Rosewood: An Island Plantation

By Beverly Ferebee Heyde

From the Isle of Mull, Scotland, to the backcountry of the Carolinas, to an island plantation, the story continues, tracing the remarkable saga of a family through war and peace, love and disaster, and its controversies over slavery. This is the story of Aureline Labouisse Ravenal and Henry Edwards-the passionate struggle of their stormy marriage-a struggle from island jungle cabin to plantation mansion. One abiding passion held them together: their love and their dream of an island empire. The continuing historical saga is set in the era of post-Revolutionary War South. Rosewood, An Island Plantation is the chronological successor to the Winds of Change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640827691

Book preview

Chapter 1

Charleston (June 1784)

Captain Henry Edwards leaned on the rail of the main deck of the schooner and watched the distant town take shape in the early morning hours. The schooner moved slowly, carrying only enough sail now to give her steerage. The waters had turned from the blue-green of the open sea to an ocher color as the Cooper and Ashley rivers that shaped the slender peninsula on which the city was built, fed their silt from the backcountry into the tide. There was a saying among the Colonials of Charleston, that the Ashley and Cooper rivers met at this particular spot to form the Atlantic.

Well, Henry thought with a chuckle, let sleeping dogs lie if that’s what they want to believe.

Grinding metal against metal, the anchor plunged deep into the waters, and slowly the ship’s movement settled on the soft waves that lapped against its wooden sides, finding its resting place among the other sailing vessels.

Henry gave the sights before him a last bored look before finally descending the rope ladder to the jolly boat below. He had seen it all before. One seafaring town was very much like another. At his command, the two sailors bent to the oars with sharp, even strokes. As they drew near the wharf, the early morning sounds of the market vibrated with life. Seafarers, merchants, fishermen, slaves bustled about—yells, screams, shouts mingled together, and no one seemed to give a care as to what the other said.

Near the water’s edge, barge and fishing crafts bobbed close together, piled high with the morning’s catch. Despite the early hour, Henry noticed a number of household servants bargaining with sellers for fresh fish from the fishing grounds off the banks.

Suddenly his men gave a loud whistle when a brisk wind coming off the Cooper River whipped the women’s cotton dresses into colorful balloon shapes, revealing legs in cotton stockings and black-laced shoes. Several wooly heads, elaborately tied with white scarves, turned with a fetching smile on their dark faces.

Settle down, men. You’ll be coming to shore soon enough. And I’d keep to the taverns if I were you. They grumbled in displeasure. But despite their feelings at the moment, they respected their good captain and took no offense.

Henry climbed the ladder onto the wharf and briefly looked back at his men as they headed back to the ship. They had their orders, and Henry knew they would obey them.

His appointment with M’sieur Lambertine Labouisse, the bank manager and owner of the Planters-Merchant Bank, was some hours away. His ride should be arriving in fifteen or twenty minutes no less to take him to the accommodations M’sieur Labouisse had provided for him during his stay in Charleston.

He sighed impatiently. He hated to wait but, on the other hand, did not wish to show discourtesy or give a bad impression. M’sieur Labouisse’s clientele included merchants and men of the highest order of society, among them many well-known and prosperous planters. And Henry was here to do business. It would not do to put a wrong foot forward.

Henry slapped at a mosquito and rubbed the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. He needed a bath and a change of clothes. He’d been too long at sea, and his clothes smelled of dry salt and sweat. The small trunk beside him carried all his meager possessions, including a suit to be worn later in the day. The hot summer breeze suddenly whipped across Henry’s face, and he turned into it. Looking out across the harbour, he spotted Old Faithful standing proud among the other vessels.

Henry recalled that his schooner had been briefly hired into service by General George Washington during the Revolutionary War. Old Faithful was the first battleship of the American Continental Army.

Henry thought back to that proud remembered day, September 5, 1775, when Old Faithful had set sail from the harbour of Beverly, Massachusetts, pursued by two British war vessels. She had raced across the waves as fast as the dark gray clouds swept over the sky that day. Her fore and aft sails taut against the wind outmaneuvered the enemy, despite their attempts to capture her. And not many days after, upon leaving Gloucester Harbour, she’d captured the British sloop Unity.

