The Clay Pipe

By Joe Key

The story of a young indentured servant from England, who founds an Indian village and then traces the history of the village through the modern era.

TIME FRAME: 1706-1994

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2008
• ISBN: 9781477166857

Joe Key

My name is Joe Key and I have 13 years of experience in mental health as a counselor. In addition to working in the area of mental health counseling, I have also worked in the area of Addictive Disorders. As a private practitioner and Licensed Professional Counselor, I have worked with individuals and families treating a variety of problems. I am 61 years old and have been married to Sandra Key for 34 years and have four children. I was was born in Columbia, LA and grew up in Kentucky. I graduated Owensboro High School and graduated from, what was then, Northeast Louisiana University, with a Masters in counseling. He also obtained his undergraduate degree at NLU. I first began writing in 1998 (on a dare from my father), and have written some 77 novels – none of which have ever been published.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Colin stood, his face to the south, with his left hand on the rail. He could feel the slight pitch of the ship’s deck. Off the starboard side of the ship, he could see the wild coast of the New World. He peered closely, but he could not see a break in the trees. From time to time, a red Indian would come out of the tree line, shade his eyes, and watch the ship pass.

In the past seven weeks, since they had left Plymouth, Colin had become accustomed to the roll of the ship. The day was clear, with wispy clouds behind him, to the north. He had overheard one of the sailors remark that the sea was as calm as a mill pond. As it was April, the air was warm and sweet.

He heard the bosun cry out the depth, from the starboard side of the bow of the Danforth. They were running in six fathoms, fairly deep for this close into shore—one of the other sailors had said. Colin had learned that a fathom was about six feet.

Colin shaded his eyes with his right hand and looked up into the rigging, to the crow’s nest. The sailor at the top of the ship was not moving—he looked almost asleep.

Behind him, Molly Bayless took the wooden bowl from beside her, filled it with porridge from the brazier and handed it, along with a wooden spoon, to Colin. Colin bowed to her, and turned back. As he absent-mindedly ate the steaming mush, he thought back to happier times.

He remembered his thirteenth birthday. It was a grand day, beginning in the morning—with a visit to the market, for a treat of hot buns and ale. That evening, his mother and father, and sister, had eaten a mincemeat pie—and he had gone the next morning to his father’s bakery. He had been inside the bakery hundreds of times before, but this was the first time he had entered as apprentice to his father, and he was bursting with pride.

It had not yet dawned, so his father immediately lit a taper and began rolling out the dough for the bread. Amos Pike had set the dough to rise, the afternoon before. His secret, was to hold back a pinch of the previous day’s bread, to help start the new bread.

As Amos Pike rolled the dough out, he tore off large pieces and put them into the ceramic bread cairns. Afterwards, he sprinkled water from a wooden bowl onto the buns, so they would form a golden brown crust.

When finished with the rolling, he covered the cairns with cloth and allowed the dough to rest for another hour. While the dough was resting, Colin stoked the oven fires—until the coals below were red hot.

Then, Amos laid the cairns into the oven and the bread began to bake. No matter how many times Colin had smelled fresh bread baking, he was still almost overcome with the sensation. To him, nothing had ever smelled better.

When the fresh bread was taken out, Amos put the loaves on the angle board, to let them cool. Just as daylight broke, and the rooster crowed, the first patron came into the store. It was the butler for Lord Kingley, who took four loaves with him.

By eight o’clock, Amos Pike had sold all his bread—and he began forming dough to make mince pies. Making pies was a more leisurely activity than baking bread. Two hours later, Amos had seven pie shells fashioned, and Amos and Colin went across the way to the butcher—to purchase minced meat. Colin busied himself with honeying buns that Amos had baked the day before.

By four in the afternoon, all seven pies and the honeyed buns had been sold—and Amos directed Colin to start the cleaning up. While Colin cleaned up, Amos fashioned plain buns, and baked them quickly. When everything was scrubbed as clean as a hound’s tooth, at six thirty, the two of them went home.

A supper of mutton, porridge, bread and honey awaited them. They ate their fill, after which his mother and sister seated themselves and began to eat. Amos read from the Bible, after supper—then everyone went to bed.

