A Dream of Daring (6 page)

Chapter
4

Tom began his ride to
Ruby Manor vowing with renewed vigor to develop his tractor. Now he had to
fulfill that goal not merely for himself but also for the man who had lost his
life trying to protect the device. He owed it to the senator and his family to
recover the invention and continue his work. He could not bring Wiley Barnwell
back, but he could vindicate the senator’s death by achieving his own life’s
dream.

Tom took the back roads
to the plantation, hoping to find a clue to the invention’s whereabouts. At the
time of the crime, the ground had been hard and dry, making it difficult to
detect the perpetrator’s tracks. Now, a morning rainstorm intensified the
problem, washing away any tracks that might have been discernible. Staring at
the tangle of trees, shrubs, and rocks alongside his path, he wondered how many
potential hiding places there were in the radius of the carriage house
reachable by Cooper in the time he had to conceal the invention. Countless, Tom
feared.

Soaked and chilled, he
traveled along the lonely road. The saturated tree branches above his path
seemed to arch lower and lower in the rain, closing in on him, shrinking his
world to a raw contest with nature.

He plodded past the
grounds of the Crossroads onto a ridge midway up a hillside. The old road there
spanned from town to the plantations north of it like Ruby Manor. On one side
of him was a sharp drop to Cutter’s Creek, its stream racing in the storm to
Bayou Redbird. On the other side was a steep climb to the hilltop, its runoff
forming puddles under the horse’s hooves and mud splatters on his pants. Could
the invention be hidden around here? Tom wondered.

There were no roads going
up the hill, with its thickets of foliage and wavy bands of clover, and it was
too steep for a single horse to haul the engine up the slope, so he dismissed
that notion. He glanced downhill by the creek, but that was where the abandoned
factory lay. Surely Cooper would not have hidden the engine around there, after
he had explicitly mentioned the old cotton mill when questioned at the carriage
house. Yet that plant was the closest building to Polly Barnwell’s land and a
good place to keep the tractor protected. As he rode along, Tom wondered if he
should search it, but nature intervened to decide the matter for him.

The downpour was turning
into one of Louisiana’s late-winter storms, with lightning and thunder forcing
him to seek cover. Through the stinging rain pellets, Tom spotted the turnoff
to the switchback road down to Cutter’s Creek. As he descended the deserted path,
he imagined what it was like when draft animals hauled supplies and goods
between the factory and the road on the ridge to town, bringing action and
purpose to the sleepy hillside.

He reached the dormant
plant by the creek that had given it power. The building stood desolate, not as
an inanimate object that had never sparked with life but as a corpse that had
lost it. The factory’s prior human activities seemed to haunt the place, Tom
thought, as he looked around. A giant waterwheel at the building’s creek side
was now raised above the stream’s surface and immobilized, its power no longer
needed. The factory’s boat dock was vacant. Flatboats still used the creek to
float crops and people downstream to the steamships at Bayou Redbird, but no
one had reason to stop at this landing anymore.

Tom had explored the
place once before, wondering if it could be reopened to manufacture his engine.
It had disturbed him then to see an industrial building vacant, with rotting
wood, shattered windows, and unhinged doors—a failed factory swallowed by the
wilderness. Now, after hearing Cooper’s story of how the company had been
driven out, the old place disturbed him even more.

He tied his horse close
to the building, underneath the roof’s overhang and out of the rain. A twenty-five-year-old
sign painted on a wood board was still nailed to the front door. He read the
message despite the chipped letters: “Closed June 1834 by order of the town of
Greenbriar for failure to pay taxes and fees.”

When he entered through
the creaky door, the field mice making their home on the floor scattered in the
dust. He walked around the entry room, seeing nothing of note. There were fish
scales, animal bones, and cooking implements in a fireplace, signs of hunters
or runaway slaves taking shelter there.

On the factory floor, he
saw remnants of the old machines, tools, and work bays, but no trace of his
invention.