During the war, the British were as relentless in their pursuits of capturing and destroying their enemy at sea as on land, but Old Faithful had always remained afloat, easing her way into an Eastern seaport or deserted island like any battle-scarred vessel needing repairs. The ship still carried its four-pounder guns, twelve guns in all, and Henry had no intention of selling them. He could be wrong, but despite the outcome of the war, he didn’t think for a moment that England had given up hope of reclaiming what they believed was rightfully theirs. Time would tell.

Henry reached into his vest pocket for his golden snuff box and felt the letter containing an official paper, the title deed to an island not far off the coast of Georgia. And he didn’t have to pay a picayune for it! Remembering the incident that led to his good fortune, he threw back his head and laughed unabashedly, ignoring the stares of the dock hands nearby, as he opened the snuffbox and poured out a pinch on the back of his hand. He sniffed briefly up each nostril and straightened. His brown eyes gleamed with humor.

Pete Bull Hansen had spread the word about town that he couldn’t take his eyes off the schooner that had glided gracefully into Charleston port on the choppy waters like a swan, with its tall masts and its white canvas sails whipping against the brisk wind. From that moment, as he stood on the banks admiring and wanting her, he was seized with a sudden desire to find its owner. The British had destroyed his ship when they’d fired on Charleston, and he knew a good ship when he saw one. He was a seafaring man, a trader at best, restless and itching to return to the sea, complaining his sea legs had been on land too long.

Bull had been in Charleston long enough to witness the town’s rapid rebound from the war. What really caught his eye was the new way rice was being cultivated. It was called tidewater rice, because of flowing the rice with water that was taken in through newly constructed floodgates from the rivers at the top of the tide. And since the tides ran far inland in this level country, Bull knew he could make a lot of money in rice, for there’d be plenty to sell. European countries, especially Spain and Portugal, were crying out for the grain; this would make it easier to bring back port and Madeira wines to make even larger profits from the colonies.

Bull found Henry and his men at the local pub near the docks and thought to trick him into a friendly game of poker with the hope of winning the schooner. He had a fine hand when it came to cards. And he knew how to cheat without being caught.

So confident was he, that in a moment’s challenge, Bull threw down a deed in front of Henry, bragging about the island’s worth and loudly proclaiming winner-take-all on the first hand of poker, here and now. Of course, the schooner was part of the deal, and he wanted Henry to be well aware of that. No test of anything but luck, he’d said. We’ll play for chips ’til the one picks a hand by his own choosing to tap out the other player for everything.

Henry remembered sailing up the east coast past a chain of barrier islands scattered along nearly one hundred fifty miles of coastline. The islands were a thick, green forest, highly elevated, with marshland. There were large oaks near the water’s edge, the limbs draped in the bearded Spanish moss. Many kinds of colorful birds could be seen flying about. Now and then, he glimpsed a plantation, a stately home, through the forest. He had heard that cotton was easy to grow in the rich island soil. And like rice, cotton was in great foreign demand. Henry had never thought of himself as a planter. But the more he thought about it, the more he thought of its possibilities. The war was over, and he’d done his part in it. It was time to move on and make changes in his life. Surprising himself, he took up Bull Hansen’s challenge.

Henry was not a gambler by trade, but he was a skilled player, knowing that marked cards, which he could also read, were being used against him. It was natural that he would enjoy a tremendous advantage over cheats who were not aware of their intended victim’s knowledge. It did not take long for Henry to beat the fiery little man at his own game as he shouted back, First hand, last hand, four-in-hand, any old hand. Tote ’em all out—foot, horse, and heavy artillery, and let the firing commence!

Bull’s eyes had gleamed with the anticipated success of his scheming venture. He didn’t believe Henry would suspect foul play, making it easy for him to cheat the captain out of his money and ship without any loss to himself.

The end came much too quickly, and Bull lost it all, the schooner and his prized island, with a new pack of cards and his blustering innocence to any knowledge of why his deck was marked. Laid before him was Henry’s pat full house, three queens and a pair of fours. A spade’s a spade—that was how Henry Edwards saw Bull that day.

