Brassankle

By David G. Weaver

A true history lesson deftly woven into the plot of a fictional novel of high adventure and intrigue with romantic interludes
Teenage Gray Cloud, well trained and adept in the skills of his Catawba hunter/warrior relatives, is deemed ready to go to Charles Town to further his education and to learn the ways of the white man. He is given a white mans name, Truly Doran, by his father Sean Doran long hunter, trapper, and guide/scout for the British. Sean has amassed a tidy fortune, held in trust by his friend, Henry Siles, a ship factor in the port city.

While studying at the newly founded college at Charles Town, Truly experiences many
exciting situations and becomes acquainted with famous historical persons. He also experiences several love affairs with different girls (strumpets and nice girls). He observes and eventually becomes involved in the conflict between hardscrabble farmers in the up-country and the spoiled scions of rich plantation owners. Befriended by Francis Marion, he later serves as chief scout for the Swamp Fox during the war of rebellion. Early on, Truly fights beside Sgt. William Jasper under command of Col. William Moultrie at the palmetto-log fort on Sullivans Island. During the war he is assigned as a scout to Lt. Col. William Washingtons cavalry as the Patriot dragoons counter the murderous thrusts of the green-coated British Loyal Legion led by Lt. Col. Banister Bloody Ban Tarleton. Although officially a member of Francis Marions legion, Truly is often detached for service as scout and fighter in skirmishes with other Patriot leaders throughout the colony. He assists Daniel Morgan at the Cowpens, and Gates at Camden, and served in three battles trying to prevent the British from taking Charles Town. Truly is also involved in the decisive battles at the Waxhaws, Kings Mountain and Eutaw Springs, among others. Throughout the war, he is active against Tarleton in a dozen major skirmishes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481750240

David G. Weaver

David G.Weaver, author of Nav Cad and The Eagle and The Osprey, is a retired Naval Aviator and school teacher. Before enlisting in the Navy, he served a three year apprenticeship as a shipfitter at the Charleston Naval Shipyard. His duties and training as a shipfitter involved helping to build several destroyer-type vessels as the US Navy expanded to meet the threat of German U-boat raiders. Although exempt from the draft, Weaver enlisted in the Navy in 1942, became a Naval Aviator flying fighter planes off carriers in the Pacific and later flew more than 20 missions in Grumman F9F Panther-jet fighters during the Korean War. He then spent 22 years as a teacher in California, but remained active in the Naval Reserve until his 60th birthday. He retired with the rank of commander in 1981, having devoted 40 plus years to the naval service. He earned a BS from the Univ. of Sou. Calif and an MS from Calif. State Univ. at Los Angeles. He now lives in Florida.

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Contents

Foreword

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Appendix

Other Books by David G. Weaver

Nav Cad

The Eagle and The Osprey

Fat Head

Friend and Foe

Foreword

The history of the ancient world tells us that for many pre-biblical centuries it was customary for conquering groups to enslave captured soldiers as well as women and children. The caveat of the times was: To the victor goes the spoils. That practice continued through the pages of the Bible and into the19th century. African tribal clashes quite often resulted in the enslavement of captured enemy soldiers. The same practice was prevalent in Europe as well as in the colonies of the New World.

With a shortage of talented workmen in the colonies and the need for laborers in the building and agriculture trades, seventeenth and eighteenth century European settlers in the charter colonies of the new world continued the practice by indenturing or enslaving captured people including native Americans. At the conclusion of the war between the Pequot Indians and Pilgrims in the Massachusetts colony (1636-37), captured Indians were sold as slaves to plantation owners, mostly in the Caribbean Islands. Because many captured Indians were difficult to control, they were often traded for African slaves on Jamaica or other British colonial islands. Slaves were considered property. They could be exchanged between owners as work-animals, used as breeding stock, or as compensation in lieu of cash. Intra-tribal conflicts in Africa provided fodder for the triangular trade (slaves-sugar-rum) by importing slavery to the new world colonies where field workers were needed to produce crops — mostly cane sugar. Sugar from the Caribbean became rum from New England. Seventeenth and eighteenth century male captives/prisoners were most often forced into hard labor unless they possessed useful artistic talents. Women were sometimes employed as household slaves — tending for children, cooking, house cleaning, etc. Many of the captured females were used as sex-slaves by their masters or simply as breeding stock to increase the number owned by the master. To deter runaways, it was often considered necessary to hobble some recalcitrant slaves with leg restraints. Most of the shackles utilized were iron straps but, in some southeastern regions of the American colonies the more malleable and pliable, decorative bronze or brass was often utilized. In coastal South Carolina, male Europeans, because of a lack of available females, often used enslaved native American women as sex partners. As a result, a growing group of mixed Euro-Indian slaves was quite common prior to the great influx of negro slaves from the West Indies and directly from Africa.

