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Authors: Kay Marshall Strom

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BOOK: The Triumph of Grace
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8

C
harleston is not the city it once was," Macon Waymon lamented as he stepped over a dead dog sprawled across his path. With a shudder, he patted down his perfectly pressed white cotton shirt and straightened the lay of the already impeccable waistcoat under the unadorned knee-length coat of his suit.

"That it is not," agreed Samuel Shaw. He preferred lacetrimmed garments with puffy ties at the neck and white silk stockings, all of which he wore with easy comfort despite the filth of the streets. Mister Shaw sighed and shook his head in disgust at the rivulets of stinking sewer waste that seeped from a street drain up ahead and befouled the entire road. "That it most assuredly is not."

That his friend also so fondly recalled the glories of prewar Charleston—or Charles Town as it was called then— certainly strengthened the case Macon Waymon had prepared for their afternoon together. And, indeed, much had changed.Thanks to a booming indigo industry and the area's world famous sea-island cotton, South Carolina had been one of the wealthiest of the American colonies. But then came the war for independence, and it had indeed been cruel to the state.More battles were fought on South Carolina soil than in any other state, and those battles had left both the land and the people deeply scarred.

In the past handful of years, literally thousands of folks had crowded into the constricted peninsula south of Charleston's Boundary Street. Many of them were now packed into the tenements and shacks that lined countless narrow streets and alleys.

Samuel Shaw scowled at the piles of refuse that littered the street. Obviously, the city scavenger had not found it convenient to collect for quite some time. "My dear sir, why must you insist on strolling along these putrid streets?" he reproached Macon. "I do find it most objectionable! And with the cow yards and hog pens up ahead, too. Really! Can we not remove ourselves to a more pleasant locale?"

"Philadelphia . . . New York . . . Boston . . ." Macon said. "I do believe that those are the only great cities of these United States other than Charleston. Do you suppose they suffer such degradation as we?"

"I'm sure I do not know," Samuel groused. "I certainly would not think it of Philadelphia. Not with the country's capitol still located there."

"But you will agree that the situation here is desperate."

"Undoubtedly so. But come, come, Macon. Surely you did not call me away from my work to talk over the hard times!"

Macon Waymon turned in at an unremarkable traveler's inn and proceeded straight through to the small garden out back. Samuel Shaw had little choice but to follow him. The garden had a table and two chairs situated in the far corner, and the table was already set for two. Macon headed directly for it. No sooner had he sat down than a colored man hurried over with two cups of hot tea. Without a word exchanged, the man set the tea before the two, bowed slightly, and hurried off.

"The fortunes of Charleston . . . indeed, of all South Carolina . . . rise and fall with the planters," Macon said."Unfortunately, the planters are failing."

Macon took a sip of his tea.

"But a great revolution is just around the corner, Samuel," he continued. "And if we act quickly and wisely, both you and I can soon be extremely rich and powerful men."

Samuel raised his eyebrows. "Goodness me," he said. "This sounds to be another terror tale involving African slaves. I'm sure I cannot see how that would concern me, however, seeing as how I am neither a landowner nor a slave owner."

But the story Macon Waymon told Samuel Shaw was not one of slave rebellion. No, it was the story of a Yankee boy who left Massachusetts for Savannah, Georgia, and took a job as a tutor on a plantation owned by one Missus Greene, the widow of a war hero.

"Talk on that plantation was the same as talk here," Macon said. "Hard times. Even worse there than here, though, for they had no money crop at all. Just that useless green seed cotton they waste their time raising. Little better than a weed, that is."

Samuel shook his head in sympathetic understanding."They say it takes a full ten hours of painstaking handwork to separate one pint of cotton lint from three pounds of those tough little seeds."

"Yes," said Macon. "Well, this Yank watched the slaves as they cleaned the cotton on Missus Greene's plantation. As he watched, he studied the particular way those slaves moved their hands as they worked. When he went back to the plantation workshop, he built himself a machine that copied just what their hands did!"

