Standard Disclaimer. I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Wainwright Burns, Clifford Burns, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.
Author's Notes:
This is a giftfic. The main character is one Clifford Burns, father of C. Montgomery Burns; and son of Colonel Wainwright Burns. It is a one shot tale that gives a bit of insight the life of Monty Burns' biological father.
This story is Rated M for adult themes. It takes place in The American South in the range of 1846 - 1865, give or take. That is the time of the American Civil War, and a period when it was legal for human beings to own other human beings. There is slavery in this. Now, if you're expecting something like "Django Unchained" in terms of language, that won't be an issue. N- was considered a crude and vulgar word even then, not used by polite society. Kind of the same way you wouldn't say F- in a posh restaurant.
A great deal more research went into this piece than is presented here. I didn't want it to turn into a treatise on the Civil War. This is a story said in a historical period, not an essay. In fact, the war takes a back seat to most of the tale. Wealth has its privileges. But that doesn't change the fact slavery existed back then, and it's a topic that can make people uncomfortable even today. There is an inherent chance of violence in such a situation. Now, while I avoid gratuitous swearing, sex, and violence in all my pieces, that doesn't change the fact that such things exist.
Consider yourself warned; now I invite you to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!
ps: $18,000 in the 1860s is close to $515,000.00 in today's money. That'll be important later.
~ Muse
. .
My life began uneventfully enough, unfortunately, it was not to be so for my mother. From what I am told, she lived just long enough to hold me, look into my eyes and name me. I like to believe she told me she loved me, and kissed me before she passed; but I'll never know if that's true.
She named me "Clifford," a name I hoped meant something great. I later learned it meant exactly as it sounded: a ford by a cliff, a spot where the riven runs shallow enough to cross. It's a simple, and unimpressive name, but what can I say? I am a simple, and unimpressive man. I am much better for it.
My father, he could be described as impressive, or terrible. The Patriarch of Belledouleur; tyrant, despot, and colonel all in one. I am not like my father. It is one small blessing I am grateful for.
My life began, as much as I can recall, at the full, brown breasts of a woman known to me as Mamie. She was a servant on my father's plantation, and had recently given birth to her own son shortly before my mother, Evelyn, had me.
From what I am told, my father sent his headman Hiram down to the quarters were the servants – nay, slaves! – lived to see who among the woman might be recently with child. I hear that Hiram took her up to the main house, the plantation house, and brought her before my father. Hiram took her own babe from her arms, an infant so young his skin had not yet even darkened beyond a clay hue. My father then pushed me into her arms. "You feed my son first," he told her. "Then, when he's full, you can feed your own."
From then on Mamie, and her son who my father named "Snowball" for his newborn paleness lived in the main house, and I shared the quarters with them. Despite my father's tendency to name his workers, Mamie gave her son his own name: Thomas. It's a biblical name. It means "Twin." It fits, for Mamie raised him and I together as brothers in infancy.
My father never was a kind man. He avoided most interaction with me, save for a periodic inspection of my development not unlike the same critical assessment he gave his own workers. Whenever he stooped to visit Mamie's humble quarters and my nursery, Mamie took great care to make sure Thomas was kept out of sight. She didn't want it known to my father than I and my twin rolled together like kittens, frolicking on the floor at the hem of her long cotton skirt.
Mamie knew my father's nature far better than I.
Through stories at her knee, I learned of my sister who lived in the "big house" with us. She had a room on the second floor, Mamie said, where she spent her days busy with the trappings of dresses and lace, all things genteel for a young southern lady. My sister was ten years my senior, having been born when my own mother was a mere eighteen years of age. My father was twenty one at the time.
My sister, Doreena, was ever much like my father Mamie explained. She believed in the classes of people, that some were created to serve and others to lead. She saw nothing amiss with the peculiar institution of Mamie's fellows. While not a cruel child, she was self-centered. I rarely saw her at all throughout my life. When she was seventeen, she took to being courted by wealthy landowners from Mortrouge down to Colien. If I'd rarely seen her before, I almost never saw her after that, aside from the Yuletide parties my father threw at the plantation, and the occasion visits when she was left a widow.