In some non-aggression cases, mixed race couples united in wedlock or common-law agreements such as in the case of plantation-owner/slave long-lasting unions, and also in cases of lonely soldiers, trappers, or frontiersmen taking native American women as spouse. The offspring of the mixed race coitus were generally not acceptable as equals to the plantation-owner or city-dwelling social classes and were stigmatized by derogatory classification names. Blacks were commonly called niggers (a corruption of the Latin word for black — niger, or Spanish — negro). Obvious mixed racial blood, light-complexioned Negro/Native American/Caucasian persons were called mulattos. Mulattos came to be further divided into two groups dependent upon life style: those who chose to live with and associate with negroes were classified as high yellow, while those who were light skinned enough to pass as white, were labeled brassankle. In the common colloquialism of that time, the term brassankle came to be used to refer to any light-skinned, multiracial person.

In the piedmont region of the Carolina Territories, the Catawba Indians had long been friendly with the European settlers and welcomed the white men into their lodges. They fought alongside the British during the French and Indian War and later were allies of the colonists (Patriots) against the loyalists (Tories) during the American Revolution. Because of the friendly relations between white settlers and Catawbas, it was not surprising for the father of the protagonist or this story to meet and fall in love with a Choctaw maiden and to take her as his life mate. Their offspring (our protagonist) was given an Indian name, Gray Cloud, at birth, and was trained in the skills of his native tribe including; woods lore, hunting, fishing, and fighting. He was given a European name when he was taken to the colonial city by the sea for further education. Due to his mixed blood, Truly Doran would be labeled and referred to as a brassankle by many of the citizens of Charles Town.

Although modern textbooks tend to place ALL the fighting during the American Revolution in the northeastern colonies, the historian/authors of those books often overlook the more than 200 small, hit-and-run clashes (raids and skirmishes) between Patriots and Tories in the Carolinas, as well as the several bloody major battles that sapped the strength of the British forces. Those battles deterred Cornwallis’s forces from rolling up the colonies from south to north as he originally planned. Between the first military incident in Middlesex County in the Massachusetts colony on April 19, 1775 (referred to as the shot heard ’round the world, by Emerson) and the surrender of the British forces at Yorktown, sporadic fighting was continuously waged throughout the Carolinas. The British first attempted to seize the port of Charles Town in November 1775. Between that engagement and the British evacuation of Charlestown in December ’82, important battles were fought at Sullivan’s Island (June ’76), Camden (Aug. ’80), King’s Mountain (Oct. ’80), Cowpens (Jan. ’81), Ninety Six (May/June ’81), and Eutaw Springs on the Santee that same year. Also seldom mentioned in today’s text books are great Patriot leaders like (the Swamp Fox) Francis Marion, William Washington, Thomas Sumter (The Carolina Gamecock), Benjamin Lincoln, William Davie, and Andrew Pickens. Gen Lord Charles Cornwallis (although not present at the occasion) is well known as the commander-in-chief of the British forces that surrendered to Gen. Benjamin Lincoln at Yorktown. The textbooks, for the most part however, do not mention the fact that he was preceded by — or assisted by — Augustine Prevost, Henry Clinton, Peter Parker, and Banastre Bloody Ban Tarleton among others.

Dedication

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In fond appreciation for the three most influential women in my life:

My Mother My Wife My Daughter

Chapter 1

Dawn came with a paling of the dismal gray clouds that hung into the tops of the pines, hickories and oaks, drenching the foliage and dampening everything. A tiny flame flickered in front of the sapling lean-to, causing grotesque shadows to pirouette and whirl across the sloping roof. Inside the crude shelter, writhing and perspiring, Singing Water suffered through the joyous agony of childbirth. Her expanded belly pulsed and heaved as the contractions grew more severe, and the intervening time increments shortened.

