by Drew McGunn
By the time the party found a hotel, Will was struck by the number of black workers in the town’s business district. He doubted many were freedmen, like Joe. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn as much as half the forty-five hundred souls in Columbia were slaves. He shook his head as he entered the hotel.
Behind the counter, a clerk, who had been leaning over, reading a newspaper, straightened up, “Welcome to the Congaree hotel, gentlemen.”
Will paid for two rooms, and as he followed the slave porter, he glanced back at the clerk. The man’s black, curly hair and swarthy skin indicated he was of mixed race. But Will couldn’t tell if the clerk was a freedman or slave.
Later, after dinner, the other five men joined Will in one of the rooms. “I feel we’re close enough to the kidnappers to reach out and touch them,” Will opened up.
Sergeant Jensen said, “We need to be open to wherever the clues lead us, sir. If we break up the town into a grid tomorrow, we should be able to search it fairly quickly and find out if our kidnapping counterfeiters stayed in the area.”
Will tilted his head toward the Dane, “What do you have in mind?”
“We could pair up and search each section of the grid until we learn about the men who took your son.”
Left unspoken was the risk they would search the town and come up empty. Will shoved the thought aside. “We’ll find the next thread in the tapestry, and when we do, I’ll yank it so hard the whole damned thing will come unraveled.”
The next day Will and Lieutenant Morales walked into a mortuary. The undertaker was working on a casket. When Will described Charlie and the best description they had of Obadiah Jenkins the undertaker shook his head. “I ain’t heard tell of them folks.” He turned away from Will and yelled at the black man who had been holding a plank of pine. “Boy, set that down and run and tell the Widow Jackson the casket will be ready on the morrow.”
For a moment, Will’s singular mission to find Charlie was derailed by the command. Slavery was all too common in Texas, especially in the eastern part of the Republic. But in San Antonio and Austin, while it was growing, it hadn’t become ubiquitous as it was in Columbia. Will’s twenty-first-century views had taken a beating over the years, but not on slavery. If anything, he reviled it more seven years after the transference than before.
“Your slave have a name?”
The undertaker looked up, an expression of surprise on his face. “I’m sure he does. But he’s not mine. I rent him from a planter after the harvest. Maybe if Mr. Lamont would send the same buck back each time, I’d bother to learn his name.”
Will had assumed the black man had been the undertaker’s slave. That he was rented out hadn’t crossed his mind.
The undertaker continued, “If a slave does well, I’ll pass him a couple of bits. I ain’t going to be niggardly toward them.”
The man’s lips twitched, waiting to see if Will would react to the near-homonym. Will allowed a slight frown to crease his lips. He recalled hearing the word niggardly nearly cause fights back in the twenty-first century when he had served in Iraq. An officer, an Aggie from A & M, had explained the word was Scandinavian in origin, meaning stingy, and had entered the English language in the fourteenth century, long before English imported the Latin word for black.
Dryly, Will said, “You’re a credit to South Carolina.” With that, he turned and walked out.
As he and Morales reached the street, they heard a noise from a nearby alley. Turning, Will saw the slave who had left the building a few minutes earlier beckoning for them to approach.
“Y’alls was looking for some white men?”
The slave’s eyes darted back and forth, fearfully.
“Yes.”
The slave slipped deeper into the narrow space between two buildings. “I’s not want anyone t’ see us.”
When he was hidden within the shadows, he said, “You got a boy named Charlie?”
Will’s heart skipped a beat when he heard his son’s name. “Where is he? Is he alright?”
“You didn’t hear this from me, but Mr. Jason Lamont, he had a passel of men and a boy named Charlie who been staying at Saluda Grove. They treat the boy near bad as they treat me.”
Will sagged against the wall of one of the buildings. He was torn between relief and helplessness.
“Are you a slave at Saluda Grove?”
The response was a single nod.
“Can you take me and my companions there?”
The fear returned to the other man’s eyes as they slid toward the street. “Marse Jason will kill me if he finds out.”