I am getting ahead of myself.
I remained largely unaware of my father's nature for a several years. Mamie never sought to speak ill of him. She seldom spoke of him at all unless I asked. My mother on the other hand, Mamie would discuss her with a sense of fondness. Apparently my mother was kindly disposed to the Negros on the plantation, treating them with more respect that was generally expected.
I didn't understand the word "Negro" at first. Growing up with Thomas, I had no concept of the racial differences determined by our skin tones. It was, unfortunately, something I would become all too well acquainted with in the following years.
I remember the first time I saw my father strike Mamie. That image will be forever burned in my memory.
I was four at the time, and my father decided my time being raised "like a dog" as he put it was at an end. I was too old for mollycoddling and foolery, he declared and grabbed me roughly by the arm. I started crying, trying to pry his fingers off. It was fruitless. He walked, dragging me, towards the door.
"Brother!" screamed Thomas. Upon my yells, he emerged from the kitchens where Mami had instructed him to wait. Thomas flung himself towards me, and I got to watch the cruelty with which my father treated our workers.
Without even breaking step he turned and kicked Thomas squarely in the chest, knocking the boy backwards. Thomas fell, sliding across the floor and curled in a ball blubbering softly.
"I exercise restraint, Snowball," my father sneered. "Next time, I'll not hesitate to cane you down." He shoved me into the arms of his ink-skinned manservant and strode towards Mami, blue eyes bruning with cold fire.
"And you! How dare you even let that boy think to utter the word 'brother' in regards to my son! The ass is no brother to the thoroughbred." With that, he raised his hand and brought it sharply across her face with biting slap.
From her reaction, it wasn't the first time he'd raised a hand to her. He struck her full and hard across the face with the back of his hand, sending her staggering to the ground. She rubbed her face, but said nothing. Didn't even cry out. Simply collected her footing and stood back up, dropping her head as she did, eyes fixed on the floor.
I was terrified, I didn't even know what to do. I would've run to her, but I was restrained. I thrashed and struggled, but Tintenblut held me fast. I tried to kick and punch. I was as effective as baby rabbit against his iron-like grip.
"Send her and that whelp back to fields," my father snapped, dismissively. A tall white man I'd later come to know as Hiram entered the room, picked up Thomas like a sack of grain, and grabbed Mami by the arm.
I never saw Mamie again.
I saw Thomas in the fields, his lighter skin making him stand out among the rest of his kin, but he would barely acknowledged me. I can understand why. He probably blamed me for whatever fate befell his mother. That guilt, though I am blameless, still haunts me even to this day.
After I was moved into the main house, I was passed into the charge of a white governess, Miss Flossie, who acted as both my nanny and teacher. She taught me the three Rs: Reading, Writing, and 'Rithmatic. The irony that neither "writing" nor "arithmetic" begin with "R" was not lost on me even then. Miss Flossie also taught me the foundations of Latin, and introduced me to the teachings of Christ.
Hitherto her biblical instruction, the only thing I knew of religion had come from Mamie's stories when she'd sit Thomas and I each in her lap, hold us tight, and tell us stories of God and men, Abraham, the apostles.
Miss Flossie's education in faith aligned quite closely with what Mamie had said, but differed in one key aspect. While Mamie had spoken of love and acceptance between all peoples, Miss Flossie explained that there were hierarchies in all things, from the fishes in the ocean to the choirs of angels.
It was one thing I could never wrap my head around. If God had meant mankind to be divided, I thought, then why has he made us more the same than not.
One night, she was reading to me from the Book of Genesis. I listened as she spoke.
"Two nations are in thy womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels; and the one people shall be stronger than the other people; and the elder shall serve the younger."
I forget what she said beyond that. My mind immediately went to Thomas. My brother. He was the elder of us, true. But Mamie had raised and loved us both equally. If one added my father to the equation the symbolism became concrete fact: "Jacob have I loved, but Esau have I hated."