Bull, despite being dull-witted, had detected Henry’s contempt for him and roared with fury. Suited to his name—a broad chest, a thick, short neck, and nostrils that could snort like a bull’s—he did not take kindly to losing. With red eyes blazing, he gripped solid steel and stood in silent kill. A man cried a warning. Henry spun around to face the barrel of the pistol Bull held in a trembling hand. It was all hazy at best, but Henry managed to ward off being shot by quickly bringing his right hand up in a fist and striking Bull hard across the face. Blood spattered from his nose and mouth as he stumbled, falling backward against the bar, with Henry grabbing for the gun. In the struggle, the gun discharged and the bullet entered Bull’s heart, killing him instantly.

During the trial, witnesses contested that it was self-defense, spinning off the story in Henry’s favor. The judge ruled the shooting as accidental.

Not many months later, Henry was back again in Charleston, richer than he’d been before. He had profited from the war. And now he owned an island. He sighed with an ease accorded a man whose worries were minimal at best.

The present came sharply back into focus: the screech of the gulls, human cries and shouts, the grunts of workers carrying heavy loads. Henry smiled. It wouldn’t do to reminisce about past fortunes on a day like this. Plenty of days ahead for that, he thought.

A sunny day, he reckoned, glancing up at the sky in good humor. No storm clouds in sight. There’d be smooth sailing. He paused and chuckled. Habits died hard. He wasn’t a sea captain anymore. He’d have to get used to that, though he didn’t think his men would.

He wasn’t going to sell Old Faithful as he had intended. He would need a sailing vessel where he was going. He smiled in good humor when he remembered the day, the look of expressed disappointment on the face of the man who almost became the owner of a very good sailing ship and saw it slip through his fingers at no fault of his own. A rare bargain, indeed!

Henry slapped at another mosquito. God, it was hot, and still early in the day. What happened to the breeze? He fumbled in his breast pocket for his gold watch. The timepiece showed that he had been standing there for over half an hour. It wasn’t that far to the Planters-Merchant Bank. The waiting was over. He’d walk it.

As Henry reached down for his trunk, a black man carrying a large barrel on his massive shoulders suddenly bumped into him, almost knocking him down. Before he could right himself, a snake-like leather whip zipped past him and struck the slave’s back. The barrel rolled across the dock as the man fell to his knees before Henry, whimpering in pain.

Henry could see whip marks on the slave’s back, and where the skin showed ugly healed slashes through the worn places in his shirt. Anger blazed up in him, and he muttered soothing words to the frightened black man before he scrambled away to retrieve the barrel.

Facing the man with the whip, Henry was about to punch the smug face, grab the whip out of the man’s hand, and give him a taste of his own medicine, when someone called his name. Momentarily distracted, the man moved away quickly, eyeing Henry with apprehension.

Mistah Edwards! Mistah Edwards! Henry turned to see a black man coming toward him on a run. He wore no hose below his dark blue cotton breeches, exposing strong muscles. His feet were clad in worn, dusty leather shoes, and his clean white shirt, on close inspection, was made of cotton, practically threadbare from many washings. His skin was the color of ebony. His black eyes sparkled with humor and intelligence as he stood before Henry, grinning amicably and showing large, very white teeth. Henry couldn’t help but grin right back at the friendly face.

I’s sho is too sorry me, Capt’n, suh, if’n I’s late. Massa Labouisse from de bank says I’s ta escort youse over to Miz Postell’s house. De respeckble widow lady done make youse up a room. His voice had a hushed quality about it, and Henry wondered if he had been taught to speak this way out of respect to his master.

Suddenly the black man’s voice became apologetic. I’s sorry. suh, but us got no rig for you dis day. No-suh, not fo a quality gennelmun to drive dis early in dis day. Just a walk down; no big way, suh.

What is your name? Henry asked.

Shadrach, suh.

Well, Shadrach, let us be on our way then.

Despite Shadrach’s short stature, the man was strong and wiry, lifting Henry’s trunk atop a broad shoulder as if the wooden box was but a babe in arms. Fleet as a deer on foot, Shadrach headed toward East Bay Street, dodging the workers on the wharf with little difficulty.