Huddled over the tortured woman, her aunts, Green Willow and Pale Fawn, spoke in muted voices, urging the expectant mother to press and push. As the midwives watched, waited, and anxiously encouraged, Green Willow chewed on a length of deer sinew, softening and moistening the thong.

With a scream and a tremendous tightening of her abdominal muscles, Singing Water brought forth her first born onto a pallet of freshly cut, sweet smelling pine boughs.

The attendants immediately busied themselves with the cleaning of the infant and the mother. Green Willow bit through the umbilical cord, then tied off the tube protruding from the child’s belly with the strip of tendon. Pale Fawn meanwhile sponged away the cheesy matter from the new born then slopped warm water over the mother’s thighs and lower abdomen. The infant screeched as his great aunt smacked his little red-brown bottom.

Swaddling the baby in a section of soft doeskin, Green Willow handed the wiggling infant to its mother. What shall you call your new son, my niece? she asked.

Without hesitation, Singing Water replied, Gray Cloud, of course. She swung her free right hand in an upward arc toward the misty veil as she spoke.

It is fitting, Green Willow conceded.

Pale Fawn nodded in agreement. An omen of his future, she murmured in a serious tone. This child is destined to become a great warrior.

When will the father return so that he can see the fine son you have made for him? Green Willow asked, tilting her head to one side as she pulled a tab of the doeskin wrap away from the baby’s mouth.

Soon. When the grass begins to green and the pink buds appear on the hickory trees, Singing Water replied with a weak smile. But there was only hope in her voice.

Droplets of water dripping from the thick overhead canopy spit and hissed as they fell upon the fire. Wisps of bluish smoke gyrated upward from the flames, partners to the shadows in a meaningless dance. The fragrance of the evergreen boughs blended with the acrid smoke that wafted into the crowded space beneath the lean-to roof.

Your Doran should be very proud of this son you have borne him, my niece, Pale Fawn said softly as she watched the drawn face of the new mother. You have given him a fine hunter and warrior.

I want Gray Cloud to have the best of both worlds, my aunts, Singing Water declared through clenched teeth. I will teach him the ways of our people. Then, when he is old enough, I’ll have his father take him from these mountains to the city of the white people on the shore of the great sea. There Gray Cloud will be educated in the ways and the history of his father’s ancestors.

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Sean Doran pushed aside the newly-leafed willows and peered out across the broad meadow. In the distance he could make out the lodges of the Catawba village, smoke curling upward from the flue holes as the women prepared the evening meal.

Sean had been away for more than 11 months. He had hauled his winter pelts down to Charles Town where they had brought a fair price. A growing stack of letters of credit was deposited in the safe of his very good friend Henry Siles, a trader and ship factor.

Earlier, Sean had had the very good fortune to be hired by Colonel John Stuart as scout and guide for a government survey party sent out to map the Indian territories in the foothills of the Blue Ridges. Col. Stuart was the king’s Superintendent of Indian Affairs.

Such survey expeditions were highly illegal, violating a treaty with the Indian tribes which barred British settlers from the region. However, farmer settlers were eager to clear new lands and the colony’s leadership had agreed to send out a group of surveyors to determine just what the Indians might do.

Stuart had selected Sean to guide the group because he knew that the Irishman knew the Indians well, spoke their language, was familiar with the area to be covered, and had taken a Catawba maiden as his wife. The other officials needed no further qualifications. Sean Doran was hired on the spot. Sean’s stipend after the mission was completed satisfactorily would be 800 acres of virgin land along the Coosawhatchie River about 60 miles west of Charles Town. That land, when cleared and cultivated, would be suitable for raising indigo, tobacco, corn and, with a plentiful supply of water from the river, rice.

Scout Doran had carried out his assignment with expedience and skill. The Cherokee Indian tribal leaders had grudgingly agreed to cede more of their holdings along the piedmont to the white men in exchange for a guarantee their claim to their sacred mountains would never be violated. Col. Stuart was so pleased with Sean’s expertise and skill in negotiating with the red men; he awarded the hunter guide an additional 200 acres of the king’s land as a bonus.