Colin worked as apprentice to his father for nearly a year—the happiest time of his life. It was then that the ague sickness took hold of the city. During this time, Pamela (Amos’ wife) and Sarah (his daughter) took great pains to stay out of public places, and they prayed on their knees every night.

It was no use, for both Pamela and Sarah came down with the illness. The two of them lay many days in their beds, with coughing and fever, the whole time. Amos hired a nurse to tend to them, but to no avail.

Eleven days after she took to her bed, Pamela Pike breathed her last. Three days later, Sarah, too, expired. Amos was inconsolable. He spent many nights, on his knees, praying for the return of his wife and daughter from the grave. It was no use.

Amos became surly, argumentative and un-fastidious in his personal appearance. He neglected bathing and shaving, and even began sleeping in, of a morning—so Colin had to tend to the baking.

Finally, Amos took to going to the tavern and drinking himself into a stupor. Colin, even though only fourteen years old, had to continue to tend the bakery. No matter how hard Colin tried, Amos Pike drank up the profits.

Finally, they had run up their limit of credit for flour and yeast—and they could get no more.

Amos then sold the bakery, and proceeded to drink up the proceeds. If this weren’t enough, Amos got himself into a drunken barroom brawl—was pitched into the street—and drowned in four inches of water in the gutter.

Immediately, after Amos’ death, Colin was thrown into debtors prison—for the outstanding flour and yeast bill. He languished in Newgate Prison for eighteen months. Had it not been for the kindness of Lord Kingsley’s butler, he would have starved. There was no food provided by the prison.

After he had been in prison for the prescribed length of time, he was summarily released. On the street, homeless, hungry and without a pence—he went to the only place he knew for help. He arrived at Kingsley manor, just after dark. At the servant’s entrance—he was allowed in to speak to the butler—Stace Menshaw.

He asked Menshaw for a job, and the butler told him that there was no work at the manor. He mentioned, however, that, in Plymouth, Sir Randolph Cromwell was forming up a voyage to colonize the New World.

Two days later, after eating the three loaves of bread that Menshaw had given him, Colin presented himself at the Plymouth dockside of the three-masted schooner, Danforth. He had ridden in hay wagons and drays the whole way. The head of the colonizing party, a Captain Harry Albert, interviewed Colin and told him that there was a fee of fifty pounds, to buy into the voyage.

With a dejected look on his face, Colin said, I have no money.

Sir Randolph Cromwell watched as Colin turned to leave the quay. Sir Randolph cleared his throat and said, Young man, come here!

Colin walked over to the tall, saturnine, Sir Randolph and said, Yes, my lord.

Cromwell asked, What is your name, lad?

Colin stood straight and replied, Colin Pike, my lord.

Cromwell continued, What is your trade, lad?

Colin answered, Baker’s apprentice.

Cromwell said, Colin Pike, you look strong enough—are you?

Colin nodded and replied, Yes sir!

Cromwell said, I only have room in this company for an indentured servant. Were you to indenture yourself to me for seven years, I will pay your passage—plus twenty pounds a year.

Colin exclaimed, Oh, thank you, my lord!

That very afternoon, in front of a solicitor, Colin signed the document—all but enslaving himself to Sir Randolph for seven years. From there, they went to a blacksmith, where the iron necklace, with Sir Randolph’s emblem was peened around Colin’s neck.

Two days later, on the evening tide, the Danforth set sail for Virginia. Six days out of Plymouth, the Danforth encountered heavy gales—and a wind that threatened to beat the ship back toward Plymouth.

Being an indenture, Colin was posted to the scuppers of the craft to bail. This he did for twenty straight hours. It was hard, struggling work—with no rest of any kind. Eventually, the storms ceased, and a fresh wind carried them west.

His stint at the bail pumps, in the bowels of the ship, had brought Colin to the notice of the First Mate. The next day, the Mate came up to Colin and asked, Have ye not sailed before, boy?

Colin replied, My first voyage, my lord.

The Mate laughed out loud and said, I’m not a bloody lord! I be a working man!

Colin frowned and said, I did not mean to offend.

Still laughing, the Mate boomed, No offense taken!

