Somerset (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

S
EPTEMBER
15, 1836

“Man proposes; God disposes.” That German writer in the fifteenth century, Thomas Kempis, was right when he penned those words, as Morris would be delighted to hear me admit, though God knows I've experienced the truth of them often enough these past couple of years. I sit here now on the eve of my departure to New Orleans wondering where to begin my narration to Jessica of how handily God disposed of my proposal to settle in the black waxy region of Texas. Unless she received my letter of July that I entrusted a soldier returning to Lafayette to deliver, she will not know that the Willow Grove wagon train did not make it to the black soil of my reserved land grant. Once the train had crossed the Sabine and slogged through the bayou country, our people had endured enough. We had survived accidents to limb, wagon, oxen and horses, treacherous quagmires, snakes, and alligators. Two days after we set up camp, exhausted, on a pine-covered knoll, I said to Jeremy out of the blue, “How about here?”

Jeremy looked relieved. He had already exclaimed over the abundance of white-tailed deer and wild turkeys, clear streams, deep, fertile, sandy loam, and the rich variety of trees, but my admiration of the area was based on an additional attraction. The First Congress of the Republic of Texas was offering immigrants who arrived between March 2, 1836 and October 1, 1837 a grant of 1,280 acres for heads of families and 640 acres for single men, provided they lived in Texas for three years. Why would a man pay 12 and 1/2 cents an acre in the land grants of empresarios such as Stephen F. Austin when the land on which he stood was free?

Even though the pine forests would be much harder to clear than the blackland prairies, I saw other advantages to remaining in the region. Not only would the savings in cost of land add to my secret coffer, but I could return for Jessica and Joshua sooner. This time, I would take the Old San Antonio Road and cross the Sabine at Gaines Ferry into Louisiana and bring my family back the same way for an easier and quicker route into Texas.

Lorimer Davis, who'd been within earshot of Jeremy's and my conversation, asked me to repeat what I'd said.

Jeremy answered for me. “Silas said, ‘How about here?'”

Lorimer grinned from one big ear to another and shouted at his neighbor, “HOW ABOUT HERE?”

When the question was passed from wagon to wagon, a chorus of YEA's went up and in a meeting the next day, the settlers cast a unanimous vote to settle here among the pines.

And so, on my thirtieth birthday, I managed to hire a surveyor to stake out my acres and to provide me with the necessary figures of location and boundaries to file my claim at the Texas General Land Office when it opens in Austin in December. I made sure to have witnesses to the surveyor's report testify to my arrival in Texas and should have no trouble obtaining a conditional certificate to possess the land until I take official ownership of it in three years. Even before the surveying was completed, I set about building shelters, fences, barns, and—most important—clearing land for the planting of cotton seeds in early spring. I am glad Jessica was not here to witness how hard I worked our slaves, but we now have a semblance of the beginning of Somerset. I look forward to carrying her over the threshold of our log house. It is rude at best, but it is weatherproof because I made sure the chinks were properly filled. It boasts three rooms and a loft, and a hall from the front gallery to a shed in back where, at no small expense, I have had installed a bathtub for Jessica! I hope she will be pleased. In time, I plan to join another cabin to the original to double our living space, but the addition will have to wait until I address other, more urgent needs.

Sam Houston of Virginia was elected the first president of the Republic of Texas two weeks ago. Perhaps now the new nation will know the beginning of stability. The treasury is depleted and credit for the republic next to impossible to obtain. There are no funds to pay for an army, roads, or postal system. Mexico and the Indians present a constant concern. Houston favors eventual annexation to the United States and peaceful relations with the Indians. His opponents support independence and the removal of the Indians from the entire republic. Who will win out? I see myself someday adding my voice to a political body that decides such matters, but at this point in time, I will concentrate on building the plantation my son and his sons will carry into perpetuity in this new land of promise and opportunity.

I fear Jeremy will not be joining me in a like venture, though he has staked out his 640 acres—“the beginning of The Warwick Lumber Company, my friend,” he proudly announced to my startled ears within a week of our arrival here. “I'm tired of planting cotton, Silas,” he said. “I see my financial future in mining timber.” He went on to say that the logging industry was in its infancy now, but he is certain it will grow as the nation grows, and in that growth was bound to come the need for lumber.

I was shocked that he would be so enticed to jump ship—turn his back on his Warwick heritage—but of course, I wished him well. For me, the only calling of a Toliver is to till land—large parcels of it—and that, I and my heirs will do.

Henri picked his plot on the hilliest, least fertile ground a good distance from the river. He envisions his 640 acres as the site of the town we will build together and has already marked the spot where he intends to erect his mercantile store—a sort of general store at the beginning, he says, but later, when the town is established—“Ah, mon ami such an emporium the public has yet to behold!” To him I wish the best of luck as well and count myself fortunate to have within hailing distance two of the finest men I will ever call friends.

This is my final entry in the journal. Writing it has provided solace for my loneliness at the end of many long, wearying days. Once I'm reunited with Jessica and Joshua, I see no need to commit to paper the daily events I will live with them.

(Note to myself: Before sharing my journal with Jessica, mark the parts to be left unread.)