He could imagine the
dozens of human voices and bustling activity that had once filled the place. He
could visualize the workers cutting the cotton bales, straightening and
aligning the fibers through carding machines, then spinning the lint into yarn.
He could almost hear the gears humming and the hundreds of bobbins spinning—all
to transform the balls of fluff on a small plant into thread for fabrics sought
throughout the world.

He checked the warehouse
but found nothing related to his device in the cold, hollow space.

He examined what had been
the office, a room off the factory floor with a plain wood desk and other
furniture apparently not worth salvaging when the place closed. A bookcase held
musty volumes on mechanics and manufacturing, their titles faded by the years.
On a table he found a stack of diagrams and manuals of the machines. He dusted
them off and glanced through the stiff, yellowing papers, fascinated with how
factories like this harnessed the principles of mechanics and energy to
mass-produce yarn. He saw plans to add a weaving wing to the building and
diagrams of powered looms that the owner had apparently planned to purchase,
thereby expanding his operation to produce not only yarn but finished fabrics
as well. Like a vibrant young man who dies suddenly, the factory seemed to have
closed just when it was coming into its prime.

Waiting for the storm to
pass, Tom sat at the desk and looked through the drawers. He found what was
apparently the last item placed in the desk twenty-five years earlier, a local
newspaper with a front-page article about the factory’s closing. According to
the report, much of the plant’s land was purchased by Henry Barnwell. With the
help of his bride, Polly, the new owner was going to tear down the cabins and
shops that had comprised the workers’ village, so that he could cultivate
cotton.

The reporter had asked
the factory’s owner for a comment on why his company failed. The owner was
described as looking despondent. “You can’t change the soul of the South,” he
had said. “Anyone who tries is doomed.”

The comment disturbed
Tom. A budding industry, a workers’ town, a burgeoning business, and a new age
had been suffocated. That was twenty-five years ago. The soul of the South had
remained unchanged. But the factory hadn’t been killed completely, he thought,
as he read the last paragraph of the story. The reporter mentioned that Henry
Barnwell was naming his new plantation Barnwell Oaks. Reading this twenty-five
years later, Tom realized that Barnwell Oaks was a name that somehow had never
caught on with the townspeople. The owner of the factory, Tom thought, had seen
the new age coming, because the name he had given his factory had attached
itself to Henry Barnwell’s plantation and endured through the years. The
plantation, like the factory preceding it, was called the Crossroads.

When the rain stopped,
Tom was as eager to leave the place as one might be to end a visit to a
cemetery.

The storm had left its
mark, he noticed, as he continued on the back roads to Ruby Manor. His path
took him through a live oak forest, where the lightning and winds had wounded
the great octopus-evergreens that seemed invulnerable. Among their sprawling
trunks and tentacle branches, Tom saw trees split like barrels and branches
broken like matchsticks.

He thought of another
towering figure that had fallen, Wiley Barnwell, and how the women he left
behind would need help managing their own plantation and selling the
Crossroads. Tom would, of course, assist Charlotte and Rachel with their
business and financial needs. But what about their grief at a loved one
suddenly being ripped from their lives? He was helpless to fill that crater.
For the first time, he felt responsible for the unhappiness of others. He could
feel the women’s sorrow and hear their anguish. Their cries were
loud . . . vivid . . . frightful— He
suddenly realized that the cries he heard were real. They were coming not from
his imagination but from the woods ahead. He took off on his horse to
investigate.

He soon discovered that
the cries were the frantic whinnying of a horse in distress. A fallen tree lay
across the midsection of the creature, a formidable black trunk slicing a roan
body, the animal’s limbs dangling helplessly in the air, its head bobbing up
and down, its deep-throated wails reverberating through the quiet forest. A
young mulatto woman was trying to free the beast. Her face looked as panicked as
the animal’s, but she was conspicuously silent and, Tom suspected, wouldn’t
dare cry for help because she appeared to be a slave caught in a runaway
attempt.

