A Dream of Daring (28 page)

Chapter
24

Tom returned home with
the throbbing cut on his face a constant reminder of his abrasive encounter
with Markham. His head throbbed too with the stinging revelations of the day.
The man he most admired had betrayed him. The four men who knew about his
invention had tried to destroy it. A man who had spoken the truth was lashed
for it. A woman who might have information about his tractor was in danger of
being lynched. And the woman he thought he loved had sided against him.

There wasn’t any noble
ally who had given his life to save the invention. Apparently, there wasn’t
even an astute, albeit perverted, thief who had grasped the promise of the
tractor and committed murder to attain it. It seemed there was only a badly
treated slave who sought revenge. Tom now knew that everyone in his circle was
against him. The realization was like a blanket of gloom smothering him in
loneliness.

What could he do to shake
off this intrusion choking his spirit? he wondered. With his invention missing
and his work halted, how could he breathe fresh life into his dream?

He sat down to a
late-afternoon tea prepared by Jerome’s budding apprentice, Brook. Still
reeling from the day’s events, however, he found he had little appetite. After
half a cup of tea and a few morsels of cake, he headed outside to see what the
slaves had been doing in his absence. Passing the open door of the library, he
saw Solo at the desk. He recognized the latest agricultural journal in her
hands. As was her habit, she had turned it to the back page of advertisements,
where rewards were posted for runaways. He paused to observe the woman who had
shared nothing about herself with him.

She no longer scurried
away when he spotted her in the library, as if she had no right to be there.
Now she looked at him calmly from what had become her classroom. Her expression
instantly turned to shock when she saw the lash across his cheek, but he
volunteered no comment on it.

Seeing her with the
journal, he thought of his own fruitless hunt for his invention and wondered if
she too were engaged in a painful search. “It’s sad to be looking for something
without any luck, isn’t it?”

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
proclamation.

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!”