“Breakfast’s laid out, missy,” he said.
“Thank you, Old Bailey.” Belle motioned for her guests to follow. “Come, sit with me and visit.” She led them to the sunroom where three place settings of ironstone dishes and a breakfast of fried eggs, rashers of bacon, biscuits with butter and pear preserves, cream gravy, and berry compotes waited for them on a round table. After a great deal of coaxing, Laughing Maiden and When The Eagle Speaks joined her for the meal and chatted about their everyday activities.
“Although it sounds like nothing’s happening except normal days for you two,” Belle said, “I believe something else brought you way out here to my door. What news do you bring?”
When The Eagle Speaks shifted in his chair. “Trader Jake will recover,” he said, “and will soon leave Tejas to sail his ship.”
“That is good news,” Belle said, “but why do I need this report?”
“He wanted you to know and to warn you.”
“Warn me of what?”
“Trader Jake is wary of your overseer.”
“I see,” Belle said, “but I think everything is under control now.”
Laughing Maiden silently excused herself from the table when a servant brought Johnathan downstairs. “Hi-hites, Matt-Matt,” she said and signed for the word baby.
“Big boy—not baby,” Johnathan said and also signed.
“His maw-ta-quoip continues to improve,” Belle said.
He held his hands up for the Indian woman to lift him. Snug in her arms, he grinned and she laughed.
“Oh, that wonderful, melodious laugh Ehawee has,” Belle said. “No wonder she is Laughing Maiden.”
Nodding, When The Eagle Speaks said, “It is true.” He lowered his voice and scowled at Belle. “You are in danger. Angry Wolf boasts he destroyed your dugout, and he is not through.”
“He was the big one that lifted my braid when I quilted?”
“Yes. Trader Jake, Ehawee, and I are afraid for you, but Trader Jake goes over the big waters, and we go north soon for summer camp.”
“And buffalo,” Laughing Maiden said, tickling Johnathan’s ear which caused them both to giggle.
When The Eagle Speaks leaned forward. “No one will be near to watch over you. We worry.”
Belle touched his arm. “Johnathan and I will be safe here at River Bend.” She looked away. I wish I could feel as confident as those words sounded.
When The Eagle Speaks and Laughing Maiden stayed long enough for Belle to show them the fabric for her next quilt and promise not to go north until after the double wedding. As she bid them goodbye, she spied Phineas, the look of contempt on his face causing a shiver to crawl up her backbone.
Later that day, she and Johnathan walked down to the shed that housed the cane press. After one of the slaves loaded sugar cane stalks between two heavy millstones, Toby led a mule around in a circle to press the liquid from the canes. He only had to lead the mule to get her started because there was nowhere for her to go except around and around in a circle.
“I remember riding our mule a long time ago,” she said. “Can this mule be ridden?”
“Yas, ma’am,” Toby said. “She’s gentle ’nough.” He halted the mule’s progress.
Belle placed Johnathan on the mule’s back. “Hold on tight.” She led the mule around for close to half an hour. Stopping the mule, she pulled Johnathan into her arms and carried him back to the house, his eyelids flickering as he fought sleep.
After putting the child down for a nap, Belle reached for her journal and pencil. “Two days of company and a lot to tell you.” She started writing.
Dust motes danced in a shaft of light coming through the window when Belle woke from a nap. “Oh, my. I fell asleep?” She laid her journal aside and looked for her pencil. After retrieving it from the polished, plank floor where it had dropped near her chair, she stood it, pointed end up, in a china cup. Although she had never found a knife with a short blade to sharpen the square pencil, the graphite lead had always been carved into a sharp point and was ready for writing again each day. My staff takes care of my every need.
Phineas burst into her room.
“What on earth are you doing in my quarters?”
“The barn’s on fire,” he said. “It was Injuns. You should never have let them in.” He turned around and ran down the stairs before she could tell him her friends could not be at fault.