She had devised a method
for freeing the horse, using what seemed to be the only tool she had: a long
rope. Tom visually traced the path of the rope from its one end tied to a tree
trunk, then swung over a thick, low-hanging branch of a giant oak on one side
of the animal, then curled around the trunk pinning the horse, then brought up
around another low branch on the other side of the animal, and then brought
down to its other end in her hand. The slim figure had tied a stick to the end
she was holding in order to form a handle perpendicular to the rope for better
leverage. She was pulling feverishly on it.

Tom looked in amazement
at the makeshift pulley system that she had devised to reduce the weight she’d
have to lift to free the hapless horse. He noted her intelligent effort as he
watched her pulling on the rope. With the limited strength she had because of
her small size, she could lift the trunk from the horse only slightly,
insufficient to free the animal. She pulled again, adjusting her angle, trying
to improve her leverage, but to no avail. She looked up from her rigors to see
that the rope section around one of the branches was fraying and about to
break. She gasped in horror.

Tom ran behind her,
seized the rope, and gave one fierce tug. His superior strength proved
decisive. He was able to raise the fallen tree high enough to extricate the
animal.

“Grab the horse!” he
directed.

The girl rushed to the
frightened creature while Tom held up the tree trunk. She grabbed the reins and
guided the animal to its feet, freeing it just before the frayed rope broke and
the trunk came crashing down.

Tom was about to lend her
a hand when he realized she was quite able to control the animal herself. She
held the horse firmly by the reins, patting and soothing the barebacked
creature until it settled down. Aside from copious bits of tree bark lodged in
its coat, the horse appeared to be uninjured.

When she finished tending
to the animal, the young woman turned to face her rescuer. She stood with her
head high, staring at Tom distrustfully. He stared back, taking in the many
contrasting qualities striking him at once. Her face displayed the glistening
dark eyes and high cheekbones of one race in an arresting harmony with the
tapered nose and delicate lips of another. Her skin was neither ebony nor fair
but a golden-bronze mix of the two. Her hair was long and lustrous, a tangled
mane tumbling down her back, tightly curled by the grace of one race and
lightened to a reddish-brown by another. It was as if nature, in a moment of
artistic inspiration, had blended on her great palette the fine features of two
races to produce a stunning beauty.

He estimated her age at
between eighteen and twenty, making her a cross between a girl and a woman. The
wild hair and the penetrating eyes, the mud-splattered face and the proud
posture, the hardness she showed him and the softness she showed the horse, the
slave’s frock and the runaway’s spirit, the raw beauty and the keen
intelligence—it all blended into a fireball presence.

He walked toward her,
wanting to help. He was carrying a substantial amount of cash for his
now-aborted voyage and was about to give her money. Had he paused to predict
her reaction, he might have expected to be viewed cautiously or perhaps even
feared. But he didn’t expect to be punched in the face, then pushed in the
chest and knocked down.

Before he could stand up
and recover from his assault, she had jumped on her horse and was fleeing
furiously, a vibrant creature riding bareback, strong-willed—and desperate.

He rubbed his chin, which
smarted from her fist, and then he rose. As he dusted himself off, he watched
her fading in the distance. Another bizarre event to perplex him, he thought.
First his invention was stolen and an honorable man killed. Then he discovered
that a factory bringing jobs, wealth, and the growth of a village had been
driven out. Now a woman with a savage fear was running for her life. A common
thread seemed to be tying these things together in his mind.

He remembered reading the
factory owner’s words:
You can’t change the soul of the South. Anyone who
tries is doomed
. Was the runaway doomed? He thought of the slave catchers
who scoured the area, tracking the desperate, chaining them, returning them to
their masters for untold punishment.
Will the patrols get her?
His eyes
closed painfully in quiet protest at the thought.

Chapter
5

The sun appeared that
afternoon, drying the ground after the storm. But when Tom turned onto the path
up the hill to Ruby Manor, a procession of oaks brought back the shade. He
caught sight of the Barnwell home from spots where the branches thinned along
the winding road, with each glimpse a reminder of the grim task ahead.

