“Put the lambs in that far pen.” Colton pointed. “Once we start the shearing, we’ll do the young ones last and keep their wool separate.”
When they had all the critters corralled, Colton grabbed the horns of one of the young rams and steered the 125-pound animal toward the shearing stall. As the two men worked together, Barnabas plied Colton with questions about the sheep. Having been a field hand most of his life, working with sheep filled the former slave with fascination.
“Mistuh Colton, how come dees sheeps don’t have no wool on da faces or underbellies?”
After watching Barnabas emerge from his shell of oppression and submission into a man who glowed joy and wonder, Colton didn’t mind answering his friend’s endless questions as they clipped the valuable wool and gathered it into burlap sacks.
“These are Gulf Coast sheep, and they are bred especially to thrive in the heat here in the south. Their wool is finer than the sheep raised in the north because the breed was developed with Spanish Merino sheep. The finer wool and not having any wool on their faces, legs, and bellies helps them adapt to hot weather and humidity in this area of the country.”
Barnabas clipped the last of the wool from the ram and turned it loose in the pen. The sheep bleated its indignation, and then trotted over to shove its face into the feeding trough.
Barnabas snagged the next candidate and guided it into the shearing stall. “You learn all dat from da preacher?”
“Mm hm.” The question stirred Colton’s heart. He’d learned that and so much more from the man he considered his mentor. He wished Pastor Winslow could lend him wise counsel regarding the young woman with whom he’d collided a few days ago. His inability to get Auralie Covington out of his mind disconcerted him.
“What you thinkin’ on so hard?” Barnabas’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
Colton bent over another sheep and began shearing. “I met a young woman in town the other day.”
Barnabas’s dark face split with a wide grin. “Dat so?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Colton shoved a pile of wool to one side and continued working. “This girl is Shelby Covington’s daughter.”
At the mention of Covington’s name, Barnabas halted mid-task and their gazes connected. After years of living on the Covington Plantation, the former slave no doubt had vivid memories of the cruelty he’d endured at the hands of Shelby Covington and his overseers. Painful memories engraved their marks in Barnabas’s eyes, prompting Colton’s stomach to tighten. Once again, gratitude spilled over Colton’s heart for God allowing him the opportunity to purchase his friend’s freedom.
Barnabas squatted and quietly returned to work, stuffing wool into the burlap sacks. “I recall he had a daughter. Long time ago, I ‘member her—she couldn’t’ve been more’n eleven or twelve years old—she used to come sneakin’ down to Slave Row with a basket. She give cookies and fruit to the chilluns, sometime she even play with the younger ones.” He leaned back on his heels and stared at the barn roof like the memory was painted there.
“She used to bring storybooks, and some of the li’l colored chilluns would sit with her and she showed dem words in the books.” He looked Colton in the eye and lowered his voice, even though there was nobody to overhear except the sheep. “She taught a lot o’ dem chilluns to read….” He lowered his gaze. “Till the day the overseer caught her and take her to her daddy. After dat, I don’ ‘member seein’ her no more. Heard she went off to a school somewheres.”
Shelby Covington’s daughter taught slave children to read? Colton could only imagine what her father must have thought about that. This new revelation gave him pause. He’d assumed Miss Covington was a pampered, indulged young woman who cared for nobody but herself. Perhaps he’d judged her too quickly. True, she’d been accompanied by her maid, but the slave was obviously owned by Shelby Covington and as such was obliged to do his bidding.
What Colton couldn’t figure out was why Miss Covington seemed so relieved to learn his name wasn’t Bolden, and why alarm flickered through her eyes when he asked about her connection with the Bolden clan.
Even more bewildering was why the memory of his encounter with Auralie Covington pervaded his senses and refused to leave him alone. He had no answer other than his initial wariness of her taking information to her father. But in the light of what Barnabas told him, that likelihood dimmed. No, for the first time since making Miss Covington’s acquaintance, a different picture of the young woman emerged, and it appealed to him.