Henry followed close behind, finding it hard to keep up. He had to admit, he hadn’t lost his sea legs yet. Better to have someone else take the knocks and push against the noisy dock crowd for a change.

Day-O! Fishman coming’s, Swimp from d’ ocean Crab from d’ sea Wan’ fresh fish You gotter see me

The soft call of the fish peddler echoed behind Henry as he crossed East Bay Street where a row of newly repaired stucco-brick houses gleamed with new paint. Built in the early 1700s by merchants and incongruously named Rainbow Row, they were actually shops that housed their owners on the floor above, reached by staircases from an inner courtyard.

The shops’ wares were displayed behind multipaned glass windows. Signs hung over the doors revealing the nature of their trade. As they passed the shop at the far end of the row, Henry noticed a sign in bold, black letters that simply read: TAILOR. He decidedly made a mental note to pay the shop a visit at his earliest convenience.

Char-Estonians, as the people were called, were early risers on Market Day. Along East Bay Street, men, women, and children dressed in the post-war shapeless garments of drab blacks, dark browns, and grays of linsey-woolsey were busy bargaining with street sellers who had opened their booths early.

Only a few passersby were attired in clothes once imported from England. There were no horse-drawn carriages now, no glamorous ladies dressed in silks and satins, or gentlemen in tall hats astride purebred horses. In most cases, people had to walk to get to their destinations in the town. Thinking back to Shadrach’s apology about the rig, Henry reasoned it was probably in disrepair, as most modes of transportation were at this time.

Post-war Charleston was changing—and rapidly. Henry thought back to the Revolutionary War that had ended but a short time ago. Though drawn reluctantly into the Revolution, Charles Towne, as it was called back then, repulsed a British attack by sea in 1776 and a second offensive by land two years later, before the town was finally captured in May 1780.

The British had left Charleston in l782, at the close of the war, leaving behind a wake of destruction. Henry had paid the town a visit in l783 and was appalled by what he saw. Fire had destroyed a large number of buildings. Hardly a house north of Broad Street had escaped damage by the shells from the British warships, and the houses south of it had been almost equally damaged by the batteries on the islands and the guns of the fleet.

No squirrels were found, no birds to dispel the dead quietness with song. The neglected rice fields were overgrown with coarse grass. The indigo vats had gone to ruin; the little provision crops, which the women had striven to grow, were the only produce of the plantations. On many of these country estates, there was not a horse, cow, pig, or chicken to be seen. Of money, there was literally none.

The Revolution had brought to an end the brightest history of Charleston culture. It was said that on the eve of the Revolution, Charleston was the most flourishing city in all the colonies. Even as far back as l778, when the war was at its peak, Charleston had been a prosperous agricultural and commercial town extending from South Bay to Boundary Street, and from river to river. Each house could boast its own yard and garden, and only in the business portion of the town and along portions of the east waterfront were they too closely built for yard space. Even so, all the houses and most of the buildings were surrounded by brick walls. It stood to reason why Charleston had been aptly known as the walled city.

Now, just one year later, Charleston had made remarkable strides in restoring itself. Of course, there was much work to be done—hard work—but it was hopeful work. Henry could see that hope on the faces he passed. And yet, despite these changes, Henry knew that Charleston would never again be as it once was. Like Rome in its entire splendor, Nero destroyed it by fire in one day.

Henry continued down the cobbled street behind Shadrach, turning right onto Atlantic Street. A mule-drawn cart, loaded with furniture and other household items, passed close by on rickety wheels that squealed and bounced on the cobblestones.

He was surprised to see homes, once crumbled, burned-out remains but months ago rebuilt to their former selves in the Georgian classical design and in the preferred brick construction. Long solid wood shutters replaced broken ones on the first floor windows, and louver shutters replaced the windows on the upper floors, now opened to the cool early morning breezes from the river.

Carpenters were already at work on the homes still in disrepair. Hammers banged, saws screeched, men barked orders. A person either arose with the street noise or suffered through sleepless hours behind closed shutters.

As Henry and Shadrach passed a tall, narrow, three story home with white trim, a large black maid in a voluptuous starched dress and apron opened a side door, revealing beyond a small orchard of orange trees, myrtle, and gardenia bushes. A piazza extended the length of the house on the south side, its dual purpose as both a protection against the midday sun and a place to sit in the evenings and enjoy the breeze from the southwest.