Changing the subject, the Mate remarked, I spied you in the bailing. Ye did well!

Colin replied, I did my best, sir.

The Mate clapped him on the back and said, Your best seems quite good enough!

From then on, the crew of the Danforth treated Colin as one of them. One night, one of them actually let him have a sip of his grog ration—which Colin thought the most abominably fiery liquid ever made by man.

A cry from the crow’s nest aroused Colin from his reverie. Ships and a harbor! Ships and a harbor!

Colin looked where the sailor was pointing, and saw two ships and a harbor—with a crude pier.

Several hours later, the Danforth dropped anchor, and began unloading the colonizers. Being indentured, Colin hove to in order to help with the unloading of the goods for the colony. This took most of the rest of the day, and Colin didn’t disembark, himself, until the oxen were unloaded. He got in the dinghy to help with the cattle.

Once the cattle were put ashore, Colin was put to building cook fires for Sir Randolph and his wife, and son. After Molly had cooked the evening meal, of salt beef and porridge—and Sir Randolph’s family had eaten—Colin took a seat on a log, and Molly handed him his meal.

Molly, too, was indentured. But she only had four years left, at service. She was placid, and plump and quick with a laugh.

The next morning, three ox driven carts were loaded with colony goods—and the party set out for the colony location. It was located some six miles up the beach.

It took all day to make the journey to the colony site. They finally arrived at a patch of, fairly flat land, covered in pine trees.

The next morning, Colin began his primary duty—that of chopping down the trees on the colony land. The trees he felled, were to be used for building the colony shelters. Until the shelters were built, the Randolph’s would sleep in the wagons. Molly and Colin were to sleep under separate wagons.

For the next seven months, Colin felled the tall loblolly pines in the morning. In the afternoon, he would shave the logs and stack them in the drying pile.

CHAPTER 2

By the New Year of 1706, the Cromwell enterprise began to make ready for the colony’s primary enterprise—that of harvesting the pine trees and turning them into profits. The first task they took on, was to make planks out of the semi-dried pines. Once sufficient planks were fashioned, large square shaped vats were constructed, and the innards of the vats were carefully lined with some six to eight inches of clay.

The vats were then suspended off the ground, on the four corners, on vertical sections of pine logs—some two feet in length. This allowed fires to be set below the vats, once they were filled with water. Into the large vats of water, chunks of pine tree were placed—and boiled for several days. The colony built more than eighty vats in this fashion.

After three or four days of boiling, the vats would begin to leech out both pine pitch and, the most precious of all the byproducts of the process, turpentine. The pitch would rise to the top, the turpentine would form the second layer, and the heavier water would settle to the bottom.

Then a bunghole would be loosed and the water in the bottom of the vat would be drained off. After that, the hard, dirty work would begin. Barrels would catch the drained-off turpentine, and the sticky, sometimes very stiff, pitch would have to be ladled from the vats into other barrels.

Every six weeks, a ship would arrive from England, to carry off the bounty of all the hard work. The pitch would be shipped directly to the Royal Navy, to be used to coat the hulls of ships, while the turpentine was sold all over Europe—as it was the base fluid for a vast array of medicines.

That this business of all their hard work finally ending up as profits in the pockets of Londoners did not unduly vex Colin, or any of the other workers for that matter, because they were all either indentured or wage earners—and therefore did not expect anything. But it did bother Sir Randolph Cromwell—mightily. Nightly, he would rail against his London factors to his wife.

It was all the same to Colin. His job was to fell the trees, and transport them by ox drawn sledge back to the rendering vats. Each morning, he would harness the two oxen to the sledge and make his way toward the closest stand of trees and begin chopping.

When he thought about it, which was seldom, Colin acknowledged that his life in the New World was much better than the best his life had ever been in England. He ate three meals a day, his clothing was provided and he lived in his own private cabin. He was outside, working in relative freedom—and without close supervision.

By the end of the summer of 1706, Colin had cut most of the suitable trees close in to the colony, and therefore had to travel further to find the right trees. By the spring of 1707, Colin began traveling out of sight of the colony each morning—and did not return until nearly dusk each day. This suited him fine. He had never been a gregarious person, by nature, and liked his own company.