She rushed down to the barn which had flames shooting upward as high as the two-story barn itself. Slaves carried buckets of water to contain the fire in the barn, but it was too late. Belle walked over to the horses they had saved and helped to calm them.
Lizzie stood beside Belle. “With all that straw in the loft, ain’t no way we saves it.”
Moisture in the ground from heavy spring rains kept the west wind from spreading the fire to the fields and open prairie. Slaves had watered down the nearby carriage house to save it from flying embers.
“Barn’s a total loss,” Phineas said. “Damned Injuns.”
Belle tried not to challenge him, but her sense of fairness won out. “What makes you think Indians are responsible? Did you see any?”
“No, but it couldn’t have been anyone else,” he said.
“Did we lose any livestock?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I see buckboards and hay wagons over there that didn’t burn. Did we lose any wagons?”
“No, ma’am.”
Belle bit her tongue so her thoughts would not be spoken. Marauding Indians would have stolen horses before they burned a barn down, and they would have left the wagons inside to catch fire. I also see those wagons are loaded with everyday tack and tools. This fire was staged. But why?
“Mr. Grayson,” she said, showing him more respect than he deserved, “I realize this is overstepping my boundaries, but I insist you give these workers the day off. They won’t be able to clean up this mess until tomorrow after the embers die down.”
He glared at her. “These slaves have field work to do.”
Belle did not back down. “They expended a valiant effort to save that barn and should be recognized for their dedication to this plantation.”
Slaves gave a resounding hurrah, and those who wore hats tossed them into the air.
“We’s all thanks you, ma’am,” Toby said.
Belle raised her hand to signal quiet. “Thank your overseer,” she said.
They looked toward the man who now wore his whip instead of strapping it to his saddle. When he said nothing, they left the barnyard, some going to their cabins. Others went to the fields to recover their hoes and loaded them onto the wagons before they went to their cabins.
Phineas never flinched. He watched everyone, his face and neck turning crimson and making his old scar shine even whiter.
Belle stood her ground, eyeing the overseer’s reaction, before she returned to the big house. The rest of the day moved like a turtle, giving her plenty of time to record the surprising and disturbing event in her journal.
While enjoying her evening meal, she heard hoof beats outside. “Sounds like they’re going away,” she said to Old Bailey who padded to the front door and opened it. He returned to the table with a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with heavy string.
Belle took the package and opened it. “Look, Old Bailey,” she said, “at this lovely fabric. I wish I knew who sent it to me. Did you see the rider?”
“No, missy.”
“Could you describe the horse?”
“No, missy. Too far away.”
Excited by the new fabrics, she went upstairs after her meal and compared their designs with others she had received earlier. “Some of these look like they came from the same mill, but not all. How are these getting all the way out to Texas?”
Later that evening, music drifted up to Belle’s window, some of it melancholy, some causing her to tap her toes. She gathered up Johnathan and all the house servants to stroll with them toward the slave quarters. Wh
en they were close enough to hear the lyrics, she sent the servants on ahead. A few skipped while others ran to join the festivities.
Lizzie’s strong voice belted out the words to Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, and everyone joined in for the chorus. By the next repeat, Belle and the Campbells merged into the group and sang along to the hymn. The overseer was nowhere in sight.
Everyone’s having a wonderful time tonight. Everyone except Phineas. So glad I don’t have to deal with him right now.
The singing continued until after dark. Toby came up to Belle with a grin on his face.
“Are you having a good time tonight, Toby?”
“Yas, ma’am. Finished the canes today,” he said. “Ready to cook come mornin’.”
“That’s great news, Toby. I’ll be down to watch.”
“Yas, ma’am.”
Belle said her goodbyes and took her son back to the main house. From the porch, she looked back to see the group dancing to tunes she’d never heard before. I wonder if they were this happy when Stephen lived here.
When she reached for the doorknob, she gasped when the door opened for her.
“Old Bailey, how did you get up here so fast?”
