Grey Blue Water

Preface

Many writers have tried to define the turbulent times of nineteenth-century America with diverse results. Full knowledge of the past and second-guessing of how the brave pioneers should or should not have created this nation from a wilderness is only folly, and the subject of foolish speculation for many desiring to rewrite history.

The new nation of America inched and lurched westward over a turbulent and bloody century to create unknown destinations from a raw and unforgiving wilderness.

We as a nation were driven by freedom given to us in a simple-yet-concise document which cut the cord from royal governance to self-governance. Self-governance took hard work, determination, and bravery, which tried men’s souls and steeled their nature, often at the expense of those less able, less driven, or less fortunate. The nineteenth century was not a time for weakness and indecisiveness.

The prism of time needs to be seen through the eyes of those living it, and not through those eyes second-guessing it after much of the hard work has been done. History forever repeats; our life is forever linked to earth.

Our lives start as does a clear blue stream created from the sun, free of transgression and particles of earth. God’s love washes the skies to create new opportunity for man from water. Man’s love creates new life in a woman’s watery womb. Rain begins to collect into brooks, gaining strength as the trickles grow into larger streams. Streams gain strength as do toddlers taking their first steps. Earth collects under the nails of the four-year-old child playing in the stream, while the rivers gain strength from other streams nourishing it. The child is nourished by the community of mankind, as is the river by the community of its tributaries. Humanity becomes stronger over time, as does the river. Both the adolescent and the growing rivers course through the countryside, unsure of the direction of tributaries or dams blocking their fates.

Mankind and river, heading in the same direction, pulled by gravity and providence, are inexorably preoccupied to reach the sea. Mankind progresses, diverted by sin, slowed by flesh and uncertainty, meandering until guided to provident salvation. Unfixed in his meandering on the earth, he is free to choose reversals at great peril. The river, too, is slowed by its meandering nature, collecting and depositing collected earth along a fixed destiny.

Providence introduces turmoil into the confusion.

Rivers become deeper and slower, as the pace of man’s life becomes slower at the closing stages—uncertain, laborious, and exciting; both intersect at the sea.

The grey water, heavy with the burden of collected sin, filters into the blue sea of salvation to be shed away again.

The cycle of life repeats into eternity from grey-blue water.

Acknowledgements

For more than fifteen years, the life and times of the Taylor family of Sparta, Tennessee, and the genealogical history of middle Tennessee have been constants in my life. Though this author not directly related to the Taylors of whom Grey-Blue Water is focused, I decided to write an epic novel based upon the life of John Douglas Taylor (1819–1898): devoted son, surveyor, land baron, riverboat captain, father and the second great-grandfather of my wife, Paula Lee Dibrell Taylor.

Chapter One

1843

‘Exiled’ in Texas… By Way of the Western District

John Douglas Taylor kept his left shoulder against the great stack of bundled mail next to him while reading a letter from his worried father. He felt annoyed that the poorly organized and disheveled mail and boxes were seemingly near collapse. John pushed against them over patches of rough terrain to help hold them in place. During the swaying jolts of the stagecoach, while reading his father’s words, he would take occasional glances out over the Texas landscape, and then retreat back to the letter.

He paused to reflect over each line, feeling as though he were being exiled.

The tone of the letter from his father Isaac disturbed him, though he well knew the mail could take months to arrive at the appointed destination. He hoped by now the letters he had sent home had arrived. He thought how worried his mother must be. It concerned him greatly, though he was powerless to help.

His memory flashed about in daydreams, forgetting much of what he read and having to start anew several times.

Father sent me here, and should understand the consequences of his actions, surely, he thought. I will make some money here in Texas and make my own way without him.

The last time, it was Adrian, he thought, while studying his father’s letter and thinking of his dead brother. If I die out here by the hand of some Cherokee or as the result of fever, he will need to come to terms with that loss again.

John was worried and fearful of the unknown before him, but confident in himself. He was steeled by internal arrogance and frightened by uncertainty.