Chapter 4
Colton heaved a satisfied sigh as he finished loading the bulging burlap sacks into the wagon. He planned to set out for Juniper Springs right after breakfast. The sale of the fine wool meant he could replenish their supplies, and he tucked his list into his hip pocket. He looked forward to drinking real coffee instead of chicory, and although Barnabas would never ask, Colton planned to bring home some peppermint sticks for his friend’s sweet tooth.
Colton climbed aboard and clucked to the team. Barnabas worked at repairing the corral gate next to the barn and waved as Colton rounded the curve in the road. Colton always advised Barnabas to stick close to the barn whenever Colton had to be away. Did it mean he lacked faith, or was it simply prudent? Colton pursed his lips. Nothing wrong with being cautious.
The late April morning treated his senses with the fragrance of spring grass and dogwood. A hint of honeysuckle lingered in the air. Jingling harnesses and the clopping of hooves blended with the song of a mockingbird. The serenade put a smile on Colton’s face.
Within the hour, Colton pulled the team to a halt in front of the Feed and Seed. Sloan Talbot stood out front with a record book, counting sacks of grain.
“Mornin’, Sloan.”
Talbot shaded his eyes and squinted. “Hey Colton.” He peered into the back of the wagon. “You got somethin’ for me?”
“We finished our shearing a day early.” Colton set the brake and tied off the reins. “Sure am glad, too.” He climbed down over the wheel.
Sloan glanced over the load. “What have you got there, about sixteen sacks?”
“Eighteen. The two bags tied with red cording are lambs wool.” Colton nudged his hat farther back with his thumb. “Are the prices you quoted me last month still holding?”
“Far as I know.” Sloan gestured toward the open door. “Bring ‘em over here, and I’ll start weighing them.”
Colton hauled the sacks to the scale and watched as Sloan balanced each load with counterweights and tallied them up.
“Say, what do you think about Covington running for governor?”
Colton hoped he’d be able to take care of his business, pick up his supplies, and head home without having to engage in any debates about Shelby Covington. “He’s not my first choice.”
“You don’t say? Why not?” Sloan appeared genuinely surprised that Colton wasn’t a supporter of the local candidate.
“I don’t feel he has the best interests of the small farmers at heart, and I suspect he’d lead us into secession.” Colton dusted off his hat.
Sloan flapped one hand at Colton. “That ain’t going to happen, because that Lincoln fellow can’t win the presidential election.” The man pointed toward the sky, as if testifying to gospel truth. “You mark my words. Either Breckenridge or Douglas is going to win the presidency, and all this talk of secession will fade away. Won’t be no need with one of them running things in Washington.” Sloan stopped short. “That’s right, I forgot. You’re one of those fellows who’s speaking out against secession. Don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to preserve Georgia’s right to choose the way of life we want to follow.”
Colton drew in a slow breath. Sloan Talbot wasn’t the first man with whom he’d disagreed over the issue of slavery. “But I do believe in preserving the right to choose. I believe all men should have that freedom.” He paused, letting his words settle with the full impact of their meaning. “It’s morally wrong for one man to own another.”
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Sloan smirked. “What are you talkin’ about? You got yourself a slave out there at your place. You wouldn’t be able to get all your work done without that boy of yours.”
The words hung on the tip of Colton’s tongue. Barnabas wasn’t a slave any longer. He worked for Colton because that’s what he chose, not because he was forced. Barnabas gave Colton an honest day’s work and took pride in what he did, the way man was made to do. Yes, Barnabas was free, but telling Sloan would be like spitting into the wind.
Sloan smiled like a bird-fed cat and appeared to think he’d won the argument. Changing Sloan’s mind was unlikely, but Colton had to try.
“I believe Abraham Lincoln is going to be our next president. Georgia’s current governor, Joseph Brown, is indecisive. He’s not taken a position one way or the other on these issues. Shelby Covington thinks secession will preserve states’ rights, but all it will preserve is big landowners’ right to own slaves. If he’s elected and alienates those businesses in the north who purchase the goods produced by Southerners, it will break the backs of the small farmers.