Old-fashioned roses climbed the dusty red brick walls and mingled with the purple jasmine and honeysuckle that spilled over onto the street. The sweet blend of their perfume filled the air, and Henry sniffed appreciably.

He noted there was but one double house on the whole street, consisting of a room on either side of a large front door. No one seemed to know why there were so few of them. It was said that the design of the single dwelling prompted a tax to be levied according to how many feet of it faced the street. A double dwelling was doubly taxed, despite the fact that the dwelling was designed as single living quarters, and despite the fact that it had the same amount of street footage as the single dwelling. But the blame, if there was one, should be put at the feet of the British. King George was always taxing the colonies for one thing or another. Thank God those days are past, thought Henry.

The British Loyalists, Henry remembered, had owned Georgian manors farther inland, properties that covered anywhere from a half-square lot and larger. Gardens and stables and servants’ quarters spread out in all directions inside brick walls. Arbors were built for social occasions, notably areas for gentlemen to smoke their cigars and ladies to gather for gossip over the latest news while knitting or sewing.

Henry had stayed at such a home as a guest before the war. But after the war, many of these dubbed king lovers had fled with the British to England, while others had fled in the direction of the British-owned islands, notably the Bahamas, off the coast of Florida, leaving their homes and most of their possessions behind. There the familiar way of life could be recreated, and the old order under British rule could be reestablished.

Here, suh, Shadrach called over his shoulder, this here’s Miz Postell’s house.

Henry stood at the entranceway to one of three single houses grouped side by side. Before he could comment on their appearance, Shadrach said in his low, singsong voice, They’s called ‘The Three Sisters,’ suh, cause them be looks-alikes, he said, eyeing Henry with a sheepish grin.

Henry grinned back. For indeed, despite their dilapidated appearance, they were alike in every detail: Georgian houses with English Gothic outhouses. A plaque on the gatepost to the house they were approaching attested to its use as British headquarters during the war. Henry had seen such a plaque before on other houses in Charleston whose occupants, it was said, had been virtually made prisoners in their own homes.

The men moved past the opened wrought-iron gates and onto the property. The sun glinted dimly through the still damp leaves of the myrtles and magnolia trees. Beds of roses and perennials circled the walkways and benches.

Shadrach put the trunk down near the front steps, reached for the big brass knocker in the middle of the door, and gave it a tap. Brass upon brass rang sharp and loud in the otherwise quiet of early morning.

Suddenly the wide door swung open, and a young black girl stood in the doorway to a narrow hall. Her voluptuous skirts, stiffly starched, billowed out from her tall, erect figure. Her black eyes were heavily fringed with the longest lashes Henry had ever seen; when she smiled in welcome, dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth.

Shadrach spoke in a surprisingly reverent voice. His head bowed, he said softly. This here’s Capt’n Edwards, nodding at Henry. Says Massa Labouisse to—

I knows about it, Shadrach, the maid interrupted in a voice almost as soft as Shadrach’s. For a brief moment, they eyed each other with a knowing look. Finally, with downcast eyes, she stepped back into the house in a curtsey and said to Henry, Won’t you come in, suh, and I’ll take you to your room. Mistress Postell say she unda de weather dis morning, but hopes to see youse later dis afternoon.

Henry mumbled the appropriate apologies as he and Shadrach followed the maid up the narrow steps to a room just left of the upstairs hallway. The guestroom boasted a large mahogany bed, a chest with a tall standing mirror beside it, and a washstand with the usual washing bowl and ewer. A small table set for breakfast had been placed near the door leading to the piazza.

You can thank your mistress for the room, Henry said with a smile. The anxious look left the maid’s eyes, and she smiled back with a pleased expression on her face.

Now if you’ll bring me a pot of hot coffee and—

A loud thud brought Henry around to see Shadrach scrambling to right the trunk he had accidentally dropped. Words of apology fell from his trembling lips as he stumbled out the door in his haste to get away. Moments later, he returned to give his master’s letter to the gennelmun, eyeing the maid all the while, which brought a knowing smile to Henry’s lips.

