by Andrea Cheng
Stony Bluff
LEWIS MILES, 1849
Nearby
in Stony Bluff
I’ve built a new pottery works
with a furnace bigger than any
in South Carolina.
But a furnace without a potter
is worth nothing.
My wife’s brother, Franklin,
is a man without scruples.
Although her father’s will
appointed Franklin
to manage her affairs,
Mary has demanded
that he no longer be in charge.
My brother is Mary’s new trustee,
and he has requested the purchase
of one of Franklin’s slaves.
That would be
Dave.
Homecoming
DAVE, OCTOBER 17, 1850
Working here
at this new place
in Stony Bluff
is a homecoming for me!
Lewis Miles laughs
at my jokes,
my twists of a phrase.
Henry Simkins
turns the wheel
so fast and smooth,
and the jars I shape
are enormous.
Then the words
start flowing in my head.
Once again
I pick up a writing stick.
Can I remember
how to form a J?
The clay is waiting,
and the memory is in my hands:
just a mammouth Jar . . .
is all I write.
For now
that is enough.
A Joke
DAVE, JUNE 28, 1854
“Dave, that handle will crack,”
Lewis Miles says,
and I say it won’t.
On the top of the jar I write:
Lm says this handle
will crack.
But I’m right,
because it doesn’t,
and the joke is on the jar
for all to see.
Good Times
LEWIS MILES, 1856
There is no pottery works
in all the South
as large as mine
in Stony Bluff.
Look here;
the smoke from our furnace
blows across the valley,
and people from all corners
of the land seek out
our pots and jars and jugs.
And Dave keeps writing
his messages and verses,
sending them into the world
carved in clay.
Where Is My Family?
DAVE, AUGUST 16, 1857
The sky is dark,
no stars, no moon.
How can I know
when my mother passed?
What about Eliza,
who smiled at me
as she walked by.
What about Lydia
and John and George?
Are those boys still reading
and writing?
“Please,” George would beg.
“Teach us how to spell
another word.”
Where are they now?
I go back to the turning house,
and by the light of a candle,
I write across my newest jar:
I wonder where is all my relation
friendship to all — and, every nation.
Our Fortune
LEWIS MILES, 1858
Like a jar cracked in two,
the country is splitting.
A war is coming
between the South and the North.
In a time of war,
our hard-earned fortune
will be worthless
if kept as paper money.
But gold and silver will endure.
I will have Dave make me
a small jar each month,
more solid than the earth.
Every month I will buy
some gold or silver
and fill a jar,
then bury it deep
in the ground.
There our fortune will stay
until our country
is at peace.
Jar of Riches
DAVE, APRIL 8, 1858
This noble jar = will hold, 20
fill it with silver = then you’ll have plenty
Great and Noble Jar
DAVE, MAY 13, 1859
My jars are the envy
of every potter in the area;
wheel thrown on the bottom,
coiled clay on the top—
a method devised by me.
Lewis Miles says, “Dave,
I bet you can’t make one
that holds forty gallons.”
And I say, “I bet I can.”
My helper rolls out ropes of clay
more than six feet long.
I coil each rope
around the bottom of the jar
and smooth the new clay
into the old
with short, clean strokes,
careful to blend the seams.
Then we turn the wheel
slow and steady,
and I shape that jar
till it reaches for the sky.
Across the top I write:
Great & Noble Jar . . . ,
for that
it truly is.
War
LEWIS MILES, 1861
The Confederate army
calls us to fight
for the South
against the Union army
from the North.
Tears flow.
“Our sons are but boys,”
my wife says,
reaching up
to kiss their cheeks
as they leave
to join the troops.
Milton,
John,
Francis—
may the Lord be with you
and keep you safe.
Our boys are eager
to go to war.
They will fight hard
for the South,
for a victory
swift and sure.
Deep in their hearts
they know
that if this war
is lost,
the slaves will be freed,
and the life
they have now
will be gone.
Repentance
DAVE, MAY 3, 1862
Another jar,
a real beauty.
On this one I write:
I, made this Jar, all of cross
If, you dont repent, you will be, lost =
Word comes of many deaths,
and at the end of the war
the guilt will lie upon this land
thick as my ropes of clay,
thick as the handles
on a forty-gallon jar.
The End Is Near
DAVE, 1864
Henry turns the wheel
with his still-strong legs.
I center the clay
and draw up the sides of a jar
like I’ve been doing
most every day
of my life.
Many of the other slaves
have been sent to serve
in the Confederate army
to help save Charleston.
Others saw their chanc
e
to escape
and ran
to Union lines.
“It’s quiet around here,”
Henry says.
“They’ll be coming back soon,”
I say.
“How do you know?”
“I read the newspapers.
They say the end of the war
is near,
and it looks like the North
is winning.”
Henry stops the wheel
from turning.
I slice off the jar
and set it on the shelf to dry.
“I sure do hope,”
Henry says,
“that by the time
all these jars
are glazed and fired
we will be free.”
Black in Blue
LEWIS MILES, JUNE 21, 1865
The war between
the South and the North
is over.
The Union soldiers
who march through our town
have skin as dark as Dave’s.
The sooner we sign
the oath of loyalty
to the Union,
the sooner these black soldiers
in the blue uniforms
of the North
will go back
to where they came from
and leave us to rebuild
our lives.
What Did I Expect?
LEWIS MILES, 1865
I walk slowly
down the path
full of stones
to where the slaves
are filling our furnace.
They stop and stare.
Somehow
they already know.
I open my mouth,
but the words are stuck.