As soon as he had received the parchment land charter from the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, Sean hurried to Henry Siles’ warehouse complex on East Bay Street and turned the document over to his friend for safe keeping. That treasure, along with the accumulated cash savings now rested securely on the bottom shelf of Henry’s massive cast iron safe.

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Sean Doran arose and slid his thumbs under the rawhide thongs that held his backpack nestled against his shoulder blades. The load eased slightly, he stepped out in his customary long, determined strides as he headed for the lodge at the north end of the village, the home of his wife, Singing Water. Without announcing his presence, Sean entered the bark-covered, dome-shaped lodge and dropped his pack to the swept earth floor.

Startled by the thud, Singing Water turned, clutching two-month old Gray Cloud to her breast. Doran, she shouted happily, you frightened me. When did you arrive? How long have you been standing there?

Sean stared at the infant held tightly in its mother’s arms. Just now. I just came in, he replied without taking his eyes off the tiny bundle. What in hell do you have there? he demanded.

Your son, Doran. Singing Water held the child out to him, her face radiant with pride and her eyes sparkling. This is your son, my husband. Take him. Hold him. He is yours.

Mine? My child? he stammered in disbelief. How can that be?

He is indeed your son, Doran, the woman insisted. He was born just two full moons ago. He is indeed your son since I have known no other man since you last slept here with me. This child is a Doran.

Sean clumsily took the infant in its soft doeskin wrap, and gazed down into the small face for a long moment. As the baby opened its eyes and stared up into his father’s face, Sean chucked the tiny chin with the tip of his huge index finger. He was rewarded with a wide, gurgling, toothless smile. He is truly a Doran, he shouted as he danced about the lodge, swinging the baby about in the crook of his right arm. That’s what we shall name him, Truly! Truly Doran. Truly A. Doran.

That will be his name when you take him to the white man’s city by the great water to be educated, Doran, the wife said in a low, authoritative voice. Here in the village of my people, however, he shall be known as Gray Cloud, son of Singing Water and the great white hunter, Doran.

Sean put up no argument. He was well aware of the matriarchal society of the Catawba. Fathers were tolerated. Fathers and uncles were expected to teach boys woods lore, hunting, fishing, and fighting. But fathers had no voice in the operation of the home, or the village. Those areas of authority rested solely and un-reconcilably in the powerful yet gentle hands of the tribe’s women.

I will teach him the ways of my people, Singing Water, only when and as much as you deem proper. He is your responsibility until that time. But I will boast to my friends in the village and in the towns and cities of the white man. I am the father of a fine son, one who will make both of us proud. You shall see, Sean said as he handed the babe back to its mother.

I am proud now, my husband. I am proud of our son, and I am very proud to be the wife of Doran, the great hunter.

This tyke will grow to be wise and wealthy, Singing Water. I have acquired a plot of land that will be his and yours, a place where he may live, and take care of his mother in her old age.

The woman placed the child on a straw mat and came to her husband. She took his huge right hand in both of hers and stared up into his pale blue eyes. I am indeed proud to be the mother of your son, Doran. You have made my life complete by giving me this baby. Gray Cloud will always be proud of his father. I shall see to that as he grows older. I shall teach him that his father is a great man, and he shall revere the name and the memory of the man who sired him.

Sean tugged at Singing Water’s hands, pulled her to him and crushed her to his thick chest for a long, tender moment. Then, with a finger under her chin, he lifted her face to his. There were tears of happiness in her jet black eyes as she kissed him passionately.

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They ate a hasty meal of boiled venison then retired to the hide covered pallet near the center of the lodge. Their love making was violent yet tender as they made up for the long months of separation.

Afterward they lay naked under a deerskin blanket. He held her close for a long time. Each knew the other’s thoughts as they lay there watching the sleeping infant on the straw mat near his mother’s side.

Truly. Truly Doran, Sean murmured as he dropped off to sleep.

Singing Water smiled, looked at her tiny child for a long moment, then nestled her body contentedly against her husband’s hairy, white chest as she too fell asleep.

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Over a breakfast of corn mush and herb tea brewed from the leaves of wild strawberry plants, Sean and Singing Water discussed their son’s future.