Thinking back, John could vividly remember the day his older brother Adrian and his grandfather drowned at Boiling Pond, southwest of Sparta. John shuddered at the excitement and terror of that memory, which had remained vivid for him throughout his life.

***

Boiling Pond was the name given to a large sinkhole southwest of Sparta, Tennessee. The pond would routinely fill and drain of much of its volume during the year, giving one the impression it was boiling by the pockets of air captured during the low-water stages.

The pond was a popular fishing and swimming hole for the area, though surrounded by farm and cattle grazing land belonging to Isaac Taylor. During the time of the year the pond was at its lowest, unsupervised cattle could drown after slipping over a rocky outcropping on its southwest corner or becoming trapped in the muddy northwest corner of the pond.

The intrigue of the sinkhole was both its danger and also its subterranean cool waters, bubbling up and down near the confluence of the Caney Fork and Calf Killer rivers.

The summer months in east middle Tennessee could be quite hot and humid. The attraction of Boiling Pond could oftentimes be overwhelmingly tempting for boys like John and Adrian and other children of Sparta. From his home near Taylor’s Creek, it was only a ten-mile trek for the family, so it was visited often on holidays or birthdays as a treat for the children.

A family birthday picnic for John’s two-year-old sister, Annie Taylor, and newborn sister, Mary Rose Taylor, in the summer of 1823 had turned quickly into a family tragedy when his older brother Adrian, age nine, and his grandfather both died in an accident at the pond.

Grandfather Edward Gleason had been entertaining Adrian on an old wagon, which the family used to charge into the pond for a big splash. One of the retired old buck wagons was used countless times to roll downhill with joyful riders and splash into the cool waters. Horses or mules were used to retrieve the buck wagon to repeat the process for the next riders.

The family had enjoyed the procedure many times in the past summers without incident. The summer of 1823 was different due to lack of rain, resulting in a much lower water level in Boiling Pond. The sinkhole had lost a great deal of water due to the drought, which had been persistent for months, but the danger went unnoticed by the family as they began the family gathering.

Adrian had galloped ahead on horseback, with his grandfather Edward behind him. The two jumped aboard the buckboard, anxious to get the festivities started ahead of the others.

As Adrian and his grandfather steered the rolling buckboard toward the pond on the usual rutted route, Edward had suffered a heart attack. His immediate reaction from the pain was to pull the wagon off course. The suddenness of the action caused the buckboard to veer to a rather unusually high drop-off and flip over sideways, pinning Adrian underneath the heavy wagon in the muddy water. Edward was thrown free of the wagon, yet sank into the pond water, unconscious.

John remembered the terrible screams from his mother Anne, Grandmother Mary Gleason, and his Aunt Eliza Fiske as they witnessed the deaths unfolding before them from a distance, while screaming for the others to help.

Aid from father Isaac, who had been riding farther back in the family procession, arrived too late to save Adrian.

John remembered seeing Adrian’s lungs spew frog larva between his father’s attempts to resuscitate the mud-covered boy.

John, as a boy of only four, remembered thinking it curious that Adrian had been keeping frogs in his mouth and wondered if his grandfather had them, too. He remembered shuddering at the sight of the fry wiggling in the pink, viscous fluid pushed from Adrian’s lungs by his father.

John wondered if the frog larva could swim if put into another gourd, as he and Adrian had done many times before in the summer months.

He watched his father, working to push on his brother’s chest, and thought it must be painful for his brother. He thought how furiously his father was working to wake his sleeping brother, and asked his father when Adrian would be ready to play.

There was no response from his father. John felt sick to his stomach. Adrian’s skin was so pale, and the frog fry were flopping around alive in his mouth and in the water that had been expelled from his small, pale chest. The boy’s eyes were open, but not seeing.

Is Adrian asleep? young John thought. He can’t be sleeping with his eyes open.

John recalled with terror and pains the wails of his mother and sisters; so loud it made his ears ring. He held his hands to his ears to stop the screams from hurting them.