The maid returned shortly after with the coffee, and another servant followed behind bringing an ewer of hot water and towels. She pointed to the service cord dangling by the bed and said, If you needs anything, Mistah Edwards, then gave him a note from her mistress.

Henry accepted the invitation to dine with the widow Postell, though his expression suggested otherwise. It was an expression the maid noticed but pretended not to see before leaving the room quietly with his answer.

Henry sighed with impatience as he walked over to the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. The proprieties must be met, and he might as well get used to it.

An hour later, feeling rested and no longer travel-worn, Henry relaxed and leaned back in his chair replete, sipping the remains of his coffee. As was the French custom, hot coffee and fresh rolls were provided for one’s guests. But for Henry, the maid, upon her mistress’s orders, had brought him a breakfast of eggs, ham, sausage, and hominy grits. It was not the usual meal in a French household so early in the day, but one Henry relished and didn’t ask questions as to where the food came from.

He had earlier declined a shave from a male servant, a task he had performed himself for years. He ran a hand across the smooth surface of his cheek and chin, and smiled with satisfaction. The sharp Swiss reliable razor had done its job. An hour later, washed and dressed in the suit and the added garments the maid had kindly seen cleaned and pressed, he was reasonably pleased with his appearance when he surveyed himself in the dressing mirror. Moreover, there was satisfaction in the knowledge that his burgundy coat and light tan knee-breeches fit well on his lean, muscular body. A white lawn cravat, lace-edged, rippled down the front of his shirt. The large pearl stud gleamed pearly white in its depths. His white silk stockings fit with hardly a wrinkle, and his knee-buckles and shoe-buckles were polished silver.

He had the appearance of a man much younger—the ruddy, fresh, healthy glow of a man who spent his life outdoors. The sun and wind off the seas had given his dark brown hair a glossy burnished look, and it was tied at the back of his neck with a riband bow. He looked down at his hands and frowned. Hands that once belonged to a gentleman had become weathered and calloused. But what did it matter? To build a plantation on an island required hard work, work he intended to be a part of.

And that was another thing. He would have no slaves to build his home or work his land. He would buy them and free them, and …

Memories came flooding back, years back, when he had begun a small trade in foreign wines that had carried him up the Cape Fear River, as far inland as Campbelltown and Cross Creek, isolated Scottish communities. He first met Caty Maclean on the Wilmington docks holding a child in her arms and defending a slave.

Later in the year, in the primitive settlement called Cross Creek, where the river crossed far inland, he had found her, danced with her in the old log tavern, fell in love with her, and then lost her to another man. Oh yes, he remembered that day when he’d wanted to yell, Yes! to the minister, for there was a good reason why Caty shouldn’t marry Jaimie O’Brien. Henry was in love with her, and he didn’t want this other man to have her. He would have taken her, kidnapped her … God, what was he thinking?

What lingered in Henry’s mind most, however, was the memory of the last time he was with Caty, for that was when he had professed his love for her, and she had almost yielded. Almost! But she couldn’t leave her family. Too many years had passed. And when he’d looked into her eyes, he’d felt the sharpness of a knife cut into his heart, for there, in the soft, gray depths, was the love she still bore her husband, and would always. He would remember that look to his dying day.

Henry groaned in anguish and strode out onto the piazza. A gentle breeze blew inward from the bay, mingling with the damp odor of marsh and mud flats. He breathed in deeply the pungent odors, exhaling loudly, as if the rush of air from his lungs could expunge the memories that continued to surface painfully from the recesses of his mind.

He would forget. He had to forget, as he forced his thoughts to think of the pleasant scenery before him. He watched with mist-filled eyes the sunlight creeping across the distant harbour, turning the waters into a glowing, red-gold mass. All along Charleston Bay, as far as the eye could see, weathered sloops and ketches, with wind filled sails, glided in on the water’s surface from the fishing banks. Larger vessels lay in anchor, and he imagined Old Faithful among them.

Henry was looking forward to the business meeting with M’sieur Labouisse, and visiting the Commercial Exchange and Warehouses. He only needed to confirm that conditions here would stabilize from the effects of the war, with the hope that old angers would die and be forgotten. Only then would he be satisfied in the knowledge that a fine and spirited trade would soon open up between such a port as Charleston and Europe.

