A Dream of Daring

by Gen LaGreca

  She nodded solemnly as if she understood how that felt.

  He pointed to the journal. “Can I help you find . . . someone . . . you’re looking for?”

  She suddenly seemed uneasy. “No,” she whispered, offering nothing more.

  The curls of her hair formed an ornate rosewood frame around the oval cameo of her face. Her strange mix of mystery and beauty held him for a moment, then he continued on his way out the door.

  He walked past the areas where the slaves under his direct supervision worked, his steps quickening with a growing anger as he observed their work product. In what had been his mother’s prized English garden he saw weeds two feet high. In the tack shed he saw costly saddles haphazardly strewn on the floor instead of hung on the racks, with the corner of one chewed away by a mouse. In the stable he saw unkempt stalls and thirsty horses. At the equipment shed he saw a harrow and plow needing repair, the same as they did a week ago, with no progress made.

  He sighed, weary of the shoddy work that seemed as much a feature of the dying age as a withered body was of a dying person. The lack of choice, interest, payment, and reward for their work, he thought, shut down the engine within his slaves. Neither Markham’s use of the whip nor his own restraint from it could make that motor run. It required its own will as its fuel, he thought.

  Yet there were ways in which some of his people were getting better results than he was. Solo’s school had helped improve her students’ work because their tasks had to be completed properly as the condition of entry to class. And attending of their own choosing spurred them to do well with their lessons. The slaves working under Jerome’s watch had also become more industrious. The vegetable garden, ice house, storage room, hen house, barn, and other areas that the new chef supervised were remarkably well tended. What was Jerome’s secret? Tom wondered.

  It was the Sunday in May when the slaves were given materials to make their summer clothing. He saw his weaver, Kitty, and her assistants setting up fabrics on a table outside the big house where he would distribute the rations. The women carried rolls of fabric in their voluminous aprons, with the folds of their dresses swaying as they trudged along, their spirits as subdued as the pale-colored cottons they held.

  At the fabric table, Tom surveyed the rolls of homespun, calico print, and a somewhat finer cotton called plains. There were also small bundles of needles, buttons, and threads ready for the slaves to take.

  Paying little attention to customs like this, which had long been established by his father, he depended on the people who received the rations to guide him in giving them. “Kitty, how did we do this last time?”

  “Mr. Tom, you given four white roll, two blue, an’ two brown fer Ida and Adam, and they take two small roll fer little Timmy. You given four small roll to Lavinia fer Lily and Carl, four brown and four white large to Lottie and Helen. Same four white, two blue, two brown fer Murphy and Terina, wid four small roll fer Becky and Jeb. That the homespun, sir. Fer the calico—”

  “Hold on, Kitty,” he said, exasperated. “Can’t they just work this out for themselves?”

  “Why no, sir!” Kitty looked shocked at the thought. “Yer daddy, the colonel, he have his rules.” Sternly, she pointed to the fabrics as she educated Tom. “Two white homespun and two blue fer shirts and trousers fer the men. Two white homespun and two brown fer women work dresses. One calico print fer Sunday frock and cotton plains fer men Sunday meetin’ shirts and pants. Chillun gets half.”

  The slaves were milling around, waiting for Tom to figure things out. The man who had assembled the systems of the internal combustion tractor seemed bewildered by homespun and calico.

  “All right, let’s get this over with,” he said.

  As he doled out the rations, he observed the slaves walking to the table. The prospect of making low-grade clothing that looked the same as everyone else’s gave their procession all the joy of a funeral march.

  The first to approach him, Sherman, routinely neglected his work, while Ben, behind him in line, did a fine job. Yet they were both getting the same rolls for their shirts and trousers. Toya, who found constant excuses to take sick days and fall behind in her tasks, and Caroline, who never missed work and always finished on time, were both getting the same material for their frocks. Was it fair to deny his workers their due as individuals? he wondered.