My brother, Red Hawk, will teach Gray Cloud how to plant and tend crops, and how to hunt for meat, and catch fish in the streams, she said matter-of-factly. I will teach him the ways of my people and I will instruct him in the proud history of the Catawba nation. While you are away, I will have to depend upon my brother and the other men of the village to teach him the lore of the forest and the mountains, but I will not surrender my son to their vulgarities and rough mannerisms.

Nor should you, Sean agreed with a sly grin. For my part, I will spend as much time with him here as I possibly can. Of course, I must continue my hunts and trapping in order to lay aside more wealth for him. When he is old enough, with your consent, I will teach him how to figure accounts, and how to read and write the words my people use in their contracts and treaties. I will also instruct him in the history of my people so that he will be knowledgeable of both worlds. And, when you determine the time is right, I will take him to the city for book learning.

Will the change be difficult for him, Doran? Will our son experience bias in the society of the whites?

Gray Cloud has fair skin, Sean replied slowly as he examined the features of the sleeping child closely. I suppose he will be accepted as long as his Indian blood does not show. He is what some whites call a Brassankle — half Indian, half white. But I will see to it that he has the opportunity to get a good education in sums and letters. And my very good friend, Henry Siles, will act on my behalf in that matter, I’m sure.

Our son must learn the ways of both the Catawba and the English, my husband. He must be able to survive in the wilderness while also being prepared to live like a gentleman in the white man’s society.

He will, Singing Water, he will, the man stated emphatically. Gray Cloud’s greatest problem will be to overcome the prejudices of the haughty city folk while he learns the necessary tools to compete in their life style. After that, our son will be able to choose whatever way of life he wishes. My land and the money in Henry Siles’ safe will see him through and will help make him acceptable to the whites. I promise you I’ll see to it that he at least gets the chance.

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Red Hawk lay on his belly in a clump of willows along the stream. He critically observed the stealthy movements of the slender, sun-tanned youth as the youngster crept toward the white tailed deer browsing on tender shoots of sassafras upwind of the marsh. The middle aged Indian brave was no more than a shadow among shadows as he watched his nephew close in on his prey. He grunted his satisfaction at the twang of the hunter’s bowstring and the almost instantaneous drop of the stag as the arrow cleanly pierced the animal’s heart.

Gray Cloud raced across the twenty yard space to his quarry. He yanked his steel bladed hunting knife from its buckskin sheath as he ran. He pounced upon the stricken animal and, with one swipe of the blade, slit the deer’s jugular vein, allowing the gore to flow freely out of the carcass.

Red Hawk emerged from the brush and approached the younger man. You have done well, my nephew, he praised. Your mother and all the village will rejoice as they feast upon this fine buck you have slain. I observed your technique, and am very proud of my student. You have learned your lessons well, Gray Cloud.

The tall, lithe, fifteen-year-old neither smiled nor spoke for a long moment. He simply stared stoically at his maternal uncle for a while then nodded; a single, solemn bob of his head.

The time draws near when your father, the white hunter Doran, will once more come to our village, the older man said. This time I will recommend to my sister, Singing Water, that you leave her lodge, and go with your father to the white man’s school. You have learned all I am able to teach, and you have absorbed my instructions as well as those of your father. You are now ready for more learning and experience.

Thank you, my uncle. I do wish to see the great city by the sea my father speaks of, but I am saddened to think of leaving our village and these beautiful mountains.

Your time has come, Gray Cloud. Now you must go to the city of the Englishmen and prepare yourself for that which the spirits have planned for you.

Yes, uncle, I know. But how will I be treated by the whites? Here in the village of my own people I am accepted in spite of my light skin. My father is also considered a member of the Catawba society. However, he tells me there are those in Charles Town who will deride me, ridicule me, make fun of me, and call me Brassankle, because my mother’s blood flows in my veins.

Enough of that! Come! Take your bounty and let us go back to the village, Red Hawk ordered. There will be plenty of time to discuss the white man’s faults with your father as you travel away from these hills. I, myself, fought alongside the British when they attacked our enemy, the Cherokee, many summers ago. The white soldiers did not treat me as an equal, but they did me no injustice either. Come now! Bring your trophy and let us get back to the village so the women can prepare the evening meal.

