by Jeff Andrews
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 shirt. 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. Sturdy brick chimneys anchored 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 shirt. 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 scraps. “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.
“What do they call you, boy?”
“Name’s Isaac.”
“Who’d Mr. Day buy you from?”
“Ain’t bought.”
“You free?”
Isaac shook his head. “Mr. Day borrowed me. My owner, Massa McConnell, he lives up in Virginia, there in Halifax County.”
The old man pointed to the book. “He know you can read?”
“Was him what taught me, or least ways his son did.” Isaac folded the tattered copy of Peter Parley’s Winter Evening Tales and stuffed it back in his pocket.
“Don’t be letting no white folk down here see you with that book. They’ll think Mr. Day taught you to read and that’ll bring trouble down on him.”
The old man sat across from Isaac. “Gabriel’
s the name, except I ain’t got no horn.” He chuckled. “I been with Mr. Day most all my life. He owns me and old Mr. Jones over yonder there.” He pointed toward the other old man, now sitting on the edge of his bunk, tapping out a rhythm on a pair of bones.
Mr. Jones raised his hand holding the dried goat’s ribs above his head, then bought the bones down with a flourish of short clacks. “George Washington Jones.” He winked. “But Mr. Jones be just fine.”
“You all there is?” Isaac asked. “I heard tell Mr. Day owned a passel of slaves.”
“Business been tough, boy,” Gabriel said. “Mr. Day come close to losing everything. His boy, Thomas Junior, he had to come to his rescue. All the other slaves been sold to pay bills. Me and Mr. Jones, we’s too old to draw top dollar, nor most any dollar at all, so Mr. Day had to keep us. We does what we can and he feeds us pretty good. We don’t mind none a’ tall.”
Isaac took a bite. “Squirrel?”
“Yup. Throwed in some possum too. Mr. Jones there,” Gabriel said, motioning with the wooden spoon, “he does most of the gathering and all the cooking. He’s pretty good too, but . . .” Gabriel leaned closer and wagged his finger. “You watch him real close, you hear? He ain’t always particular about how ripe a critter gets lying dead out there in the bushes. Mr. Jones reckons them maggots make for good eating too, says they put fat on a man’s bones.”
Isaac searched his stew, turning over lumps of meat—then he caught the gleam in Gabriel’s eye. Isaac smiled and took another bite. “Where’s the senior Mr. Day?”
“He done took sick—consumption, some folks say.” Gabriel took in the room with a wave. “But you’ll see him here by and by. He’s a right fine gentleman.”
Isaac leaned closer to Gabriel. “But he’s black, same as us. How’s a black man hold with owning slaves?”
“Business.” Gabriel returned to the stove. “If’n a white man uses slaves to make his goods, how can a black man keep up, less’n he gets his own niggers? Mr. Day can’t stay in business paying for labor what white folks is getting for free.” Gabriel ladled another pile of stew on his plate and sat down again. “Truth be told, Mr. Day used to have whites working for him too, and nobody ‘round these parts ever seemed bothered none by that. Ten years ago, this here business supported lots of folks, black and white.”
Mr. Jones settled on his bunk and Isaac and Gabriel continued talking while Isaac finished his supper. No lights shone from the big brick house by the time Isaac went out back and washed his dinner plate under the pump. Returning to a quiet bunkhouse, Isaac grabbed a blanket from one of the empty bunks, blew out the oil lamp, and curled up on the lower bunk beneath the window.
_____
Sunlight filtered through the dirty glass windowpane as Isaac ran his hand over the smooth maple. He measured the stock against the pattern. Close. Just a bit more off the end. He engaged the clutch. The leather belt hummed as it slipped around the pulley, then caught, spinning the lathe to life. Thomas had been a good teacher—no rejects for two days.
“Only Abraham’s boy could turn such a piece.”
Isaac pulled out the clutch and turned to face an old man, light-skinned, but African nonetheless. He was tall and thin, with short, curly hair that recessed at his temples to form a “V” of gray hair over the center of his forehead. Isaac looked into his tired, dark eyes.
“Mr. Day?”
The old man started to speak, then bent over, wracked by a violent cough. Finally, he straightened, pounding his fist on his chest. “At . . . at your service.”
Mr. Day pumped Isaac’s hand. His calloused grip still possessed incredible strength.
“Come. Sit.” Mr. Day motioned toward two chairs beside a small table. “Your father was the best I ever taught. If I had five more with his skills today, I’d be competing with the best furniture houses in New York City.” Mr. Day coughed again, then asked, “How is Abraham?”
“He’s doing fine, sir.” Isaac’s throat tightened. Pa had said nobody could work wood as good as this man, and now, here he sat, talking to Isaac like he was somebody. Isaac took a deep breath. “He speaks highly of you.”
“Good. Good.” The elder Mr. Day reached below the table and produced a small desk drawer. He handed it to Isaac. “What can you tell me about this?”
Isaac turned the piece over. “Oak. Dovetailed.” He pointed. “Groove cut here, in the sides and front, and the bottom piece is glued in. Looks to be good workmanship, sir.”
“Look at the front.”