Samuel took a deep drink from his teacup and carefully set it back down on the table. "I do not see the importance in that," he said. "We have available to us many devices that separate cotton bolls from the cotton seeds."

"That we do," Macon allowed, "so long as we concern ourselves solely with the smooth-seeded, long-staple cotton we enjoy on the coast of South Carolina. But not one of those devices will work with the upland short-staple cotton. Those seeds are too sticky and the cotton fibers too tightly attached to the seeds. Which is precisely why this new cotton engine design is so full of possibilities."

"If this new machine is so wondrous, why are people not already making use of it?" Samuel asked.

"For the simple reason that hardly anyone knows about it yet," said Macon. "See, this particular Yank—Eli Whitney is his name—agreed to keep the whole thing hushed up until he and his partner in the venture got a patent on it. But Missus Greene, she just couldn't keep quiet. She invited a group of her friends and relatives up to Mulberry Grove and persuaded the Yank to give them a demonstration. My wife Luleen's sister's husband, Edward, was right there to see it all, which is how I came to know about it. Edward told me that in one hour's time, that little engine turned as much cotton as a whole passel of slaves hard at work could do in a full day!"

Macon Waymon picked up his teacup, but in his excitement he set it back down without taking a drink. "New days are coming to South Carolina, Samuel," he said, "and I aim to be the one ready to usher them in!"

Of course, ushering in a new day was not something that would happen automatically. Macon Waymon's vision required that he own vast fields— all planted in green seed cotton growing tall in the South Carolina sunshine well before other people became aware of the significance of Mister Whitney's cotton engine. The fields were available, all right, but two small matters stood between Mister Waymon and his dream: first, some of those fields were already planted in other crops, and second, the fields all belonged to other growers.

Still, both of those matters were subject to change. Take the indigo plantations, for instance. Before the war for independence, much of the state's prosperity depended on indigo, especially since the British government had been so willing to subsidize it. But now that the United States was free from England, that subsidy had been cut off. To make matters worse, chemical dyes were now available. The result was that indigo growers were losing a great deal of money on a crop no longer profitable. Even rice cultivation had become more difficult and undependable. Scot-Irish settlers in the upland regions had cleared so much land in the red clay hills for their crops of corn and beans that the natural flow of the Santee River was completely disrupted. Now the river flooded during planting and harvest time, and in the growing months, the water level was too low to do its job.

If Macon Waymon wanted to buy land, he would find no shortage of indigo and rice growers in such financial pain that they would be most eager to sell. Or even short-staple cotton growers, for that matter. Most of them could not earn enough from their crops to pay their bills.

But, of course, it took money to acquire land. Waymon was rich in slaves and muscle power, wealthy in ideas and willingness, but his financial fortunes had suffered in recent years.He simply did not have the money to buy up the fields and get them planted immediately. And for this venture to succeed, immediacy was most definitely required.

Samuel Shaw, on the other hand, came from a wellmoneyed family in Virginia. He also had a strong incentive to acquire land in South Carolina. Nine months earlier, amid great fanfare, President George Washington had laid the cornerstone for the new national capitol building in the swampland between Maryland and Virginia. The new location would be called Washington, the District of Columbia.Ever since that momentous day, Mister Shaw had dreamed of being elected South Carolina's representative to Congress and going to Washington, the District of Columbia, to serve in the new capitol building.

But as things presently stood, Mister Shaw could not even run for a local office. For in South Carolina, to stand for any elected office at all, one must not only be an adult white male, but must own fifty acres of land. While Mister Shaw easily met the former requirement, he owned only a single house in the city of Charleston. Certainly he could well afford to purchase a large plantation, but he had not the slightest interest in doing so, nor would he have any idea how to manage it if he did.

Macon Waymon leaned in close, his face hot with excitement."Together we can build up the richest cotton plantations in the state of South Carolina, Samuel. Perhaps in the entire world!"

Certainly, Macon had Samuel's attention. And yet, Samuel Shaw was not entirely convinced.

