by Dorothy Love
Charlotte spun around. “Up where?”
“On the roof.”
Charlotte looked up to see Susan crouched on the slick tin roof, both hands splayed.
“Stay there. I’m coming up.” Why hadn’t she thought to look there sooner? At one end of the back porch, a narrow rudimentary stairway led to the attic, which in turn led to a wooden trapdoor that opened onto the roof. Those stairs had been irresistible in her childhood, beckoning her to a clear vista of the endless sea and the star-strewn sky.
She clambered up and found Susan, tired and tear-stained but otherwise unharmed. She sat down beside the child to catch her breath. Relief and anger warred inside her. “Do you know everyone is looking for you?”
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I only wanted to see where the steps went to. And then when I got up here, everything looked so pretty.”
Despite her irritation, Charlotte smiled. “I know. The view from here captivated me too when I was your age. But it isn’t safe to go climbing on rooftops. My papa punished me more than once for coming up here after he told me not to.”
“What’s captivated?”
“Never mind. Why didn’t you come down when you heard us calling for you?”
The child’s thin shoulders moved up and down. “When Mama died, Uncle James told us she went to heaven and got her crown of stars. I thought if I got closer to heaven I might could see her. But I didn’t.”
“No. When the people we love leave us, we can’t see them anymore. But we can feel the love they left behind.”
“I tried to get down when I saw Uncle James. But the roof was slippery, and I was afraid.”
Charlotte placed an arm around the child’s waist. “Hold on to me. Let’s get you onto terra firma and find your uncle.”
Pelican Cottage
Pawley’s Island
June 29, 1868
Yesterday the Reverend Mr. Peabody apprised us of his new charitable endeavor. The sale of ice cream, which was undertaken at the start of the summer, has yielded respectable results, but the small church on Litchfield Plantation lacks enough volunteers to see the venture through to summer’s end. I am fairly certain that more than a little ice cream wound up in the bellies of the island’s children as free samples, though no one begrudges them this small luxury on the heels of so many years of hardship.
The new project involves the sewing of garments for distribution to the missionaries in China. To this end Mr. Peabody has secured a goodly amount of sturdy cotton fabric, which the ladies will sew into shirtwaists and skirts, shirts, and trousers. Having no live models, we must guess at the appropriate lengths of sleeves and hems. I received ten yards of blue calico and five yards of white cambric, which I shall endeavor to turn into passable garments.
As the fabric was being distributed, I was reminded of my early years at Fairhaven, when all of our bondsmen and their families came to the house to receive material for their new clothes.
On New Year’s Day, rolls of white homespun, red flannel, calico, and a heavier material my mother called “plains” were laid out on the piazza along with a variety of buttons, needles, and thread. Each woman, when my mother read out her name, came forward to receive one roll of red flannel and two rolls each of white homespun, colored homespun, and calico. Each man received one red flannel, two white homespun, two rolls of a dark-colored cloth called jeans, and one white plains. I helped distribute the blankets. One year the men got new blankets; the next year, the women; the next, the children. In this way, each household had some new blankets every year.
On the day after New Year’s, each child appeared before our seamstress, a tall, light-skinned woman named Welcome. The girls received homespun for the sewing of everyday clothes and calico for their Sunday frocks. With my mother, I watched as Welcome held the end of a roll of homespun on top of the child’s head, brought the material down to the floor and up again. My mother told me this measure would make one full garment without any waste.
Once a year, my father gathered strips of wood, upon which every servant’s foot had been measured, and sent them to a shoe factor in Charleston. The factor obtained the correct number of pair of each size and shipped them to Fairhaven for distribution on the third day after New Year’s. I still remember the excitement in the slave street when word came that the new shoes had arrived.
My father at one time had under his care more than six hundred men, women, and children. Our present endeavors for the Reverend Mr. Peabody’s missionaries are on a much smaller scale. This is fortunate for me, for despite my Aunt Livinia’s tutoring during the war, I lack any real skill with needle and—
“Hello? Miss Fraser?”