“We’ll take you with us when we leave.” Nothing was going to get between Will and rescuing his son.
Finally, the slave said, “Alright.”
It took a couple of hours to find the others before Will’s party was able to follow Henry, the slave from the alley, back toward Saluda Groves.
The plantation was upriver from Columbia, above where the Saluda River fed into the Congaree. They rented a skiff and with Henry’s help, finding the place was easy.
Will and his companions were led to a place on the Saluda where they could hide in the cattails along the bank. Keeping low, he moved forward, until he used his hand to sweep aside the foliage. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and looked at the plantation. It was big. From his vantage, he saw fields, lying fallow in winter, stretching across the landscape, sprinkled with groves of white oak and dogwood trees.
In the distance, he saw split rail fencing. He marked that as where the road ran toward the Lamont mansion. Weeping willow trees were evenly spaced along the lane. Despite the binocular’s range, he didn’t see any buildings. “How big is this place?”
Henry, standing a few feet behind him, said, “Big. Marse Jason says he’s got more than a thousand acres.”
“How many slaves?”
“Close to a hundred.”
Will lowered the glasses. “I want some eyes on the slave quarters and the plantation manor.” He turned to the men, “I’d like Lobo and Running Creek to scout the lay of the land. Find out the best route to and from where they’re keeping Charlie.”
He knelt by the slave, “Can you take these two men with you, and show them the way to where they’re keeping my son?”
Henry had been calm, as though his life didn’t hang in the balance, by his association with Will and his companions. The question, though, reminded Will of a deer in the headlights. “We gets caught, and I’ll hang. It’s bad enough I brought you here.”
Frustrated, Will ground his teeth. “You’ve got nothing to worry about here. We’ll protect you. You’ve brought us this far. Help us the rest of the way.”
Slowly, the other man nodded. He turned and beckoned to the Mexican and Cherokee to follow as he slipped out of the thicket of cattails.
Will watched the three men disappear into twilight’s gloom before settling down to wait.
Chapter 13
From his seat on a log, Charlie observed a woman lift the cast iron skillet from the fire. His mouth watered as the aroma of fresh-baked cornbread reached his nose. Another woman stirred a large pot. He could hear the water boiling and imagined the small, cut potatoes bouncing in the boiling water. With any luck chunks of pork would be mixed in with the tubers.
Cuffey, the young slave who he had worked beside when he was still allowed, sat beside him. “That’s gonna be some fine eating tonight, Mister Charlie. Winnie, she’s a mighty fine cook. And say what you will about some of you folks,” his eyes slid over to Hiram Williams, who was lurking near the fire, puffing on a pipe, “there’s more food to eat while you’re with us.”
A stranger to plantation life before arriving at Saluda Groves, Charlie had been surprised to find the fare eaten by the slaves had been so plain. The plantation grew nearly all its own food. For every four acres of cotton, there was an acre for corn, wheat, potatoes, or other foodstuffs. There were gardens sprinkled around the slave cabins where squash, radishes, bean
s, and other vegetables were grown.
Cuffey had told him Marse Jason could get stingy with the amount of grain provided for the slaves, especially in the months between harvesting the crops and the planting season. He had told Charlie a few other nearby plantation owners had a few trusted men, some even who were slaves, that supplemented their rations with game. Not Jason Lamont, though. The idea of a slave with a gun was one Lamont rejected. It would have resulted in a dead slave on this plantation.
“Come and get it!”
The slaves held back as Jenkins’ men and Charlie ladled food onto their plates. As Charlie was walking back to the stump he heard Williams’ voice, “Now, Winnie, you’re shorting me some pork there.”
Charlie turned around in time to see Williams wrench the ladle from her hand and use it to fish another spoonful of pork and potatoes onto his tin plate.
He seethed as the hated man sauntered away from the cooking fire. His anger at Williams subsided as he dug into the food. It was bland, but he was hungry.
Charlie was chewing on a piece of pork when he heard Jackson’s voice. “Ob, any word from Charleston?”
