“Foolish girl,” said Mrs. Gordon, not unkindly, as Hannah rubbed the painful hoof-shaped bruise that was forming on her leg. “Here, I shall help you.”
She put her hand over Hannah’s and guided her. Soon Hannah was sending great shoots of milk into the bucket. “Hey, look, Mrs. Gordon, I’m doing it! I’m milking a cow!”
Mrs. Gordon gave her a knowing smile. “Then it will be your job from this day forth. Every morning and every evening, mind.”
This wasn’t the only animal experience for Hannah. She was to feed the hens their ground corn, put out fresh water for them, and collect their eggs from the coop. Hannah thought it would be fun to collect eggs, but when she leaned inside the dark henhouse, every perch was occupied by a live hen. Mrs. Gordon told her to reach under each bird and collect any eggs she felt there.
Nervously, Hannah wiggled a hand under the first hen, and felt the smooth cozy feathers against her fingers. Just as she wrapped her hand around the hard, warm egg, the hen squawked and pecked her. It didn’t really hurt, but Hannah was so shocked, she squeezed the egg, breaking it. She grimaced, and held up her hand, dripping egg, for Mrs. Gordon to see.
“Quickly, take the hen out and muck out her place,” Mrs. Gordon scolded. “Elsewise, she will eat her own egg, and acquire a taste for them.”
“Ugh, cannibal chickens,” Hannah groaned, wincing as she scraped out the straw and chicken muck with her dirtiest hand.
And then there were the pigs.
Hannah wasn’t expected to be in charge of tending the pigs, because a slave called Tony had that responsibility, but she did have to feed them kitchen scraps. It didn’t sound too hard: She only had to tip the kitchen swill into a wooden trough.
When she came to the trough, however, the pigs were already waiting for her. Tony saw her hesitation, and laughed. “Pigs are friendly, Hannah,” he said. “Don’t be afraid of them.”
She looked suspiciously at the enormous creatures, then as quickly as she could, she dumped the wooden bucket full of leftovers and kitchen peelings into the trough and hurriedly stepped away.
Behind her, one huge pig with a large scar running along his back, trotted up to Hannah, nipped at her skirt, and then leaned against her, almost knocking her off her feet.
“He’s just being a friendly pig, now,” Tony laughed as Hannah staggered in the mud. “Scratch him. He likes that.”
As the pig continued to press against her with what felt like all his weight, Hannah nervously leaned down with her free arm and scratched his back. It felt scaly, coarse and hairy. The pig responded by snuggling closer to her. She stepped aside a little to avoid being squashed, and then rubbed his back more enthusiastically. The pig flopped onto his side at Hannah’s feet, awaiting more attention. She burst out laughing.
“He likes you!” Tony said with a grin. “See, Hannah, I told you he’s friendly. Look at him.”
Hannah did as she was told, and the pig indeed appeared to be smiling contentedly. “I just wish,” she said, “he wasn’t so dirty.”
“Pigs ain’t dirty!” Tony exclaimed. “Have you been listening to Quashee? He’s one of those Moslems from Africa, and he don’t eat pig. But pigs ain’t dirty. Take a look around their trough, you see that?”
Hannah looked at where he was pointing. “There’s nothing there,” she said.
“Exactly!” Tony cried. “They don’t like their muck to be near their food. Now, that’s cleaner than a dog, ain’t it?”
“So where do they, um, use the bathroom?” she asked.
“Out in the woods. That’s where they spend most of their time. They like to run around, eating what they can, but they come back to us because we feed them.”
Hannah bent down and scratched the scarred pig. “Does he have a name?”
“No, no name, just Pig,” said Tony. “What do you want to call him?”
“Bacon,” Hannah said with a mischievous smile.
Hannah prepared three meals a day, but since most of them were ham and corn mush, they didn’t take much effort. Sukey came from the slave quarters one day a week to fetch the laundry to be washed, but Hannah found it hard to start a conversation with this grim-faced older woman. She, in turn, said very little to Hannah.
One rainy afternoon, Mrs. Gordon invited Hannah to sit and chat with her at the fireplace.
Handing her mistress a rough earthenware cup of hot water, Hannah said, “You don’t look much older than me. How long have you guys been married?”