Charlotte set down her pen and went to the door, which was open to the ocean breeze. “Daniel?”
He grinned. “Surprised to see me?”
“Yes, but always happy to have you visit.”
He glanced at her papers. “I’m interruptin’ your work.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m writing another article in hopes the newspaper in New York might resume publication one of these days.” She motioned him inside “What brings you here?”
He proffered a crate of tomatoes, corn, and beans. “Garden’s coming in better’n we thought it would after that storm. We got lots of tomatoes. Trim was supposed to deliver ’em, but his wife is sick. Mr. Hadley sent me instead.”
“Mr. Hadley is well, then?”
“Sometimes he is and sometimes he ain’t. When he’s feelin’ poorly, me and Trim keep things going. Trim says Mr. Hadley won’t ever be the same.”
“I suppose not.” Charlotte inhaled the aroma of the freshly picked tomatoes. “Thank you for bringing these over.”
“No trouble. Being out on the river is more fun than picking corn any day of the week.” He dropped his worn haversack onto the floor and looked around, eyes bright with curiosity. “I always wondered what this place looked like.”
“It isn’t the same as in the years before the war, but I don’t mind. Being so close to the sea more than compensates for the lack of niceties. Would you like some refreshment? I imagine you’re tired after the long row.”
“Yes’m, if it ain’t too much trouble, I could use somethin’ to wet my whistle.”
She took the vegetables to the back porch, found a glass, and poured cool water for Daniel. “Let’s sit on the piazza. The girls just finished their lessons and are trying their hand at kite building with some help from our neighbor.”
“Is she the gray-haired lady wearing men’s boots?”
“She is indeed. I don’t know what I’d do without Augusta. She looks after the girls when I have to be away.” Charlotte led the way outside, and they sat in the ancient rocking chairs. “Now, what news have you?”
“Well, Mr. Clifton and his missus have packed up and moved back to Charleston. Mr. Clifton wants to head out west, but I don’t think his wife wants to go.” Daniel took a long gulp of water. “His daughter sure don’t. I overheard her arguin’ with her daddy that he was ruining her chances to marry Mr. Betancourt. I didn’t even know they was courtin’.”
Charlotte laughed. “I had no idea you were interested in such things.”
He shrugged his now-familiar Daniel shrug. “Anyway, me and Mr. Hadley stopped at Fairhaven on Saturday, on the way back from Georgetown. We cleared away some broken tree limbs and fixed the trunk in the field downriver.”
“I hope he’s paying you for all your hard work.”
“Yes’m. I’m savin’ as much as I can. Anyway, Mr. Hadley says you’ll likely harvest a few barrels of rice from that one. And he says you might be able to plant a late crop if you’re willing to take a chance on it coming in before the frost.”
She sighed. “Oh, Daniel, I think I’m through taking chances.”
“Mr. Hadley says a small harvest is better than nothing. He’s going to plant again.” Daniel drained his glass and set it down beside his chair. “Haven’t seen your old peacock in a while. Cinnamon had
a touch of colic again, but I dosed her with the aconite, and now she’s right as rain. And I fixed the latch on the barn door the other day.”
“I appreciate everything you and Mr. Hadley have done. But I don’t expect you to keep up the place in my absence.”
“Well, I built that barn mostly by myself, so I sort of feel responsible for it.”
She sent him an approving glance. What a fool his father was for abandoning a boy with such promise.
“I got a letter from my pa,” he said.
“You did?” She stared at him, surprised. “When?”
Just then Anne-Louise gave a shout, and Charlotte looked out to see a red-and-white kite struggling to take flight. Marie-Claire laughed. Augusta stood between them, ankle-deep in sand, one hand clamped onto her hat.
“Couple of days after the storm,” Daniel said. “Me and Mr. Clifton were in the potato field, and Lucy Wainwright’s daddy come down on his mule and handed it to me.”
