by Texas
A man is stupid, insanely stupid, to believe that he is somehow socially superior if he grows a few pounds of long-staple cotton with its easy black seed while his neighbor in Georgia grows an immense crop of short staple with its difficult green seed. The world of cotton is dominated by the short-staple men, and if you have any sense, you'll become one of us.
But such gnawing decisions were relegated to the shadows that evening when Maximus Cobb entertained the Charleston elite in his home by the sea. Now the big gates at the rear were thrown open: six slaves in blue livery guided the broughams and phaetons as they deposited the plantation gentry at the long porch; Suetonius, in gorgeous attire suitable for a French palace, greeted each guest by title and name; and Trajan, in similar garb, led them to the punch table for their beginning glass.
An orchestra played. Couples danced quietly both in the large room and on the porch. Candles in the glittering chandelier from Bohemia and refined whale oil in the lamps along the brocaded walls cast a soft light on the fine faces. Everyone seemed glad to have Persifer back home where he belonged.
The two Cobb boys, as they would always be called while their father lived, passed among the guests, treating each with lavish deference, aware that one day soon they must find husbands and wives for their children from the families here represented. No Cobb within memory had ever married anyone not from Charles-
ton. But if the Cobbs had to be polite to the guests against the day when they would have to seek marriage alliances, so did the guests—-especially those with smaller plantations—have to be especially attentive to the Cobbs, for their children would represent the best catches in the 1850s.
The evening was one of the most festive that the Cobb mansion had known in years, and it was capped when Maximus banged on the floor with one of his canes to announce: 'We welcome home our son Persifer, mentioned in dispatches from the various battlefields in Mexico. Tomorrow he resumes stewardship of our plantations, and we wish him well.' Glasses were raised; toasts to Persifer's success were drunk; and in every carriage that pulled out of the circular driveway at midnight, someone asked: 'And what will young Somerset do now?'
Young Somerset was the gentlemanly kind of man who would never challenge his brother's assumption of the Cobb plantations, but he was not allowed to surrender because his wife, Millicent, one of the sagest women in Charleston, would not. Under her coaching, he spent the closing months of 1848 outwardly calm, apparently preoccupied with the job of instructing Persifer in the complexities of the big plantation on Edisto, and inwardly contemplating a score of practical alternatives which Millicent kept placing before him.
'You must see, Sett,' she said with unwavering determination. 'We really have to leave. And I think it ought to be done before this year ends.'
'No, I'd never quit before the next crop is planted. But go we shall.'
They had six sensible choices, which Millicent reviewed whenever they talked, keeping them in strict order of preference: 'First, buy our own plantation near Charleston, but have we the money? Second, take over the Musgrave place, which their old people have suggested from time to time . . . not directly, of course, but they have intimated. Third, manage one of the great plantations, of which there seem to be many, but I wouldn't care for that, and I'm sure you wouldn't, either. Fourth, with Persifer leaving the army, you could join, but it could only be in the militia, and you'd have to start so low. Fifth, join your cousin Reuben in Georgia, but that sounds so desolate after you've known Charleston. Sixth, pull up stakes and move to fresh new land, new friends in Mississippi.'
Unemotionally, and always willing to explore even the more distasteful alternatives, they analyzed the positives and negatives of each solution and found themselves on dead center, almost
equally doubtful about each of the options. They were hindered in making a decision because they could obtain no clear understanding of how much money they controlled. Sett had a pnvate bank account, of course, but it contained only eight thousand dollars; he had never received a wage and had no land of his own to sell. He had always assumed that when his father died, there would be ample cash to distribute between the two sons, but then again, there might not be, because a great plantation family like the Cobbs often had 'much land, many Nigras, no cash,' as the saying went.
But now another Cobb woman entered the debate, never openly, never betraying her plot to anyone but her husband in the secrecy of the night. It was Tessa Mae, daughter of a family that had prospered only because it adhered tenaciously to one rule: 'Get possession of a good plantation and never borrow money against it.' In the darkness she whispered: 'Persifer, I'm glad you chucked the army. I needed you here at home. We must do everything to make Sett and Lissa get out.'
i wouldn't do anything . . .'
