She sayed when the Lawd come to take old Joseph’s soul to glory, I
gonna forget where I done been hiding it from the devil!”
After searching the parlor and dining room, then the foyer again,
Joseph went back into the parlor to start the search cycle over,
motioning Jube to follow. Neither servant was paying any attention
to Timon, who yanked out his handkerchief and began mopping at
the glistening sweat beads that had popped up on his forehead.
“You better find that letter, Joseph,” Jube cautioned the old man
as he helped him look. “Miz Bea gonna be mighty mad when she
find out you done lost that letter.”
“I gonna find it,” Joseph said, frowning as he studied the room
again from top to bottom.
“What you gonna do iffen you don’t find it? Miz Bea get mighty
mad when things get lost ’round the place.”
“Miz Bea ain’t gonna find out. You hear me, boy?”
“If you sayed so, Joseph.”
“That right, boy. That what I sayed.”
After several more minutes of searching, the two servants
shuffled in silence down the center hall toward the back of the
house, their shoulders a bit more slumped than usual. When they
were out of sight, emotion rolled over Timon like a muddy tide. He
had not planned on taking the letter, and once he had taken it, he had
not planned on reading it. That he had done both left him trembling
with remorse, so reviled by the deed that he felt the boiled crawdads
he’d had for lunch burning his throat. And all he could think about
was getting away from there as quickly as possible.
Astraddle old Blackie, he found himself jogging along at a pace
that the animal apparently thought too fast, for Blackie swung his
knobby head around and, with a rolling eye, examined his rider.
Timon rode east on Gordon Street before turning left onto Abercorn,
putting a two-block span between himself and Bull Street and a
chance meeting with Beatrice Corrigan. He had no idea where he was
going. His church and adjacent home were in the opposite direction,
and he only knew that, of all places, he could not go there. His father’s
ministry was there, the ministry with which he had falsely mantled himself!
The reins in his hands
went as slack as his spirits. Without any indication whatsoever from
Timon on which way to go, Blackie crossed Broughton, Congress,
and Bryan streets one by one, then plodded across the wide expanse
of Bay Street, doing a good job of dodging, waiting, then threading
through the dense traffic that filled every thoroughfare.
“Fort Sumter’s gonna be free of Yanks afore the days out!” a
voice in the milling throng yelled out to someone in the crowd.
“We’re givin’ ’em hell!”
But Timon paid them no attention. His mind was on another
kind of hell—the one he had just created for himself. How had it
happened? How had he /let /it happen? He was not a man of God
his his father had been. He only masqueraded as such. If that had
been his father in Miss Bea’s foyer, he would have known Satan
was about to pay him a call, and he would have fought him with all
his might, rising victorious from the dust and the splinters of battle.
The first Reverend Timon Pledger had proven time and time again
that he was above temptation’s endless sweep, beyond Beelzebub’s
consumptive grasp.
But his unworthy son had not even put up a fight when old
Lucifer sneaked up on him, blindsided him, and then worked his
evil on him. Timon slumped even lower in the saddle. He had often
wondered why he had never witnessed adoration shining in the
eyes of his little congregation the way it had shone in the eyes of
his father’s large flock. He now knew why. In his bumble-headed
orations, they must have sensed his unworthiness, his inability to
reach out and touch their souls. They just didn’t understand the
source of his weakness, the secret desire constantly festering in his
mind that had him dreaming of Ella Corrigan and writing poetry
when he should have been preparing his sermons.
Oh, deathless love, arduous and
wrenching, will reside in sinful grief
with a jealous love … fanatical and
festering, to reveal the soul of a thief!
Hapless … helpless … hopeless love that …
He was no minister of God. He was an imposter. And that
shameful revelation had come to him in a flash as he snatched up
the letter, his fingers trembling as he fumbled at the wax seal until
the envelope tore and he read the words. Then came the sin of sins.
He had thrust the letter and its damaged envelope between the pages
of God’s holy words! He had used God’s precious book to hide his
cravenness. And he could not put the letter back, nor pretend to do a
favor by delivering it to its owner, for he had ripped it in half before
secreting it away in his Bible. Timon shuddered. /“And many false
prophets shall arise and shall fool many.”
Blackie’s ears perked up, and even though he had just plodded
across Bay Street, he shifted around and faced the busy avenue
again when a blaring brass band marched by and headed uptown.
Behind the band advanced two hundred or more of Savannah’s
quick-stepping Confederate volunteers. A rousing cheer echoed up
and down the street. When Blackie stopped, Timon did not notice.
His arm was pressed tightly over the Bible, which dug like a spike
into his armpit beneath his long coat, his thoughts on what he had
done rather than what was transpiring around him.