  After his cheerless task was done, Tom heard chatter behind the house and walked around to investigate. He saw the lanky figure of Jerome, imposingly tall in his chef’s hat, distributing clothing rations to the slaves under his supervision. But Jerome’s fabrics were causing quite a stir. He had a variety of fabrics spread out over two tables, with a long line of slaves eager to get at them. Curious, Tom approached.

  The slaves were counting brown-colored, oval objects they had in their hands. Looking closer, Tom observed that these objects, the size of grapes, were dried cocoa beans, and a sack of them sat at Jerome’s feet.

  Tom remembered when Jerome, who was as curious as a scientist about anything related to chocolate, had purchased the sack of beans, which the town’s general store had gotten for him. He tried roasting and grinding them himself to see if that would enhance the flavor of the chocolate. The manual process, however, proved too arduous and yielded a gritty product inferior to the velvety texture and rich taste of the manufactured chocolate. So Jerome was left with a sack of the beans. Now he’d evidently found a use in circulating them among the slaves.

  Intrigued, Tom watched the proceedings. Jerome stood in front of the tables, directing his assistants in spreading out the fabrics and sewing accessories. Solo too was there, placing paper signs by the various fabrics that read one bean, two beans, three beans, or four beans.

  “Okay, you good-fer-nothin’s. C’mon up!” Jerome shouted.

  The slaves in the front of the line approached the tables, inspected the merchandise, chose the fabrics they wanted, then paid Jerome the required beans for them. When they left, another wave followed.

  Jerome displayed the usual white, pale blue, and brown homespun, as well as calico and plains on one table. But the real attraction was in the rich colors and textures of the items on the other table: velvet ribbons for dress trimmings and hair ornaments; lace for shawls and ruffles; soft muslin for finer clothing; silk for neckties; satin for vests; and sewing patterns for elegant dresses, men’s clothing, and accessories. Although these materials were limited in quantity to what would serve as luxury items for the slaves, the fabrics themselves were of the same fine quality as those worn by a planter’s family. The slaves eagerly searched through bold greens, vibrant reds, rich pinks, and lively prints. They rubbed smooth velvet against their cheeks and stroked shiny satin with their hands. Women held fabrics against themselves for their men to see, and the men expressed their approval. One man placed a blue silk up to his neck, and his wife shaped it into a cravat. An older woman marveled over a piece of black lace, wrapped it around her shoulders like a shawl, and lifted her head like a duchess.

  A teenage girl draped a strip of velvet across her shoulders, shaping the neckline for a dress. “Look, Mama, look!” she called excitedly. Another woman wrapped white satin around her head and tied it in a bow under her chin, like the trimming for a bonnet. A man held a piece of blue muslin across his chest, measuring out a shirt to be made. Observing the slaves going through the line, Tom was struck by their enchantment with the fabrics.

  Everyone seemed to understand the system except him. The slaves used various numbers of beans to pay for the fabrics, depending on how much they took and how costly their chosen materials were.

  One man, Tom noticed, hardly bought anything. He chose a couple of homespun rolls along with cotton plains to make a few shirts and trousers. He had beans remaining in his hand, which he fondled like doubloons. He presented them to Solo, and she gave him a card that said simply: day off. The man presented the card to Jerome, who took out a pencil and ceremoniously signed the card as if it were a king’s proclamat
ion.

  No one assigned fabrics to the slaves. They simply took what they wanted and paid for it with their beans. Families returned to their cabins with their materials, pleased with their choices and eager to make their clothing.

  Had Jerome gone mad? Tom wondered, surveying the fine merchandise. How much was this costing? Jerome hadn’t asked for or received any money to do this. What was he doing?

  As the last of the slaves made their selections, Tom approached the table. “Jerome, explain to me what’s going on here.”