Isaac turned the piece over again. Beneath the brass drawer pull was an ornate relief carving showing an acorn surrounded by a cluster of oak leaves.
“Anyone can learn the craft of joinery, boy, and you will, but I also want to teach you the art of it all. Fine wood is like a fine woman . . .”
Isaac smiled to himself. Like father, like son . . .
Chapter Nine
November 1860
Isaac tapped the chisel with his mallet, carving a rabbet joint along the edge of a maple board that would overlap another board, similarly cut, to form one side of a china cabinet. He blew wood shavings out of the cut, then measured his work with the blade of his chisel.
“Hey boy, you got religion?”
Isaac turned at the sound of the voice.
The elder Mr. Day stood in the doorway. He coughed, then asked again, “You a church-goer?”
“Mama taught me religion, but we don’t have no church—too far to walk.”
“You ever been to a church?”
“Went to a camp meeting once,” Isaac said. “Must have been eighty, maybe a hundred folks, all clapping and singing. We had us a fine time.”
Mr. Day pointed out the window. “We worship up the street at the Presbyterian Church. Be sure you’re ready first thing in the morning. We leave at quarter ‘til eight, prompt.” He turned and shuffled out the door.
Going to church with the boss man . . . Isaac smiled. What would folks say about that? He picked up his chisel and continued cutting the joint. He might be headed to church tomorrow, but that boss man still expected him to finish his work today.
_____
Isaac entered the bunkroom, tossing his hat on his bed. A delicious aroma rose from the steaming pot on the Franklin.
“Hey, boy. Set on down.” Mr. Jones pointed to the table. “One of Mr. Day’s customers done kilt him a deer and gave it up as payment for his bill.”
“Where’s Gabriel?” Isaac pulled up a bench.
“Mr. Day sent him to deliver an envelope. Gabriel says it was billing for a table and chairs.” Mr. Jones set a plate in front of Isaac. “I reckon he’ll be back shortly, was only going two, three miles to the south.”
Isaac pointed toward his plate. “You done good, Mr. Jones. This here is only a fistful of carrots away from being a real fine stew.”
“Boy, you find me some good ’uns, I’ll throw ‘em in. Weather’s been too dry, makes for small carrots—ain’t proper for cooking.” Mr. Jones stirred the pot, then took his plate and sat.
“You and Gabriel going to church tomorrow?” Isaac asked as he took a bite.
“Ain’t set foot in a church for nigh on twenty years. “Mr. Jones shook his head. “Not since we built them pews.”
“You built the pews?”
“The church folks asked Mr. Day could he make ‘em, and Mr. Day said yes, they’d have themselves some fine pews and a right nice pulpit too, and all at no cost.”
“He made ‘em for free? How’s that?”
Mr. Jones nodded. “Mr. Day said, if’n he builds ‘em, him and Mrs. Day and their children, they all set down in the front of that church, just like the white folks.”
“And the whites was okay with that?”
“You go look at them pews, boy. They’s poplar wood with real nice curves on the end pieces. Pulpit’s got fancy columns on each corner too, fine place for any preacher to set his Bible.”
“Sounds right pretty.” Isaac nodded. “So, is you going tomo
rrow?”
“Old Mr. Jones, he don’t hold much with religion no more. If there is a god, he ain’t hearing no nigra’s prayers.” Mr. Jones looked at his plate for a moment, then chuckled. “Ain’t got no Sunday meeting clothes no how.”
“Church clothes? All I has are these rags I wear for working.” Isaac pulled his frayed, worn shirt away from his body.
Mr. Jones lowered his voice and leaned toward Isaac. “You’ll be fine, boy. Ain’t nobody gonna pay no mind to no nigger what’s dressed like what he is.”
Isaac glanced again at his shirt, stained with oil from the machines. “I reckon you’s right.” He clutched his wooden star and closed his eyes. It must really be something to have clean clothes to change into every Sunday.
A sudden commotion shook Isaac from his thoughts. Thomas pushed through the doorway half carrying, half dragging a bloodied Gabriel.
“Help me get him to his bunk,” Thomas said. “Grab some bandages. Mr. Jones, get some water and fetch that whiskey I know you have hidden around here.”
Isaac grabbed Gabriel’s arm and helped guide him to the bunk.
“Lord Almighty,” Mr. Jones cried out. “What happened?” He dug behind his blankets and handed Thomas a jug.
“Somebody jumped him coming home from the Benjamin place,” Thomas said as he poured whiskey on a rag.
Isaac pulled off Gabriel’s muddy shoes. He stared at the battered old man. “Why’d anybody do this to Gabriel? He never hurt nobody.”
“Could have been highwaymen,” Thomas said, “but I suspect it was something more.” He daubed Gabriel’s cuts with the whiskey soaked rag.
“What do you mean, ‘something more’?” Isaac said.
Thomas put the jug to Gabriel’s lips. Gabriel swallowed, then coughed and looked around. He laid his head down, covered his eyes with his forearm, and moaned.
Thomas looked at Isaac. “We can’t collect on debt the way a white man does. Those that are paid to uphold the laws won’t give us the backing. I suspect what happened to Gabriel was a warning from one of our customers to stop trying to collect on overdue accounts.”