Horrible Harvest

The deal done, daddy was anxious to move on. “What of the slave? Still ain’t clear why he’s here for all this.”

“Tate, tell Mr. Tennyson why you’re here.”

Tate let out a heavy breath. “Yes, sir. Happy to, sir. I’m to do some sounding, Mr. Tennyson. With your permission, sir.”

“What in the hell is sounding?”

“It’s measuring depth, sir. Of the water. The river.”

Daddy squint so hard wrinkles run near to back of his ear. “Thought you was a gift. From the boy. To do as we please around here.”

“He is, Horace. The sounding would take place at night. He would just need use of your boat.”

“What makes you think I got a boat?”

“Never known a man who lives on the river’s edge who doesn’t have a boat.”

“You ain’t met every man that lives on a river.”

“Are you saying you don’t have a boat?”

“No. I got one. Built it before I built this house. Just saying ain’t every river rat the same as the other. Why you need to measure the waters?”

“It’s the hydrographic maps, sir. Commissioned by the state. They’re incomplete. Inadequate, sir. In this part of the river.”

“Tate learned a lot during his time spent on the schooner. Sounding was just one of the many skills he acquired.”

Daddy grew thick with doubt. “Feels like you’re running around me on this one. What ain’t you telling me?”

The slaver give a sly grin. “The ports in Charleston are a three-day coffle walk from my nearest plantation. That puts a lot of wear and tear on my inventory. Not to mention, the port fees are exorbitant. Beyond reason. It would be cheaper and less injurious to my stock to build my own port as near my property as is possible. To do that, I need an accurate calculation of the channel depths in this area to see if they can accommodate my ships.”

“So, he ain’t so much a gift from you to me as he is a favor from me to you.”

“That may be true, but what value do you suppose such a favor would hold for a man like me? In my position. With my considerable resources.”

I could hear the thoughts of riches rattling around in Daddy’s head. “He can have use of the boat. After he’s put in a full day on the farm. And one of my boys will go with him. Augustus. Can’t have him stealing off with my property.”

“Of course.” Mr. Miller approached and got near nose to nose with Daddy. “The pie. What remains. I’d consider it neighborly if we could take it with us. Your gift to us. Horace.”

Daddy looked the pie over, now just a half.

“The tin will be returned to you. I can assure you. Washed and ready for the next pie.”

A shrug. “Take it.”

A cordial nod. “Tate. The pie. Take it to Ferguson and tell him we are ready to part.” Mr. Miller’s face lost all signs of pleasantness. “I’ll not be back here, Horace. If we are to meet again, it will be at my request. On my property, and you will only visit my property at my invitation. Is that understood?”

Daddy was dented by the disrespect, but he didn’t make comment. He just nodded.

“I will send for Mrs. Tennyson when the time is convenient for me to discuss my school.”

Another nod. What he didn’t say was that it’d be a cold day in hell when he let his wife headmaster some old school.

At the door, Mr. Miller give one last bit of information before exiting. “Mr. Stockton will return. When the Galtville issue is addressed.”

Kenneth give me a quick smile before following after his daddy.

“Advance man,” Daddy said.

“Yeah?”

“He ain’t better than me.”

“He is.” The giant exited.

“Not even by a skinny bit, is he better than me.”

The day crawled thereafter. The sun fell. The bottle tipped. Daddy didn’t make no effort to go to the barn. He didn’t go to the fields. He sat. On the porch. Turned to his popskull whisky. Shook loose from his day-to-days. The visit from the rich man made him feel owned by poverty. He felt crushed by the slavers power. It give the rich man confidence he didn’t have no right to.

We boys made show of our work. We toiled with half-hearts and curiosity. The final gift weren’t far from our minds. It was the worst thing it could have been at the point in time. Unopened. A mystery. An unknown treasure. Guarded by our soused daddy from the porch of our farmhouse that seemed to have shrunk since the rich man’s visit.

Dusk give out to the dark. The bottle rested on the floor of the porch. Daddy put in a load of struggle before he found his purchase and stood. He wobbled about, stumbled down the steps, crossed the damp grass and dirt to the barn and come to a halt in front of the crate. It was four-foot long. Two-foot wide and knee high to Daddy.

He got him a crowbar kept with his farrier tools. The lid give him a fight. It took all his drunken muscle to cork it loose.

Me and my brothers watched it all from the door. Scared enough to get too close, but still curious enough to spy on our drunk for a daddy to see what his new treasure was.  

Tate was there, too. In the loft. I seen him, but didn’t no one else.

The lid was tossed clean off. Daddy grabbed at the layer of straw on top. He dug at a handful at a time until what was beneath was clear as day to see. Guns. Rifles. Pistols. Repeaters. Dynamite. Ammunition. The Devil’s help. Power.