The Freedom Star Part 5

Chapter Seven.

November 1860 Morgan stared across the table. Please, Lord, no more battles . . . not tonight. He pointed at the chair. "Enough of this. Take your seat."

"But Father," Patrick said, "that Black Republican b.a.s.t.a.r.d will bring us to ruin!" His long red locks bounced as he pounded the table.

"Sit down, and you will keep a civil tongue while you're in this house." Morgan shook his fork.

"Father, you are ignoring the issue of property rights." Patrick dropped into his chair. "If Lincoln takes the presidency, slavery will be outlawed in the territories. The South will never again have a stronger voice than we have today. Breckenridge will open the territories to slavery, and with that we'll gain political allies to help fight off those abolitionist n.i.g.g.e.r lovers."

"I am not ignoring the issue of slavery, but the question of the Union is at the fore. John Bell understands the importance of the Union. I dare say, Abraham Lincoln understands it better than your Mr. Breckenridge. Without the Union, the South is nothing-a collection of farms with no markets, pitiful rail lines, and scarcely any manufacturing."

"We have Europe. Great Britain, the French . . ."

"d.a.m.n the French." Morgan shook his head in disgust.

"Morgan!" Ella tapped her finger on the table. "It is no wonder your sons act so uncultured."

Morgan sighed. "Patrick, we need the North. We need the Union. Your secessionist rabble there in Charleston will tear this nation apart and we will be the poorer for it."

"Gentlemen, would one of you kindly pa.s.s the sweet potatoes?" Ella raised an eyebrow and locked her gaze on Morgan.

Morgan turned his head. "Tempie, come fetch the sweet potatoes for Miss Ella." He ignored Ella's frown and continued, "It is the responsibility of every son of our grand commonwealth that birthed the likes of Was.h.i.+ngton and Monroe to take a stand. We must ensure that the republic they founded is not torn asunder."

Patrick started to respond, but Ella shot him a stern glance and placed her finger to her lips.

Morgan took a deep breath. They'd had enough of politics. He must change the subject. Scanning the dining room, his gaze fell upon Polly. Sweet child. Takes after her mother-same delicate features.

"Polly, how are your studies?"

"I have mastered the romantic languages, Papa. Quel temps croyez-vous qu'il fera demain?" Polly raised both hands in a question and c.o.c.ked her head.

Morgan looked at Polly, then Ella. He shrugged.

"I think the weather will be quite stormy if you don't eat your greens." Ella turned to Morgan. "And I hear from Sarah Johnston that one of their nigras ran off yesterday."

"Yes, spoke with Sam last evening. I sent Sean to help with the search. They'll be needing all their slaves when the planting starts next spring. It's important that we support Johnston, same as he would us."

"I hope this isn't the start of more trouble." Ella dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "Some northerners were in South Boston last week. Folks said they were Quakers. There's talk they were trying to stir up the nigras."

Morgan shook his head. "I wish those d.a.m.ned Quakers would mind their own business. Last thing we need is trouble with the darkies. Remember that uprising over to Southampton County, what was that, thirty years ago?"

You mean with that that nigra preacher, Turner?" Ella said.

"That's the one." Morgan slapped the table. "Got the darkies so worked up they went out butchering innocent white folks. We don't need any G.o.d almighty Philadelphia Quakers getting our nigras riled again."

Patrick took a bite of biscuit, chewing as he spoke. "I talked to Clancy this morning. He said when they catch that n.i.g.g.e.r he'll be made an example of. If you ask me, a hundred lashes wouldn't be enough."

Morgan shot Patrick a stern look. "And n.o.body asked you."

"But Father, Sam Johnston doesn't pamper his n.i.g.g.e.rs. He understands the benefits of good discipline."

"What Sam does with his nigras is his business, but I won't hold with beating slaves on this farm. We sent you up there to Charlottesville so's they could learn you good business sense. They teach you anything at the university about husbanding your a.s.sets?"