John remembered watching his father scrape the frog larva from Adrian’s small mouth and crush them under his thumb in the grass as if the fry were to blame.

He remembered his father Isaac pounded the ground with his fist when he realized his boy was gone.

John’s desperate calls to his Uncle Fiske to save Adrian were for naught when he realized Adrian was not waking up again. Confusion flooded his brain as he trembled, seemingly alone, in the midst of the mayhem.

John recalled watching his father cradling the lifeless body of his older brother after Isaac’s failed attempts to force life back into the young boy’s lungs.

Two of the slaves, Adam and Reuben, had pulled the lifeless body of his grandfather, Edward Gleason, from the pond as Isaac had worked to resuscitate Adrian.

Terrible months of mourning would follow.

Dr. Madison Fiske, the family physician and Edward’s son-in law, would later determine Edward had died of carditis and dropsy, which described a heart attack.

John remembered never again wanting to play with frogs or frog fry as a child and would endure the taunts of children in school over his fear of them.

His father, Isaac Taylor, never truly recovered from the death of his first son Adrian, at the age of nine.

Isaac fenced off the area, and the Taylor family never again made the trek to Boiling Pond.

Adrian and Edward were both buried at the Moore Cove Graveyard, near Doyle, much to Isaac’s disappointment and shame for not having a proper cemetery for his family on his own land. That would change. Isaac would never bury any of his children in another family’s graveyard while he was alive. He soon began surveying a proper spot for his family to be buried in the future.

***

The memories of that tragic day caused John to pause and begin breathing more heavily. He began tapping on his forehead with his fingers until the anxiety ran its course. He tried often to break the habit and did not really understand how to stop it.

Of all things to cause me head pain, he thought musingly, frogs should not be one of them. He continued tapping his forehead.

John thought it queer he felt fear, though he knew the anxiety was rooted in that July day in 1823 when he watched the end of his brother’s life unfold before him. He knew the anger and disappointment he felt were rooted in watching the anguish and terror spew forth so effortlessly from his father and mother. He had never before seen that vulnerability in his parents, and it had frightened him to the core.

Isaac Taylor’s anguished letter to his son John:

John D. Taylor or Mr. Jacob Shannon

Montgomery County, Texas

Texas Consul in New Orleans

10 April, 1843 [Monday]

Sparta, White County, Tennessee

Mr. John D. Taylor

Dear Son,

You cannot imagine the uneasiness that is manifested and expressed amongst us on account of not hearing from you since I parted with you in the Western District late in the month of November last. Various conjectures of the cause are formed and expressed amoungst us, some that some disasterous consequence produced from high freshets of which the country was visited through which you passed, miscarage of mail, amongst others, but we feel confident of your haveing written if alive.

I have delayed writing until now, with a hope of receiving a letter from you by every mail that passes from the southwest, so that I could be advised where to adress you, but longer delay only serves to increase our uneasiness and sorrow. Hence, I have concluded to adress you at your former residence in Texas, with a request to my old friend, Mr. Jacob Shannon, to answer my letter, in case you should not have reached his neighborhood.

I at the same time write to Col. John K. Taylor at Little Rock, Arkinsaws, for information of you, believing that you would doubtless see him at the Rock on your move to Texas.

From you and each of those friends, I earnestly ask and request prompt and speedy answers, in which request I hope and trust I shall not be disappointed.

During the first week after we started last fall, my boy Stephen died, the loss of whom, as you will readily suppose, is much deplored and felt, and the more so in consequence of his being my Blacksmith. But serious as the loss was, I only console myself that it was not your mother or one of my children. The balance of my family have and still enjoy good health, with the exception of short attacks of cold.