Mrs. Gordon hesitated, and then she admitted, “I am seventeen, and we married but eighteen months ago. I am not Mr. Gordon’s first wife.”
“Did he get divorced or what?” Hannah said.
“Divorced? Of course not,” Mrs. Gordon said, offended. “His first wife died in childbed.”
Hannah, feeling awkward, quickly changed the subject. “So, how did you guys meet?”
Visibly relaxing, Mrs. Gordon smiled. “He came a-courting me in Charleston, at our town house. My mother had always said I would forever remain under her roof, for I am not the prettiest of girls, nor was my father the wealthiest of planters, and my mother is now a widow with only a small dowry to give my husband. But when I met Mr. Gordon, he was a widower all alone, and a rising man, and desirous of another wife.”
“So do you have any kids?” said Hannah, taking a sip of water.
Mrs. Gordon looked sadly into the middle distance. “I do not. Mr. Gordon has a son and a daughter. Robert, his son, manages Sidlaw, Mr. Gordon’s plantation in South Carolina, and his daughter, Betty, lives there also. Mr. Gordon had many more children with his wife Mary, but they are all dead and buried in South Carolina. My baby, Jonathan, is buried outside. He did not live but three days.” She pointed through the open door to a massive live oak tree, hung with trails of spindly pale green Spanish moss. Through the rain, Hannah spied the tiny stone marker under the shade of the sprawling branches.
She didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Gordon sighed again. “Jonathan died of the ague. It kills so many of us, the fever, and especially our babies. Oh, how I long for the day when we may return to Charleston. We have fever there too, of course, but the climate is healthier.”
Hannah wondered anxiously what this mysterious fever was, and she resolved to ask about it. Meanwhile, she decided to keep her hands washed and to avoid anyone sick.
“So Mr. Gordon is pretty rich, huh?” said Hannah, prying further. “I’m kind of surprised, because you guys don’t exactly live like kings, know what I’m saying?”
Mrs. Gordon frowned, and Hannah realized that she had overstepped the mark.
“Mr. Gordon is ambitious and wealthy,” Mrs. Gordon said firmly. “You are fortunate indeed that it was he who purchased your time, for little is expected of you. We do not spin our own thread, and the slaves provide most of our needs. What they do not provide, we purchase from England.”
This little speech seemed to remind Mrs. Gordon that Hannah was supposed to be doing some work. She stood and, with difficulty, lifted a bucket, wanly handing it to Hannah. Hannah, taking it, was surprised to find it wasn’t heavy at all. Mrs. Gordon was not a strong person.
“Now go fill it,” Mrs. Gordon said, pointing to the well, “and set the water to boil.” She gestured to a small black cauldron that squatted in the fireplace. “Then you may make the cornmeal mush.”
As Hannah waited for the water to heat over the fire, she thought about what Mrs. Gordon had told her about the family. If Mr. Gordon was rich as his wife claimed, she wondered again, why did they live like poor people? And how could Mr. Gordon have got rich if he was a poor boy from Dundee, Scotland?
Once the water was bubbling, Hannah threw in a couple of handfuls of cornmeal, took the wooden spoon that was hanging next to the fireplace, and stirred the mixture. Mrs. Gordon, who was sitting behind her, said gently, “You’ll need more.” Hannah added a couple of handfuls, and her mistress nodded, satisfied. “Now stir it again. I know you don’t eat cornmeal mush in England, for
my husband has told me so. But it is not difficult to make, as you now know.”
But it’s bland and boring, Hannah thought as she stirred and Mrs. Gordon sat. There was an awkward silence, and Hannah was relieved to hear the sound of Mr. Gordon’s return. She half-expected Mrs. Gordon to leap up and try to look busy, but she remained seated, staring into space.
Mr. Gordon walked in, hung up his black tricornered hat on a hook, and looked at his wife approvingly. He smiled for the first time Hannah had seen, and the smile transformed his face from forbidding and stern to cheerful and kindly. Hannah wished he looked like this all the time. “You need not tax yourself further,” he said sweetly to his wife, “now that Hannah is here. You are a lady, Mrs. Gordon, married to a gentleman. Never forget it. Now, what say you we have a look at what I have brought from Savannah?”