After the parade of men and musicians had passed, Blackie
stretched his neck around to look at Timon again. Then, as if finally
realizing he could do as he pleased, he stepped buoyantly back
into the street to jog along behind the marchers, his scraggy tail
swinging with the exuberance of a colt’s. Timon’s vacant gaze held
to the sandy thoroughfare. If he believed what he preached—and he
did, for the most part—then God would forgive him. But, as further
proof of his unworthiness, it was not God’s judgment that concerned
him. He tightened his arm, and the spike beneath his armpit jabbed
harder.
The parade filed onto Johnson Square, where a large crowd
encircled a high, wooden podium. A brisk breeze from the Atlantic
carried salty sea smells in from the east, which blended with the
pungent odors of wood smoke, simmering food, and hay-covered
stables, not an unpleasant bouquet on this cool April afternoon.
Snapping in the wind were dozens of secession flags emblazoned
with slogans supporting the newly formed Confederate States of
America. A banner with a lone red star on a white background, like
the one that Savannah’s volunteer militia had hoisted over Fort
Pulaski to represent Georgia just last month, waved high over the
Nathaniel Greene monument. Another such flag had been defiantly
unfurled on the United States Customs House on Bay Street in
February, replacing the Stars and Stripes that had been there in one
form or another since the American Revolution.
The squares and every downtown avenue teemed with excitement.
Milling crowds of men and boys surrounded orators who stoked
enthusiasm for war with shouts of “Yankee tyranny!” and “God bless
the Confederacy!” Georgia’s exodus from the Union had brought
hundreds of state troops into Savannah. The downtown streets
were studded with armed men on foot or horseback or steering an
assortment of horse- or mule-drawn vehicles. Savannah’s residents
peppered the sidewalks and lined the walls of the buildings, talking,
yelling, and laughing.
As Blackie plodded among them, the band struck up “Dixie,”
and soon a chorus of masculine voices rose like heavy smoke from
the streets, drifting across the city in undulating waves of loudness,
nearly drowning out the band. The sounds, the smells, and the
tumultuousness of his own thoughts suddenly fractured Timon’s
mind like powerful breakers crashing the pilings of a rickety pier.
He jerked up the reins and headed Blackie for home, threading his
way through the crowd, stopping at times to let someone squeeze
by. In one such moment, a small boy yelled, “Yah!” as Blackie’s
long, grayish teeth took a big nip out of the cardboard placard the
boy dangled on a pole close to Blackie’s nose, nearly jerking the
pole from the boy’s hands. Blackie chomped contentedly until his
pilfered morsel was gone.
Then the worst thing that could happen at that moment did. He
saw Ella Corrigan, accompanied by her father and sister, in a buggy
slowly coming down the street toward him. Adam Corrigan was in
the driver’s seat, his big thoroughbred tied at the back of the buggy.
Timon pulled left on the reins again and nudged Blackie sideways,
attempting to lose himself in the multitude. Despite his efforts, he
was sure the Corrigans would see him and he would have to face
them. Slowly drawing his hat from his head as their buggy neared,
he waited for the inevitable.
But it did not happen. The vehicle rolled past, and Timon was
relieved to see that Ella Corrigan, lovely though masked in a strange
pallor, stared straight ahead. Her sister, Honor, gazed elsewhere.
Adam Corrigan, frowning intently, concentrated entirely on
maneuvering the buggy through the crowd.
One tiny face in the rear of the Corrigans’ vehicle, however,
looked Timon’s way with a grin of recognition. Timon raised his
hand hesitantly and waved back at the Negro child, remembering
how the boy had attempted to help him onto Blackie’s back that
dismal night at Greenpoole. He watched until the buggy disappeared
among the throng of horses and vehicles, his mind once again reeling
with remorse.
The spike pressing into Timon’s armpit also stabbed at his heart:
“We shall marry as soon as I return, my darling,” the letter said.
“The knowledge that you love me as I love you will sustain me until
I once again look into your beautiful eyes and hold you to my heart.
If I am foolish to confess that I could bear no more separation from
you than that, then foolish I am. It is foolish that I will always be for
you, my love. You are my destiny and I, yours.” There was more in
Gentry Garland’s writing, but Timon forced his mind elsewhere, his
guilt nearly unbearable.
Suddenly, Timon remembered something the inebriated Adam
Corrigan had said to him that calamitous night when they had fallen
from Corrigan’s horse onto the road. “You know, Reverend,” Adam
had said, “a man’s life can be changed in a wink by anyone who
wishes to change it. He may set his goals, nourish his dreams, do
that which he is wont to do, but ultimately, it’s what someone else
may do that determines his destiny … his happiness.”