"Whipping is training, no different than teaching a dog to fetch."

Morgan shook his head. "Why do you suppose Johnston's nigras are all the time running off, while ours are perfectly content?"

"They're content because life's too soft for McConnell slaves." Patrick rested his elbows on the table, his palms raised.

Morgan dismissed him with the wave. "As good Christians, we need to show the rest of the nation that slavery is a just, righteous inst.i.tution. We have a duty to treat our nigras good, same as we treat our livestock, or any valuable property."

"But not coddle them, Father."

"G.o.d intended the black race to use the strength of their backs, not their child-like minds." Morgan wagged a finger. "It is our Christian duty to be caring stewards. If we treat our nigras well, they will repay us with their love, their loyalty, and the sweat of their brows. No nigra ever ran from a good master, nor would they want to."

"Well Father, the day's coming when we'll wish somebody around here had paid closer attention to those n.i.g.g.e.rs." Patrick jerked his thumb toward the rear of the house. "Take that boy, Isaac. He spent so much time with Henry he's beginning to think he's white. There's one slave that surely needs a whipping."

"Enough, Patrick." Ella nodded at Morgan. "Your father has been dealing with the slaves since long before you were born. He is not only a smart businessman, but also a good Christian. You should heed his word."

Polly frowned. "Patrick McConnell, you lay a whip on Isaac, you'll answer to me . . . and Henry."

Patrick kicked his chair back as he stood. "Sometimes I think this family has turned into an abolitionist mob. Wouldn't surprise me to find all our nigras sitting around this very table come Christmas Day, sipping tea and eating cake-with y'all serving them!" He threw his napkin on his plate and stormed out.

Morgan caught Ella's worried look. He lowered his voice. "His pa.s.sions are stirred by the goings on with the elections. Once the presidential race is decided, he'll settle back to learning tobacco. Give him time."

_____.

"Lincoln in a Landslide!" The headlines jumped off the front page of the Richmond Daily Dispatch. Morgan tossed the newspaper on the lamp table and looked at Patrick seated on the sofa across the parlor. "It's finished, son. Your Democrats did no better than John Bell and his Const.i.tutional Unionists. The South must accept this result and move on."

"The Carolinas will not be accepting. Mississippi will not be accepting." Patrick pounded his fist into his open palm. "Word from Charleston is that South Carolina will leave the Union. Virginia must do likewise or we forfeit our rights as slave owners. Our way of life will end."

Morgan set his reading gla.s.ses on the newspaper. "Virginia is the birthplace of American democracy. She will never secede." He tapped his finger on the paper. "The Union cannot be ripped apart by the likes of Senator Chesnut and his Carolina cronies. When he speaks out against democracy and union, it's nothing short of treason."

"Treason? When the northern voters talk of taking away our rights and our means of a livelihood, as they did when they placed Lincoln on the throne, then it's high time we recognize that universal democracy is no friend to southern sovereignty. When the abolitionists can vote away our way of life we are no longer either safe or welcome in their union."

"Patrick, we solve nothing, you and I. You are my oldest. I'm relying on you to one day manage this farm for you and your brother. It is only important that we agree that the farm comes first. Without our tobacco we have no future."

Patrick grabbed his hat and walked to the door. He lifted the latch, then turned and faced Morgan. "Yes Father, and without our n.i.g.g.e.rs we have no tobacco."

Chapter Eight.

November 1860 Mist floated above the Dan River as the wagon approached. Isaac gazed absently at leaves swirling in the eddies around the bridge's large stone arches. Sean O'Farrell paid the toll, then flicked the reins. The muted plodding of the horse's hoofs on the dirt road gave way to echoed clops on the wooden planks within the darkness of the covered bridge.

Isaac had crossed that river years ago, in a time before the wide, two-lane bridge. Then he'd been in the back of the wagon, with Pa driving. The old Boyd's Ferry had carried them across to pick up a load of lumber from a mill in North Carolina. Now he rode up front.