Mrs. Gordon beamed. Going outside, Mr. Gordon soon returned with a large wooden box from the wagon, and set it on the floor of the house. Grabbing a poker from the fireplace, he kneeled on the floor and easily jimmied open the box, breaking the lid as he did so. He pulled out great wads of straw, and then reached inside and carefully removed two small objects wrapped in brown paper and string. He handed them to his wife. Eagerly, she unwrapped a china teacup and saucer.
“It is a tea service,” Mr. Gordon said. “I ordered it from London with the profits from our last shipment. I do believe that all the contents of this box, at least, arrived safely, but there is more in the back of the wagon. I shall have Cuffee remove them to the house in due course. Best of all is what I have ordered for you in the next shipment.” His eyes twinkled. “It is a new carriage.”
In wonder, Mrs. Gordon examined the delicate cup and saucer, a huge smile spreading across her careworn face.
Next, Mr. Gordon pulled another two brown paper packages from his pockets, and held them up. “Here is tea, and here a loaf of sugar. You will find a teapot and all the necessary equipment for tea-making in the boxes. Mrs. Gordon, you will soon make tea. Once the carriage arrives from London, God willing, you may call on other ladies in the parish. I promise you, we shall join Charleston society ere long. My son Bobby told me in his letter that our rice crop this year shall be beyond all expectations.” His eyes grew moist, and Mrs. Gordon’s chin trembled.
Why were the Gordons getting emotional over a tea set? Hannah was confused, but she kept on stirring her corn porridge, saying nothing. The Gordons’ affairs had nothing to do with her, after all. Suddenly she felt very lonely, and she glanced over at Mrs. Gordon. But Mrs. Gordon was paying her no attention. She was still sitting proudly, turning her tea cup this way and that.
As she did so, Hannah noticed a gold ring gleaming on her finger. The design was very curious, and it rang a bell in her memory. Could it be the ring that Brandon and Alex had found on the skeleton in Snipesville?
And if it was the same ring, was Mrs. Gordon the skeleton?
The Osborn household in St. Swithin’s Parish, Georgia, was not a happy place. Brandon worried constantly about Hannah. He also heard Mrs. Osborn weeping every night, and during the day, saw an ashen-faced Mr. Osborn walking around in a daze.
The house really was nothing more than a barn. At night, the Osborns climbed a stepladder into the loft, where a desk in the corner served as Mr. Osborn’s study during the day. The “house” had come supplied with very little other furniture, and Brandon slept on the ground floor, on a sack stuffed with straw.
Working alongside Brandon, Mrs. Osborn made a desultory effort to clean the barn, which was coated in dust and cobwebs. She didn’t seem at all bothered by spiders, but the first time she saw a huge cockroach, she almost screamed the place down.
Brandon had rushed to her when he heard the commotion, and he smiled when he saw its cause. “It’s just a palmetto bug,” he said, before realizing that it was most unlikely that an eighteenth century English boy would know the name for a Georgia cockroach. “Er, someone told me about them,” he added hurriedly. “They’re harmless. They don’t bite or anything.”
Mrs. Osborn seemed only a little mollified by this news, and she had more wildlife worries. “My husband tells me that there are many, many snakes here in the summer,” she told Brandon anxiously. “He advised me that I should learn which are harmless, and which deadly.”
“I can help you with that,” Brandon said. “I read about them.” Mrs. Osborn smiled at him gratefully, just as they heard a rap at the door. Brandon opened it, to find their first visitor waiting on the doorstep.
Mr. Jones, they quickly learned, was their closest neighbor. He was a ruddyfaced man with long thinning hair, a bulbous nose, and a southern English accent. He had brought presents: a large sack of corn and another of beans, along with a large and rather moldy-looking ham. Nobody but Brandon seemed at all worried by the mold on the ham, so he reckoned it had to be normal.
The Osborns peppered Mr. Jones with questions about the Georgia colony. Mrs. Osborn was especially anxious to learn about life alongside slaves, and Mr. Jones was happy to advise.
“They are savages, ma’am, Africans and Indians alike,” he proclaimed, and then spat into the fireplace. “But I daresay we have them under control. We took great vengeance against the Yamasee Indians when they attacked us in 1715, and against the rebel negroes in South Carolina some years ago. That scared them all into submission. Not, I say, that we ever lessen our vigilance, Mr. Osborn, especially here on the frontier.”