Finally they come out
in a whisper.
“Boys,” I say,
“today you,
your women,
and your children
are free.”
I clear my throat.
There is more
I know I should say,
but like smoke
from the furnace,
the boys are quickly gone.
What did I expect?
Surprise?
A joyous celebration?
A word of thanks?
Of course not.
They saw freedom coming.
They already knew.
I turn and walk
back up the hill.
This moment
does not
in any way
belong to me.
A New Name
DAVE, 1865
So long,
so long
I have dreamed of this day.
Now it comes
and my heart is numb.
The others are cheering,
cooking,
making plans.
I am an old man
with no place to go—
a potter with one leg.
But I will be
a man with one name
no more.
I have worked for Lewis Miles
for so many years.
My second name could be Miles,
Dave, David Miles.
What about Drake?
Master Drake
taught me to turn a pot
and turn a phrase.
And the famous explorer
Sir Francis Drake,
that was his name too.
I have decided.
From now on
I am David Drake,
potter, poet.
What a sound!
David Drake,
David Drake
indeed.
To a Friend
DAVID DRAKE, 1866
Go on the road,
a one-legged old man
like me?
No, my friend.
But I beg you,
please,
wherever you go,
look for my loved ones.
Look for Eliza,
a skinny girl
with bright eyes.
And look for Lydia,
heavyset and strong,
and her boys, John and George.
Those boys must have children
of their own
by now.
And if you find them,
tell them Dave
is here,
in Edgefield,
waiting.
Little David
DAVID DRAKE, 1870
I’m close to seventy.
That’s a long time
for anyone to live.
See over there;
that young boy
is little David,
named for me
because his mama says
he has long fingers—
potter hands!
I say those hands
are made for writing.
But there’s no reason
a person can’t do both,
now is there?
Come here, David.
Give me that stick
and let me show you
in this dirt
how to write a D.
D—that’s the first letter
for David—
your name,
mine too, you know.
And when you’re bigger
you can write words,
poems too.
You can write whole books!
And I’ll teach you
to make pots
on the wheel.
Listen, David.
Your mama’s calling.
And me,
I’m going over to the turning house
to see what kind of jar
I will make
today.
Afterword
In a quiet and an unusual way, Dave rebelled against the horror that was slavery. Despite the laws prohibiting slave literacy in South Carolina, Dave wrote words and poems on the walls of his jars, and he often signed his pots with his name and the date. He knew, of course, that everyone could identify the words as his. He also knew he could be severely beaten, maimed, or even killed for defying the law of the land. Still, he was not deterred. Perhaps his skill as a potter gave him confidence. If his hands were cut off, who would make the huge jars and jugs that were so valued for storing meat, lard, pickles, and other foodstuffs? Dave must have felt he could not live without expressing his feelings, his story, and his humanity.
The first period after the end of the Civil War in 1865 was a time of hope for all the people who had been enslaved. But the relationship between the emancipated blacks and their former white owners quickly became confusing. It was hard for both sides to adjust to their new lives and changed society. Hopes were raised among the black men and women by news that the government would provide each family with forty acres of land and a mule as compensation for years of unpaid labor, but the arrangement never materialized. Some former slaves continued to work for the people who had once owned them. Others moved around the country in search of their families and of better life conditions.
After the war, the Union required that Southern states allow all those who were eligible to register to vote. This was a milestone for black men, who went to the polls in large numbers. The registry of Edgefield County, South Carolina, lists David Drake as a registered voter in August 1867. In 1868, these new voters exercised their rights, and many black legislators were elect
ed to the House of Representatives and to the Senate.
Also in 1868, the Ku Klux Klan began to infiltrate Edgefield. Black men and women were attacked, beaten, and sometimes killed in a targeted plan to silence those who were gaining social power. The Klan grew in numbers and strength. Its members terrorized black communities all over South Carolina. In 1871, Congress passed an act that authorized President Grant to use force to remove the Klan from the state, but this act was largely ineffective.
Historians believe that Dave continued to make pottery to support himself after he gained his freedom; but he did not inscribe his name, dates, or any poems on his pots, jugs, and jars. There are also some indications that Dave actually hid his ability to read and write. He may have felt he would be less of a target to members of the Ku Klux Klan and other racist groups if he concealed his education and intelligence.
Dave was a man of extraordinary talent, courage, and wit. He is thought to have died in the late 1870s, when he was close to eighty years old. Very little is known about the last few years of his life. It is possible that Dave’s grave was marked with shards from his own pots, which have since disappeared into the soil and clay of South Carolina.
Edgefield Pottery
The Edgefield district of South Carolina in the early 1800s contained all the resources necessary for the creation of stoneware: pottery that is watertight, strong, and fired at a high temperature. There were abundant deposits of red clay and fine white clay called kaolin near the many streams that run through the area. There was plenty of sand and wood, which were also used in pottery production. And there was slave labor readily available to dig the clay and produce the pottery. However, Edgefield became famous for its stoneware primarily because of the alkaline glazes developed by Dr. Abner Landrum. Prior to the use of alkaline glazes, most glazes in the United States were made of either lead, which was found to be poisonous, or salt, which was very expensive at the time. Dr. Landrum’s glazes were made of wood ash, sand, clay, and water. No one is sure exactly how he generated his glaze recipes. He may have read about the materials used to glaze porcelain in ancient China and then, motivated by a desire to run a successful pottery business, he experimented with similar local ingredients. Dr. Landrum’s glazes turned out to be safe and affordable. They became one of the outstanding characteristics of Edgefield pottery.