As he chopped the trees, he sang the songs his mother had taught him—at the top of his lungs. When Colin tired of singing, he held long, inane conversations with himself. Inasmuch as he was alone, he figured that talking to himself did no harm.

Sometimes, he even talked to the trees that he felled.

He liked to cut trees of a uniform length (about fifteen feet) and a uniform diameter (about eight to ten inches), so that the cart was full when he returned. Such trees would load easier onto the cart. He could not lift trees any larger. Indeed, few men could even lift logs that big.

He would find a proper tree, and say, Well, you’re a fine one! I shall choose you for the vats! After which, he would fell the tree and put it on the wagon.

Sir Randolph told him often that he was very pleased with his work, and that, once his indenture was completed, Sir Randolph had a fine place set aside for Colin. Even Captain Albert talked to him on occasion, and Colin thought the captain a hale fellow.

Colin Pike was eighteen years old, and did not ever think of the future. The only things that mattered to him were those things that were happening—at that particular moment. He was content, if it was not raining and the morning stew was tasty.

By the time he reached twenty years of age, Colin Pike had grown to massive proportions. Always a large boy, the hard, physical work and the hearty food had transformed him into a young giant. He stood over six and a half feet tall and weighed eighteen stone. For the six months leading up to his twentieth birthday, Colin began loading logs with diameters as big as twelve inches. These were logs that other men could not even budge off of the ground.

On the day of his twenty-first birthday, Captain Albert offered Colin the job as second in command of the security contingent of the colony. Albert recognized that, if he needed to tell a colonist to do anything, having Colin standing beside him would foreshorten any expected trouble.

Colin asked, Does that mean I’ll have to stay in the settlement during the day?

Harry Albert replied, Yes, it does.

Colin scratched his head and said, Then, I’ll have to decline. I like being in the woods during the day.

The captain said, But, Colin, this is quite a promotion. I’ve checked with Sir Randolph, and he agrees.

Colin remarked, I’m grateful to you both, but, if I may, I’d like to continue doing what I’m doing.

Albert shook his head and assented.

Shortly after his twenty-first birthday, Molly Bayless invited him into her cabin after supper, and he shared her bed until after midnight. After midnight, Colin went back to his own small cabin. For the next year, he visited Molly every night—but always returned to his cabin before dawn.

One night, as he was leaving, Molly arose and said, Colin, there’s no need for you to go back to your cabin. You can stay here.

Colin finished pulling his shirtwaist over his head and looked keenly at Molly. He said, calmly, No, Molly—I can’t. And I won’t be returning here again, after supper.

Stricken, Molly asked, plaintively, Is it something I’ve done, or said?

Colin replied, "No, you haven’t done anything. You are as fine a person as I have ever met. But I have, by coming here every night, led you to surmise that there might someday be something permanent in our being together. You have come to believe that I might someday wed you.

This is not so. I apologize for taking advantage of you—but I shall not be back."

With that, he walked out the cabin door.

For the next month, Molly tried to persuade him to return—and, although polite and kind with her, he did not come back.

One morning, Colin addressed a pine tree, Well, Mr. Tree, you are a fine fellow, but I shall have to cut you in half—as you are too long for my cart.

As Colin turned to look at the location of the ox cart, he spied a red Indian standing in the forest, just outside the small natural clearing where Colin was. The Indian appeared to present no immediate threat, so Colin decided to make the Indian believe that he was unaware of his presence. However, the heft of the axe made Colin more comfortable.

In fifteen minutes of chopping, Colin felled the pine—and walked to the midpoint of the tree to chop it in half. As he did so, he took a peek at where the Indian was—and he was not there. Colin stood straight and turned full around, looking for the red man. He had disappeared.

The next morning, Colin was on the lookout for the Indian—and about mid morning, he saw him. This time, Colin nodded to the Indian, and continued with his work. The Indian disappeared again.

On the third morning, Colin saw the Indian again, acknowledged his presence, and when it came time for Colin to drink from the water skin—he turned to offer some water to the Indian. But the Indian had, once again, disappeared.

Four days later, the Indian stepped from the forest and accepted a drink of water from Colin.

Colin said, as the red man was drinking, "My name is