He already knew that on certain months of the year the port in Savannah, Georgia, would be overflowing with bundles of cotton, ready to be loaded onto trade vessels. Georgia was already taking the lead in the new trade industry—cotton. But South Carolina wasn’t far behind. From the looks of things he’d seen today, Charleston was well on its way to recovering from the war.

Fortunately, the loss of the British Bounty and other British trade ships, whose exclusive trade was in indigo, had made its production less profitable due to the war. Now planters were finding that cotton was easier to cultivate and less exhausting to the soil. Henry figured that, even on an island, the white bolls could be produced in such quantities that one would be able to clothe every man, woman, and child in Charleston and Savannah with more to spare. With good crops of cotton to export, as well as the tidewater rice from the low-country planters, commerce would rapidly revive, and prosperity would be restored.

King Cotton was going to be the staple crop of the south, and Henry had all intentions of being a part of this vast undertaking. He would make a fortune in cotton!

The awaited knock came as he reentered the room.

Chapter 2

Lambertine Labouisse sat at a large, ornate mahogany desk, puffing on a Havana cigar. The sharp, pungent odor filled the room. His face was long and lean, and his hair gleamed silver. Heavy white brows jutted imperiously over a large aristocratic nose. He wore a stock of the purest white silk that shone above the snowy ruffle of his shirtfront, and his coat was a rich brown color, smartly tailored. The waistcoat, Henry saw, was pearl gray, and its studs were all pearls.

Henry stood before him and bowed a little before taking a seat. He was glad that he had taken pains in dressing, for the black eyes scrutinized him as well and showed approval.

Henry was well informed about M’sieur Labouisse, manager-owner of the fastest growing bank in Charleston, whose customers were among the very elite and whose services extended beyond banking needs to export investments with profitable merchants.

The business transaction of settling his accounts did not take long, as M’sieur Labouisse continued to inform Henry that he had made the right move in investing his money at the bank.

I’d like to point out, sir, Lambertine drawled on, that contrary to the saying of Holy Writ, South Carolina had gone to war at her own cost, and to further heal the land, the United States, after the adoption of the Constitution, agreed to pay the states for their advances towards the Revolution. And, I might add, did you know that South Carolina was owed a staggering one million, four hundred forty-seven thousand, one hundred seventy-three dollars? He leaned forward across his desk and nodded at Henry with a wink. "Exact amount, I tell you.

It is enough and correct to say, he went on, then paused and leaned back in his chair, puffing momentarily on his cigar and eyeing Henry to make sure he had his undivided attention before continuing, that almost everyone was bankrupt, for the present that was, and that everyone was looking anxiously for what tomorrow might bring forth.

Henry smiled and replied, "Yes sir, I read about it in the Charleston Gazette. The sum was printed in large, bold, black letters on the front of the newspaper."

Labouisse chuckled, showing a rare sense of humor that Henry liked. I ’spect you did, sir, ’spect you did. I guess you know that just last year the Legislature decided to issue bills of credit in paper money and lent in small sums to anyone in South Carolina on mortgages of gold or silver or property.

I’ve heard something along those lines, Henry said. I also know that merchants have agreed to accept the paper money at par with the gold and silver, even at risk to themselves, and—

True, true, Lambertine interrupted, blowing circles of smoke in the air. And it’s worked, I might add. The town’s alive again. With the flow of hard money, a man’s been able to repair his house on the security of his wife’s jewels, even buy farm equipment, a horse and plow with the proceeds of his, say, silver candelabra! Times are changing, sir, times are changing. His face shone with keen optimism.

And where do you think all of this will lead, sir? Henry asked with a challenging look.

Why, my dear man, trade, commerce, and agriculture will flourish! He leaned close to Henry. His eyes sparkled with a sense of venture. And of course we need capital to stabilize and build up the economy. Our coffers are finally being replenished. But as I said, we’re heading in the right direction on that score. It’s just going to take time. As I explained to you at the beginning, your money’s safe. There’ll be no depreciation of its value, despite hard times. The shrewd, intelligent black eyes surveyed Henry.