Isaac glanced at the short, graying Irishman beside him. Mr. Sean was a good man. He got the work done, but he looked out for folks too. Isaac had sure enough seen worse.

Sean gave the horse the reins and rested his elbows on his knees. He turned to Isaac. "Well, me boy, yer off for a grand high adventure now, are ye?"

"I reckon, Mr. Sean. Never lived away from the farm before, except when me and Henry goes hunting up country. I expect I'll be learning right much from Mr. Day, but I reckon I'll be missing Mama's cooking some too."

Sean laughed. "Your ma give ye some vittles for the journey? Ye'd be wanting to share now with old Mr. Sean, would ye not?"

Isaac reached under the seat and produced a bundle wrapped in a bright red bandana. Sean's face beamed as he accepted one of the large golden biscuits.

The wagon rolled into the early morning sunlight at the far end of the bridge.

Sean took a bite, talking as he chewed. "I don't never tire of Florence's biscuits. Your ma's the best cook in all of Virginia. Just wish ye'd thought to bring along some sorghum."

They rode on in silence. The rhythm of wheels on the dirt road and the warmth of the autumn sun lulled Isaac into a quiet melancholy. He placed his hand on his chest, touching the wooden star beneath his s.h.i.+rt. What kind of master would Mr. Day be? Would he abide whippings?

Sean broke the silence. "How long did Mr. McConnell say ye'd be staying down here?"

"Not sure, Mr. Sean, a few months, I reckon. I'll stay *til he sends somebody to fetch me."

"Aye, and most likely that'll be me. You'll be missed around the farm, boy."

Isaac nodded. He'd miss that place too, especially Mama and Pa, and Henry . . .

The sun rose in the sky. Isaac dozed. Finally, Sean turned the horse. Isaac jerked awake as they entered the tiny village of Milton. A few wooden buildings dotted the main street. To the right sat a small red brick church with white columns and a pitched roof topped with a short steeple.

The wagon pulled in front of a large two-story brick building with three arched doorways. St.u.r.dy brick chimneys anch.o.r.ed both ends of the structure. Smoke belched from a metal chimney protruding through the roof of a one-story wooden addition.

"Here ye go, Isaac. This here be Yellow Tavern, yer home until Mr. McConnell sends for ye."

Isaac clutched his wooden star, took a deep breath, and climbed down. Sean O'Farrell pulled the bell chain beside the door. After a few moments, the door opened and a tall man stepped into the late morning sunlight. He appeared to be older than Isaac by a dozen years or so, with light almond skin and a full, closely cropped beard. The man wore brown trousers and a pinstriped s.h.i.+rt. Black garters adorned each arm. He wore a green eyeshade similar to those worn by the merchants in South Boston.

"So, this is Isaac, son of Abraham!" The stranger crossed the cobblestone walk. "I am pleased to meet you. My name is Thomas Day." The man offered his hand.

White folks did that, but it wasn't anything Isaac had ever done. He hesitated, then took the man's hand. As they shook, Isaac studied his host.

"Is there a problem, Isaac? You seem puzzled."

"Mr. Day, sir, if you doesn't mind me saying, you looks a mite young to do all what my pa says you done . . ."

Thomas placed his hand on Isaac's shoulder. "Forgive me." He chuckled. "I did not intend to mislead you. I am Thomas Day." He paused, then added, "Junior. When your pa spoke, no doubt he was referring to my father."

_____.

"Feed the furnace like so." Thomas tossed a shovelful of Virginia anthracite coal into the flames. "Now bank the fire thusly, then adjust the grate. Too much air and she'll blow. Too little air and we have no steam to run the machinery."

Isaac stared at the steam engine in the long wooden shed. "I seen locomotives on the Danville to Richmond line, but a steam engine indoors? And doing the work of ten men? Pa won't never believe that."