'Perse, it's them or us. Mark my words, if quiet Sett stays around long enough, he's going to lose that modest charm and become a real bastard.'
Tessa!'
'Keep applying pressure on him. I'll work on Lissa. But let's get them out of here.'
In early 1849, Millicent saw that any continued co-occupancy of the Cobb plantations was impossible: 'Sett, that Tessa Mae's a wily witch. Three times now she's suggested in various clever ways that we might be moving to Georgia. And mealy-mouthed Persifer, so tall and proper, he throws barbs at you. I'm fed up. I want to hear from your father himself what your financial prospects are, and I want to hear it now.' So, much against her husband's wishes, she marched down to the jetty alone, climbed into the longboat, and had the six slaves take her to The Battery, where she clanged her pretty way through the gates and confronted Maximus as he sat on the porch.
'Somerset and I need to know what money arrangements we can expect, Father.'
The old man harrumphed. He had never discussed such matters with women, not even with his wife, one of the Radbourne girls. Now he equivocated: 'Well, with Edisto . . . our income from all that land ... he has no cause to worry.'
'But if we wanted to purchase a plantation of our own . . .' Millicent said boldly.
'That would be foolish in the extreme, wouldn't it?'
'We don't think so,' she said bluntly.
'Well, I do,' and he would discuss the matter no further. He did invite her to stay for lunch, and though she was strongly disposed to reject the courtesy, because he was a lonely old man hungry for companionship, she did stay, but that was a mistake, for when the slaves were gone from the room she said bluntly: 'Father, you really must explain to Sett and me what our position is going to be . . .'
'When I die?'
'I didn't say that.'
'But you meant it.'
'I did not mean it. I meant that my husband is a grown man of thirty-two and you're treating him like a boy of thirteen.'
'Why do you need to know about money? Haven't you always been cared for?'
In a moment of anger she snapped: 'Because we might want to move to Georgia.' As soon as the words were out she regretted them, for at the reiteration of a name which had given him much grief he seemed to wilt, as if his long-absent brother, now dead, had thrown at him once more the word Georgia.
'You would go to Georgia?' He uttered the word as if it represented some leprous site denied the graciousness of Carolina, and Millicent was prepared to retract, but before she could do so, Trajan came in to clear the table, and it was in that moment, seeing this impeccable black man, that she thought: When we go we must take Trajan with us.
Upon her return to the house on Edisto, which they now shared with the Persifer Cobbs, she very quietly told Sett: 'Your father practically dismissed me. Would tell me nothing. On Edisto we're millionaires. On the streets of Charleston we're paupers. Now I want you to find out in exact dollars how much we have.'
When Somerset, as an obedient son, learned that his wife had actually revealed their conversations about going to Georgia, he was aghast, for he appreciated how deeply this must have hurt his father. Still, he had long realized that sooner or later the possibility of
such a move must surface, and when Millicent's unemotional review of the situation ended, he concluded that perhaps she had accomplished something desirable in clearing the air. Next day they posted a letter to Cousin Reuben in Georgia, asking him to come down and give advice.
In such speculation, whether family or public, Sett remained so passive that some considered him slow, especially when his wife's opinions were so pertinent, but it was genteel reserve rather than
lack of comprehension which prevented him from airmg his opinions. So he allowed her to pose the options, Georgia or Mississippi, with her favoring the longer jump west and he the shorter. However, each was willing to adjust to the other's preference.
On a fine summery day in June, when the cotton was well established and hoed, Reuben Cobb and his wife, Petty Prue, each twenty-six years old and brimming with vigor induced by the Georgia uplands, roared into Charleston and pretty well blew the place apart. Reuben was six feet tall, slim and fine-looking like all the Cobb men, but with fiery red hair, which none of the others had. He wore long mustaches, also red, which he liked to twirl when disputing a point in a powerful voice which rode down opposition. At the first big dinner in his honor, given grudgingly by his uncle Maximus, he was out on the porch arguing cotton, when his loud exclamations penetrated the room inside as he boasted, to the disgust of certain gentlemen who specialized in Sea Island: 'Short staple is king. Those Manchester mills can't get enough of it. And whether you're ready to believe it or not, the man who rules short staple is goin' to rule this country.'
