Undaunted Love (3 page)

Chapter Four

R
AFE 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.”

“Humph. Too bad. Course, it ain’t votin’ here in South Carolina that’s the problem. Even if Breckinridge carries all the South, he’ll still lose.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know much about the election.”

“You should. Likely be the last one you live through as a citizen of the United States of America.”

Rafe scowled at him, remembering the overheard conversation from the sawmill. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“The Yankees don’t like us owning slaves, for one thing. They ain’t real keen on farmin’ as a way of life, truth be told. A lot of busybodies up North want to tell us how to live, how to make our livelihood… Ain’t none of their business, but they aim to make it so. Election’s in November. If Breckinridge don’t win, well, neither Lincoln nor Bell nor Douglas is going to come to our aid, you can be sure. Rumor around the city is that if any’a them win, South Carolina is gonna vote to leave the Union.”

Rafe blinked. He’d heard some vague talk of this over the last several months, but he hadn’t really paid attention. The farm, his mother, the house… All of them took more of his time than wild rumors about leaving the Union. “Can we do that? Just leave?”

Jeb nodded. “We were independent after the big War, and we joined up with the other states of our free will. We want to leave, well, we have the right to do that, too, seems to me. Seems to a lot of folk. Ain’t like we’d be rebels like the colonies were against the redcoats. It’s in the Constitution, just has to be voted on.”

Rafe tried to think what that would mean. He didn’t see how it would change his life any. What did he know about Yankees and Washington D.C? He couldn’t think of any benefit he got from them, and he didn’t see why strangers in other parts of the country should be able to tell the Southern states what they had to do about slaves or farming or anything else. He shrugged. “Don’t see it makes no nevermind to me. South Carolina or United States, I’ll still be living in Byrd’s Creek, I guess.”

Jeb puffed on his pipe and smiled sadly. “We’ll see, son. We’ll see.”

That night the wind picked up to a fearful howling, and rain started to pelt the window in his bedroom. Rafe stared at the glass, watching the rivulets run down the pane, thinking of Byrd’s Creek and what was left of his farm. No, he didn’t see how South Carolina being a sovereign state would change his life in any way. It sure didn’t get him his land back, or make his mother well, or put coins in their pockets. Something politicians and rich men did, mucking about with boundary lines and laws. The common man, he just put his shoulder to the plow and carried on.

Chapter Five

M
UCH TO JEB’S DISMAY, RAFE hitched up Norah the next morning and headed out in the rain. He had twenty dollars in his pocket as an advance on his timber, and he didn’t want to leave Nackie and his mama alone without any money and a near empty larder any longer than he had to. The storm would pass, probably before he got to James Island. Summer storms always came and went quickly, leaving broken trees, wind blown corn stalks, and that hot and steamy mugginess that drew the gnats out in swarms. If he left in the rain, he might get a far piece before he was being chewed on by no-see-ums.

“Clayton and I will get out to Byrd’s Creek in two, maybe three weeks. I’ll send a letter. I’m just waitin’ on a shipment’a timber coming down the river. I gotta get that processed afore I can leave.” Jeb yelled over the rain from under his front porch, scowling up at the sky. The wind was blowing hard enough that he had trouble standing upright. “Son, I don’t think you oughta be out in this storm. This might be a hurricane, not just a summer squall.”

Rafe shook his head and climbed onto the seat, his hat pulled low and an oilskin jacket closed tight. “It’ll be all right, Mr. Greene. Probably be gone in an hour. Don’t trouble yourself none on my account, I’ll just get on home and get to work markin’ those trees like you told me. I do thank you, sir.”

“God’s blessing on you, Rafe. And you tell your mama hello from me now, you hear? Bless her heart, I sure hate to think of her so ill. Well, she’ll be set right soon. Mrs. Greene has set herself to prayin’, and when that woman prays God can’t help but listen.” He smiled and waved.

Rafe waved back, and flicked the reins. Norah stood still, head down, looking balefully ahead. Realizing that the wind had stolen his signal to the horse, he flicked them harder, startling the old girl. With a look of disgust, she plodded ahead, hooves kicking up mud with every step.