I was Jacob.
Thomas and his people were Esau.
Those nights were the hardest of all. Growing up, I had been put to bed beside my brother, and in the darkness I could always find comfort curled beside him. I'm sure my father would've intervened sooner had he known of the equal love Mamie was raising us to hold, but I give thanks I had as many years as I did.
Now that I was a member of the household, I encountered my sister from time to time. She regarded me with the sort of detached fascination that one might regard a particularly unusual insect in a glass case. Her mildly disdainful expression was that of my father's, and she was his darling.
He would take us both for rides in the carriage, showing us the extent of our holdings, or bringing us into town and prancing us about: his pedigreed pair, he called us. His delight at our presentation was obvious to even the most simple man. We were, the both of us, just one more step up: a source of status and pride.
My father almost never spoke of my mother. I heard more about her from my sister than I did from him. She had been a true southern gentlewoman, the epitome of grace and style. Kindness and courtesy too. She was a woman of fine bloodlines that had not been marred by hubris and contempt. How then she managed to wind up with my father will forever remain a mystery.
My father wasn't perturbed by her loss in the least. I had expected some reasonable amount of resentment from him. My existence was at the sacrifice of hers. Yet he seemed to care nothing for that. When my father spoke of her, it was in the detached way that one might discuss a bouquet of flowers that had passed its prime. There was no great sorrow in her loss. She had produced him a daughter and an heir, me, so what more could he want? As far as he was concerned, she'd served her purpose.
While he missed the addition of another pet to boast of, he did not miss her. It was a strange concept to me. How could one marry another, and yet care nothing for them? Even as I grew older, my father continued to be alien to me. I wondered if something might yet be revealed that would help me understand him.
I envied the rapport he and my sister had. Her, a young woman now, laughing with her arm interlaced through his elbow. Me following at his right side, but never in physical contact, and always a half-step behind.
I remember when the war began. I was sitting with my father and sister at breakfast, attended by Tintenblut and another whose name I never learned. My father laughed and said we had nothing to fear. Our crops were not cotton but sugar. We'd not have to fear.
"Yet," he added, gesturing to his manservant, " we might run the risk of losing our prized stock. This man is an excellent specimen, despite what his complexion might indicate."
Tinentblut, the name meant "Inkblood." My father meant it as a mockery, I'm sure. The man's skin was as dark as the ebony ink in my well, unusual for one who served in the house. Most of the darker skinned hands never left the fields. My father explained to me one day as we rode on horseback that even among his Negros, there was a tier of rank. Tintenblut rarely ever spoke. He had a distant look in his eyes, a sort of faraway and hollow stare.
Back when my father was but a boy, the importation of men and women from Africa had been stopped, legally at least. My father explained that Tintenblut was "new stock" and had been brought in from across the sea to keep the bloodlines strong.
Even as a child, the idea was repugnant to me. A man, being treated like one of the hounds my father brought in from Europe? How? When I looked at Tintenblut, I didn't see an animal. I saw a man, proud and alone. Clearly, he spoke English, he followed my father's instructions perfectly, but I myself heard him speak only one time. And that is a story I will get to in due time.
When the war came, I was lad of fifteen, and my sister was well off and married. My father contributed a large sum of monies to the army, effectively buying himself the rank of Colonel, and ensuring I would not get drafted to fight in the Confederate army. He explained it all to me over a tincture of laudanum one night: a system designed to make sure the upper caste would never be at risk of taking a cannon ball to the lap.
Ah, the laudanum. I never truly understood what it was when my father would "take his wine" in the evenings. I learned later the narcotic properties thereof. He would indulge, both dulling his senses and distorting his mind.
It was under the influence of his wine that I started to learn about his finances. He'd offered Doreena up under contract, but with a substantial dowry: eighteen thousand dollars. I nearly fell off my chair. To think we even had that much money, much less that he could afford to give it away just like that.