The past winter… has been the severest long, cold winter that has ever been seen or felt in Tennessee. More snows and deeper ones. On the 15th of March fell the deepest one, 18 inches. Several persons froze to death. Amongst the numberwas Barnet Lee and Francis Smartt, son of Gen. Smartt, of Warren Co. A great death of stock, cattle, hogs, sheep. My losses, however, have been small compared with others, considering the quantity I had to feed being more then most others. Corn and most all kind of ruffage is exosted and stock still dying for want of feed. I shall have plenty of corn, oats, and hay to serve me plentifully, but not much to spare my neighbours, except what they steel, which is practised on a larger scale then ever known of in the country.

I have been much proplexed and shall sustain serious losses by the Bankrupts during the coldest weather and deep snow.

In March I had to go to Nashville to attend to an application of A.P. Irwin for Bankruptcy, set for hearing 20th March. I succeeded in obtaining a continuonce for the purpose of taking testimony under the authority of the court. It stands now for hearing the 1st Monday of June. His application and schedule of his liabilities and effects rendered on oath contains the most palpable purjuries ( I am sorry to say) that ever was brought before a court, and all with a view of swindling and defrauding me out of 7 or 8 hundred dollars money loaned, but he can’t succeed. I shall defeat his application, without doubt, but he has sold and conveyed all his property except the land he lives on, and he has no title of record for.

If this reaches you, you will inform me all you know about the title, whether a deed was made to him by his father, if so, when and for what, not as you surveyed it for him.

Times here are growing daily worse. Many have been insolvent, some 50 or 60 in this country have availed themselves of the corrupt Bankruptcy Law and many others would have done, but the last Congress, Whig as it was, became ashamed of their own work and repealed it.

A lake tornado passed over Sparta, or the citizens thereof, and totally unvailed and exposed the true condition of many of her citizens. Jenkins A. Dibrell, M.C., and C.C. Dibrell (C.C. a bankrupt), Col. Herd Sugard, and others mortgages. All there property and not enough to pay there liabilities. The Branch Bank at Sparta will sustain serious losses, and other individuals.

I have now filed my space and must come to a close, with a hope that you will write immediately you receive this, should it be your good fortune to receive it at all, and in case you should not, in that event, I earnestly request Mr. Shannon to do so with that in view.I address this to you both.

The love and respect of an affectionate mother, brother, and sisters are herewith sent in the name of

Your affectionate Father

After his anxiety subsided, John refolded the letter from his father and replaced it carefully into a leather writing case his brother-in-law, Ammon Davis, had given to him for standing in his wedding to John’s sister Louisa a few years earlier. Sister Louisa had placed a brightly-colored embroidered green frog on the back of the case and had the words, Live a Hoppy Life, John, underneath it. Her attempt to dismiss her younger brother’s abnormal fear of amphibians was comforting for him as he ventured into the unknown wilderness of the country of Texas. He kept the embroidered frog carefully out of sight, lest the feared neuralgia of the head might return.

John thought about writing another letter to his father, but soon dismissed the idea after some of the mail hit him on the head after a great jolt of the cabin. He thought he should write a letter to his friend, C.C. Crock Dibrell, in response to the heavy-handed notion of his father when it came to money matters.

Texas is a big place, he thought.

His friend Charles Crockett Dibrell, or Crock, as John called him, could come out to Texas and work off some of the debt he had accrued. John felt somewhat responsible for Crock’s financial plight, since he had talked him into buying some land and stock for his dry goods store on credit from the Bank of Sparta that he had cosigned; a fact he never divulged to his father.

After all, John thought, Crock’s brother Monty was married to the daughter of Tom Eastland, and Tom was the most successful merchant and cotton broker in Sparta. John had felt confident in cosigning for his friend, in hopes Crock would make the dry goods store a success. John realized he was now accountable for losses to the Bank of Sparta for Crock’s dry goods store and it made him feel sick.

John thought it all seemed logical for Crock interests and for his own financial interests if Crock could move to Texas and work off his debts to Isaac since it seemed logical for Isaac to make the Bank of Sparta whole by paying off the debts incurred by John. John decided to write Crock and his father at the next stop and discuss Crocks moving to Austin or San Antonio and also how he planned to repay his father.

