Undaunted Love, page 2
The sun was setting and the temperature dropping to a tolerable level when Rafe sat down at the small table on the sleeping porch at the back of the house. Since his father died and his mother had taken ill, Rafe had started using this room in the mornings and evenings, enjoying the open-air breezes. It also allowed him to close off most of the other rooms of the house. Those rooms saddened him, reminding him of gay parties and nights of laughter with his parents, with plenty of delicious food cooked by Louisa and served by her daughters. Sometimes his father would play the fiddle, or others would play so he and his mother could dance.
He stared out over the woods, all that were left of his family’s legacy, appropriately dark in the twilight. Now it was just Nackie and him. They cleaned the house, cooked the meals, washed the clothes, fetched the water. Alone. When his father first took ill four years ago, his mother had jumped in and run the farm and the house, making decisions and handling the slaves and buyers alike. But as the months went on and Gabriel Colton didn’t get better — in fact got worse with each passing day — Mariah became confused. She spent days in bed next to her husband, holding his hand, stroking his hair, and ignoring her son and her household. Rafe, then thirteen, went to school every day, did his chores, and tried to help the negroes understand the infrequent and illegible notes his mother sent to them.
Gabriel had been a farmer through and through. He’d never hired a manager because he’d never needed one, loving the land, loving his heritage, and treating his slaves well. He’d wanted his son to have an education, to be a true gentleman farmer, so he’d involved him only as needed with planting and harvesting, figuring on the many years ahead to teach him all he’d need to know about farming. But time hadn’t been on his side, and as a consequence, Rafe hadn’t realized until too late that his mother had lost control of the large acreage the Colton’s had held for three generations. He hadn’t realized that she’d gradually begun to sell off the slaves, singly or as families, in order to keep meat and bread on the table, until she started selling the household slaves. Still she hadn’t allowed him to leave school, the only topic she seemed to muster any emotion for. A month ago, she’d finally taken to her bed and not risen. He’d found her on the bed, clutching the letter from the judge in her hand, and hadn’t heard a word from her since.
Nackie came out onto the porch with a tray in his hand. The table was already set for two, and he laid out a dish of turnip greens, a basket of johnnycakes, and a scrawny roasted chicken before sitting down himself.
“Looks good, Nackie, thank you,” Rafe said, as he always did.
Nackie shook his head in disgust. “The heat’s gettin’ to them chickens. Ain’t none of ‘em layin’, and they all be skinny and dry as an old stick. Still, I be thankin’ the good Lord Almighty for ‘em.” He clasped his hands and bowed his head, muttering a prayer. Rafe copied him, but could find no prayers of thanksgiving to say.
When the old man looked up, he tucked his napkin in his collar and picked up his knife and fork. “Mistuh Rafe, I got to thinkin’ about them woods. Seems to me you got timber out there…”
Rafe pulled a leg off the chicken and bit into it. “We got trees. Too many of ‘em.”
Nackie put some greens on his plate, followed by a johnnycake. He poured honey over the fried dough. “What I mean by timber, you got pine and cypress out there. They build houses, boats, wagons, all kind a’things outa that wood, now don’t they?”
Rafe sat up straighter in the chair, chewing thoughtfully. “Aye, that they do. I don’t know anything about timber farming.” He took another bite, squinting into the candle as he thought. “No sawmill in Byrd’s Creek, nor on the island. But there’s mills up to Charleston…”
Forking greens into his mouth, Nackie nodded. “You got to go up to Charleston then, Mistuh Rafe. I bet somebody up there would just love to have them trees.” He grinned happily and Rafe laughed.
“If I can sell that wood, we’re gonna have us a feast, with beef and cake and even some cider! You get the cart and Norah ready in the morning, and I’ll go up to Charleston. Five acres won’t make us rich, but it’ll keep Mr. Hugh Byrd’s grubby hands off our house for a good while longer.”