When I made a comment about it, he laughed, offered me a sip of his wine, and said that was peanuts compared to what he could afford. "Why," he laughed, "I'll own all of our fair town Mortrouge by the time I am done with this!"
At the time, I didn't believe him. Perhaps, looking back, it would've been wiser if I had.
My father, the Colonel, he used his money for influence as much as resources. I watched as he used Doreena's marriage to swallow the holdings of her husband Renault, adding his adjacent land to the plantation of Belledouleur.
When Renault died unexpectedly of an apparently tainted potato consumed innocently enough, Doreena signed his holdings over to our father in full. Everything that was Renault's became ours, in land and labor.
Our father then turned around, and offered Doreena's hand in marriage again, with the same contract and dowry. I saw the genius behind his work. He had doubled our assets, and yet offered her for the same as he'd extended before… and Doreena delighted in it. She "chose" a suitor from the other side of town, another landowner, an older gentleman whose own wife had died some years before.
Under pretense of love, she as Halifax were married. They lived together for some time until his horse took a nasty fall, rolling on him. Halifax, poor man, survived the accident and lived for several days before eventually succumbing to his injuries.
In short order, my sister was once again a widow, and childless. "Poor thing," the townsfolk said, wringing their collective hands in dismay. I was beginning to see a pattern.
Doreena once again returned to manor, ostensively to mourn.
I overheard her and my father planning their next acquisition.
The casual way in which they discussed the men who had pledged themselves to her in good faith, and even love, sickened me. I felt physically ill as I eves-dropped, listening to her laugh about how poor Halifax's horse had "just happened to stumble."
There is no point to reliving that memory further.
I always made it a point to avoid my sister during her brief returns to the manor. She never sought me out. As such, we avoided each other. She thought me a distasteful little worm, I thought her a black widow spider.
My sister and father? Though they appeared to share a bond, she was little more to him than another tool. While she shared his nature and ambition, there was no true fondness behind his acts. He regarded her with the same level of detached interest as she regarded me. I wonder if she ever knew. I wonder if she would've cared if she had. Doreena was ever so much like him.
My father kept horses, dogs as well. He boasted he had a kennel of the finest coonhounds in all of Louisiana; and he wasn't talking about hunting the small animal. These dogs were man-trackers. As the war raged to the east and north, many of our workers decided to make a run for it.
I could never tell my father, but I sympathized with their lot. He'd already raised his hand to me for protesting the punishments he had no qualms in ordering.
A man by the name of Virgil had tried to escape, and failed. My father had Hiram bring him to the central grain yard, and there, in front of the assembled workers, Hiram administered as many lashes as my father saw fit.
Virgil's back was a raw mash of blood and flayed muscle. Even Hiram seemed disgusted, but my father insisted he raise the lash again and again. The sound went from a crack to a snap, and finally a splatter. I thought for sure Virgil would die.
"This is enough!" I yelled, running forward and taking the short-whip from Hiram. I glared at my father, my brown eyes meeting his blue ones. "You'll kill the man if you force him to endure much longer."
My father stared at me in shock.
"You dare question me, Clifford?" he spat. Without warning he lunged forward and struck me, open palmed across my face. I felt my lip split. Blood, ferric and salty, filled my mouth. I realized I'd bit my tongue as well.
"Don't you ever, ever question me in front of the workers and my men again. Or mark my words, it will be you tied to that post if I must." With that, he spun on his heel, ordering Hiram to until Virgil, and send him back to the cabins. Virgil was not the first slave to ever try escaping, nor was he the first to get whipped for the act.
I'd like to say that was the worst act of violence I'd ever seen against one of our hands, unfortunately that incident seems almost gentle by comparison.
A bit ago, I'd mentioned there was something I'd speak about in due time. I think this is the place for that.
In my eighteenth year, my father presented me to the staff of Belledouleur Plantation, and to the citizens of Mortrouge, as his young and worthy heir; and a man in my own right. He spoke of how proud I made him: my formal education, my grasp of languages both written and spoken English and Latin. He touted how I would one day be his right hand man, and as such, he expected that I receive nothing less than absolute obedience from the people.