John was headed to Austin to meet with a man named Tandy Walker, a man recommended to him by his father’s good friend, Jacob Shannon. Mr. Walker was facilitating some of the emigration and land issues in Grimes, Walker, and Montgomery counties, and it was necessary for John to begin the process of securing his land patents with Mr. Walker.

John’s four slaves and his dogs would accompany Jacob’s son, Jacob Jr., to his father’s plantation north of Houston in the town of Dobbin, and remain there until John returned from Austin.

John’s father Isaac had previously visited Texas in 1828, after Stephen Austin had been allowed to begin a second wave of U.S. emigration by the government of Mexico. John carried with him a letter of introduction written by Isaac and endorsed by Jacob Shannon Sr. of Montgomery County.

Jacob Shannon Sr. was one of Austin’s original three hundred settlers of Texas and a very influential leader in Montgomery County.

Chapter Two

Winter 1843

Cumberland Plantation, White County, Tennessee

Isaac was returning in his carriage sleigh after a two-hour trip checking on the condition of his cattle and horses and picking up any mail that had been left at the stage line office at the Chestnut Post Office.

Two of his slaves, Reed and Chauncy, were wrapped tightly in burlap sacks, sitting on barrels in the back of the wagon, dodging the end of a whip Isaac swung behind him before cracking it over the heads of the horses to keep them moving through the heavy snow.

Isaac’s sleigh rushed through a large wrought-iron gate at the carriage house entrance. A high, decorative rock fence enclosed Cumberland for over half a mile.

In the warmer months, the space that separated the gates and stone fencing from the main house was a beautiful lawn, neatly kept and maintained. Flocks of sheep and goats, guided and maintained by slaves, were grazed periodically on the grass to keep it neatly shorn at ground level. Wild pear and crabapple trees dotted the landscape, and flowering trees of many varieties displayed all colors in the spring and summer.

The gravel lane from the gate to the great house, now covered in several feet of snow, was paved with pebbles and small stones from the surrounding rivers. Its route formed a circle about the lawn. Rabbits, deer, and other wild game were often seen moving about without fear of harassment throughout the year. Except for the few bearded collies and Irish wolfhounds that moved about the estate at will, the wild game and predatory animals were in abundance in the area. The house itself was a substantial Greek revival-style plantation home.

Isaac jumped from the wagon as it came to a halt. Reed and Chauncy leaped to their feet to hold the horses and prepare to unharness them. Two other slaves appeared from the carriage house and approached the wagon to begin removing the cargo of molasses and brown sugar.

Isaac moved quickly toward the house, puffing frozen breath through his gray beard.

Ike? asked his wife Anne from their front porch. "Have we any news from John?

Nothing in the mails, Anne, replied Isaac. Nothing yet.

Ike, it has been over five months, said Anne with a frown. Could John be alive yet?

Father, have you heard from John? asked Annie.

Children! Isaac called out in a strong, booming voice.

The five children appeared from various locations throughout the home. Several of the Taylors’ female house slaves appeared, in anticipation of any news of John and the slaves who had been sent with him.

We’ve not heard yet from your brother John.

There was a general gasp from the children.

But we are confident that he is well. Your Uncle Ammon said he saw John off at the piers at Nashville with Reuben and Adam and the other Negroes, and assured me they were well. Ammon took them as far as Memphis, so we know he made it that far.

Isaac walked into the house and began removing his woolen overcoat and gloves. Anne took the clothes from her husband and handed them to Sally, a house slave. Isaac began rubbing his hands in front of the fireplace.

Massa Ike, you heard from Massa John? asked Mimi.

No! snapped Ike as he turned from her toward Anne.

What is she doing back in the house, Anne? questioned Isaac, clearly annoyed by the appearance of Mimi in the family room. I thought I asked that she be moved to the washhouse with Martha until I can sell her in the summer.