But Gentry Garland will come back! Timon assured himself.
He will marry Ella, and all will be fine. Their destiny would not
be determined by his insane moment of jealously in Miz Bea’s
parlor. Yes, they would marry, and Timon would have harmed no
one but himself with that terrible deed. He shuddered, taking only
marginal comfort in the knowledge that old Joseph and Jube would
not be brave enough to confess their assumed carelessness to their
mistress.
In the stable behind Christ Episcopal Church, Timon waved Jo-Jo
aside and unsaddled Blackie himself. Then, after forking up a batch
of fresh hay, he went into the tack room, emerged a few minutes
later with a small bucketful of paper-flecked oats, and poured the
contents into the trough. Blackie immediately abandoned the hay
for the pile of oats. Timon watched until his horse had eaten the last
morsel of his unusual meal, after which the reverend dropped onto a
nearby bale of hay and slumped forward, his head in his hands.
far as Beatrice Corrigan’s house on the corner of Bull and Taylor
streets, as Timon tapped at her door.“Good mornin’ to you Reverend, suh. Come right in.” The
elderly Joseph ushered Timon to a chair pushed up against the foyer
wall and indicated that the preacher should be seated. “Miz Bea
sayed you was to make youself to home. She be back directly. Her
friend, Miss Tessie, been feeling poorly, and old Bootsie cook up a
fine kettle of root potion for Miz Bea to take over to her. Miz Bea
sayed you gonna be mighty happy with the funds she done collect
for to build the new rectory over at the church.”
“I suspect I will, Joseph. Miz Corrigan is the Lord’s handmaiden,
a saint to the needy of Savannah and to the needs of his church.”
“Yes, suh. The preacher from over at the Baptist church done
sayed the same thing just yesterday. She done give them folks over
at the orphans’ home a fine donation too.”
“God bless her generous soul.”
“Yes, suh. He sure do that,” Joseph said, excusing himself as he
shuffled back to the open front door. “Jube!” he called out in a loud
voice. “Saddle up a hoss. There be a letter on the front table in here
to be took to Miss Ella. Mista Gen’te say when he drop it off he be
mighty pleased iffen it got took to Miss Ella real fast.”
Without Joseph’s remarks, Timon would not have given a second
glance at the table next to his chair, but now his eyes dropped to
the envelope with “Miss Ella Corrigan” scrawled in a strong, bold
hand. The low, husky drawl suddenly awakened in Timon’s memory
was like a dose of quinine clinging to the back of his tongue: “Ah!
Reverend Pledger … Come right in. Miss Corrigan has something
to tell you.”
“When you leave out, Jube,” Joseph continued, still shouting
instructions through the door, “ride up Bull Street and tell Miz Bea
where you is going. She most likely comin’ home in the buggy by
now since she be expecting the Reverend.” Then he closed the door
and disappeared down the hall without another word to Timon,
leaving an awkward silence behind him.
Ten minutes later, Jube padded into the foyer. He dragged his
slouch hat from his head and nodded respectfully to Timon before
looking at the table. Then he immediately moved away to gaze at
another table across the room.
After nodding a return greeting to Jube, the reverend turned his
attention to the open Bible in his lap, moving his shaky fingers slowly
down each line of text. His lips were moving as he silently mouthed
the words he appeared to be reading. Then he lifted his head slightly
and, from the corner of his eye, he watched Jube scratch his head as
he scanned both tables again and the floor around them. He trotted
away and returned shortly with Joseph.
“Lawd, help me,” the old servant said after looking left and
right. “Miz Bea been saying how I gettin’ mighty forgetful lately.
She sayed when the Lawd come to take old Joseph’s soul to glory, I
gonna forget where I done been hiding it from the devil!”
After searching the parlor and dining room, then the foyer again,
Joseph went back into the parlor to start the search cycle over,
motioning Jube to follow. Neither servant was paying any attention
to Timon, who yanked out his handkerchief and began mopping at
the glistening sweat beads that had popped up on his forehead.
“You better find that letter, Joseph,” Jube cautioned the old man
as he helped him look. “Miz Bea gonna be mighty mad when she
find out you done lost that letter.”
“I gonna find it,” Joseph said, frowning as he studied the room
again from top to bottom.
“What you gonna do iffen you don’t find it? Miz Bea get mighty
mad when things get lost ’round the place.”
“Miz Bea ain’t gonna find out. You hear me, boy?”
“If you sayed so, Joseph.”
“That right, boy. That what I sayed.”