The muscular young man bent and broke off a handful of grass. He wiped the blood from his knife blade and slid the weapon back into its sheath. That hunting knife had been a gift from his father. Each year, when Sean Doran returned from the coast, he brought special presents for his wife and his son. Gray Cloud wondered what surprise his father would bring this year.

The boy stooped, took hold of the deer’s legs near the cloven hooves and effortlessly hefted the carcass to his shoulders, draping it around his neck like a huge scarf. Then, holding the four feet with his left hand and his bow in his right, he set out along the brook-side path toward the Catawba lodges, out of sight beyond the trees.

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Sean Doran poked a green stick into the small campfire making hot embers pop out of the coals. Immediately he rubbed the glowing sparks into the moist earth with the toe of his leather boot. That’s something you could never do with those thin moccasins of yours, my son, he said to Truly. This is what the white man calls progress.

Truly sat quietly for a moment, his back against the bole of an oak tree. He evaluated his father’s statement at length, watching Sean’s light blue eyes as he did. At last, feeling it was safe and not discourteous to respond, he said, An Indian would never have stirred the fire to make the sparks fly. An Indian has no need for heavy boots, sir.

Sean laughed. You’re right, my boy, he exclaimed. I hope you will never forget the things you have learned from your mother and her kin. It gives me great pleasure to see how you have assimilated the better things of both peoples. I’ve watched you closely these past few weeks and I like what I see.

Thank you, father. I wish always to please you and my mother. I am not sure what I’m getting into by going to the English city, but it is your wish and my mother’s, therefore I will go and I will do my best to learn what is written in the books. It was a long speech for Truly. Usually he spoke only when necessary, and in as few words as possible.

There will be much more for you to learn that is not written in books, my son, Sean warned. You are a man of property. You will inherit 1000 acres of fine farm land and you must learn how to make that land prosper, make it profit you.

Again Truly looked intently at his father for a long moment then slowly shook his head from side to side. How can one own land? he asked. The earth and all its bounties belong to all men just as the sunshine, the rain, and the sky. Why is it the English feel they have a right to own what the spirits have provided?

Sean grinned and nodded. Again you’re thinking clearly, lad,’ he said. But the Catawba way is being pushed aside as more and more English settlers come into the valleys and stake out claims to the free land. I have written a document, a deed, which passes ownership of my 1000 acres on to you so there will always be a place where you and your mother may live in peace and comfort. That is my wish for you, son. You will have the English king’s paper to prove your ownership."

But will the English governor recognize that paper if he learns I am half Catawba? Truly pressed. You have said some English will call me Brassankle, a demeaning term. Will the governor think me unsuited to own that parcel of land they have given you?

That’s the reason you must go to school, my son. You do not look like an Indian. Your skin is as light as most Britishers. You hair and eyes are dark, it’s true, but so are many Europeans, especially those who come from near the Mediterranean. If you learn their ways and hold your tongue, none of them will know of your Catawba heritage.

Truly puffed out his chest. I am proud of my mother’s blood, he gritted. I’ll never deny it. Not for the sake of owning land or anything else.

I certainly do not wish you to deny your people, Truly, Sean said soothingly. I’m only saying that it isn’t necessary to flaunt it. Keep your pride in your heart, son, as I keep my love for your mother in mine. But remember this. I selected Singing Water as my life mate and did so of my own will.

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The two men took their time hiking down the piedmont slope toward the ocean. The father insisted on a slow passage so that Truly might get acquainted with the nature of the land below the foothills and, at the same time, become accustomed to seeing fences around fields and houses. Each evening they made camp in the forest but, as they neared the flat tidal plain, the wooded areas were sometimes flooded, and they were forces to camp in open fields.

We call those wet woodlands swamps, Sean explained. Fishing is good in the pools and there are many squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, deer, and bear in the deep brush. A knowing man could live in there for years and never be seen by outsiders. The swamp is a friend to those who know it. You, my son, will always be able to escape the rigors of city life by taking refuse in the cool of the swamp.

I will remember that, father. If the English become too overbearing, too oppressive, I shall retreat to these woods and commune with my brothers, the deer and the bear.