Keep your voice down, Isaac, snapped Anne in a strong whispered tone. Mimi is hard-working, Ike, and Martha would be destroyed if we sold her daughter. I don’t understand why you dislike her so. She is never any trouble, and the boys enjoy having her around. Anne stared at Mimi as she left the room.

Besides, Ike, we have four daughters, too, and they need a female slave around so they can dress and bathe with help. She doesn’t eat much, she stays kempt, is attractive and neat, and seldom complains like the others.

Anne, enough discussion on the matter. I am selling her this summer at the Nashville auction. Isaac paused a moment. Her cousin Gabriel, too, he yelled over the paper in the direction of Mimi’s exit. He opened up the Sparta Gazette.

"Anne, Gazette says this winter has seen fit to take the lives of several of our neighbors, Isaac read. Not to mention a few of my animal stock, as well, he added over the paper and his spectacles. Times are growing worse by the day under this cruel and most distressing winter. Surely the Lord himself must feel some regret at his hand," Isaac pondered, while shaking his head. He continued reading.

Several of our citizens froze to death in January and February. Amongst the number is Barnett Lee and Francis Smartt. Ike paused.

Francis—God rest his soul—he was a lazy boy; the son of Brigadier General William Smartt of Warren County. How does the son of such a man become a drag on the rest, even in death? I spend a great deal of time sorting out the affairs of others in the community, as you well know, and I must say, it strikes me deaf and dumb how most people get by.

Ike! snapped his wife. That is not godly!

Isaac dropped the newspaper from his face and stared at his wife.

Anne, my dear, I had Sheriff Bradley serve Barnett with a summons a week ago, and now I find out the man is froze to death; terrible. One of the Negroes saw Barnett trying to steal from my stock of oats only last week and alerted me to it. I raised my fist in the air and told Barnett he was caught and that he should care for his own and not resort to thievery, and that he should be embarrassed. I told him the Lord commanded we not steal and that I would pray for his soul. Barnett was obviously discomfited at his transgressions and left my grainary without incident, and in full apology.

Anne took Isaac’s hand. Do what you are able and be caring, but don’t concern yourself too greatly with his plight, Isaac. It is not your fault that Barnett, or Francis Smartt, or anyone else dies; it is God’s will these things happen. You have a responsibility to your family and slaves and stock. She paused. "But we should show a bit more compassion for our more needy neighbors, I think.

Isaac, I am very concerned about John; I cannot sleep but for worrying about whether he is dead, or dying. Anne pulled at her husband’s arm. I need to know.

I am terribly worried as well, I must admit to you, her husband replied. I do now regret moving him to Texas, though we must continue to think he is alive. We must stay confident, Anne; he is a very responsible son.

Isaac kissed his wife’s hand and gazed at Anne lovingly.

"We should be receiving some word from him soon, as the Lord would not deny us another of our beloved sons in this life. You know we felt it was best for John to work in Texas, lest he become more lazy and worse. We allowed him much love, but I fear we offered him too much idleness. Idleness leads to laziness. He needs to learn responsibility and hard work and some greater challenges in his life.

Jacob assured me the trip was safe along the Mississippi to New Orleans. I only hope that the boy has not met with some terrible accident or sickness. Ammon assured me he saw John safe to Memphis on his boat, and he has four very capable and smart Negroes with him. The trip from New Orleans to Montgomery County in Texas should have taken him three weeks at the most, under circumstances much similar to my visit there. I can only guess he met with some frozen conditions on the river and is awaiting a thaw. John is a strong, smart, and sensitive young man though I fear he may not have the intestinal fortitude needed for such a journey.

Oh, Ike, Anne sighed quietly, I just can’t bear the thought my boy needs our help and we cannot do anything to help him. The Lord will keep him safe for us, praise God.

Isaac removed a letter from his coat and opened it.