He didn’t answer but gave her his precious smile. She took Johnathan upstairs for a bath before bedtime, took her supper in her room, bathed, and fell exhausted into bed.
Up and dressed in time to see a gorgeous sunrise, Belle hurried toward the cane press. Lizzie and Birdie were already boiling cane juice in large, shallow kettles over an open fire near the press. Although Lizzie tried to discourage her, Belle helped as soon as the cane juice had reduced by half so it could be poured into a smaller kettle to reduce more.
Birdie wore a confused look on her face. “Why we pours if’n we keeps boilin’ it?”
Lizzie placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t you know nothin’, girl?”
“We boil it,” Belle said, “to evaporate the water.” She saw Birdie’s frown. “We boil the cane juice until all the water boils out. Then, we pour that thick juice into kettles like this that are smaller and boil it again. We do this several times, each time using a smaller kettle until we get sugar the consistency of sand.”
“Don’t eat no sand,” Birdie said.
“It’s not sand,” Belle said. “The sugar only looks like wet sand.”
Birdie relaxed. “We through then.”
“No,” Lizzie said. “We molds it.”
“Don’t like no mold,” Birdie said.
Belle struggled to keep from shaking her head and making a tsk-tsk sound. “Birdie,” she said, “Lizzie’s talking about a copper cone that we pour wet sugar into. When the sugar turns hard, we unmold it from the cone. Surely, you’ve seen a sugar loaf in Lizzie’s kitchen.”
Birdie’s eyelids lifted. “Yas’m, I has. Seen her nips that shoogar with pliers.”
“I’ll bet she used a sugar nipper to break off lumps of that sweet treasure. Now, please bring me several small kettles so I can help boil this sweet juice down. We’ll have many cone-shaped loaves of sugar before the day is out.”
Old Bailey brought a midday meal to Belle and showed his concern that she had missed her breakfast. She smiled, enjoyed the food, and kept watch over her kettles.
Dusk crept in before they completed the plantation’s annual sugar-making process. Exhausted, Belle trudged to the main house with new memories to mesh with older ones from Carolina.
After bathing, Belle dressed and ate a simple meal of meat pasty, followed up with a fried pie, made with dried apples and a spoonful of that day’s molten sugar that Lizzie had set aside—sand, according to Birdie.
At home, Mother and I used to preserve fruit and vegetables for the coming months, make sugar, and cure meat. I can’t imagine going through all those processes to feed the huge number of people who live on this plantation. Stephen was a genius in planning and production because he also grew the crops. Without his guidance, I hope no one starves in the months ahead.
When she returned to her room, she recorded the results of her labors that day, undressed, and crawled into bed. Before falling into a deep sleep, she prayed her evening prayers, this time asking forgiveness because she was too tired to get on her knees.
Chapter Forty-One
Soft tapping on her cheeks woke Belle the next morning. When she turned her head, she stared into the bright eyes of the sweetest man on earth—her little man.
“Wake up, Mama.” Johnathan repeated the words several times.
“All right, all right. I am awake. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mama.”
“Why are you up so early?”
“Old Bailey gave me a piece of sugar. When I asked for more, he said to ask you.” His eyes sparkled. “Please, Mama. It tastes so good.”
“I know, son, but sugar is costly to purchase. We have to make ours last until next year’s sugar canes are ready to harvest.”
“But, I helped. I rode the mule.”
“That you did. One more piece for you today.”
“Thank you, Mama.” He kissed her cheek and ran out of the room, his little feet barely skimming the plank floorboards.
Belle dressed and went downstairs for breakfast with Johnathan who rambled on and on about riding the mule—like that was the only step to making cane sugar. She never tired of listening to him string words together to make long sentences. The staff gave him an attentive audience. Maybe he’ll be a great orator.