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They crossed a thirty mile wide belt of piney barren woods where the soil was mostly white sand and little else grew besides huckleberries, scrub wax-myrtle, and tall long-needle pines. At last out of the pines, they entered the coastal belt of live oak, cypress, tupelo, and hickory. The soil was darker and the undergrowth thick. Climbing vines clambered upward in search of sunlight, and streamers of gray Spanish moss festooned the tree canopy.

Sean grew serious as they sat beside the dying embers of their cook fire that evening. Soon we will be in Charles Town, my son, he began. Your uncle, Red Hawk, has schooled you in hunting, tracking, fishing, and the use of herbs, but there is a great deal more to know. I have taught you to read, to write and to do sums, yet there is much, much more you must learn before you will be ready to manage that plantation on the Coosawhatchie.

The father, idly stirring the glowing, ruby-red coals with a green hickory stick, glanced at his son and smiled at the disapproving frown that distorted the young man’s handsome face. He removed the probe from the fire and rubbed the tip into the damp earth to make sure there was no fire there. I pray you will retain what you have learned, and add to that that which the English can teach from their books, my son, he counseled gravely.

I will always do my best, father, Truly said, a sincere ring in his voice. When will we see this marvelous city you have spoken of? This place you call Charles Town?

We will sleep in a white man’s bed tomorrow night, my boy. We should be trampling on the cobblestones of the city’s streets long before the sun goes down.

Cobblestones? What are cobblestones?

Ah yes. That is but one of the many new terms you must learn, Truly Doran. I sometimes forget how ignorant you are of the things of the white man’s world. Cobblestones are used to pave the surface of the streets. They are blocks of hard rock placed together to form a carpet for the wagons, carts, and carriages that traffic the thoroughfares.

Why must they cover the lanes? Truly demanded, exasperated. It is much easier to walk on soil than on stones.

That is true in our world, son, the wide expanse of the wilderness. But the iron-tired wheels of wagons would soon turn the soil into a quagmire if not for the stone pavement. They make the riding bumpy, and cause horses’ unshod hooves to chip, but they prevent wheel bog-downs, and speed the movement of vehicles through the city.

Truly shook his head in bewilderment. Is that also what the English call progress? he asked. Maybe I’ll become accustomed to such things, but I doubt I’ll ever accept them.

You will, my boy. You will. You will grow to accept the ways of my people just as I have learned to accept those of the Catawba, Sean said sagely. It’s just a matter of time.

Chapter 2

Sean and Truly entered the city on the marshy peninsula between the Ashley and Cooper rivers in mid-afternoon. As they passed through the guarded gates in the tabby hornwork wall, Sean waved a friendly greeting to the armed sentries. The soldiers returned his felicitations with an informal salute, and passed the travelers without second thought. Sean immediately led the way toward the eastern side of the city. Soon they were treading the granite curbed, dirt sidewalk that bordered cobblestoned East Bay Street.

Truly’s head twisted from side to side as he excitedly gawked at the huge warehouses and store buildings lining the west side of the busy thoroughfare. To the east he could see the tall masts of sailing ships protruding skyward above the roofs of covered wharfs. He was certain he was viewing the greatest municipality in the entire world. He marveled at the genius of men who could dream up and develop such a place.

Here we are, Sean stated as he stopped at the massive door of one of the stores. Gold leaf printing on the glass panel making up the upper half of the entrance read, Henry Siles — Ship Chandler. Below that, in smaller print was, Furs, pelts and hides bought and sold. He gripped the big brass handle on the door and pushed. As the portal swung inward, he stepped inside and tugged at Truly’s arm, pulling the younger man into the cool, strange-smelling room.

This is the business establishment of my very good friend, the father explained. He’s the one who will help us get you situated in a school where you can learn all the things you need to know. Henry Siles has agreed to be my proxy, your sponsor, in all matters dealing with your life here in Charles Town.

Truly nodded solemnly, just two quick bobs of his head, but remained silent. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent aroma of ship stores that assailed his nostrils. In spite of himself, he coughed. Looking at his father, he screwed up his face as he inhaled the mixed smells of hemp, cotton, pine tar, oakum, turpentine, and animal hides. Sean chuckled as he stomped across the wooden floor. Without knocking, he entered a small, lantern-lighted office to the right of the entrance.

Doran! Sean Doran! a deep bass voice thundered from inside the cubbyhole work space. Nice to see you back in town again. Who is that you have with you?