After several more minutes of searching, the two servants
shuffled in silence down the center hall toward the back of the
house, their shoulders a bit more slumped than usual. When they
were out of sight, emotion rolled over Timon like a muddy tide. He
had not planned on taking the letter, and once he had taken it, he had
not planned on reading it. That he had done both left him trembling
with remorse, so reviled by the deed that he felt the boiled crawdads
he’d had for lunch burning his throat. And all he could think about
was getting away from there as quickly as possible.
Astraddle old Blackie, he found himself jogging along at a pace
that the animal apparently thought too fast, for Blackie swung his
knobby head around and, with a rolling eye, examined his rider.
Timon rode east on Gordon Street before turning left onto Abercorn,
putting a two-block span between himself and Bull Street and a
chance meeting with Beatrice Corrigan. He had no idea where he was
going. His church and adjacent home were in the opposite direction,
and he only knew that, of all places, he could not go there. His father’s
ministry was there, the ministry with which he had falsely mantled himself!
The reins in his hands
went as slack as his spirits. Without any indication whatsoever from
Timon on which way to go, Blackie crossed Broughton, Congress,
and Bryan streets one by one, then plodded across the wide expanse
of Bay Street, doing a good job of dodging, waiting, then threading
through the dense traffic that filled every thoroughfare.
“Fort Sumter’s gonna be free of Yanks afore the days out!” a
voice in the milling throng yelled out to someone in the crowd.
“We’re givin’ ’em hell!”
But Timon paid them no attention. His mind was on another
kind of hell—the one he had just created for himself. How had it
happened? How had he /let /it happen? He was not a man of God
his his father had been. He only masqueraded as such. If that had
been his father in Miss Bea’s foyer, he would have known Satan
was about to pay him a call, and he would have fought him with all
his might, rising victorious from the dust and the splinters of battle.
The first Reverend Timon Pledger had proven time and time again
that he was above temptation’s endless sweep, beyond Beelzebub’s
consumptive grasp.
But his unworthy son had not even put up a fight when old
Lucifer sneaked up on him, blindsided him, and then worked his
evil on him. Timon slumped even lower in the saddle. He had often
wondered why he had never witnessed adoration shining in the
eyes of his little congregation the way it had shone in the eyes of
his father’s large flock. He now knew why. In his bumble-headed
orations, they must have sensed his unworthiness, his inability to
reach out and touch their souls. They just didn’t understand the
source of his weakness, the secret desire constantly festering in his
mind that had him dreaming of Ella Corrigan and writing poetry
when he should have been preparing his sermons.
Oh, deathless love, arduous and
wrenching, will reside in sinful grief
with a jealous love … fanatical and
festering, to reveal the soul of a thief!
Hapless … helpless … hopeless love that …
He was no minister of God. He was an imposter. And that
shameful revelation had come to him in a flash as he snatched up
the letter, his fingers trembling as he fumbled at the wax seal until
the envelope tore and he read the words. Then came the sin of sins.
He had thrust the letter and its damaged envelope between the pages
of God’s holy words! He had used God’s precious book to hide his
cravenness. And he could not put the letter back, nor pretend to do a
favor by delivering it to its owner, for he had ripped it in half before
secreting it away in his Bible. Timon shuddered. /“And many false
prophets shall arise and shall fool many.”
Blackie’s ears perked up, and even though he had just plodded
across Bay Street, he shifted around and faced the busy avenue
again when a blaring brass band marched by and headed uptown.
Behind the band advanced two hundred or more of Savannah’s
quick-stepping Confederate volunteers. A rousing cheer echoed up
and down the street. When Blackie stopped, Timon did not notice.
His arm was pressed tightly over the Bible, which dug like a spike
into his armpit beneath his long coat, his thoughts on what he had
done rather than what was transpiring around him.
After the parade of men and musicians had passed, Blackie
stretched his neck around to look at Timon again. Then, as if finally
realizing he could do as he pleased, he stepped buoyantly back
into the street to jog along behind the marchers, his scraggy tail
swinging with the exuberance of a colt’s. Timon’s vacant gaze held
to the sandy thoroughfare. If he believed what he preached—and he
did, for the most part—then God would forgive him. But, as further
proof of his unworthiness, it was not God’s judgment that concerned
him. He tightened his arm, and the spike beneath his armpit jabbed
harder.
The parade filed onto Johnson Square, where a large crowd
encircled a high, wooden podium. A brisk breeze from the Atlantic
carried salty sea smells in from the east, which blended with the
pungent odors of wood smoke, simmering food, and hay-covered
stables, not an unpleasant bouquet on this cool April afternoon.