Charlotte smiled at the memory of the girl she’d found hiding with Daniel in the slave street. “How is Lucy? Has she embarked upon any more spy missions lately?”
“Not that I know of. Anyway, Mr. Wainwright said a Yankee fellow named Mr. Kelley who works for the government gave him my letter. Turns out Pa got a job working at a boatyard up north, and he wants me to come and work there too.”
“Daniel, that’s wonderful. When do you leave?”
“That’s just it, ma’am. I like working with Mr. Hadley and looking after Fairhaven. I’ve been helping out at the Kirks’ place too, up in the pinelands. It’s real pretty up there, and Mr. Hadley says a person could live there year-round because mosquitoes don’t like it up there. Anyway, I’m figgerin’ on staying around for a while. I like being on my own.”
“But you’re still so young. And perhaps working in the boatyard will help you achieve your dream of owning a passenger vessel someday.”
“Maybe. You never can tell with Pa. My mama always said he was born with a restless streak that makes it hard to set much store by what he says. What if I travel all that way and then he up and takes off again? I wouldn’t know a soul for a hundred miles.”
“I see your point. Still, you’d have a chance to attend a real school if you went. If you get an education, you won’t be dependent upon your father’s whims. You’ll be equipped to make your own way in the world.”
“I reckon.” He paused. “Miss Fraser, could I ask you a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Hadley said you’ve got a salt works somewhere around here.”
“Yes, down on the marsh. But it hasn’t been in use since the war.”
“Could you show me how it works?”
“I doubt it works now, but I can show it to you. Why are you interested?”
“I’m thinking about buildin’ one. Mr. Kelley told Lucy’s pa that if the rice planters start cultivating other crops, more people might be interested in moving south, and we might get a new railroad that would go from Charleston all the way up to Wilmington. I figure if I had me a salt works, I could ship salt to every town on the rail line.”
“You are a wonder, Daniel Graves. I’m sure I do not know where all those ideas come from.”
He laughed. “From all the books in your library.”
“Let me get my hat and tell Augusta where we’re going.” Charlotte retrieved her straw hat and hurried down the beach to speak to Augusta. She led Daniel around to the back of the house and down to the salt marsh, where fiddler crabs and a pair of egrets foraged for food in the pungent pluff mud exposed by the ebbing tide and fish darted through the shallow water.
“There once was a scaffold right here,” Charlotte said. “With a pump and a wooden trough to move the seawater to the boilers.”
Daniel peered into an empty shed. “I don’t see the boilers.”
“They were in the forest, a few hundred yards down that way.” She indicated the general direction. “They’re probably completely rusted out by now—and the Federals shelled them pretty regularly during the war. My father’s bondsmen were in charge of the salt works, so I don’t know much more about it, except that Father said it was best to pump the water at flood tide.”
“How come?”
“The water had more salt in it then and less of the seepage from the marsh. When I was about your age, men from all over the Lowcountry came here to buy salt or barter for it. It was a scarce commodity back then. One year we earned more than seven thousand dollars from the sale of it.”
Daniel let out a low whistle. “Seven thousand? That’s a lot of money.” He brushed away a dragonfly that had landed on his sleeve. “Reckon I’d need something sturdy for the boilers to set on.”
“Ours were mounted on bricks, with the furnace down below.”
“Don’t seem all that hard to build one. Thanks for showing me around.” He swung his haversack onto his shoulder and glanced toward the dock, where his rowboat swayed and knocked against the gray wooden pier. “I oughta be getting back. Sun will be setting soon.”
She followed Daniel to the dock. She barely knew the boy, but she felt responsible for him. “You will let me know whether you decide to join your father? I’ll need to arrange for someone to take care of Cinnamon.”
He jumped lightly into the rowboat. “Yes’m. I’m thinking I’ll stay put, but if I change my mind I’ll make sure your mare is looked after. And anyway, I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye.”