  “Why, Mr. Tom, Jerome can’t have lazy good-fer-nothins’ like who work fer you. Jerome got his kitchen an’ chocolate bizness to run. Jerome had to do somethin’ else than yer doin’.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I start out with food rations. ‘Do one day work,’ I tell the wastrels, ‘and get yerself one cocoa bean.’ That bean give ’em food rations fer one day. They can leave their work anytime after they done their task for the day. When I say that, sir, well, some of ’em up and finish their task at noon. Lordy, I think to myself, noon. So then I tell ’em, ‘Do two days’ tasks in one and get yer food rations fer two days and next day off.’ So, some of ’em do that.”

  “Really?” Tom pondered the matter. “And what about the clothing rations?”

  “Few weeks ago, with the clothing ration comin’ up, I say, ‘Do one day task and get one bean for one day food ration and another bean for yer fabric. Do more work, make extry stuff I can sell, an’ get more beans for finer threads for some real nice clothes. You can have it, brother,’ I tell ’em.”

  “And where did you get money to shop at Greenbriar’s finest fabric shop?”

  “From the surplus they’re makin’, sir. They get time off if they finish their task early. Some o’ them been pickin’ berries, huntin’, fishin’, diggin’ up vegetables, makin’ baskets and the like in their extry time from finishin’ their task early. I give ’em cocoa beans for their stuff, then I sell it in town, and buy the fabric.”

  “You mean this isn’t costing me anything more than before?”

  “Why, no sir. The extry stuff comes from theirselves and their own work.”

  “But you must be working them to death, Jerome. If they’re gardening, hunting, and basket weaving, in addition to their assigned tasks, why then—”

  “Oh, no, sir. They ain’t workin’ no ways near to their death, Mr. Tom. They’re jus’ doin’ less chatterin’, less day dreamin’, less sleepin’, less mopin’ on the job.”

  “And you’re somehow making money on this venture, I assume?”

  Jerome smiled. “Somebody gotta sell their stuff in town, sir. Jerome, why, he be their agent.”

  Tom eyed one of the slaves lingering at the table. She held a piece of muslin across her figure. Unlike the dull colors of their normal clothing, the fabric was dyed. Its brilliant pink color seemed to shout out to the woman, daring her to wear it.

  The slave showed the fabric to her teacher, standing nearby. “I remember the story you read, Miss Solo. The one ’bout the princess. She had a dress made of muslin!”

  “I think it was pink too, just as yours will be,” Solo said, embellishing.

  The woman spontaneously hugged her teacher, then she paid Jerome for her fabric and walked away, the pink cloth spread across her arms.

  Watching her saunter, almost dancing with the fabric, Tom was fascinated.

  He turned to look at Solo. The coarse cotton of her homespun frock was a jarring contrast to the smooth sheen of her bronze skin. His imagination strayed from his guard to envision the comely figure before him in a daring silk dress, with wild hair tumbling over bare shoulders.

  “Where are your beans?” he asked.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Why not? Why can’t you have a nice dress too?”

  “Because I work for you.”

  He recalled her standing in his line earlier, taking her homespun from Kitty with all the eagerness of getting a bottle of tonic to cure ringworm. Suddenly, he laughed. It was the hearty laugh of someone who had just found the answer to a problem perplexing him.

  She seemed drawn to the first sustained laughter she had ever heard from him. She studied his face, and the smile that formed on hers seemed involuntary.

  “That’s it! That’s what I can do!”

  “What?” She looked confused.

  “I can give you cocoa beans! I can give you all cocoa beans!”

  He felt the heavy gloom lifting from his spirit. He sprinted to the stone tower that held the plantation bell. He pulled the cord, and the gong rang through the fields. The bell was like his cry of rebellion against the people from the dying world who wanted to pull him down. No! No! the resonating tone of the great bell seemed to announce. He wasn’t going down.

  As the slaves gathered in the grassy field in front of the big house and garden, wondering why they were being summoned, they saw their young master laughing as he rang the bell, as happy as if calling them to a wedding.

  Standing before the growing group of slaves sitting in the field, he felt like a conductor ready to lead his players in a new score; their theme would be man’s engine. Jerome had shown the way to spark the imaginations and productive energies of those who were plodding along, forgotten in the dying age.