Mr. Osborn was clearly disturbed by this information. “What was this slave rebellion of which you speak? I’m afraid I have no recollection . . . .”
“The rebellion at Stono, called Cato’s Conspiracy,” said Mr. Jones. “Of course, it was some dozen or so years ago, and I know not whether much news spread of it in England. The rebels were Africans, new-arrived slaves from Angola, and they killed dozens of whites before our men halted them.”
Mr. Osborn looked rattled, and Mrs. Osborn was blinking back tears. Mr. Jones clearly realized he had stuck his foot in his mouth, and he added hurriedly, “Of course, the Negro Act that followed the uprising created strict rules to control the slaves’ behavior, although I daresay its provisions are not so strictly enforced as they ought to be. The law here in Georgia says that white men must always carry a pistol, but . . . His voice trailed away as he saw the aghast looks on the Osborns’ faces. Boy, Brandon thought, this guy doesn’t know when to shut up. He’s scared the heck out of everyone.
“Now, Mr. Osborn,” Mr. Jones said after an embarrassed pause. “I come not purely on a social call. I come also as my duty, for it is my honor to serve as the chairman of the vestry of St. Swithin’s Parish.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Brandon said, lifting up a finger to interrupt, “but I thought a vestry was a little office?”
Mr. Osborn patiently explained that the vestry was also the name of a committee of important men who attended the church. They not only ran the church, but also the entire parish. As far as Brandon could tell, they were basically what would one day be called the county government.
Mr. Jones, who hadn’t so much as glanced at Brandon before now, looked at him appraisingly. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Osborn,” he said. “Would this bright lad be your son?” He looked expectantly at Brandon.
Mr. Osborn shook his head. “No, sir, he is not. The boy Brandon is my servant. I brought him to assist me in farming the glebe land.”
Mr. Jones glanced at Brandon again, and then addressed Mr. Osborn. “But, begging your pardon, sir, field work is increasingly reserved for negroes. The lad is literate, yes? A boy like Brandon here will want to rise in society as soon as he is able, and he may already be able to command a decent wage in Savannah. No, a gentleman such as yourself should consider buying a slave or two for domestic work.”
Mr. Osborn anxiously bit his lip, and then, to Brandon’s shock, he said, “I see your point, sir, and I should be glad to purchase slaves.” Brandon thought, He’s just saying that to make nice to Mr. Jones. Isn’t he?
“However,” Mr. Osborn continued, “my means are limited, sir. I must know what salary the vestry intends to settle upon me.”
Here Mr. Jones became uncomfortable. “Mr. Osborn, we were given to understand that since you are a missionary, you will receive a salary from London, from the honorable Society for the Propagation of the Gospel . . . .”
“I will indeed sir,” said Mr. Osborn, “but my salary from London is modest. The Society expects this parish to assist in my support.”
Mr. Jones was now clearly embarrassed. “But, Mr. Osborn, St. Swithin’s is a frontier parish, and it is sparsely inhabited. We were led to believe that you would make up your salary by serving as an itinerant, ministering to the surrounding parishes as well as to ours . . . .”
“I was given no such instruction,” Mr. Osborn sputtered.
“That is as may be, sir,” said Mr. Jones, shaking his head, “but we have so few settlers in this parish, indeed in any parish outwith Savannah and Augusta. You will find that one parish cannot by itself support you.”
But Mr. and Mrs. Osborn appeared so upset by the news that Mr. Jones softened a little. He sighed, and spread his hands. “Sir, I shall raise the matter of your salary with the vestry. In the meantime, I urge you to ride to our neighboring parishes of St. Matthew and St. John, and ask for their support, although I warn you that they are even less prosperous than we.”
“I am sorry, sir,” said Mr. Osborn firmly, “but I do not consider this a satisfactory alternative. I must urge you for more support from this vestry. And I must protest also that this house is not sufficient for one of my position. If I may be so bold, I am shocked that my office as a clergyman, my gentlemanly status, and my education do not command greater respect from you.”
Mr. Jones did not answer, but stood up to leave, and he and Mr. Osborn shook hands. Mr. Jones gave him a stern look. “I shall see what I can do,” he said abruptly. “I daresay the three other gentlemen of the vestry will call upon you within a few days. It would be wise not to discuss your salary with them, and to leave the matter in my hands.”
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 13
