Undaunted Love (2 page)

Chapter Two

R
AFE THREW THE DOOR CLOSED behind him as hard as he could, aware of the plaster drifting down from the ceiling as the crash reverberated through the hall. The old plantation style home, built by his great granddaddy when the farm was thriving, was now a crumbling heap. The roof leaked, the floors were rotting, and the upstairs porch was unsafe to walk on.
In fact
, Rafe thought,
I’m surprised that it didn’t fall down when I slammed the door.

The long walk back to the house from town had done nothing to dry his clothes, although his hair had dried and then became damp again with sweat as he trudged down the muddy road. He sat on a rough wooden bench in the large foyer and pulled off his boots, flinging them towards the door. Wet socks followed. He stripped off his clothes down to his drawers, leaving them in a messy heap on the floor. Unpolished for at least five years, the wood was likely to soak up the water, but he was past caring. He leaned over, elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands.

“Suh?” Nackie asked hesitantly.

Rafe didn’t look up, just shook his head.

“Oh no, suh! You don’t mean it!”

Sighing, Rafe stood up, his six-foot frame towering over the middle aged black man who was wringing his hands. “It’s gone, Nackie. All the farmland.”

“What you gonna tell your mama, Mistuh Rafe? She ain’t gonna take that news very well.”

“I told her it would happen. It was her fault! Hers and Mr. Byrd’s.” Rafe ran his hands through his hair, making the blond waves stand up on end. His blue eyes were the color of the sky at sunrise, filled with tears threatening to fall.

“She never did think they’d do it, though, Mistuh Rafe. She never did.” The man closed his eyes, then covered his face with his hands. When he removed them, there was a new resolve in his eyes. “Well suh, we’ll just have to show ‘em, now, won’t we. That old Mistuh Hugh Byrd, he don’t think we can make it out here, thinks he’s gonna get this house soon enough. I don’t aim to let him have it, if I got anythin’ to say ‘bout it, no suh, I sure don’t.”

Rafe looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t see how we can keep the house. It’s falling down, and we got no money to fix it. I can’t plant a thing on the five acres they left us. I don’t see what kind of job I can get round here, and an apprenticeship wouldn’t pay nothin’ for years.” He shook his head again. “We won’t lose it for awhile, but one way or t’other, I’m afraid it’s as good as gone.” He clapped the older man on the shoulder. “I’d better go tell her. Can you get me some tea? I’d sure appreciate it, Nack.”

He climbed the stairs wearily and headed to his room for dry clothes. He guessed he should look presentable when telling his mother that their whole world was gone.

The master bedroom was dark, the heavy draperies pulled over the tall windows. It was stiflingly hot, with no air moving in the large room. Mariah Colton lay stretched across the bed diagonally, face down, her head on her arm, eyes staring into the darkness at nothing but what was in her mind. She had been beautiful, before her Gabriel had died of the wasting disease, with long blonde hair tumbling in waves down her back, laughing blue eyes, pink cheeks and a teasing mouth. Now, her dirty hair was spread out on the pillows next to her, lank and matted. Her eyes had no life in them, and her pallor was that of the gravely ill.

“Mama?” Rafe said quietly. “You awake? I’m back from town.”

Mariah didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her son in any way. He was used to it. She’d been this way since his father died, to one degree or other. He moved into the room and sat in his accustomed hard chair by the bed, near her head. He patted her hand, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. She smelled unwashed, almost dusty, but she had to be having a better day before Rafe could convince her to wash herself.

“Mr. Byrd bought the land at the auction, like we knew he would. He rigged it with Mr. Tunney and Mr. Montgomery, so he could get it for just three hundred fifty dollars.” He looked closely at his mother’s face, for any flicker of anger or sadness. He saw nothing.

Continuing, he said, “So we still got the house, a’course, and those five acres down to the river. Nowhere to farm, though. I’m not… Well, Mama, I’m not really sure what to do. We already sold everything we could sell, and me and old Nackie, I don’t see how we can clear that land ourselves. Course, we don’t have money for seed, neither, but I reckon if I had some land to plant, Mr. Lloyd would give us credit to see it harvested.” There was still no reaction. He cleared his throat. “Right. So I guess that’s all. I’ll have Nackie bring you some dinner later on.” He reached out and brushed her graying hair from her face. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry I couldn’t save it.” A tear ran down his cheek, and he angrily swiped it away. He got up and stalked from the room, leaving his mother to her misery.

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

T
HE 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.