As he reached the top of
the hill, the Greek Revival mansion came into full view. It was an imposing
structure with massive columns supporting the first- and second-floor galleries
in the front and back of the house. On more than one occasion Tom had heard the
story of Greenbriar’s most majestic plantation home. Early in their marriage,
Wiley Barnwell had begun construction of a new house for his beautiful wife,
and the couple and their one-year-old daughter, Rachel, had moved in twenty
years ago.

Ruby Manor was named for
the hundreds of rosebushes planted along the perimeter, surrounding its
mistress with her favorite flower. Through the years, the hardy little
plantings survived floods, droughts, frosts, and heat waves to mature into
dense, fragrant bushes that created a spectacular sight—an alabaster-white
Greek mansion inside a red picture frame of roses. Wiley Barnwell became known
as Greenbriar’s most romantic husband, and his gift of Ruby Manor to his wife
was the envy of the townswomen. The celebrated story of Wiley and Charlotte
weighed heavily on Tom as he approached the house that was a temple to a
couple’s love.

Tom knew that a carpenter
who was a slave of the Barnwell family had been the principal builder of the
home. Riding to the entrance, in a momentary reprieve from his problems, the
inventor marveled at the splendor achieved by the talented craftsman.

On that February day, the
rosebushes were bare. Would there be another spring, Tom wondered, after he
said what he had come there to say? A servant took his horse and another
escorted him into the foyer, and the dreaded moment had come. Waiting to be
received, he hoped Rachel and her mother were made of as hardy a stock as the
roses.

“Good Lord! Whatever is
wrong, Tom?”

When Rachel entered the
foyer, she gasped at the sight of Tom’s unshaven face with its puffy, sleepless
eyes, bruises from the fight with Cooper, and mud-stained clothing from the
trip through the storm. She covered her mouth with her hands in horror.

“You’d better get your
mother,” he whispered.

She gazed at him,
bewildered, then vanished to call Charlotte. In a moment, Tom stood before two
women who had the same face and who stared at him with the same astonished
eyes, their mouths agape.

Placing an arm around
each woman’s shoulders, Tom led them into the parlor, their skirts rustling
against his weary legs.

“You’d better sit down.”

The women sat on the
sofa, anxiously leaning forward and looking up at him. He stood by the
fireplace facing them. As the story of the past night spewed out, the women
were appalled. He paused only for their gasps. When he finished, he was spent,
with his arms on the mantel and his head buried in his hands.

When he looked up, his
face was filled with pain. The women were speechless. They seemed to be stunned
beyond tears, their horror producing a dry-eyed, numbing shock.

“My God!” whispered
Charlotte. “Wiley’s . . . gone?”

“Pa’s gone?
He’s . . . gone?” a dazed Rachel asked Tom, who nodded
grimly.

The women looked
incredulous as Tom watched helplessly.

“How horrible!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“This is terrible!”

Charlotte turned her
white-marble face to her daughter. “What’ll we do, child?”

In turn, Rachel looked at
Tom, her face searching for an answer.

“Dear God! We could be
ruined!” Charlotte continued. “Oh, what are we to do?!” She covered her face in
despair. “We could lose our crop!” An even greater fear pulled her voice lower.
“And we could lose control of . . . our people!”

Tom crouched down by
Charlotte. He placed his hands on her shoulders to console her. “Mrs. Barnwell,
I promise, I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll supervise the crop. You
won’t
be ruined. I’ll make sure of that!”

“And the Crossroads,”
said Rachel. “That’s ours too now, isn’t it? I suppose after what you told us,
that utterly despicable Ted Cooper can’t buy it now!”

“I’ll help you find
another buyer,” said Tom.

“Father said the
Crossroads had a bad year.”

“The overseer blamed it
on poor Polly. According to him, it was
her
fault he couldn’t control
the field hands! Imagine the impertinence!” said Charlotte. “I have my doubts
about him. But what can I do? I never go to the Crossroads. The air there makes
me ill.” She threw up her hands in despair.