Snapping in the wind were dozens of secession flags emblazoned
with slogans supporting the newly formed Confederate States of
America. A banner with a lone red star on a white background, like
the one that Savannah’s volunteer militia had hoisted over Fort
Pulaski to represent Georgia just last month, waved high over the
Nathaniel Greene monument. Another such flag had been defiantly
unfurled on the United States Customs House on Bay Street in
February, replacing the Stars and Stripes that had been there in one
form or another since the American Revolution.
The squares and every downtown avenue teemed with excitement.
Milling crowds of men and boys surrounded orators who stoked
enthusiasm for war with shouts of “Yankee tyranny!” and “God bless
the Confederacy!” Georgia’s exodus from the Union had brought
hundreds of state troops into Savannah. The downtown streets
were studded with armed men on foot or horseback or steering an
assortment of horse- or mule-drawn vehicles. Savannah’s residents
peppered the sidewalks and lined the walls of the buildings, talking,
yelling, and laughing.
As Blackie plodded among them, the band struck up “Dixie,”
and soon a chorus of masculine voices rose like heavy smoke from
the streets, drifting across the city in undulating waves of loudness,
nearly drowning out the band. The sounds, the smells, and the
tumultuousness of his own thoughts suddenly fractured Timon’s
mind like powerful breakers crashing the pilings of a rickety pier.
He jerked up the reins and headed Blackie for home, threading his
way through the crowd, stopping at times to let someone squeeze
by. In one such moment, a small boy yelled, “Yah!” as Blackie’s
long, grayish teeth took a big nip out of the cardboard placard the
boy dangled on a pole close to Blackie’s nose, nearly jerking the
pole from the boy’s hands. Blackie chomped contentedly until his
pilfered morsel was gone.
Then the worst thing that could happen at that moment did. He
saw Ella Corrigan, accompanied by her father and sister, in a buggy
slowly coming down the street toward him. Adam Corrigan was in
the driver’s seat, his big thoroughbred tied at the back of the buggy.
Timon pulled left on the reins again and nudged Blackie sideways,
attempting to lose himself in the multitude. Despite his efforts, he
was sure the Corrigans would see him and he would have to face
them. Slowly drawing his hat from his head as their buggy neared,
he waited for the inevitable.
But it did not happen. The vehicle rolled past, and Timon was
relieved to see that Ella Corrigan, lovely though masked in a strange
pallor, stared straight ahead. Her sister, Honor, gazed elsewhere.
Adam Corrigan, frowning intently, concentrated entirely on
maneuvering the buggy through the crowd.
One tiny face in the rear of the Corrigans’ vehicle, however,
looked Timon’s way with a grin of recognition. Timon raised his
hand hesitantly and waved back at the Negro child, remembering
how the boy had attempted to help him onto Blackie’s back that
dismal night at Greenpoole. He watched until the buggy disappeared
among the throng of horses and vehicles, his mind once again reeling
with remorse.
The spike pressing into Timon’s armpit also stabbed at his heart:
“We shall marry as soon as I return, my darling,” the letter said.
“The knowledge that you love me as I love you will sustain me until
I once again look into your beautiful eyes and hold you to my heart.
If I am foolish to confess that I could bear no more separation from
you than that, then foolish I am. It is foolish that I will always be for
you, my love. You are my destiny and I, yours.” There was more in
Gentry Garland’s writing, but Timon forced his mind elsewhere, his
guilt nearly unbearable.
Suddenly, Timon remembered something the inebriated Adam
Corrigan had said to him that calamitous night when they had fallen
from Corrigan’s horse onto the road. “You know, Reverend,” Adam
had said, “a man’s life can be changed in a wink by anyone who
wishes to change it. He may set his goals, nourish his dreams, do
that which he is wont to do, but ultimately, it’s what someone else
may do that determines his destiny … his happiness.”
But Gentry Garland will come back! Timon assured himself.
He will marry Ella, and all will be fine. Their destiny would not
be determined by his insane moment of jealously in Miz Bea’s
parlor. Yes, they would marry, and Timon would have harmed no
one but himself with that terrible deed. He shuddered, taking only
marginal comfort in the knowledge that old Joseph and Jube would
not be brave enough to confess their assumed carelessness to their
mistress.
In the stable behind Christ Episcopal Church, Timon waved Jo-Jo
aside and unsaddled Blackie himself. Then, after forking up a batch
of fresh hay, he went into the tack room, emerged a few minutes
later with a small bucketful of paper-flecked oats, and poured the
contents into the trough. Blackie immediately abandoned the hay
for the pile of oats. Timon watched until his horse had eaten the last
morsel of his unusual meal, after which the reverend dropped onto a
nearby bale of hay and slumped forward, his head in his hands.