Nothing required the attention of the mistress of the house that morning, so she looked forward to a quiet day. No wind stirred, making it a perfect time to sit on the front porch. Johnathan played on the lawn with his wooden wagons while she sewed buttons on his shirts with the sinew she had purchased.
I wonder how Jake is faring after his injury. Knives and guns—my, how those weapons maim and kill people, especially out here in Texas.
At the noonday meal she shared with Johnathan, she made a decision. To live in Texas required skill, strength, stamina, and determination—grit. As a small woman, she knew her limitations when it came to strength. I can compensate by increasing skill.
After she put Johnathan down for a nap, she asked Old Bailey for the key to Stephen’s library. Entering the room where the successful plantation owner spent most of his time made Belle feel like she was intruding. His massive desk was gone, and that seemed to help. With cautious steps, she reached the large wall of bookshelves and breathed in the smell of books. Picking up a box of new pencils brought her joy.
“Mr. Munroe, it took you, a successful cabinetmaker, to make pencils for plain people like me.” The square writing instruments were constructed of two pieces of wood with a bar of graphite inside, the wood glued together and sanded smooth in a factory back east.
Letting her fingers trace the spines of rows of books, Belle discovered volumes on vegetation, crops, and flora, joined by those on historical and political figures. Literary classics and a complete set of law books rounded out his library.
“There they are,” Belle whispered. “I knew this southern gentleman would have a couple pairs of these.” She opened a shiny, mahogany case and revealed a matched set of dueling pistols by P. Desponds of Switzerland.
“Wonderful.” She slid out the drawer that housed the accessories required to load the guns for firing. The percussion pistols were almost a foot long with incredible engraving on parts made of silver. Fine carving decorated the wooden grips, but the butts were inlaid with heavy silver.
“If I don’t have time to reload, I can bust a bandit’s skull open with this.” Oh, my. I sound like a brigand myself. Pausing to remember her father, she said, “Thank you for teaching me to shoot colored leaves on trees the last autumn you had here on earth.” She wondered if target practice on the edge of a forest in the Carolinas would transfer to shooting a man if she had to defend her family’s life in the wilds of Texas.
Upon returning the key to Old Bailey, she requested a horse and buggy, brushing aside his conc
erns for her safety. Within minutes, he opened the front door for her and revealed the answer to her request.
With the cased weapons wrapped in a small quilt on the buggy seat beside her, she and a spirited mare cantered across smooth prairie until they reached the bank of the Red River. She hadn’t seen a soul since she left River Bend, enjoying the peace and solitude of the trip and the feeling of ownership. She was taking control of her life instead of reacting to a crisis and planned to be prepared for what might come her way in the future.
Hopping down from the buggy, she tied the horse to a sturdy tree limb and loaded both pistols. The mare quivered and stomped when the first blast hit a tree trunk. Belle stroked the horse’s neck and crooned to her before moving farther away for her next shot. After spending the better part of the afternoon on the riverbank, the stillness broken only by gunfire and the frightened chatter of birds, she headed home—her aim and the speed of reloading better than she imagined.
From a distance, she could see her son playing on the lawn and a man sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the plantation’s front porch. When she brought the mare to a stop, Trader Jake rose from the rocker, his height and intense glare giving Belle a sense of foreboding.
“Where have you been?” His demanding tone spurred her to anger.
“I went for a ride,” she said. “Did you intend to confine me to quarters?”
“No, but your safety is a concern for me. Traveling alone is unwise, especially with rendezvous winding down. Do you not recall your attempted abduction?”
The air of defiance whooshed from the young woman’s indignation. She had no words to fight fact. After handing the reins to Toby, she stepped down from the buggy, her eyes avoiding Jake. She carried the pistols to her room and rested until suppertime.
Sitting at opposite ends of the formal dining table later, she and Jake ate their evening meal.
“I leave the settlement before the week is out and will be on my way to the Texas Gulf,” he said. “From there, I set sail for Europe.”
“I shall pray for your safety and success,” she said.
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