Chapter Three
THE MORNING WAS BRIGHT AND hot, sticky with humidity even at eight o’clock in the morning. Nackie had hitched Norah, the old bay plow horse, to the small wooden cart. The mare stood quietly nibbling the sparse grass in front of the house while Rafe threw in his carpetbag and a crude palm basket holding a loaf of bread, a hard wedge of cheese, a square of salt pork, and a jug of water. Nackie sat on the wide, warped front steps, arms resting on his knees, hands dangling.
“You got you some money, Mistuh Rafe?”
Rafe looked up and gave a brief grimace. “Probably not enough. I can sleep in the cart, and the food should last me. But I got a dollar, in case I need it. I’d just as soon come home with it my pocket.” He checked the axles of old cart, shaking the wheels to make sure they weren’t going to fall off. If that happened, he didn’t have the money for repairs, and would be riding the sedate horse bareback.
“Ah, you gonna come home with a pocket full a’dollars, Mistuh Rafe. Them men up there, they gonna buy up them trees, you’ll see.” Nackie slapped his knees and stood, grimacing as his stiff back straightened. “How long you think it gonna take, then?” he asked.
“I’m hoping just a few days, there and back. But I don’t know nothin’ about the timber trade, don’t even know where the sawmills are. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He looked up at the window of his mother’s bedroom. He had gone in to tell her his plan and to say goodbye, but she had done no more than give him a wan smile and a limp wave of her hand before closing her eyes and drifting back to sleep. “You take care of her, make sure she eats somethin’.”
“Yes suh,” Nackie said, nodding. “She’ll eat for old Nackie. I make her a nice soup, and some sweet cornbread, and feed it to her nice and slow. She be okay, Mistuh Rafe. You go on now, git goin’.”
Rafe hauled himself up to the seat of the cart, taking the reins from Nackie and smiling. He felt decades older than his seventeen years, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. At least in Charleston he’d only have himself to look after. But if he could contract for the sale of the trees… “Yah, Norah!” he said as he flicked the reins. The old horse looked back at him resignedly, then started slowly down the drive.
Although he understood the need to save the horse for the days ahead, the slow pace of the ancient mare drove Rafe to distraction. Crossing the old wooden bridge from Edisto Island to Wadmalaw Island seemed to take an eternity, a large wagon having to wait on the far side as he meandered across, the driver of the four oxen rig glaring at him as he passed. He passed large areas of marsh grass, stretching across acres of land, great blue herons and egrets stalking fish in the shallows. Gnats and mosquitoes dogged him in these areas, as he pulled his hat as low as he could on his brow, his sleeves low over his wrists, his collar up over his neck and his cuffs over his boots. Nothing stopped them buzzing around his ears, eyes, nose and mouth, and finally he sat hunched in the seat, squinting and making sure to keep his mouth shut, ignoring the bites.
He crossed over to James Island at lunchtime, and stopped under the shade of a huge live oak, Spanish moss decorating its limbs, and ate a chunk of bread and a small wedge of cheese. Washing it down with water, he looked longingly at the salt pork, but decided he’d better save as much as he could until he knew how long his journey would be. Norah gave a mighty huff through her nostrils as he clicked his tongue and got her moving, expressing her firm disapproval at the interruption of her lunch.
James Island was more closely inhabited, and Rafe nodded and tipped his hat as he passed women and children in their gardens, slaves carrying bundles from the small village shops, wagons and carts heading to and from the big city of Charleston. He crossed the wider bridge to St. Andrews, then finally saw Charleston Harbor come into view. Several tall ships were anchored in the bay, and several more were tied up to the quay, loading and unloading goods from other parts of the country. He crossed the final bridge, and found himself in the city, buildings lining the straight roads, people walking along tree lined streets, children and dogs running through the mud left by an early morning shower. The wind had started to pick up, and a flag occasionally snapped as it was caught in a gust.
Not sure where he was going, he made his way to the wharf. Wagons full of barrels, bales of cotton, bundles of tobacco, and large crates passed him, taking the goods of South Carolina to the ships for export to New York and Boston. Rafe kept going, hoping to see a wagon of felled trees, but the goods being unloaded from the ships were all in crates and barrels, no help to him and his need for information. At the end of the quay he spotted a small shack, whitewashed, with one window on each side, and a sign that read “Harbor Master.” He reigned in the horse and hopped down from the cart, stretching and rubbing his back.