Livvie stood on the porch of her sister’s house, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders and pulled tight. Her long hair had come loose from its bun and long tendrils swirled around her face and head. Rain was pounding slantwise across the yard, water pooling several inches deep. The wind had already knocked down a hundred year old oak, snapped a tall pine tree, and flattened the garden. Madeline stood in the doorway behind her, a toddler clutching her skirts.

“Come inside, Livvie! It’s not safe out there!” Madeline’s face was pale with spots of pink on her cheeks.

“Where’s Gardner gone?” Livvie yelled, not turning.

“He went to check the slave quarters. Jerusha flew through the back door yellin’ about a tree being about to fall on them.” She picked up the toddler, who buried his face in her hair.

“I’ll go see…” Livvie began.

“No!” her sister yelled, and stepped out to grab her by the arm, pulling her inside. “You’re not going out there! Daddy would flay me alive if I let you out in a hurricane, and Gardner can look after himself.” She shut the door and turned the lock.

“I need to do something!” Livvie said. “I’m played out from all this waiting, and the sound of all that wind is enough to drive me to distraction!” She flounced into the parlor and sat heavily on an upholstered chair.

“You’re dripping on my chair!” Madeline cried.

Livvie stood up and looked down at her clothes, then to her sister. “Oh Mad, I’m sorry. You know me, I just can’t sit still for so long. I’ll go put on something dry.”

“How about some tea and a game of chess? I’ll put Thomas down for his nap.”

Livvie nodded, then grimaced as she walked up the stairs to her bedroom. Chess was not exactly what she had in mind, but she supposed it was better than embroidery, which was her sister’s favorite pastime.

It was all Rafe could do to keep Norah walking. The wind had kicked up to a full-blown gale, and the rain lashed at them from the side. Rafe sat as low as he could on the hard wooden seat, his hat under his thigh, eyes squinted. He’d made it across the James Island bridge to Wadmalaw Island, but was regretting his decision not to stop and beg hospitality on the more populated settlement. On Wadmalaw, the homesteads and villages were few and far between, and Norah could barely keep forward momentum against the storm.

All around him trees were falling, great crashes echoing out from the woods on either side of the road. So far a fallen tree had not impeded his progress, but he knew that, should he encounter one, he would have no choice but to either turn back or wait out the storm where he sat. He had no axe, and Norah was too old to be harnessed to a downed tree.

The water was several inches deep on the road, in places running across low-lying areas as fast as a stream. Norah balked at these, but Rafe coaxed her onward. They couldn’t get any wetter, and every step forward was a step towards home. Leaves and small branches slapped against them, stuck for a moment, and then were caught up in another gust of wind and carried onward. Rafe could barely see the road, could barely keep his eyes open against the torrent of rainwater running down his face.

Father please…
he began to pray.
I was foolish, I know. Now I need Your help. We need a place to wait this out, or we need for the hurricane to pass on by. You know my mama’s state… If I die out here, she’ll die, too. I need to get on home to her, bring her the money, and take care of her. Please help me, Lord. Amen.

The rain kept whipping against his skin and the wind gusts nearly blew him off the cart. Norah continued onward, nose almost touching the ground, ears back, defeat in every step. For another hour they carried on, Rafe becoming more and more desperate. He considered stopping under one of the big live oaks, but rotten limbs were being hurled out of them from the wind, and a few had fallen over, huge root balls standing fifteen feet above the ground. With nothing else to do, he kept going.

He estimated they were halfway across Wadmalaw Island, although the landscape had been so changed by the storm, and Norah was walking so slowly, that he was uncertain, knowing only that he was still on the road. A gust of wind blew a stand of trees over nearly to the ground, and Rafe glimpsed a white house through the gap. Heart racing, he flicked the reins, trying to coax a last burst of energy from the horse. She lifted her head, took three fast steps, and then resumed her slow walk. Frustrated, Rafe kept his eyes fixed on the left side of the road, willing a drive to appear.

After ten more minutes, Rafe decided he’d either missed the drive or a tree had fallen and obscured it. He shook his head in disgust, knowing he would never get the cart turned around on the wet mud, wondering if he should leave it under a tree and head back on foot. And then he saw it, fifty feet ahead. Small branches and leaves covered the drive, but on either side was a stone post marking the entrance, and, when he squinted and shaded his eyes, he could see that there were small trees lining the narrow road. Elated, he gave a strong flick, and Norah once again picked up her pace. When Rafe turned the cart, the horse sensed refuge, and began to trot towards the white house just visible ahead.