The eye of the Georgia hurricane was Petty Prue, the tiny, winsome daughter of a Methodist clergyman who had never planted a row of cotton in his life but who had taught his little girl all she needed to know: To get along in this life, you got to please people.' She was five feet one, weighed not over a hundred pounds, and had cultivated such an excessive Southern drawl that she could pronounce even the briefest word in three syllables. With her, more became moe-weh-err, delivered in a high, lilting voice. She looked directly at anyone who spoke to her, smiling ravishingly at women and men alike, as if each in turn were the prettiest or wittiest in the room. She was a giddy little bird, all gold and silver, who engulfed the normal reticence of Southern decorum in an irresistible enthusiasm which bubbled unceasingly from her pouting lips.
Two women, watching the visiting Cobbs from a corner, observed. 'You can tell they're not from Charleston.' But they were clearly eligible to belong had they wished, for they were charming, volatile and, according to Georgia standards, well bred, and at every critical moment they assured listeners of their undeviating loyalty to the South.
'Our men could sweep the field, if it ever came to a test of arms/ Reuben boomed from his position near the punch bowl. 'Ask Persifer. In the Mexican War hardly a single Northern officer measured up to the best of ours. Don't lecture me about railroad
By the time that first noisy evening ended, the ladies and gentlemen of Charleston were satisfied that the Cobbs of Georgia were not only acceptable but also downright enjoyable: 'Shame he ever left us. We need men like him.' And as for Petty Prue: 'Clearly not gentlefolk, and rather loud, but she has a quality that melts the heart. Let's have them over.'
However, it was on the plantation that the Georgia Cobb revealed his true merit, for Reuben had the rare ability of looking at evidence and quickly reaching sound conclusions, a skill that few men commanded: 'Your soil's failing, Persifer. Per nigger, there's no way you can do well on this plantation.' And when Persifer said that he could always import fertilizer, Reuben said loudly: 'Waste half your profits. At your age, with your skills, you ought to get out of here.'
'And go where?' Persifer asked with obvious disdain. 'Georgia?'
'No. It's doomed, too. Yield per nigger way down.'
'Where then?'
'Texas.'
At the sound of this unfortunate word, Persifer Cobb winced; that any man in his right mind might wish to leave the cultivated paradise of Edisto Island and emigrate to the savage wilderness of Texas was so improbable that it did not even deserve comment. But Sett Cobb, to whom such a proposal had never before been suggested, was intrigued.
Now Reuben took from his pocket a clipping from a Louisiana newspaper, and when Persifer read it, echoes of an earlier discussion began to vibrate: 'I saw these figures at an office in New Orleans.' And there they were. South Carolina, 250 pounds of cotton per acre. Texas, 750.
'And you believe these figures?' Persifer asked, and with almost trembling excitement Reuben replied: 'I've written to the experts. They assure me that for the first years, virgin soil and all that, these results have been proved time and again.'
'But for how long?' Persifer asked, and Reuben replied: 'Long enough to make a fortune. By then you'd be ready to move on to fresh land. Damn, this could be the most exciting adventure in America. Perse, Sett, let's all go west.'
The idea that a Cobb would exchange Edisto for Texas was so repugnant to Persifer that he dismissed it haughtily, but when Reuben and little Petty Prue were alone with the Somerset Cobbs, the discussion continued: 'Sett, Lissa, we must all go to Texas, really. We're used up in Georgia. You're obviously used up in Edisto. We can buy land, the best bottomland, for two dollars an
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acre. Take our wagons, our niggers, money enough to start a new paradise.' He stopped abruptly and asked: 'Sett, how much hard cash could you scrape together?'
'Now that's difficult to say. I have a few thousand saved but . . .'