The door was open, and he knocked, peering into the interior, which held only a counter and a wooden stool. No one was inside. He stood in indecision for a long moment, then turned to look out over the dock. As he watched, a middle-aged man with skin the color of cured tobacco, a white fringe of hair flying long over his collar, strode towards him. He shaded his eyes as he noticed Rafe, then raised his eyebrows and asked, “Help you, son?”
“I’m looking for a sawmill. I was hoping you could help me?”
The Harbor Master looked over Rafe’s shoulder at the empty cart and his eyebrows lifted higher on his wrinkled forehead. “Aye, but you ain’t got a lot to sell, looks like to me.”
Rafe smiled. “Not here, no sir, you’re right about that. But I got some land covered with trees.”
Nodding, the harbormaster reached in the doorway and grabbed a hat off a hook on the wall, clamping it down on his head. The wind tried to take it, and he jammed it down harder, his eyes barely visible. “Storm’s a’coming… Sawmills, they’re all over to the Cooper River side, across from Drum Island. Got three of ‘em over there, although I’d steer mighty clear’a the Swinson place. He see you, young and green and rarin’ to sell your timber, and he’ll give you ha’price and no more, and make you thank him for it. No, I think you’d do best to go to old Jeb Greene. He’ll give you an honest price. Mebbe not as good as Abrams’ll offer you at the beginnin’, but he’ll talk you down later, once he’s got the wood and you ain’t got nothin’.” He studied Rafe for a long moment, taking in the tall blonde youth critically. Rafe shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.
“You ever sold timber before, boy?” he finally asked. “Sold anythin’ afore?”
“Not much,” Rafe answered. “We had a farm, but my daddy died, and my mama… well, she didn’t do too good with it. But I been in school til last spring…” he petered out, knowing he sounded young and foolish.
The old man’s face softened under the leathery tan, and he clasped his arm in reassurance. “You go down, talk to old Jeb. He’ll do you right. Now don’t you leave nothin’ out or making nothin’ up, you tell him what you got honest and true. Tell him I sent you down to him particular, you hear?”
Rafe nodded. “Yes sir! And thank you, sir. God bless you.”
The Harbor Master smiled, showing yellowed teeth with several gaps. “Aye, and you, young lad. I believe He’s watchin’ out for you, I do. Now run along. With old Jeb it’ll be a long hot afternoon of jawing afore you’re done. Godspeed, son.”
Following the man’s directions, Rafe headed north, slowly winding away from the crowded streets. He finally found himself alongside Greene’s Sawmill and Timber, a cluster of wooden buildings on the river side of the road. Tying Norah up near a patch of green grass, he entered the dark building amidst the sound of a throbbing engine and clouds of sawdust.
Chapter Four
RAFE SQUINTED INTO THE DARKNESS, making out the shadowed shapes of several people sitting around a table along the far wall. As he made his way there, the engine suddenly clattered to a halt, and the only noise was that of planers finishing boards through a large back door. Men’s voices drifted back to him.
“And I’m telling you, if’n we don’t get Breckinridge elected Pres’dent, ain’t nobody gonna be ownin’ slaves no more.”
A gravelly voice spoke. “Ain’t no way the South can win it, not with the electoral votes. Republicans are gonna have the whole government, and our rights ain’t likely gonna last out the year. The only choice we’re gonna have is to leave the Union.”
There was silence at this. Rafe cleared his throat and stepped into the light of a high window above the table. A tall, thin man with green eyes that burned with an unidentifiable emotion pushed his chair back and stood.
“Help you, son?” he asked.
“The harbor master sent me, said to ask for Mr. Greene. Jeb Greene?” Rafe looked around the three seated men, then up.
The tall man stepped forward, hand extended. “You got him. What can I do for you?”
Rafe looked again at the men, feeling uncomfortable to talk about his business with an audience. Glancing over, Jeb seemed to understand. He started towards the back door. “Follow me, we can talk better outa all this sawdust.”