Lambertine needed men like Edwards, with the hope that one day his bank would become one of the richest in the state—if not the richest. He took another long puff from his cigar, paying no heed to the ashes that dropped onto his cravat. He eyed the man across from him with keen interest. He was beginning to like Henry Edwards despite the fact he was a known rebel. He was honest and forthright, a combination of traits few people possessed in the business world.

Eventually the subject turned to the island. You’re going to need slave labor, Lambertine said in the course of the conversation. I believe there are a number of unclaimed slaves contained in the lower level of the Old Exchange Building.

Lambertine went on to say that the Old Exchange Building was built by the British in 1771 as the Customs House and Exchange. During the Revolutionary War, prominent Patriots, including three signers of the Declaration of Independence, were imprisoned by the British in the building’s lower level.

Terrible things happen in wars, and the consequences are never good, Lambertine continued sadly with a shake of his head. There are plantations that have been abandoned by their Tory owners who have since returned to England to be with their fellow British. But then, I guess you already know that. The slaves were theirs, of course. On Saturday, there is to be a slave auction. There, I can introduce you to important trade merchants and planters whose interests are in the cultivation and marketing of tidewater rice and cotton. Mr. Edwards, are you interested?

This was what Henry was waiting to hear. Yes, he wanted to know everything about cotton—the planting, the harvesting, and the selling of it. But he wasn’t going to use slaves.

Henry’s mouth formed a thin, hard line. The fruits of uninterrupted Constitutional freedom! Bah! The words lay heavy on his tongue like a sour note, but he didn’t voice them. He let the banker drone on about slave labor.

Virtue, indeed! There was no virtue, no honor, when you enslaved people, white or black.

Retribution, Henry thought on… For three years, Charleston had been under British control. The British troops, under the leadership of Sir Henry Clinton, commander in chief of the king’s forces, had been wantonly brutal in their treatment of the Patriots. And after the war, when the Patriot troops entered Charleston after the evacuation of the British, they were disbanded without pay—naked, starving, and like so many demented savages, had seized, bound, and dragged to the dungeons the unfortunate Loyalists they happened to come by.

Whipped, tarred, and feathered, branded, and stripped, and to complete the scene, a gallows erected, upon which twenty-four reputable Loyalists were hanged in sight of the British fleet … A British officer’s words, for he had witnessed the whole thing.

Even now, Tory and Rebel were words spoken in hot fury, expressions of contempt and hatred on both sides. Henry believed the trials between them would be greater than they could bear. Fortunately, these matters would be of little concern to him on an island.

But who had suffered most? A Southerner’s thoughts would always be firmly fixed in a narrow pattern, to conform to a rigid, almost feudal code: a master-slave society. It was possible that in time there would be stirrings of revolt for freeing the black slaves.

Henry had read the journals of John Brickell, a writer whose travels as early as 1737 took him through much of the South. In it, he wrote: There are blacks that can read and write, others bred to Trades, many proved good Artists … very industrious, laborers planting corn, rice, tobacco, making vast quantities of Turpentine, Tar, and Pitch on the plantations.

Henry’s visits to Wilmington, North Carolina, before the war and during his trade years, had brought him into contact with a small but significant black community. Some slaves were able to save enough cash to buy their freedom by raising hogs or poultry on their own and by hiring themselves out to work. A few even owned land.

He didn’t believe in slave labor. He had seen what a man could do, given freedom. And he wanted free men working his land. He remembered Sampson, a black freed man living on the Maclean farm at Cross Creek. He’d build his own home, made furniture for a living, and worked alongside the Scotch family. And he remembered Sileas, the little Scotch girl. Not all indentured servants were treated as kindly by their masters, but most were freed in the seventh year after working six years to pay back the cost to bring them to America by ship from their native land. However, there were masters who not only ill-treated their servants, but worked them for years to come.

Henry was willing to concede that to produce abundantly and have a prosperous plantation, he would need workers. But few men had dared to do what he was going to do, what he intended to propose to M’sieur Labouisse. This he explained to the older man, who had finished his little talk. After hearing what Henry planned to do, the banker shook his