Truly peered over his father’s shoulder at the speaker. Never in his life had he ever seen anyone so huge. The man was almost as large as the two visitors combined. A great thatch of graying, rust-red hair hung like a bear’s shag over a grinning, homely face from which hazel eyes twinkled. A dirty, grease stained, leather apron girdled the man’s ample waist and partially covered his yellowish-white, long-sleeved shirt. That shirt was carelessly stuffed into black cloth trousers which were just as haphazardly pushed into the tops of well worn, calf high, black leather boots.

This is my son, Truly, Sean said proudly. I have spoken of him many times. Remember? The time has come for the lad to learn the ways of city folk, and to prepare himself for a future on the land I own out west.

Ah! Ah yes. Truly, Siles roared.

Truly wondered if the man had some kind of hearing impairment, the giant bellowed so loudly.

Henry Siles slid off the high stool and towered over the two men. He poked out a ham-sized hand toward Truly, staring directly into the young man’s eyes. Truly took the huge mitt in his hand and winced at the crushing strength of the giant’s work-calloused grasp. Glad to meet you, young man, Siles thundered. Your father has told me all about you. I hope you will enjoy your time here in Charles Town, and that you will profit from the education I have arranged for you.

Thank you, Mr. Siles, Truly murmured cautiously, his hand still throbbing from the handshake.

How far have you gone, Henry, Sean wanted to know. Have you found suitable lodging for my son? What does the Reverend Mr. Smith have to say about tutoring him?

Well, Doran, Father Smith wants to test the lad in letters and ciphers before he agrees to take him in as a student, Henry explained in that bullhorn voice that made the walls of the small office reverberate. But, if your boasts of your son’s acumen are anywhere near correct, I’m certain he will be accepted.

And the living quarters? Sean insisted.

There is a very nice garret room in a house on King Street which is rented out to students at the college. Your son will share that room with three other lads, Siles said. The house is owned by a French Hugenot family who stand for no nonsense. The room and board are reasonable. The place is outside the city walls so Truly will have space to wander about in open fields should he begin to feel too pent up. I’m sure both of you will be pleased with the arrangements.

Since responding to Henry Siles’ greeting, Truly had remained silent. He stood, wide eyed, as the older men discussed his future. He wanted to ask a hundred questions. Many thoughts plagued him. Foremost in his thinking was whether or not the city people would accept him. Would he fit in? Sure, Henry Siles appeared friendly enough, but what about those three roommates? How would low country boys take to living with a half-Indian — a Brassankle?

Henry unwrapped the apron from his waist and draped in on the stool. Then he took a light weight cotton coat from a peg in the wall. He struggled into the coat then grabbed a floppy felt hat from his desk as he headed for the door. Be with you in a minute, he rumbled over his shoulder. Have to instruct my clerks, then we can go over and take a look at that residence on King Street.

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Truly tagged along behind his father and Henry Siles as they stalked toward the west on Broad Street. They passed through a gate in the brick and paling wall then turned north along King Street. Before long Henry stopped and pointed across the cobbled street to a trio of red-brick faced buildings. There it is, he boomed. The one in the middle is your new home, Truly, lad.

The young man stared up at the third story garret. This was to be his dwelling place? He was expected to live inside that brick structure way up above the ground? His eyes moved slowly from side to side, and then down and up, as he closely examined the building. There were two large windows on the lowest level, each framed by white-painted wood. On the second story, there were three more windows, and there was another in the garret under the steeply sloping, slate-covered roof. The place looked like a fortress. Truly was sure it could withstand an armed assault, as well as the worst type of weather. He shrugged his shoulders and glanced at his father who was watching him very closely.

What do you think, my son? Sean asked. Do you think you’ll be comfortable there?

Truly looked at the wrought-iron gate that guarded the entrance to a narrow courtyard at the side of the house. The place looked clean and secure. He believed those brick walls would keep him safe from fire, should one of the neighbors get as careless as his father had been with the stick in the campfire. That slate roof should shed rain, and the small garden looked restful. What else could a person ask for if he were to be pent up in a strange place away from his native country? When am I expected to take up residence here, father? he asked hesitatingly, his voice low and confidential.

"Oh, not for a