I suppose I might add that by then my father owned most of Mortrouge by that point. Between my sister and his ruthless purchasing, there was little left that he didn't have his hand on.
I tried to present as his heir, emulate his attitudes in public. I knew what would happen to me if I displeased him. My father was sure never to leave a mark on my flesh where anyone might see it, but he was not shy about striking me for the most minor act of rebellion. I could never raise a hand back. I hung my head, as I'd seen Mamie do so long ago, and endured.
Secretly, I longed for something different. The war was in its final stages, and I felt this hopelessness that I had not been able to assist. Not that I would've fought for the south. No. The help, the workers and their so-called "peculiar institution" were human beings and I firmly believed they deserved no less than I myself was entitled.
I would occasionally take my horse out through the fields. I was "overseeing the work," I told my father, but in truth I was trying to get to know the people. We never spoke at length, but a gradual trust formed. They knew I was the one who might bring some medicine or extra rations down from the main house for those in need. I wanted to help teach them reading, writing, but I was afraid of what my father would do if he found out.
Not afraid for myself, admittedly. My father might use force against me, but I had little fear that he'd kill me in the act. At most, a broken rib might be the worst I'd suffer. It was a pain I could endure.
I knew he had no hesitation in making an example of the workers who displeased him. There were nights Hiram's whip would hang dripping by the stables. My father made sure his workers knew they had best keep their heads down, and hands busy.
He never inflicted wanton acts of violence upon his people. In some regards, they were better fed and clothed than most. As he said to me: Fear is only a motivator if there's some relief from it. Torment people, and they lose heart. Let them sing as they work, and eat enough to stay strong. I hold nothing against the gardens they tend themselves. But, if ever a man, woman, or child forgets his place, never hesitate to teach a lesson all will respect. My father's treatment was not an act of kindness, but of control.
Give them ample rations to fill his stomach, he explained, and he'll worry if you threaten to cut them back. Starve a man, and there's nothing you can take away from his plate. Wherein lies the motivation? No, he laughed, it's all about balance. And mine is the absolute power here.
As such, my father was harsh to those who failed to follow his instructions. But when it came to escaped slaves, he was damn near merciless.
And it was one of those escapee incidents that forever changed my relationship with him.
I was in my chamber, writing in my diary when my father threw open my door and marched in, a tempest of white. He slammed the foot of his cane on the floor to get my attention. As if I could've missed his entrance? Hardly. Not the way he stormed in.
Before I could even inquire as to what the issue was, he began to speak.
"We've got a runner, one of my finer stock. I'm assembling the men and hounds. I'll not have him running north. Not with all this talk of freedom in the air. You will be joining in this. Grab your coat, and make haste."
I glanced out the window at the night sky, my mouth beginning to form a protest.
"Be silent!" my father snarled. "The hounds can smell in the dark." And with that, he was gone.
I went down to the stables and found my horse had been made ready for me, a young stable boy holding the reins. I swung into the saddle easily, and selected my personal dogs from kennel: two beautiful red hounds, a mother and daughter named Bliss and Sorrow.
Without a backward look, I rode into the main yard, and cast them. I could hear the baying of other dogs in the distance. Whatever it was, my father had sent all his men out in full force.
Bliss took off heading into the backlands towards the river. Sorrow gave tongue and thundered after her. With a sharp yell I jabbed my spurs into the horse's side, held my lantern aloft and took off at a gallop.
Bliss and Sorrow were trackers without parallel. They could find anything I set them on. The scrap of clothe the stable boy offered to them was more than enough. It stood to reason I would have the best hounds in the kennel. My father would not have accepted anything less.
I followed close at their heels, then I saw it, across the gully down by the river bank: the tan of a servant's trousers against the black mud.