“I can handle Markham
until you get a buyer. I’ll visit there regularly. I’ll go over the books and
watch what he’s doing,” said Tom.

“Then we can put you in
charge of the Crossroads?”

“Yes, Mrs. Barnwell.”

He thought of how odd it
was—how shocking, really—for them to mention such operational details at a time
like that, but he was relieved to find something he could do to help.

“And your fee, Tom?”

“There’s no fee.
Absolutely not, of course not.”

“Wiley said the Crossroads
needs a loan—”

“I’ll loan you the money
you need, Mrs. Barnwell.”

“Mama, do you feel better
now?”

“Well, dear, I feel
completely overwhelmed! This is horrible, just horrible!” Charlotte wiped her
forehead with a handkerchief. She reached for her fan on a nearby table and
cooled herself nervously.

“Whatever are we going to
do about the funeral?” She lamented. “The town will expect something lavish for
the
senator
. We’ll have to have a headstone specially carved for him.
And the reception! How ever will we handle that now, with planting coming on
and no extra cash to spare? My God, we’re in a fix!”

“There’ll be planters and
legislators from all over the state wanting to pay their respects,” said
Rachel. “The governor will want to come. We’ll need music, flowers—”

“A special carriage and a
custom-fit coffin!” added Charlotte.

Tom rose to his feet.
“Under the circumstances, I must insist on paying for all the funeral expenses.
I won’t have any argument about it.”

There was no argument.

“Why, that’s right good
of you,” said Rachel.

“Yes, Tom. Thank you,”
added Charlotte.

Tom was astonished by the
women’s steely behavior. Theirs was said to be the weaker sex, but was it? The
women before him certainly seemed to be the more pragmatic sex. While he was
wracked with grief, they were able to plan soberly. He took it as a good sign
that they could push aside their sorrow to deal with practical matters. Right
now, he figured, they must be in too much shock to feel the full impact of
their loss, and dealing with looming events gave them a sense of control over
the sudden and violent change in their lives.

“With you helping us with
the plantations,” said Charlotte, “I shouldn’t burden you with anything more,
but . . .” She paused for Tom’s reaction.

“Mrs. Barnwell, I assure
you, it’s not a burden. The
senator . . . stood . . . by me.
He . . . defended my work, my
dream . . . with . . . his life. It’s
my duty to help you now, my solemn duty.”

“Well then, there’s just
one more thing we need, and I don’t know how we’ll pay for it. With Wiley just
purchasing a new gin, and with the doctor bills we paid last month for
delivering our weaver Callie’s baby and for our cook Yancy’s illness—”

“And there’s the new
horses Papa bought,” added Rachel.

“I don’t know where to
turn!” said Charlotte.

“Turn to me, Mrs.
Barnwell. Turn to me!”

“What I mean is, we’ll be
needing more mourning clothes.” Charlotte glanced at her daughter. “Rachel,
dear, look at you.”

Rachel had already
relaxed her mourning attire from her aunt’s funeral the previous day. She still
wore black, but her dress now had a bodice with transparent lace above her
breasts, making her look more provocative than funereal.

“You’ll need mourning
clothes to wear for an extended time, child. What’ll folks say if you’re not in
black up to your chin for months to come?”

“Mama, months in those
horrible clothes? Really!”

This wasn’t the first
time Tom had heard Charlotte prodding Rachel about her attire. The mother
dressed with a modesty and refinement that exceeded the already high expectations
for a senator’s wife. Though her red hair shouted of a still-youthful beauty,
her braids and clips restrained the message to a whisper. Though her figure was
still fetchingly trim, her wardrobe’s muted colors and the high necklines she
wore with a brooch at her throat choked off her feminine appeal.

Rachel, however, was a
daring contrast. Despite her mother’s pleas for modesty, the young Miss
Barnwell loved bright colors and alluring dresses. Her necklines were
provocatively low. Tom surveyed the beauty of her silky skin, the tumbling riot
of red hair, and the small birthmark below her shoulder visible under the lace
of her dress. His eyes paused on the reddish brown mark that was shaped like a
heart and resting above her real heart like a beguiling little charm casting a
spell on him.