'Don't tell me "a few thousand." How much?'
'1 have eight thousand, and I suppose Father would want to give me something.'
'Don't count on that. His father gave my father nothin'. But you could take your slaves with you?'
'Lissa and I have about six each, personal. We could surely take them.'
'Hell! Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm talking about fifty, sixty. Surely you could talk your family into at least fifty.'
Obviously he had for some months been reviewing the possibility, for he took from his pocket a carefully tabulated list of things he and Petty Prue could provide for such an expedition, and the Cobbs were amazed at its completeness: 'I'll provide the cotton gin, because it has to be the best. I'll provide the cotton seed, the best Mexican strain, tested on land like we'll find in Texas. I'll take the blacksmith shop.'
'How many wagons are you thinking about?' Somerset asked.
From another pocket Reuben produced a list of wagons, each specified as to size, the numbers of mules or oxen required to draw it, and its order of contents. Thirty-seven were numbered, at which Millicent asked: 'But why the frenzy? You don't have to move. We do.'
And then little Petty Prue, in her high-pitched voice and delightful accent, revealed her real reasons: 'Georgia's changed. Old men makin' new rules. What we seek is a new life where we can invest our money and our energy and build our own paradise.'
Millicent was startled to hear this giddy child speaking so boldly: 'You'd be willing to take such great risks?'
i want to take them. I'm bored with Georgia.' When she pronounced the word boe-we-edd it sounded amusing, but when Millicent saw the hard set of her chin, it wasn't funny at all. Now Petty Prue hammered at Lissa: 'After all, you sent the letter, we didn't. And you sent it because you knew you were finished here. It was one of your best ideas.'
But when the three Cobb families dined together on the second night, some of the things that motivated red-headed Reuben began to surface: 'Another reason I'd like to be in Texas, I'd like to keep my eye on the northern part of the Indian Territory that they're calling Kansas.' The word had never been mentioned be-
fore in Edisto, and it sounded strange the way Reuben said it, as if it carried terrible freight: 'Great decisions are going to be made in Kansas, and I want . . .'
'What decisions?' Millicent asked.
'Slavery. If those swine in the North can prevent us from carrying our slaves into open territory like Kansas, they can halt our entire progress.'
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'Will Texas remain slave?' Somerset asked, and his cousin cried: 'Without question. They fought Santa Anna because he wanted to end slavery. They know how to protect their rights.'
'I would not care to bet on anything, where Texas is involved,' Persifer said, but Reuben stopped this reasoning bluntly: 'Where are Texans from? Tennessee, a slave state. Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia, all slave. Texas will be there when we need her.'
'Will we need her?' Persifer asked, and a hush fell over the candlelit room. The long silence that followed was broken only by the chirping of crickets in the warm night air, until finally Reuben stated his beliefs:' 'I've met a few abolitionists. Sneaked into Georgia. Fine-looking men, but absolutely corrupt at heart, coming here to steal our property. They'll never surrender. But men like us three won't ever surrender, either. There must come a testing.'
'I should think you'd want to be here,' Persifer said, for he had heard that his Georgia cousin was a violent man.
'In Georgia, each good man will count for one. In Texas, he'll count for two.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because many of the big decisions will be reached there. Control of the West. Control of Kansas. And a role in helping to control the Mississippi. I want to be where I'll count double.'
The men now went onto the porch, where Somerset tried quietly to explain that he believed the real disparity between South and North was not slavery, but the callous way in which the North profited from Southern raw materials and then imposed through Congress excessive tariffs which prevented the South from obtaining the goods it needed from Europe.
Millicent, listening to an argument she had heard before, indicated to Petty Prue that she wanted to pursue further their abbreviated table discussion, so when Tessa Mae took herself to bed, the two younger women sat in the light of a flickering candle and discussed the tremendous matter of moving a civilization west for more than a thousand miles. 'Does it frighten you? 1 Millicent asked, and Petty Prue said brightly: 'Not a bit. Thousands are going to California all the time. If they can do it, we can easily