I pulled my horse to a stop so sharply the animal almost sat on its haunches and leapt down, calling Bliss and Sorrow to me. I threw leads on their collars and wrapped the loose ends to a convenient tree limb then made my way down the slippery bank. At once, I saw the man, recognized his familiar face almost as dark as the very earth itself.
Tintenblut.
I glanced up the bank to where the hounds stood, tied, baying in their echoing voices that they'd found their quarry.
"Tintenblut," I hissed, holding the lantern above my head. "Get up!"
He shook his head slowly, expression. "No, Master Clifford."
It was the first time I'd ever heard him speak. His voice was low, deep, with a velvety accent.
I heard the yells of my father's men.
"They'll be here any minute!"
He looked me dead in the eye, a look I'll never forget. In that moment, I knew what it was like to look into another man's soul. "Master Clifford, I can't run no more." He lowered his eyes, and nodded towards his right leg. At first, I thought he'd merely had it tucked under him. Now I realized the horrible truth. His blood had soaked through the cloth of his trousers, but that wasn't the worst of it. His lower leg was bent at an unnatural angle. He reached down and slid the cuff up.
I almost retched. In the orange light of my lantern, his the white end of his fibula extended out from a mass of red and purple flesh, the ruins of his leg. "Not running with that," he said sadly, and pulled the cuff back down.
I could see the flicker of other lanterns and a few torches through the trees. Damn Bliss and Sorrow for their ceaseless noise! A took a choking breath and looked up the hillside. "Can't do anything," he said, looking at me. Then he tapped his chest and muttered something that sounded like "dembow."
"Beg pardon?" I asked, my attention darting between him and the hunting party.
"Ndembu," he repeated, tapping his chest. "Manuel. Now you know me."
A light shown down on both of us. I raised my arm, shielding my eyes.
"Hey, he's down there alright! Clifford found him!"
"It doesn't look like that Negro's going anywhere," one of the men scoffed.
There was a flurry of activity as men and dogs descended the bank to where Manuel and I sat between the cypress knees. I shoved myself to my feet, and ran to meet them, trying to push the image of his wreck of his shin out of my mind. "No, wait!" I argued, holding up my hands. I had nearly made it to the edge of the embankment where they stood with their dogs.
"He's a valuable hand! We'll bring him back to the manor. He's worth more alive than dead!" In the odd silence of my words, even the dogs falling quiet, a deep thundering broke the still air. Hoofbeats, moving fast. I didn't have to look up to know who it was.
My father seated tall in the saddle of his massive white horse wheeled the animal to a stop and stood before us. "Well," he snarled, blue eyes blazing with cold fire in the flickering light, "what's the meaning of this?"
I gestured down the bank, to Tintenblut. Manuel.
"This man can be mended! He can still work. His duties are mainly domestic, he can recover."
My father pushed himself to a standing position in his stirrups and looked down at the wounded man before giving a dismissing toss of his head. "Bah, he'll be forever crippled even if he did survive." He rested his hand under the front of his jacket.
"No! You can't shoot him."
My father regarded me with a look of utter contempt.
"I wasn't planning on it. Dresden! Lucifer! Front!"
I felt my heart plunge. He'd brought those two fell beasts? I should've expected it. His own personal hounds. Two massive wolf hounds he'd had brought in from Ireland two years ago. At the shoulder, they stood above my waist. On their hind legs, they could pull a man from a horse.
Silently, the monstrous shaggy hounds emerged from behind my father's horse and took a place directly ahead of it.
My father looked down at me, and I could've sworn he smiled then, and gave me a wink of pure malice. He clucked his tongue to the dogs. "Hye!"
With a roar Dresden and Lucifer hurled themselves down the embankment, snarling and descended upon Manuel.
Whatever pain the man must've been in from his shattered leg could not compare to the agony of the hounds. His screams tore through the night air, amid the snarling of the hounds and rending sound of flesh: a tearing, wet sound like burlap being pulled apart. His screams turned to gurgling as his throat was torn out. I tried to look away, but my father put the head of his can against my cheek, and turned my face back to the scene.