I received this letter from Colonel Taylor at Little Rock, and he made no mention of seeing John in December. John may have arrived after Colonel Taylor sent this one, but I do not know; we can but pray for his health. Isaac shook his head while staring at the letter through his reading glasses. No, there is no word about John. You know, Anne, the boy needed to get a better vision of the world, and I fear we have not done him any favors by coddling him over the years. God knows, I cannot bear to lose another son. The Lord’s name be praised.

Isaac sat down in an overstuffed chair near the hearth and then dropped to his knees after some reflection. The others watched and followed his lead.

The Lord can give and the Lord can take away, he began. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Lord, see our son John through his hard times. We pray your heavenly guidance will assist your servant John in his quest. We ask for your assistance in delivering our son back to his home or, if your will be done, into your loving arms in heaven.

Amen, said the others, almost in unison.

Lord, I am old and cannot take this burden of uncertainty much more. We pray your compassion will deliver our son safely on his journey, or receive him safely into your loving arms, if it be your will. Children, you must pray for the safety of your brother John.

The children began murmuring waves of whispered prayers into the still house until shouts of panicked slaves broke the silence. Loud pounding on the front door jostled the family from their pious trance.

Massa Ike! cried one of the slaves from the front of the house. Massa Ike, you needs to come quick. Ole Stephen look sick or dead!

Isaac leaped from the floor and grabbed for his overcoat. Anne rushed to the front door to open it for her husband and to see what commotion was disrupting the solemn moment in her home.

A great deal of excitement had become evident amongst the slaves as Isaac plodded through the heavy snow toward the blacksmith shop. Isaac arrived at his coal dust-filled shop to see the body of his blacksmith Stephen surrounded by a group of his slaves, many of whom were giving cries, murmuring chants and quoting gospel verses. Isaac reached the body of Stephen and began shaking him.

Stephen, said Ike, while trying to catch his breath. Stephen, you need to get up and get back to work. I can’t lose you now, too.

Isaac could see blood coming from Stephen’s nose, mouth and his left ear and the look of death in his face and eyes. Isaac grabbed Stephen’s lifeless body and held him close for a moment.

Stephen, you can’t leave us now. You need to get back to work; we need you, Stephen, Isaac said in a low voice.

Adam, one of Ike’s oldest slaves, stepped forward.

Massa Isaac, said Adam, Ol’ Stephen done made his las’ hoss shoe, sir. He don’t work fo’ you or nobody no mo; Massa Isaac, he workin’ for da Lord now. Praise Glory.

He’s gone off ta heaven, Massa Ike, stated another of Ike’s slaves from the back of the shop. Stephen done paid fo’ his freedom, Massa Ike. He done paid fo’ his freedom.

Isaac’s sons, Thomas and Isaac Jr., scrambled into the room, necks wrapped with scarves and still trying to get their arms through the sleeves of their coats.

What happened here, Adam? Why did my blacksmith die? The Negro who done this is going to get the whip. What am I supposed to do without my blacksmith?"

Ain’t no Negro done this, Massa Ike. Ol’ Stephen jes’ died fom work and coal duss, and on account of he was tired of livin’ and da Lord done took him away. Adam backed up slightly at the sight of Isaac’s glare.

Massa Isaac, we’se all gonna die one day; it’s natural. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with dyin;’ it’s livin’ dat’s hard, ’specially fo folks they’s not free.

Adam, demanded Isaac, what did I tell you ’bout talking such nonsense? I guess Felks is gonna have to hear about this.

Adam knew the cost of involving overseer Felks in matters, and without exception, Adam knew it would involve the whip.

Abe Felks was a slave driver Isaac had hired as an indentured servant when he arrived from Ireland in 1838. He was dreadfully feared by the slaves. Felks had failed terribly as a farmer and Isaac decided to hire him as an overseer, in hopes of recovering some of the investment he had made with Felks getting to America. Abe Felks was particularly effective as an overseer, but he was also particularly cruel when dealing with other living things.

Isaac was satisfied with the work Felks elicited from the slaves, though generally unaware of his technique for maintaining work schedules.