"Even if all you say were true, even if the cotton came through the new engine undamaged—it still would be nothing but short-fiber cotton," he pointed out. "The whole world knows sea-island cotton is fine and strong and soft and desirable.And the whole world also knows short-fiber cotton is inferior in every way."

"True," agreed Macon. "But sea-island cotton will always be scarce and expensive. Few growers have the sophisticated knowledge and experience needed to grow it. And fewer still have access to the rare, exquisite sandy soil its cultivation requires. So even if the cotton engine does do some damage to the cotton, even if the short-fiber sells for just half the price of sea-island, consider the amount of cotton we can produce! Even with those limitations, Samuel, our profits cannot help but be enormous."

"You assume that European manufacturers will accept the crop. Remember, they have always considered short-staple nothing but worthless weed cotton," said Samuel.

Macon smiled and winked. "When they see the low price tag attached to it, they will be overjoyed. I guarantee it!"

For a long time the two men sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

"If I put up the money by week's end . . ." said Samuel.

"If I pull my best workers away from the rice fields . . ." said Macon.

"If I lay my hands on the deeds of the growers most in distress and therefore most likely to sell . . ." said Samuel.

"If we get the cotton crops in now . . ." said Macon.

"If you get Eli Whitney's cotton engine in your hands . . ."said Samuel.

"If I get the right man to work it . . ." said Macon.

Both men fell silent. Planted in the spring, cotton was picked in September and October. Despite starting a bit late, with good fortune and dollars placed in the right hands, the entire crop could all be run through the cotton engine, compressed, packed, and stacked at the Charleston ports by early the following spring.

Macon and Samuel sank back in their chairs, twin smiles lighting up their faces.

This time next year,
Macon Waymon thought,
I will be a rich man.

By the time the swamp on the Potomac River is turned into a city and the capitol building is completed,
Samuel Shaw thought,
I will be seated as a representative of the state of South Carolina.

9

A
ray of early March sunshine forced its way through the city's fog and misty clouds, and planted the hope of spring into the hearts of winter-weary Londoners. But in Abraham Hallam's heart it struck nothing but dread.

"How many men do we still lack to fill the crew?" Captain Hallam barked to Archie Rhodes, his first mate.

"Five, sir," Archie replied. "At bare minimum."

"Well, then, fetch us five men today!" the captain ordered.

"Where from, sir?" Archie asked.

"I don't care!" said Captain Hallam. "Scour Newgate Prison, if you must. Already winter's deprivations are too long past. Unless we sail immediately, the hurricanes will be upon us before we can catch the trade winds!"

Ever since the thirteen United States had gained their independence from Britain, filling up a crew docket had become a matter of frustrating difficulty on every ship bound for America. As tales spread, fewer and fewer men were willing to risk the journey into what was now widely considered wild territory. To make matters worse, Britain was again at war with France. It was well known that the newly independent United States cast a more favorable eye toward the side of the French than the side of the English. The Americans aligned themselves with France's revolution against the monarchy.This made it harder still to assemble a decent sailing crew.

Still, the American demand for British goods remained strong, which meant there was plenty of money to be made from a full ship.

The promise of spring set Captain Hallam in a foul and impatient mood, a perfect time for Sir Geoffrey Phillips to meet with him and propose that he take on a young Indian sailor willing to work in exchange for passage. Before Sir Phillips made his appearance, however, he made certain that a full leather purse was on display in the front pocket of his expensive woolen waistcoat.

In his private chambers, Lord Judge Aaron North pulled off his wig and caressed his throbbing head. At the sharp knock on his door, he growled impatiently, "Who is there at this hour?"

"Two fine ladies, m'lord," his servant replied.

Lord Judge North hesitated. But with his wig still tossed aside on the desk, he called out permission for them to enter.

"My lord," Lady Susanna cooed as she performed the most perfect full curtsy before the judge. Her pink and white frock floated around her in a sea of silk and lace as she bowed low.