One of the dogs had Manuel's head in its jaws and was shaking, pulling. I hoped he was dead, but then I saw his hand raise up weakly, trying to push the animal free. The other dog, Lucifer, grabbed his hand and with a snap of his head tore flesh from bone. The exposed digits trembled, bloody white bone against fur. Lucifer turned and sunk his teeth into Manuel's hip. Dresden continued to mauling of Manuel's skull. There was an audible crack then a crunch. I could see from the angle of Manuel's head that his neck had finally snapped under the force.
Though the body lay still, my father allowed the hounds to continue ravaging Manuel's remains for another minute longer before giving a sharp whistle. "Enough! Rear!"
Obediently, the dogs released Manuel's body, and loped up the slope, bloody tongues lolling in the lurid glow. Without so much as a glance they passed by me, and fell into place behind their master's horse.
Without their bodies blocking the view, I could see full well the damage they'd wrought. Where mere moments ago a man had lain huddled, now there was nothing more than a mass of destroyed meat. I felt my gorge rise. The scene was gruesome beyond the likes of anything I'd ever encountered before.
My stomach lurched, and I swallowed hard. I looked away.
"Come on, boys. Nothing left to see here." Wainwright declared proudly.
"Why…" I gasped, "why didn't you just shoot him?"
"Never waste a good bullet on a bad Negro." He made to leave then paused and leaned over and used his cane to pull me close enough so that no one else would here. "I'll deal with you back at the house."
He straightened up, gave the horse a light tap, and rode off following his hunting party into the darkness. I untied Bliss and Sorrow, reached for the horn of my saddle, and lost it. I dropped to my knees and vomited then, voiding my stomach of its contents. I continuing to retch until my eyes watered and my very insides felt as if they might come up too.
After what seemed like far too long, and yet still not long enough, I pushed my hands down and forced myself to stand. I didn't look down the bank. I couldn't. My hands and legs were shaking so bad I could barely manage to swing into the saddle. It took several failed attempts before I finally succeeded.
That night, I realized two things.
One: I couldn't stay here; and two: I would never be my father's son again. From here on, he would be forever Wainwright to me. Never again would the word "father" fall off my tongue.
I let the Bliss and Sorrow run back to the manor ahead of me, and took my time. When I reached the edge of the lawns, I dismounted my horse, and walked him the remaining distance. I needed to stretch my legs, take time to think.
One thing was certain, after what I'd witnessed tonight, there was no way I'd be able to stay. I thought about what I'd tell my father as I turned my horse over to the stable boy. Then, upon reflection, I told the lad I'd tend to the animal myself.
By the time I reached the steps of Belledouleur, I had formulated an offer in my head, something I was fairly certain my father would not be able to refuse.
Not bothering to clean the mud from my clothes, I strode into the great room to find him waiting for me, tapping his cane impatiently on the hardwood floor.
"Look at you," he sneered. "Weak in the stomach and covered in mud like some dumb beast. Tell me, what about tonight bothered you so?"
"My God, Wainwright, do you really have to ask? All of it! The sheer brutality, the waste of it all! That was a living, breathing man. He had a history. He had a name!"
Wainwright shrugged, dismissing my words. "They all have names, and numbers. And who cares. Insofar as waste, I'm sure they're copulating right now in their cabins, creating the next generation as we speak. Life's not sacred, not theirs anyhow. Why worry about something that can repopulate itself?" He gestured to a seat next to him. "I don't care for your filth, of body or mind, but will you sit like a civilized man?"
I refused, and drew myself up by the mantle. "I'll never sit beside you again! Tintenblut… Manuel… he was one of your most valuable men!"
"Was," Wainwright interjected. "Then he failed to be, so I disposed of him."
I leaned on the mantle and ran my hand over the curve of the clock. My fingers left streaks across the oiled wood. "And am I valuable to you?"
"Why would you even ask that? Of course you are. I need an heir."
