Carolina Gold (24 page)

“I see your point. Still, you’d have a chance to attend a real school if you went. If you get an education, you won’t be dependent upon your father’s whims. You’ll be equipped to make your own way in the world.”

“I reckon.” He paused. “Miss Fraser, could I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Hadley said you’ve got a salt works somewhere around here.”

“Yes, down on the marsh. But it hasn’t been in use since the war.”

“Could you show me how it works?”

“I doubt it works now, but I can show it to you. Why are you interested?”

“I’m thinking about buildin’ one. Mr. Kelley told Lucy’s pa that if the rice planters start cultivating other crops, more people might be interested in moving south, and we might get a new railroad that would go from Charleston all the way up to Wilmington. I figure if I had me a salt works, I could ship salt to every town on the rail line.”

“You are a wonder, Daniel Graves. I’m sure I do not know where all those ideas come from.”

He laughed. “From all the books in your library.”

“Let me get my hat and tell Augusta where we’re going.” Charlotte retrieved her straw hat and hurried down the beach to speak to Augusta. She led Daniel around to the back of the house and down to the salt marsh, where fiddler crabs and a pair of
egrets foraged for food in the pungent pluff mud exposed by the ebbing tide and fish darted through the shallow water.

“There once was a scaffold right here,” Charlotte said. “With a pump and a wooden trough to move the seawater to the boilers.”

Daniel peered into an empty shed. “I don’t see the boilers.”

“They were in the forest, a few hundred yards down that way.” She indicated the general direction. “They’re probably completely rusted out by now—and the Federals shelled them pretty regularly during the war. My father’s bondsmen were in charge of the salt works, so I don’t know much more about it, except that Father said it was best to pump the water at flood tide.”

“How come?”

“The water had more salt in it then and less of the seepage from the marsh. When I was about your age, men from all over the Lowcountry came here to buy salt or barter for it. It was a scarce commodity back then. One year we earned more than seven thousand dollars from the sale of it.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “Seven thousand? That’s a lot of money.” He brushed away a dragonfly that had landed on his sleeve. “Reckon I’d need something sturdy for the boilers to set on.”

“Ours were mounted on bricks, with the furnace down below.”

“Don’t seem all that hard to build one. Thanks for showing me around.” He swung his haversack onto his shoulder and glanced toward the dock, where his rowboat swayed and knocked against the gray wooden pier. “I oughta be getting back. Sun will be setting soon.”

She followed Daniel to the dock. She barely knew the boy, but she felt responsible for him. “You will let me know whether you decide to join your father? I’ll need to arrange for someone to take care of Cinnamon.”

He jumped lightly into the rowboat. “Yes’m. I’m thinking I’ll stay put, but if I change my mind I’ll make sure your mare
is looked after. And anyway, I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye.”

She nodded, thinking of her ruined rice fields and Mr. Hadley’s suggestion to replant. She looked out over the marshland, torn between despair and hope. “Ask Mr. Hadley to plant my first rice field again if he can. I’ll be over there soon to pay him for the seed and the workers’ wages.”

“That’s the spirit, ma’am.” Daniel grinned as he set the oars into the locks. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I picked up the newspaper when I was in town. I already read it, so I thought you might like to have it.” He took it from his haversack and handed it up to her. Then he pushed off into the creek and was soon lost from view among the marsh grasses.

Charlotte headed back to the house, unfolding the paper as she went. The front page was taken up with news of the coming inauguration of the new governor, Mr. Scott, who had been swept into office on a strong Negro vote. The Republican takeover of the statehouse was only the latest outrage among the planters, the main topic of conversation these days.

She turned the page and went stock-still as she read the headline, her stomach plummeting, her heart knocking hard against her ribs.

Eighteen

Pelican Cottage

Pawley’s Island, SC

June 30, 1868

General James Longstreet

New Orleans, Louisiana

General Longstreet,

I write to you on a matter of utmost urgency. My employer and your friend from the war, Nicholas Betancourt, departed Georgetown District, South Carolina, in mid-May, bound for your home in New Orleans. I have had no word from him since, and a letter I sent him in your care went answered.

The local newspaper of Thursday last brings news of the yellow-fever epidemic in your city. I pray for your health, General, for the health of all the citizens, and of course for that of Mr. Betancourt, whose two small daughters remain in my care and who are anxious for his safe return.

I’m writing in the hope that this letter will find its way to your door and to Mr. Betancourt. His children and I would be most grateful for any news of him.

Charlotte signed and sealed the letter and tucked it into her desk drawer just as Marie-Claire rushed inside, bare feet slapping against the wood floor. “Guess what, Ma’m’selle? Some men are fighting down on the beach.”

“Fighting?” Charlotte rose from her chair. “Where’s your sister?”

“Over at Miss Augusta’s. They’re making a rag doll.” Marie-Claire raked a tangle of dark hair off her face. “Mrs. Banks says the men are fighting about Independence Day. She says Mr. Banks is angry about the election of that horrid Yankee, Mr. Scott, and that we ought not even celebrate Independence Day at all. But we are celebrating, aren’t we, Ma’m’selle? Anne-Louise and I want to go fishing and make a bonfire and watch the fireworks. You said we could. You promised.”