Lord Judge North's eyes bulged.

"With our deepest apologies and most sincere appreciation for your indulgence, Lady Charlotte and I beg a few minutes of Your Lordship's most valuable time," Lady Susanna entreated.

Lord Judge North snatched up his wig and shoved it onto his head.

"Of course, my dear ladies," he said. "The pleasure would, indeed, be all mine."

Lord Judge Aaron North cleared his throat nervously. In his rush to his feet, he almost knocked his chair over.

"Do sit down, my ladies," he insisted. "Tell me, please, how may I be of assistance to you this fine day?"

"It is about the servant girl, Grace Winslow. She stood before you yesterday in the dock," Lady Susanna continued in her soft purr of a voice. "Lady Charlotte and I both know you to be a man of singular justice and mercy, Your Lordship, which is the only reason we are able to gather the courage to come before you now. But it is also why we feel so certain that you will desire to set a cruel injustice aright."

"I have already reconsidered Miss Winslow's case," Lord Judge North said warily. "I cannot think what more might be appropriate for me to—"

Lady Charlotte held in her hand a drawstring purse cut from the same yellow-gold silk as her gown, woven through with black figures and trimmed with hand-made lace. It was a most captivating ensemble. At this precise moment the purse slipped from her hand and clattered noisily to the floor. With a wide-eyed gasp, Lady Charlotte scooped up the purse and laid it on Lord Judge North's desk.

"Oh, I do apologize, Your Lordship!" she exclaimed. "This purse is quite simply too heavy for me, I fear."

Lord Judge North stared at the purse, but what he saw was not the matching silk of Lady Charlotte's fetching ensemble.What he saw were gold crowns visible through the loosely tied drawstring.

Throughout his entire plea for Grace Winslow's release, Sir Thomas McClellan stood before Jonathon Cartwright in Cartwright's cabin aboard the transportation ship,
Albatross.
Sir Thomas stood for the simple reason that Captain Cartwright never offered him a chair. When Sir Thomas finished his petition, the captain stared at him.

"And why should a gentleman such as yourself take such an interest in the predicament of a servant girl of African descent?" he asked.

"Purely to correct a grievous injustice," Sir Thomas replied."Of course, I shall make the inconvenience worth your time."

Sir Thomas retrieved a coin purse from the pocket of his waistcoat and laid it on Captain Cartwright's desk.

"You can put that purse back where you got it, sir," the captain said. "I do not accept bribes."

Sir Thomas smiled as he re-pocketed the gold crowns.

"Very good, sir," he replied. "It seems that you are in a class by yourself."

"No, sir," said Captain Cartwright. "That I most assuredly am not."

"As you are obviously a man of high principles, I am certain you will understand my concern for a prisoner I know to be innocent of all charges leveled against her."

"She may well be innocent," the captain replied. "In that, she would not be alone. And I shall be most pleased to transfer her to the hulks on the Thames, or to another ship, or even to hand her over to you. You need only provide me with the appropriate documents from the Crown."

"And if such documents are not forthcoming?"

"In such a case, sir, in a fortnight the prisoner shall sail to New South Wales on my ship. I shan't waste any more of your time. Good day, sir."

Lord Judge Aaron North, still in his chambers although it was well past the dinner hour, imagined himself riding in great comfort over the roughest of London's cobblestone streets in the fine new carriage he would now be able to afford. He dipped his quill into the ink pot in order to write a note in his own fine hand. In it, he gave explicit instructions to Captain Jonathon Cartwright to release prisoner Grace Winslow forthwith into the custody of Sir Thomas McClellan, who would then be responsible to see that the prisoner paid her debt to the Crown. Carefully Lord Judge North folded the letter and slipped it into a creamy linen envelope. Making use of the candle flame before him, he softened his sealing wax just enough to allow a single large dollop to fall across the flap of the envelope. He pressed his official ring firmly into the melted wax.