“But the ones who will suffer most of all are those people who are bought and sold at the slave markets and live in bondage, forced to work like animals. Some live in worse conditions than the animals. I can’t vote for a man who endorses slavery.”
Sloan clamped his mouth closed. His lips thinned out and curved downward at the corners. He closed his tally book and tucked it under his arm. “You know, Colton, I just remembered. I got a notice the other day from the mills in New Jersey and Massachusetts that the price of wool dropped. Ain’t going to be able to pay you the price I quoted last month.” He stuck one thumb in his belt and straightened his shoulders.
Colton stared at Sloan, a man he considered a friend. Or he had at one time. A spark of anger ignited in his belly, but he doused it. Going toe-to-toe with Sloan on the sidewalk wouldn’t raise the price of wool, nor would it change Sloan’s thinking. “What is the going rate now?”
Sloan quoted a price per pound that equated to approximately half what Colton expected. Before he had a chance to digest the bad news, Sloan tossed the record book down on the boardwalk and spoke again. “Owen Dinsmore at the freight depot tells me shipping rates are going up. He said it costs twice as much to ship freight as it did last month. Must be all those ugly rumors about Lincoln getting elected.” Sloan finished his declaration with a sneer.
Colton shook his head. “Would you mind showing me that notice you received from the mills?”
Sloan lifted his shoulders and held out his hand, fingers splayed. “My desk is so messy. It’d probably take me all day to find it.”
“That’s all right.” Colton kept his tone even. “While you search for it, I’ll go by the freight office and confirm that shipping price with Owen.” He slid his gaze sideways at the stacked burlap sacks. “In the meantime, I’ll just take my wool and load it back on the wagon so nobody makes a mistake and accidentally spills coal oil on it, or something like that.”
He began hefting the packed wool into the back of the wagon, indignation swelling in his chest.
“There ain’t no need for you to do that, Colton.” As Colton expected, a thread of desperation rang in Sloan’s voice at the prospect of losing his agent’s commission.
Colton continued loading. It wasn’t hard to figure out Sloan intended to get full price for the wool when he sold it to the Northern mills.
“Where else you going to take your goods? I’m the only agent in town who buys wool.”
Colton didn’t miss a beat. “You’re not the only agent in north Georgia. The agents in Gainesville have always paid about three cents a pound more than you do. It’ll take me a couple of days to get there and back, but the money will make the trip worthwhile. If Harry Jeffers in Gainesville tries to tell me the price of wool has dropped to half of its former price, I’ll take it to Athens.” He thumped a sack into the wagon and paused to shoot a pointed stare at Sloan. “I’m not giving my wool away.”
Colton brushed past Sloan to pick up another sack. He hoped the apprehension over leaving Barnabas alone for a few days didn’t show on his face as he continued to reload the wagon. He lifted another sack and slung it to his shoulder. Before he could step off the boardwalk, Sloan caught his arm.
“Look, Colton. There’s no need for this.” He jerked his thumb toward the doorway leading to his office. “I don’t think I can find that notice, and maybe I was mistaken about what it said. You know my memory ain’t what it used to be.” He took the sack from Colton’s arms and tossed it back onto the boardwalk. “We’ll just write up the deal for the same price as before and call it square. That all right with you?”
Colton leveled a stony gaze at Sloan. “That’s always been all right with me. But know this. I won’t continue to do business with a man who treats me unfairly because of a difference of opinion.”
Without another word, Sloan picked up the record book and began tallying the weights he’d written down. A few moments later, he showed Colton the totals.
Colton gave a nod and a grunt. “That’s a fair price. I’ll just finish loading these sacks while you get my money.”
Confusion etched deep wavy furrows across Sloan’s forehead. “Where’re you taking them?”
Colton lifted his eyebrows. “I just want to make sure they arrive at the freight depot safely. I’ll be back in a half hour with the shipping invoice.”
Sloan’s face reddened and he curled his hands into fists at his sides, but he turned on his heel and stomped into the office.