Rachel sighed in
resignation. “I suppose Papa would want me to
be . . . proper.”

“I’m glad you see things
sensibly,” said Charlotte.

“But I haven’t any
suitable clothes!”

Rachel’s wardrobe was
legendary. Her father had dedicated the plantation’s best seamstress to making
her dresses, and he had given her a room in the mansion to house her collection
of gowns, day dresses, riding habits, carriage suits, tea attire, capes,
cloaks, shawls, and robes, along with shoes, boots, hats, jewelry, and
accompaniments of every kind. Tom had wondered if Rachel expected the man she
married to match her father’s indulgences.

But now, the young
suitor’s remorse wouldn’t allow him to deny Rachel anything. If his invention
had led to the loss of her father, then he felt responsible—unwittingly but
undeniably—for the tragedy so cruelly thrust upon her.

“Rachel, I want you to
get the clothes you need. You too, Mrs. Barnwell. I’ll consider that to be part
of the funeral expenses that I’m handling.”

How small these gestures
were, he thought, in view of their great loss. He’d use savings, which, after
all, were replaceable. It was the beloved head of their family that was
irreplaceable.

“We’re mighty grateful
for your help,” said Charlotte.

Rachel nodded in
agreement.

“Now, if you’ll excuse
me,” Charlotte said, rising from her seat and walking toward the door, “I’ll
need to tell the slaves.” She paused and look worried. “Whatever shall I say?
They mustn’t think that the strong hand directing them has weakened!
They . . . three hundred of
them . . . mustn’t think . . . ” Her
eyes filled with the raw terror of someone facing physical danger. She looked
up to the heavens. “Oh, Wiley, what’ll I do without you?”

“Shall I accompany you,
Mrs. Barnwell?”

“Mama, we’ll both come
with you.”

Charlotte nodded.
“That’ll make it easier. I’ll come for you after I gather everyone.”

Tom observed her through
the window as she approached the giant bell that summoned the slaves. When she
pulled on the rope, the low tone of the iron gong sounded like a death knell.

He turned away from the
window to find Rachel gazing at him like a wide-eyed child looking for support.
He took hold of her arm, the whole of his sorrow visible on his face. He pulled
her close to him. In what was the sole sweet moment in his bitter day, he
embraced her, kissed her, stroked her hair, caressed her shoulders, moved a
finger affectionately over the little birthmark. The fragrant scent and
luscious feel of her carried him back to his first experience of these
pleasures in Philadelphia, to their lusty days together at a time of abandon
for both of them.

Tom had known Rachel when
they were children. Their families, from the landed gentry of Greenbriar, had
been neighbors and friends. He remembered Rachel as the child who sang to the
town. Her natural talent, honed with voice lessons, made her the star of local
gatherings, from church functions to plantation parties to the town’s social
events. Rachel eagerly performed at every occasion, and Tom had fond memories
of watching the perky little girl, five years his junior, with the angel’s
voice.

Then at the age of
fourteen, Tom left home to travel north for school. His father recognized a
keen intelligence in the boy who took apart and reassembled every clock in the
house just to see how it worked, who repaired their cotton gin and sawmill
better than any mechanic, and who devoured every known book and periodical
about machines. When Tom wanted to attend a science and engineering academy in
Philadelphia, Colonel Edmunton could not deny his gifted son.

In the great northern
city, an exciting world of science, formal education, urban life, and industry
enthralled Tom. While in school, he worked part time for a
machine-manufacturing company, and he remained there after graduation. He
learned to design, assemble, and repair every kind of motor-powered device of
the time.

One day he encountered an
entirely new kind of motor that captivated him: an experimental engine powered
by petroleum. The particular one he saw was inadequate. But it provided the
hint that one day, with radical modifications and improvements, it could
succeed. That day marked the beginning of Tom’s project to develop such an
engine, and with it a motorized vehicle for personal use in transportation and
farming. Soon his project became a passion.