When the letter arrived, sealed with the authority of His Lordship the Judge, Captain Cartwright opened it and carefully read the message. Without comment, he instructed his second in command to fetch the prisoner Grace Winslow and to deliver her into Sir Thomas McClellan's care.

"Sir . . . Sir Thomas—" Grace stammered when she saw McClellan standing before her.

"Not now," Sir Thomas cautioned as he rushed her toward his carriage. "We have not a moment to waste on dallying."

When the carriage arrived at the Pattersons' barn, Grace's heart leapt with joy. Although she had only minutes to enjoy her reunion with her abolitionist friends, she gasped in amazement to find that Charlotte and Sir Phillips were among them.

"Quickly now," Ethan Preston insisted. "This is an imperfect plan at best. Our success depends upon swift and precise timing."

"And on th' grace o' God," said Joseph Winslow as he stepped forward from the shadows.

"Father!" Grace gasped.

But already the women were rushing her out to the back where a bucket of water and a piece of soap awaited her. After a good wash down by Rebekah Patterson, Lady Susanna and Lady Charlotte dressed Grace in an oddly cut pair of men's pantaloons. Then they tightly bound her chest with strips of cotton.

"What are you doing?" Grace demanded. "I can hardly breathe!"

"Hush, Grace. We are preparing you for your voyage," said Lady Susanna.

"According to your own plan, since we have no better one," added Lady Charlotte. She slipped a loose-fitting tunic over Grace's head.

Grace had never before seen such a garment. She held out her arms and inspected the strange costume.

"My voyage to where?" Grace asked. "The prison at New South Wales?"

"No!" Lady Charlotte whispered with a smile. "To South Carolina. So you can search for Cabeto!"

Cabeto! No, it could not be! How could such a miracle be possible? And yet, why would Charlotte tell her this if it were not true?

"Come, Heath!" Rebekah Patterson called to her husband.

Using a long red scarf, Heath Patterson secured Grace's hair in a neatly wound red turban.

"It's called a
rumal,"
Heath told Grace. "I brought it back with me from India when I sailed for the East India Company."

When the women brought Grace back into the barn, the men gasped at the change in her appearance. But Grace took no notice of her old friends. Her eyes were only on one person—Joseph Winslow.

"Father?" she asked incredulously. "Can it really be you?"

"Aye, 'tis yer pap," Joseph said. "But I be a changed man, Daughter. I be in this place t'day to 'elp ye git away, to go find yer man. Like ye 'elped me git away."

For the first time in more years than she could remember, Grace threw her arms around her father and hugged him.

"Bygones be bygones, then?" Joseph Winslow asked hopefully.

But time was precious, Ethan Preston reminded the two.

"From this day forth, you are Ashok Iravan, a boy of fourteen from India, too young to see the first of your beard," Mister Preston informed Grace. "You have some sea experience and are willing to work for nothing but free passage.Sir Geoffrey Phillips, whom you have met before—" Here, Sir Phillips doffed his hat and bowed deeply to Grace. "—Sir Phillips has secured you a position on the last merchant ship to leave for South Carolina this season."

Sir Geoffrey handed her an envelope sealed with his personal seal. "Your papers of identification. Guard them well."

"This letter of introduction is for your use when you arrive in America," said Sir Thomas McClelland as he handed Grace another envelope, this one sealed with his seal. "It is addressed to one Reverend Francis Asbury. He is a traveling preacher of the Methodist persuasion, and I am told by mutual friends a man of considerable influence and connections. He is well known, so ask after him in Charleston. It is my hope that he can assist you in your search."

"I am still of the opinion that I should accompany her," said Oliver Meredith, the boisterous young member of the abolitionist group. "I, too, could sign on as a seaman. I would welcome the adventure. Once in the colonies, I could mix with the peasants and keep an eye out on the situation there.It would provide me with a perfect vantage point from which to make certain no one takes liberties with Grace."

"You?" scoffed Jesse. "You be too English to blend easily with Americans!"

"Not at all!" Oliver shot back.

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