Colton finished loading the sacks and turned the wagon around. Relief washed through him. Leaving Barnabas alone at the farm for days at a time, even with Free there to bark a warning, filled him with trepidation. After dropping off the wool at the freight depot, Colton confirmed his suspicions. Owen Dinsmore quoted him the same shipping rates as always.
Colton’s rumbling stomach reminded him it was nearly lunchtime. He pulled up at the hitching rail outside the mercantile and climbed three steps up to the boardwalk.
Clyde Sawyer greeted him as he entered. “Howdy, Colton. How’s things out at your place?”
“Just fine, Clyde. How’s Betsy?”
A wide smile filled Clyde’s face, and his gray whiskers wiggled the way they always did when he spoke about his wife. “You know my Sweet Pea. She knows everything that goes on in Juniper Springs and doesn’t mind talking about it. Jack McCaffey at the Sentinel told me the other day Betsy’s going to put him out of business.”
Colton grinned. “You better not let Betsy hear you say that.”
“Did I hear my name?” The curtains dividing the storeroom from the front of the mercantile parted and a gray-haired woman with snapping green eyes stepped out. “Clyde, are you telling tales again?”
“Aw, Sweet Pea, you know I’d never do that.” Clyde winked at Colton and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “After you’ve been married for as long as me and my Sweet Pea, you learn to just let them have their way.”
“I heard that.” Betsy narrowed her eyes and batted her hand at her husband. “Now what can we do for you today, Colton?”
Colton pulled his list from his hip pocket and handed it to Betsy. “I have some empty crates in the wagon. Thought I’d go grab a bite to eat over at Maybelle’s and pick up the supplies afterwhile.”
Betsy sent Colton a warm smile. “That’ll be fine. Clyde honey, go and get the crates out of Colton’s wagon.”
“Yes, Sweet Pea.” Clyde’s placating tone brought an immediate hissing sigh from his wife, but before she could retort, he pecked her on the cheek.
Colton guffawed. The couple pretended to fight like a pair of alley cats at times, but their affection for each other was always evident. He backed up in mock wariness.
“Think I’ll just go on to Maybelle’s before the fur starts flying in here.” He grinned at Clyde and exited.
He greeted a few folks on the boardwalk as he strode past the ca
binetmaker and hotel. A small crowd gathered down the street near the newspaper office. As Colton approached, a man held up the latest edition of the Sentinel. Splashed across the front page, the headline read COVINGTON RUNS FOR GOVERNOR.
Auralie stepped out the door of the newspaper office having dropped off the note to the editor as her father had directed. She picked up her flowing lavender skirts to keep from dragging the hem in the dusty red clay as she and Mammy made their way across the street to Frances Hyatt’s dressmaker shop for her fitting.
A small crowd congregated on the side of the street nearest the newspaper office. As she and Mammy stepped around them, Auralie heard one man declare, “Joseph Brown is bad enough, but Covington would make a worse governor than Brown, if that’s possible.”
She slowed her steps and listened to the derogatory remarks being made about her father.
“All Covington is interested in is putting more money in his own pocket.”
“Speaking of money, did you read the part of that article about the Boldens? That entire clan is backing Covington.”
“Thick as thieves, they are.”
“What do you think, Colton?”
Auralie froze in her tracks. The very man whose image invaded her dreams stood among these people who had nothing but negative things to say about her father. She peered through the crowd and caught a glimpse of his profile, and her heart hiccupped.
“I believe we must examine our own conscience to determine whether or not a man like Shelby Covington is the best choice for governor. It’s the responsibility of every man who casts a vote to seek God’s guidance and not be swayed by unethical granting of political favors.”
Auralie couldn’t tear her eyes away from Colton. Deep in her heart, she couldn’t deny what he said was true. When he finished speaking he turned, and for a fleeting moment their gazes collided. She tried to read his expression when he caught sight of her. His eyes softened into an apologetic grimace, but she doubted he regretted saying what he did. Only that she’d heard him say it. He lifted his hand and started to speak, but she spun around.
Brides of Georgia Page 19