I folded my arms across my chest. "What if I refuse? Leave you and all this behind, leave Belledouleur, and never return."
Wainwright drew his cane across his lap and crossed his legs. "You honestly think I'd let you go? Rob me of an heir? I'd see you dead before that ever happened. And we both know it."
I noticed his hand had strayed to the head of his cane. I knew full well the nasty surprise it concealed. I let my own hand wander closer to the poker resting beside the fireplace.
"No, Wainwright. I'll make you a deal. I will offer you the chance for an heir, one to replace me. In exchange, you will grant me funds equal to those you gave Doreena so that I might begin my own life far, far away from this wretched place."
Wainwright, my father, gave a derisive snort. "You claim not to be my son, and yet you're willing to bargain a future life for your own? Indeed, then." He smiled and interlaced his fingers. I began to realize the depth of what I'd just offered, but it was too late to take the words back. "Well, Clifford," he whispered, "I accept your offer. You were never much of a son anyways. It won't be a great loss to be rid of you. But bear in mind, keep it well locked in that feeble mind of yours, that I there will come a time I shall seek my pound of flesh and if – if – you even thing about cheating me out of what is mine, then I will have little choice to destroy everything you hold most dear."
He leaned forward in his chair, and extended a hand. "So, Clifford, do we have a deal?"
He'd slid the head of his cane out, exposing an inch of the sword that remained concealed in its length. I felt my fingers tighten around the handle of the poker.
A handshake with the devil himself. But was it worth it? To finally be free, to move to a place where one man could not own another? And would he truly bother to make good on his promise? My father and his laudanum mad-opium flights of fancy: would he even recall this agreement in a year or two?
But still, to be done with all this!
I muttered a brief prayer to God. Not the God that Miss Flossie tried to preach of, but to the true God that Mamie told me. The one who sent his son to die for my sins. And here I was, about to make a deal with Beelzebub. Lord, forgive me. Please bless my family that will one day be, and keep them safe from this monster. In Jesus' name. Amen. I took a deep breath, and crossed the parlor to his chair. "It's a deal, Wainwright."
He grasped my hand firmly, almost leaping to his feet. "Outstanding. I'll have funds available for your departure immediately. You've made a wise decision my boy, and in this, realize you've also saved your own life." He clasped my hand tighter, drawing me in so that I could smell his very breath. "Because, insofar as you have the capability of producing me an heir, I have to rational desire to kill you."
With that, he let me hand go and departed.
I stood there, palm tingling as if on fire.
That look in his eye. Utterly devoid of any warmth or humanity. He would've killed me as easily as he'd killed Manuel. Now he'd keep me alive. The thought was not as comforting as I thought it would be.
Now my story has mostly run its course. Nebraska is truly the promised land for me. I believe I've finally outrun my father's influence. Here, I'm a common man, known simply as Clifford Burns with no one recognizing the name.
I consider myself somewhere between a pioneer and a homesteader. I keep the funds my father left me largely untapped, and prefer to make my living the old fashioned way: hard work. Good work is God's work, so they say. I believe it. With my hands guiding the plow I feel at peace.
The children are growing up wonderfully. My wife and I have been blessed. Our youngest, Charles is such a cheerful little lad. My wife wanted to nickname him "Joy." I said that sounded way too feminine. We decided on "Happy." It fits him to a tee. He will be two this fall, though I expect he'll scarce be the youngest for long. That will make twelve when this babe is born, unless it's twins again. Tonight, I read them a passage from my Bible:
Lo, children are a heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them: they shall not be ashamed, but they shall speak with the enemies in the gate.
Each year that passes without contact from my father leads me to be more and more convinced he has disregarded our arrangement. Perhaps even, he has finally died! If so, good riddance. His death will end an unfortunate legacy, and I'll not mourn in the least.
Here, with my children, my wife, and the fruits of my labors, I have finally escaped the clutches the that old monster who I regret I ever called my father: Colonel Wainwright Montgomery Burns. God willing, I will never see his face again.