A rhythmic pounding filled the room as leather belts and metal pulleys transferred power to lathes, drills, and saws, while heat from the engine circulated through a wood-drying kiln.

Thomas pointed to the lathe. "You done much turning?"

"Some. Mostly I cranked the great wheel for Pa while he worked the lathe. He don't have no steam engine."

Thomas laughed as he picked up a chisel. "Any experience you've had under Abraham's watchful eye will be good enough." He reached overhead, taking one of the wooden patterns that hung from the rafters. "Don't get greedy. The wood will give herself up to you a little at a time, much like a beautiful woman. You got yourself a woman, Isaac?"

Isaac shook his head.

"No matter. Now, if you move too quickly, try to take too much, she'll kick and bite with all the fury of a lady that's been misused. Do you know what I mean?"

Isaac shrugged.

Thomas tightened a piece of oak on the lathe and released the clutch. The wood spun into a blur. Thomas laid the chisel across the slide rest and eased the razor tip in until it met the stock. Wood chips flew and the squared piece began to take on a curve.

"Remember, slow and gentle and the lady will return your love. Move too quickly and she becomes a pile of matchsticks." Thomas handed Isaac the chisel. "Disengage the clutch and let the work come to a stop every so often, then check it against the pattern. You can always remove more stock, but if you take off too much, the piece is ruined, and ruined stock costs me money. You will pay for whatever you destroy with extra labor hours. Any questions?"

Isaac shook his head.

"Very well. If you need me, knock at the back door. I have invoices to finish." Thomas left Isaac alone at the lathe.

He'd watched his pa turn chair legs, table legs, spindles, and decorative columns. It had always looked easy. Now, as the whining of leather belts and flywheels filled the gas-lit shop, Isaac hesitated. Had he learned those skills simply by watching? Holding the pattern against the block of wood, Isaac penciled marks on the stock to guide his cuts. He shoved the clutch forward; the wood spun to life. Remembering Thomas's words, Isaac reached out to the "lady" before him and gave her his undivided attention.

_____.

Isaac unclamped the last of the chair legs. Running his hand over the smooth wooden curves, he examined his work, then placed it alongside the others. Not bad for his first afternoon. Pa would be pleased.

"Finally finished, are we?"

Isaac turned toward the unexpected voice. Thomas stood in the doorway.

"Yes sir, I done just like you told me."

Thomas glanced at his pocket watch. "If I were paying you a wage, I'd dock your pay for those." He pointed to a pair of shattered chair legs on the floor. "As it is, you'll reimburse me with your labor." He handed Isaac a broom. "When you're finished, get on over to the bunkroom and grab supper, then get some rest. Dawn comes early."

"Yes sir." Isaac gave a nod as Thomas left the shop, then he picked up the fractured spindles and propped them on a ledge above his machine. "Now, you fair ladies done told on old Isaac, but I forgives you *cause you taught me a lesson. From now on, the both of you stand right there so's you can watch over me while I works. You'll be reminding me about how I needs to be more gentle." Isaac patted the wooden sc.r.a.ps. "Now you ladies set there and have yourselves a good night."

It was dark by the time he finished sweeping. Isaac turned off the lamps and shuffled wearily into the small bunkroom at the rear of the workshop. The room wasn't much, no bigger than two horse stalls put together. He pulled a small book from his pocket and tossed it on the table as he sat. On the far side of the room a Franklin stove hissed, flames licking through its grate. On top of the stove a blackened pot filled the room with a tempting aroma. Should he help himself?

Bunks three high lined one wall. Another three bunks were against the wall beside the window. Two of the bunks appeared to be occupied. Maybe he should just find an empty bed and catch some sleep. From the lower bunk closest to him, an old man suddenly rose and shambled across the bare floor.

"Sit," He gestured to Isaac, as he reached the stove. The man ladled what looked like stew onto a tin plate and set it in front of Isaac on the long pine table.