Chapter Forty-One

S
EPTEMBER
18, 1836

Silas has been gone now for three and a half months. There are times I believe I cannot endure another day of waiting for his return. Now that I'm feeling better, I've packed and arranged for several trunks to be stored in the Conestoga in readiness to leave as soon as possible to Texas when he does arrive. Stephanie is as much on tenterhooks as I. She, too, is tired of having time on her hands and of being cooped in her hotel room with a rambunctious six year old.

Still, I am glad Silas was not here to see me so sick the first months of my pregnancy. I lived by the chamber pot, not a pleasant sight for a new husband to behold. Only these last weeks have I been able to venture out and about, mainly to take the street car to the DuMont Emporium where my presence is to remind Monsieur DuMont of my threat.

Silas had not been gone a day before Henri's father approached me with an offer to lend out Tippy—“for a wage, of course,” he said, “since your husband tells me the girl is not for sale. He turned down a very handsome offer, too,” he said petulantly, as if still needled by the insult.

I stared at him, my mouth so ajar he understood at once that his offer to Silas was new information to me. “Didn't your husband tell you? Ah, well, then—” an ingratiating smile heightened the greedy light in his eyes, “perhaps you and I can strike a deal since the girl is
your
maid to do with as
you
please.”

I asked him how much he'd offered for Tippy, and when he told me, I very nearly gasped. I do not know how much money my father agreed to pay Silas to take me off his hands, but I would not be surprised if the sum Monsieur DuMont offered did not equal a good portion of it. If Silas had accepted the money, he would have less need for my father's and fewer years to depend on it. He could then throw the contract into my father's face.

He could have gotten rid of me.

But Silas had kept his promise never to sell Tippy and did not take advantage of Monsieur DuMont's offer.

“Well?” My visitor prompted in a tone spiked with impatience.

A heady feeling took hold of me. I would not have been surprised if my body had sprouted wings and lifted me, extra pounds and all, off my feet. “I repeat my husband's words, Monsieur,” I told him. “My maid is not for sale.”

“Very well then, what do you say to hiring her out to me for…” he pursed his lips in a calculating manner and named a wage. The work would not be hard, he assured me. He rather thought my maid might enjoy it. He wanted to use her in his design room.

I'd see what Tippy had to say about it, I told him. As I saw him to the door, he did not disguise his chagrin that I did not give him an answer on the spot—why was it necessary to discuss his offer with a slave?—but he agreed to return the next morning for my decision.

He could not leave my presence soon enough. I wanted to be alone to think on the implications of Silas turning down so much money. I remembered that our conversation the late afternoon of the party had followed Jean DuMont's meeting with him, but Silas had kept the reason for his visit to himself. Silas would certainly have realized the consequences to our tenuous relationship if he'd sold Tippy, but why would that loss matter compared to so much gain—including the opportunity to rid himself of the wife he'd been forced to marry!

I placed my hands on the mound that was the fruit of the two nights we'd been together. Here within me was the seed of our destruction. We needed no other. I must accept Silas as a slave owner, but I could not abide our child sharing his endorsement of the purchase and sale of human beings to do another's bidding without compensation for their labor or the freedom to make the choice.

But that conflict would come soon enough, I told myself. For the moment I was warmed—overjoyed—by the sacrifice I believe my husband had made on behalf of our marriage.

Tippy could not hide her delight at the opportunity to work in the design room of the DuMont Emporium. The wage seemed hardly of interest to her. It was the pleasure of handling silks and satins, brocades, and finely woven cotton and woolen fabrics that set her hands to flapping when she imagined herself creating her marvels in such a place.

“But how will you look after yourself and Joshua with me gone all day?” she cried.

“Joshua and I will look out for each other,” I told her. Already my stepson was the attentive big brother, often laying his head on the swell of my abdomen and talking to it.

“If you're a boy, I'll teach you to do the things I like to do,” he'd say. “If you're a girl, I'll protect you from bad things.”

At such times, I plant a kiss on the sweet crown of my stepson's head and wonder if it is possible to love my own child as much as I love this little boy.

Tippy took the job, but only after I had warned Monsieur DuMont that he would answer to my father if she was mistreated or taken advantage of in any way. I also got him to agree to send a carriage to take her to and from his emporium located in the business district upriver of Canal Street. Because people think of Tippy as an oddity, she draws attention wherever she goes, most of it unwanted. New Orleans is exotic, bawdy, sensual, mysterious, an easy city to get swallowed in, and, without my protection, I imagine her assaulted on the street by ruffians, kidnapped by slavers, or spirited away to serve some evil mistress behind locked doors in moss-draped mansions for the rest of her life.

The arrangement has worked well, and were it not for Joshua and the tales Tippy brings home at night of the DuMont Emporium, I might have succumbed to the daily waste of my time and energy in the Winthorp Hotel. Because of boredom and the sameness of the days, there is often little of interest to record. I hope Silas will understand the reason for the gaps between my entries. When I next return to these pages, perhaps I will have something of importance to relate.

  

S
EPTEMBER
19, 1836

Glory be. Last evening I answered a knock on my door and found Silas William Toliver on the threshold.