“The marshals or General Travis?”
“Six of one, half dozen of the other.”
There was a low chuckle, followed by Jenkins’ voice. “Lamont says the United States Marshals from the South Carolina district are still crawling over Charleston. Best as we can tell, they know the boy was moved through the area, but that’s all.”
Jackson said, “Why haven’t we heard anything from Travis yet? Heaven knows it’s been five months since we took the boy.”
“Last I heard, the Texian army has only just been recalled from Mexico now that what passes for government in Mexico City has ratified their treaty. Rumor is, Travis left the army a couple of months ago. With any luck, we’ll be hearing from him soon.”
A boot scraped across the dirt, “Damned if all this waiting isn’t taking a toll on us all.”
Williams’ sharp laugh cut through the night air. Jackson added, “Especially Hiram. He keeps carrying on like this, it ain’t going to matter about the consequences to these darkies, he’s going to wake up with his throat cut. And us with him.”
Jenkins’ laugh sounded hollow, “Lamont won’t let that happen. We’re safer here than we were in California.”
Jackson’s voice was cut off by a disturbance by the cooking fire. Charlie turned to see the slave named Winnie hurrying into the firelight followed by Williams. As he grabbed her by the waist, her hand reached out and slapped him. The sound of her palm on his cheek rang across the slave quarters.
“Bitch! I’ll learn you not to slap your better!” Charlie cringed as Williams knocked the woman to the ground. He grabbed her by the hair, as she struggled to keep on her feet. Half dragging and pulling, he took Winnie into the cabin Charlie shared with his captors.
Charlie found himself on his feet, his hands clenched, as the telltale sounds of a one-sided fight emanated from the crude cabin. He glanced to his side and saw Cuffey. The young slave shook his head, as he wore a look of hopeless frustration.
Charlie turned until he saw Jenkins and Jackson. The half-breed from Florida was visibly agitated while Jenkins returned to eating his dinner. There was a scream and the ripping of clothing. Jenkins started shoveling food into his mouth, and Jackson swung around and walked into the darkness.
From the cabin, Winnie cried out, “Let me go, sweet Jesus, please, let me go.”
Another slap and Charlie felt his face redden as Williams said, “Lay on back, missy. Or I’ll give you another beating.”
From within the cabin, the sounds of struggle lessened. Charlie was fifteen. He knew what was happening behind the closed door. The tears at the corners of his eyes burned as they streaked down his cheek. If his pa were here, he’d put a stop to that. Winnie was half Henrietta’s age, but Charlie couldn’t imagine Pa letting anyone lay a hand on the freedwoman housekeeper. His eyes swept across the circle of firelight and saw the slaves were agitated but afraid. He didn’t see Joe, Henrietta’s husband often, but he was sure that just like his pa, Joe wouldn’t stand by and let some bastard abuse his wife.
Winnie’s cries grew louder, and Williams laughed at her. Without realizing he was doing it, Charlie stalked over to the cooking fire and yanked a cooking knife from the hand of one of the women. He was halfway to the door, the dull blade in his hand gleaming from the glowing firelight when a sharp report from a gun broke the tension.
“Obadiah Jenkins, surrender or die!”
***
Will’s knees were sore when he saw shadowy figures running low toward the cattail-lined river bank. Over the past couple of months’ traveling, he had become close with the men with whom he traveled. Part of that was recognizing them or their shadows at night. Realizing he’d been holding his breath, he relaxed as one of the figures materialized into Jesse Running Creek.
The young Cherokee Ranger slid down the bank until he was next to Will. “Damnation, the Lamont plantation is big, General. The main house is nearly a mile away. But we found the slave cabins around eight hundred yards that way,” he said, pointing into the inky night toward the south.
Will wanted to strangle the rest of the information from the young man. “Are they there?”
“Your boy’s your spittin’ image. Shock of red hair was what gave it away.” Running Creek peered into the night, “Mostly a bunch of darkies fixing dinner like they was at a church social. Your son sticks out like a sore thumb.”