A tree had fallen across the end of the drive, but the grass lawn around it was firm enough for the cart. Rafe guided Norah around it, then to the barn just visible to the right side of the house. The doors were shut, but a young negro ran out from a small cottage nearby, having seen the rig from the window.

“Suh! What you be doing out in this hur’kin?” He pounded on the barn door, taking hold of Norah’s bridle to hold her steady.

Rafe jumped down out of the cart and came forward to help, both of them pounding on the door. “Stupidity. I left Charleston thinking it was just a summer storm. I was hoping I could hole up in your barn til it passes?”

The barn door opened and an older negro man, with white hair and a cautious smile, appeared, trying to keep the door from blowing in. Raising his eyebrows at the site of Rafe and his pitiful horse, he motioned urgently to the young slave to help.

“Come on now, Judah, hep me with this here door so this poor fella can get hisself outen the wet!” The two men opened the large doors, Rafe quickly led the horse and cart in, and then he returned to help them close and bar the doors.

“I thank you kindly, and your master, too, when this is over,” Rafe said, moving to unharness the exhausted mare. The two slaves came to help, and soon Norah was brushed and covered with a blanket, a bucket of oats her reward for a job well done. Rafe, too, had a blanket, and a hot mug of tea, which he clasped in both hands. Outside, the wind howled, rain pelted the barn, and more crashes could be heard as trees fell or snapped, and large limbs tumbled to the ground.

As dawn broke, Rafe rolled over on the hay he’d been using for a bed, groaning. His backside felt bruised. At least he was dry. As he lay still, assessing his condition, he realized that there was no raging wind, no rain, just the sound of birds chirping. He stood, stretched, and made his way to the door. Pulling it open, he saw blue sky and total devastation.

Everywhere he looked there were trees down. The white house was invisible under at least a half dozen oaks. Pines, the tops snapped off, stretched towards the clear sky like accusing fingers. As he stood, he felt someone come up behind him.

“Oh Lawd have mercy, they was in that house!” the old man said, and he took off running, shouting for help as he ran. Rafe followed after him, a sick feeling in his stomach as he looked at the house, where most of the roof was gone and the porches smashed. People poured out of the slave cottages, all running for the house at top speed.

The old negro stopped at the top of the drive, in front of what used to be the steps to the porch. A giant oak had fallen across the front of the house, sweeping the porches off and crushing them under its weight. Windows were gone, glass twinkling in the morning sun. Shaking his head, he ran around the house, everyone following, some of the women starting to sob. Here, too, a tree had fallen, blocking the door and shearing off the sleeping porch. Another tree had hit the roof, crushing it, before rolling off and coming to rest on the first one. No sounds came from the house, and Rafe heard only birds and the crying of the slaves.

“How about round the side? There ain’t trees on the south side. Maybe a window?” he asked. The old man nodded and led the way at a fast walk, twenty others following behind like ducklings.

They assessed the situation. The bottom floor had been smashed almost flat, and the window was useless. Rafe looked up and saw that there was a window on the sagging second floor that was promising. He looked at the old man.

“I need a ladder, or something I can use to get up there.”

The man turned to Judah, who was standing just behind him, wringing his hands. “Go git that ladder from the barn. Take Abner with you.” The two boys took off running.

Rafe stood, assessing the house while he waited, looking periodically at the negro. He reminded him of Old Nackie, which made him think of his own house, already not in the best of condition, and his mother. He shook his head slightly. Nothing he could do about that now.

“I’m Rafe,” he said to the slave. “Rafe Colton, from Byrd’s Creek.”

“Josiah, suh…” He tapered off, unable to take his eyes off of the crushed house. “This here’s the Kinney house. They got a baby in there.”

Rafe blanched. No baby was crying. That didn’t seem like a good sign.

The boys ran up with a ladder between them, and Rafe helped them place it in front of the window. They held the bottom as Rafe climbed. He looked through the broken glass at the room beyond. The floor was crooked, the furniture of the bedroom piled haphazardly against the lower wall where it had slid. But it looked sound enough to hold him, so he climbed through. He looked down at the waiting faces and gave a tight smile.

“Hello?” he called, slowly walking to the door, testing every step before putting his weight on the warped floorboards. “Can anyone hear me?”