“I know I did.” She sighed. Politics aside, the last thing she felt like doing was celebrating. Nicholas might be taken ill, or worse. An outbreak of the fever could decimate a city in a matter of days. She turned away so Marie-Claire wouldn’t see the worry in her eyes. “We’ll carry on with our plans regardless of what others choose to do.”

Marie-Claire beamed.

“Now, please tell Anne-Louise it’s time to make lunch.”

She went out to the kitchen to prepare the vegetables Daniel had brought. After their meal she settled the girls at the table with their books and their needlework and began sewing a shirt for the missionaries. Her needle plied the cloth in slow, uncertain stitches, her thoughts rattling around in her head like marbles in a jar. If Nicholas was alive, he would have written by now. If he had fallen ill, or worse, surely General Longstreet or someone would
have sent word. Perhaps Nicholas had written and even now the letter was waiting for her in Georgetown.

She finished off a sleeve, knotted the thread, and snipped it. Papa had counseled patience and faith. But as she watched the sun slipping down the summer sky, all she felt was fear.

“Here come the Demeres.” Marie-Claire turned from the window and let the curtain fall back into place. “I hope Bess remembered to bring her birding book.”

The first day of July had arrived clear and white-hot on a sultry breeze that stirred the curtains at the open windows. At ebb tide, the calm sea mirrored the sun-bleached sky. Charlotte closed her book, eager to begin her lessons before the heat became unbearable.

Mr. Peabody halted the wagon, and the children piled off like ants from an anthill. Charlotte went to the door to usher them inside. John and Lucas ran to the table, leaving Bess and Susan behind.

Charlotte waved to the minister. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

He dropped lightly to the ground. She hurried down the steps to meet him.

“Miss Fraser. Looks like we’re in for a hot one today.”

“Yes.” From her pocket she extracted the letter she’d written the day before. “I must ask a favor.”

“Anything. The missus and I couldn’t manage the children and our work without your help.”

She pressed the letter into his hand. “Please post this for me right away. It’s important.”

He glanced at the address. “General Longstreet?”

“I’m worried about Mr. Betancourt.” Briefly she summarized
the article about the yellow-fever outbreak and Nicholas’s friendship with the general. “With the telegraph lines still so unreliable, I can’t think of any other sure way to reach Mr. Betancourt. He should have returned many weeks ago. I fear the worst.”

“Then we must pray.” He bowed his head. She followed suit but found it hard to feel anything. Until the war came to her door, she had always believed God was watching over all of creation. Now she wasn’t so sure. How could she trust a God who would allow such pain and horror? Such unspeakable suffering and loss?

“Amen.” The preacher set his hat on his head and tucked her letter into his pocket. “I’ll see that your letter leaves Georgetown at once, even if I have to take it clear down there myself.”

“Thank you.”

He climbed onto the wagon. “It’s the least I can do. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for rescuing Susan from your roof. I must say the child gave me quite a turn.”

“I’m glad she was unharmed.” She glanced toward the cottage, where Bess and Susan stood on the piazza watching a gaggle of shorebirds scurrying along the sand. “The experience seems not to have affected her enthusiasm for learning.”

“John has certainly taken to his lessons too. He seemed to be in trouble quite a bit at his former school. Nowadays I have to tear him away from his books to do his chores.”

“I believe he may have a future as an illustrator. He’s nearly worn down his pencils and the charcoal I gave him. If he had some proper pens and ink . . .”

“I’ll see to it the next time I’m in town.” Mr. Peabody slapped the reins against the horse’s rump. “Good day, Miss Fraser. Please try not to worry. Mr. Betancourt is in God’s hands—as we all are.”

She returned to the house to find Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise reading together. Bess had taken her place at the table and was helping Lucas read a magazine story. John, predictably,
was already bent over his paper, sketching the seascape beyond the window. Susan was in the parlor running her fingers over the embroidered stitches on the settee.

Charlotte knelt beside her. “Good morning, Susan.”

“Hello, miss.”

“I see you’re admiring the flowers.”

“I like the purple ones.”

“Those are violets. And these pink ones are primroses.” Charlotte stood and held out her hand. “Now take your chair, please.”

“I don’t want to.”

Charlotte suppressed an impatient retort. “Sometimes we all must do things we don’t like to do,” she said evenly. “Come along now. We mustn’t keep everyone waiting.”

Susan let out a long sigh and followed Charlotte across the hall to the dining room. She climbed onto her chair and leaned her head against Charlotte’s waist while Charlotte picked up her chalk and wrote the day’s word list on the chalkboard.

“Good morning, everyone. Please put away your reading and take out your paper and pencils. As soon as everyone has copied this list, we’re going outside.”

John’s eyes widened. “Before arithmetic?”

“Before arithmetic. Later on it will be too hot to be out of doors. Besides, the tide is going out. We should see what we can discover in the tidal pools.”

Ten minutes later, armed with glass jars for collecting specimens and sticks for digging in the sand, the children raced across the dunes and onto the beach. Lucas and John dropped onto their knees near a shallow pool and began scooping water. The four girls, their skirts carefully hitched up, continued a few yards farther along the beach, stopping now and then to peer into the tidal pools.