She nodded, thinking of her ruined rice fields and Mr. Hadley’s suggestion to replant. She looked out over the marshland, torn between despair and hope. “Ask Mr. Hadley to plant my first rice field again if he can. I’ll be over there soon to pay him for the seed and the workers’ wages.”
“That’s the spirit, ma’am.” Daniel grinned as he set the oars into the locks. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I picked up the newspaper when I was in town. I already read it, so I thought you might like to have it.” He took it from his haversack and handed it up to her. Then he pushed off into the creek and was soon lost from view among the marsh grasses.
Charlotte headed back to the house, unfolding the paper as she went. The front page was taken up with news of the coming inauguration of the new governor, Mr. Scott, who had been swept into office on a strong Negro vote. The Republican takeover of the statehouse was only the latest outrage among the planters, the main topic of conversation these days.
She turned the page and went stock-still as she read the headline, her stomach plummeting, her heart knocking hard against her ribs.
Eighteen
Pelican Cottage
Pawley’s Island, SC
June 30, 1868
General James Longstreet
New Orleans, Louisiana
General Longstreet,
I write to you on a matter of utmost urgency. My employer and your friend from the war, Nicholas Betancourt, departed Georgetown District, South Carolina, in mid-May, bound for your home in New Orleans. I have had no word from him since, and a letter I sent him in your care went answered.
The local newspaper of Thursday last brings news of the yellow-fever epidemic in your city. I pray for your health, General, for the health of all the citizens, and of course for that of Mr. Betancourt, whose two small daughters remain in my care and who are anxious for his safe return.
I’m writing in the hope that this letter will find its way to your door and to Mr. Betancourt. His children and I would be most grateful for any news of him.
Charlotte signed and sealed the letter and tucked it into her desk drawer just as Marie-Claire rushed inside, bare feet slapping against the wood floor. “Guess what, Ma’m’selle? Some men are fighting down on the beach.”
“Fighting?” Charlotte rose from her chair. “Where’s your sister?”
“Over at Miss Augusta’s. They’re making a rag doll.” Marie-Claire raked a tangle of dark hair off her face. “Mrs. Banks says the men are fighting about Independence Day. She says Mr. Banks is angry about the elec
tion of that horrid Yankee, Mr. Scott, and that we ought not even celebrate Independence Day at all. But we are celebrating, aren’t we, Ma’m’selle? Anne-Louise and I want to go fishing and make a bonfire and watch the fireworks. You said we could. You promised.”
“I know I did.” She sighed. Politics aside, the last thing she felt like doing was celebrating. Nicholas might be taken ill, or worse. An outbreak of the fever could decimate a city in a matter of days. She turned away so Marie-Claire wouldn’t see the worry in her eyes. “We’ll carry on with our plans regardless of what others choose to do.”
Marie-Claire beamed.
“Now, please tell Anne-Louise it’s time to make lunch.”
She went out to the kitchen to prepare the vegetables Daniel had brought. After their meal she settled the girls at the table with their books and their needlework and began sewing a shirt for the missionaries. Her needle plied the cloth in slow, uncertain stitches, her thoughts rattling around in her head like marbles in a jar. If Nicholas was alive, he would have written by now. If he had fallen ill, or worse, surely General Longstreet or someone would have sent word. Perhaps Nicholas had written and even now the letter was waiting for her in Georgetown.
She finished off a sleeve, knotted the thread, and snipped it. Papa had counseled patience and faith. But as she watched the sun slipping down the summer sky, all she felt was fear.
“Here come the Demeres.” Marie-Claire turned from the window and let the curtain fall back into place. “I hope Bess remembered to bring her birding book.”
The first day of July had arrived clear and white-hot on a sultry breeze that stirred the curtains at the open windows. At ebb tide, the calm sea mirrored the sun-bleached sky. Charlotte closed her book, eager to begin her lessons before the heat became unbearable.
Mr. Peabody halted the wagon, and the children piled off like ants from an anthill. Charlotte went to the door to usher them inside. John and Lucas ran to the table, leaving Bess and Susan behind.