Outside, Rafe looked across the small channel of the Cooper River to Drum Island. Pelicans had taken over the tallest tree, cormorants a lower one, both leaving swaths of white droppings on the foliage below. The squawking could be heard across the water.
“So what can I do for you, son?” Jeb asked, studying the boy.
“Well, sir, I got me five acres of woodland, pine and cypress down by the river, over to Edisto Island. Used to have seventy-five more acres, all cleared for farmin’, but we lost that…” He paused, swallowing hard at the memory. He cleared his throat. “Seein’s how I don’t have that farmland no more, I was thinking maybe we could sell off the timber, help keep us going awhile longer.” He didn’t look at Jeb, just kept looking out over the water, beyond the small island, thinking of Hugh Byrd stealing his land.
“Who’s us, then?” Jeb asked.
Rafe stirred. “Oh, me and my mama, and Nackie. He used to be our slave, but my mama freed him to keep… well, so he wouldn’t be sold.” He glanced at Jeb, ashamed. “My mama, she’s sick, and Nackie’s old. I don’t know nothing else but farmin’, and truth be told, not overmuch of that. But Nackie had the idea, maybe we could sell the trees.” He stopped again, knowing he wasn’t acting like a man, negotiating a deal for his trees, but somehow unable to keep from telling this man the truth. “So I came to Charleston, and the harbor master said you might would give me the fairest deal, and so, well, I came here.”
Jeb looked at him a long moment, then chuckled. “Well, James got that right anyway. I’ll work with you, fair and square, long’s you do the same for me. What’s your name, son?”
“Rafe Colton. My family’s been in Byrd’s Creek nigh on a hundred years now, only we ain’t never sold any timber, so you probably didn’t know my daddy.”
Jeb’s eyebrows drew together. “Was your daddy Gabriel Colton?” Jeb asked.
“He was, sir,” Rafe replied.
“Well, I sure did know him! And your mama, too. Mariah, if I’m not mistaken.” Rafe gaped at him in surprise. Jeb laughed. “They come up here a lot when they was first married, stayed with your mama’s cousin Isabel. Happens that Isabel and her brood lived on the next bit ‘a land from mine.” He smiled, thinking back. “They had some grand lawn parties, and your mama and daddy would dance… They were somethin’. And we all went to the same church on a Sunday, too. I’d forgotten about that… Mighty fine times we all had.” He looked at Rafe, then clapped him on the shoulder. Looking back into the shop he shouted, “Clayton! Get on out here!”
One of the men from the table, also tall and thin, but obviously younger, joined them. “This here’s Rafe Colton. He’s got five acres of pine and cypress he’s gonna let us cut. Go get some paper, will you? Rafe, this is my brother Clayton,” he said as an afterthought. Clayton went back inside, leaving Rafe and Jeb staring out over the water.
Jeb Greene invited Rafe back to his house for the night, his wife Caroline putting him up in a spare bedroom and fixing a veritable feast in his honor. Oysters, a spicy seafood gumbo, roasted meat, corn pudding, sliced tomatoes, hot rolls, and a sponge cake were served over a two hour meal while Jeb regaled Rafe with stories about his parents that he’d never heard before. When the last crumb of cake was gone from the plate, Rafe sat back and groaned.
“Mrs. Greene, I ain’t never had a meal like that one in my whole life! Old Nackie’d have himself a conniption fit if he’d seen all that food, that’s the God’s truth.” He rubbed his overfull belly contentedly. “I sure can’t thank you enough for your hospitality, ma’am.”
Caroline blushed lightly across her round cheeks. Her gray hair was in an untidy bun, and she still wore an apron. Dust streaks showed on the dark blue of her cotton dress. “I thank you kindly, Mr. Colton. Since all our young’uns left, I haven’t had much excuse to put on a right meal. Mr. Greene don’t like to eat too much when it’s hot out.” She smiled and took a load of dishes out to the kitchen.
Jeb leaned back and lit his pipe, sucking his thin cheeks in with the effort of getting it going. Satisfied, he looked up at Rafe. “You old enough to vote, son?”
Surprised, Rafe shook his head. “No sir. Just seventeen. I won’t be eighteen ’til December.”