  Tom saw a simple truth in Jerome’s experiences with the chocolate squares and the slaves’ rations, which had awakened the cook’s own energies and those of others. A man’s work can’t be separated from his choice to perform it or from the fruits of his labor. The dying age separates him from both and shuts him down. Once his will, his actions, and their rewards are reunited under his control, then he’s a master of himself, and the results are amazing.

  The slaves coming to hear Tom sat on the grass, leaned against the tree trunks, and sprawled across the dirt paths, with the setting sun painting a gold glaze on their faces.

  Overseer Nick Bergen appeared from the direction of his cottage. He walked toward Tom with a bounce in his step, as if eager for his next task. His honest face and competent manner suggested that the job of driving gangs of men through fields of cotton was an intelligent trade when an intelligent man did it.

  Tom took Nick aside to explain his intentions. The immigrant farmer, who shared Tom’s disdain for forced labor, nodded his approval as the young inventor spoke of his plans. The men talked animatedly, smiled in mutual respect, and shook hands.

  Then Tom faced the group. The mumbling in the crowd stopped as they turned their attention to the tall, trim man with the bright yellow hair.

  “I called you here because I want to tell you that there’s a new age coming, and things are going to be different than they were before. In the new age, each and every one of us is a master.” He pointed to a few of them. “You, Henry, you’re a master. And you, Violet, you’re a master.” He swept his hands across the crowd. “All of you are masters.”

  The slaves looked at one another, baffled. Had their master gone mad?

  “In the new age, we’re all masters of only one person, and that person is ourselves.”

  Tom paced before the group. Behind him, the big house and the gangly oaks with their swaying moss were like the background of a painting in which the artist would create a world to his liking. Could Tom do the same?

  “Because each of you is master of yourself, you’re all different from one another. You shouldn’t all have to wear the same clothes or eat the same food or live in the same kind of cabin or have the same things in your house. You should have what you want as individual, separate people. And you should decide for yourselves. It shouldn’t come from me. You should all wear the clothing you want, eat the food you want, grow whatever you want in your gardens, and for goodness’ sake, marry whoever you want. Those decisions should be yours to make. That’s what it means to be master of yourself.”

  More than one hundred pairs of eyes followed him as he paced. Separate from the throng that were sitting, three people were standing near him lik
e allies: Solo, Jerome, and Nick.

  “Now, if you were really masters of yourselves, you could choose the type of work you want to do and be paid for it. You could decide whether you want to work for me, or work for someone else, or save your money and buy a farm or a shop of your own and work for yourselves. That’s not possible because the new age hasn’t arrived yet. Right now, we’re glued together, you and me, on this farm. We can’t change that, but we can still get around it some.

  “For instance, we see that a task that you need to do in a day, if you put your mind to it, can actually be completed in less than a day, sometimes in much less than a day when you really work hard. Jerome did an experiment, and he discovered this.”

  Tom saw Jerome smile at the mention of his name.

  “I want to apply this experiment to all of you. I want to take a day’s task for each of you and make a rule that when you finish it and finish it properly, you’ve done your work for the day and you’re through. Then you can have the rest of the day to yourselves. You can relax or socialize or work for yourselves. I want to be sure all of the tasks we assign are reasonable, so you can complete them and still have time to spare.

  “Maybe in your free time, you’ll want to grow your own vegetables or raise your own hogs or chickens or do wood carvings or weave baskets, and then sell your products in town. We have some of that going on now, but with the new system, we can have more of it. Maybe some of you will want to start your own business like Jerome did with his chocolate squares.”

  Jerome’s smile broadened with pride.

  “You see, Jerome pretty much is his own master. Do you know why?”

  The group silently waited for the answer.

  “Because he has the same thing any master has, the thing that makes him a master, and that’s his intelligence.” Tom looked at the silent figures watching him, wondering if they understood. “None of you needs any other master than that. You have inside you the one thing that makes you master of yourself.”