The weight of three months of worry and fear lifted, as Will processed the news. He hadn’t realized how tense he had grown until he was on the cusp of recovering his son. Lighter though the weight on his soul had become, there were still several men who needed to answer for their crimes. “Did you see his captors?”
“Yeah. There were four other white men with him in the slaves’ quarters.”
Will flexed his legs, kneading his calves as he stood. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get this done.”
Lobo, who had crouched beside the Cherokee, said, “The güero who owns this place is not at his hacienda. He and several of his men are on horseback hunting. Do they have javelinas here?”
Will shook his head. “Javelinas? No. Plenty of wild boar though. I suppose they could be hunting them. How many men with this Lamont fellow?”
“Three or four.”
Will felt the cold iron at his hip as he ran his fingers on the revolver. Six shots. Even if both the kidnappers and the muckety-muck who owned the plantation were together, Will’s men would have more than enough firepower to overwhelm them.
“Let’s do this quick. Sergeant Jensen, follow Lobo to where this Lamont fellow is. If they close on the slave cabins, then slow them down. Running Creek will take the rest of us over to those cabins and capture ourselves some kidnappers.”
The kind of weather one experiences in early December in South Carolina can be a roll of the dice. Will and his companions were lucky. The humidity was low for a plantation next to the Saluda River. The temperature was close to fifty degrees. Will heard his boots crunching the dead grass as he followed Running Creek’s silhouette. After five minutes, he saw the dark frames of the slaves’ cabins, encircling the campfire.
As Will neared, every footstep seemed louder than the previous, but nobody turned, and he and his companions approached. He froze when he heard a woman’s plaintive cry above the crackling of the campfire.
Then Will saw him. Reflecting in the light of the fire, was a splash of red hair. The memory of the last time he had seen his son leapt into his mind. It had been the day Will had led the army from San Antonio to the south. Charlie had been at that awkward stage in development where arms and legs were disproportionate to the rest of his body. How long had it been? It must have been eight or nine months. The boy was several inches taller. Despite the distance, it appeared the awkwardness of adolescence had been replaced by a youth nearly grown.
Another cry broke Will’s attent
ion, and he saw the slaves standing around the cooking fire were agitated. Charlie was on his feet, staring at the cabin from which cry had come. Another scream broke the spell, and his son was striding over to the fire and grabbed a kitchen knife from one of the women and turned and ran toward the closed door.
Without thinking, Will drew his pistol and fired into the air. He stepped in front of Running Creek and shouted, “Obadiah Jenkins, surrender or die!”
A big man was hurrying after Charlie. His pale skin reflected in the firelight. He carried a stick in one hand and had the other clenched in a fist. The boy was focused on the door he was approaching.
More than a hundred feet separated Will from his target, and the shot had sent the slaves racing for cover. He’d hit harder targets, but the humanity racing around the slave quarters interfered with a clean shot. With each step the other man took toward Charlie, the more worried Will became. But he sighted down the barrel and fired at his human target.
Nothing. Will swore while offering a silent prayer he hadn’t hit any bystanders. He fired again. “Dammit!” The second shot missed, too. He took the pistol grip and held it with both hands, sighted down the barrel and lined up the shot. The man was only a step behind Charlie and raising the stick to strike.
Will exhaled and pulled the trigger. The stick fell to the ground, and the man clutched his chest and collapsed. A moment later, Charlie disappeared through the door.
As he rushed forward, Will became aware one of the kidnappers had a gun when he felt a hot rush of wind buzz by his ear. He heard a grunt and turned. Lieutenant Morales grabbed at the side of his head as he fell to the ground.
A swarthy, black-haired man, smaller than the first to fall, stood between two cabins, a revolver in his hands, smoke curling from the barrel. The sight of the pistol was a shock. No other nation had adopted Colt’s firearm for military use, not even the United States. Outside of Texas, the guns were expensive and hard to find. Yet one of the kidnappers snapped off another round in Will’s direction.
