Chesapeake (50 page)

Triumphantly the brig breasted the eastern approaches and entered the creek, where ropes were thrown ashore so that slaves could haul the vessel homeward, and from the deck Mark Steed, twenty-seven and skilled in religion from France and law from England, looked out to greet his new mother.

She saw him then as she would always remember him: a young man, young in appearance, young in bravery and cleanliness of spirit. ‘Here comes the salvation of the Steeds,’ she murmured as he approached.

He was that. Where his father was indolent, he was concentrated, and where his uncles had confused concepts for running a plantation, he adhered to a few basic principles. When he tried to explain them to the older Steeds he quickly realized that they had no comprehension of what he was trying to do; the one who understood was Rosalind.

‘In all things we must be self-sufficient,’ he told her, and she knew he was right. ‘Never again must we buy just slaves … men and women who can do nothing special. I want every indentured servant and slave on this plantation to be an expert, and if we can’t train them, we’ll sell them off and buy others already trained.’

The Steeds now had twenty-seven white workers and sixty-eight blacks, whom they divided among three work camps: one for the gardeners and the men who worked the ships; one at the west end of Devon for the tobacco fields; and one on the mainland growing nothing but tobacco. There was a fourth gang consisting of four blacks who could be assigned anywhere; they worked perpetually at burning down trees so that new land might be brought into cultivation after the greedy tobacco plants had consumed the richness of existing fields.

These were the specialists that Mark and Rosalind developed: weavers to make the huge amounts of cloth needed each year by the Steeds and the other slaves; lacemakers for the finer cloth; tailors; tanners, shoemakers; barbers; cabinetmakers; sailors; caulkers; timber men to bring huge trees to the pits; sawyers; carpenters; foundry men; ropemakers; fishermen; coopers; and most important of all, skilled handymen who could be relied on to fix almost anything. After all, the Steeds were running what amounted to a small town, and it was Mark’s responsibility to see that it functioned.

He was surprised when his new mother insisted upon one other specialization:
‘I should like to have two slaves skilled in making bricks.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘I shall be needing bricks.’ So Mark, laughing at his indulgence, sent across the bay to St. Mary’s City, where building had stopped with the loss of the capital, and bought two slaves well versed in brickmaking. It was a good investment, for these two found clay deposits with enough trees nearby to furnish charcoal, and before long a steady supply of light-red brick was forthcoming.

Mark wondered what his mother intended doing with them; some she used to build a moss-grown terrace adjacent to the house, and others were laid in pleasant walks among the flourishing trees. But such diversions utilized only a small portion of the product; the rest was carefully stored until the pile became impressive.

‘Shall we put the men to other work?’ Mark asked.

‘Never.’

‘But what shall you do with the bricks … thousands of them?’

‘They shall be very useful, Mark.’ And the piles grew.

No aspect of the Steed operations failed to interest her. When she discovered that her family’s ships were often laid up because worms had eaten out the bottoms, she consulted with the Paxmores, who told her, ‘Against the shipworm we can do nothing. It flourishes in these waters and eats wood the way thee eats hominy.’

‘Can’t we paint something on the wood to protect it?’

‘Tar and pitch help,’ they said, and forthwith she put teams of mainland slaves at work cutting pine trees and rendering pitch and turpentine to treat the bottoms. This was effective, but only so long as the tar held the pitch close to the treated wood; a very heavy application might last four months.

‘Is there some way we can hide the wood?’ she asked the Steed captains, and they said that copper sheathing helped but that it was prohibitively expensive. She imported large sheets on the next October convoy, and when they were hammered onto the bottom of the largest ship, the hungry worms were rebuffed. But as her captains had warned, this was too expensive for the colonies. Lead sheathing might work, but there was no lead.

Grim-lipped, as if the shipworms had declared war on her personally, she started afresh to study them. Teredos they were called, two-inch whitish creatures with shell-like noses that could bore through oak. When she crept beneath a hauled ship to inspect their work, she saw that they had perforated planks, boring in all directions until the wood was pocketed and ready to fall apart. No wood was safe from their attack, only copper or lead could stop them.

But then two accidental bits of information came her way. One of her captains said, ‘They’re always worse in July and August. That’s why it’s
a clever trick to send the eastbound convoy out of these waters in May. The worm can’t get at them during the summer.’ Equally helpful was the comment by the older Paxmore: ‘We don’t suffer from the worm as much as others, because our boatyard is upstream, in fresher water.’

From these clues she devised the strategy that saved the Steed ships: ‘Mark, come June, I want our captains to move their ships far up the Choptank. They’re to stop there during July and August—and you watch, we’ll not have a worm.’

The captains grumbled at such preposterous instructions from a woman, but they complied, and to their amazement they learned that Rosalind was right: in fresh water new teredos did not breed, and old ones already attached to the bottoms died and fell away. By this clever shift in anchoring, the Steeds saved many pounds formerly spent on refitting, and their ships sailed faster because the wood was clean.

Mark tended all financial matters, spending much time at the family warehouse in Patamoke casting up accounts. He was there when Nelly Turlock appeared one morning to select numerous swatches of cloth; she thrust the door open with a flourish of her right arm and strode to the middle of the room as if she were part owner. She was a striking woman, the same age as Mark but much more worldly, for when she realized that this new young man was the son of her protector she made a special effort to attract his favorable attention and refused to be waited upon by servants.

‘I need three yards of fearnought for Charlie’s hunting pants,’ she said with a gentle smile, as if laughing inwardly at some joke she understood but Mark did not. As he rolled out the rough double-thick woolen which could withstand thorns, he tried to watch her undetected, but she caught his eye and smiled again.

‘And some of this Irish frize.’ She dropped her voice and added by way of explanation, ‘That’s for my winter coat. The kersey is for me too.’ While he measured off these fabrics she rummaged among his goods and came up with a heavy bolt of Osnaburg, good for making stout skirts against the cold weather.

‘How many lengths do I need?’ she asked sweetly, holding one end against her shoulder.

‘Take ample,’ Mark advised, but the slave who customarily attended the cloth interrupted, ‘She take half again. For shoulders.’ And Mark said, ‘I think he’s right,’ and he smiled at her as he cut the goods.

She ordered much more, but when he had summed the numbers, she made no offer to pay. ‘Put it in the book of Mr. Steed,’ she said, and with an arrogant reach of her left forefinger she riffled through the pages to identify the one on which the accounts of Fitzhugh Steed were kept. When Mark entered the latest purchases he saw that the total debt was considerable, and it occurred to him—judging solely by what she had
bought this day—that she was feeding and clothing the entire Turlock establishment.

He did not feel competent to discuss this matter with his father, but he did go to Rosalind—‘It’s nothing better than stealing, what that woman’s doing.’ And this opened the problem of Fitzhugh’s deportment.

Rosalind said, ‘Mark, it’s quite simple, really, and I make no protest. Not even about the thefts.’

‘But he’s behaving like such an ass.’ When Rosalind objected to this harsh evaluation, Mark continued, ‘I can understand his philandering while Mother was alive. Things were really rather dreadful. And after her death, there need be no restraint. But now he has a wife—a perfectly fine wife …’ He shook his head in disgust and walked toward the window.

‘Mark, listen. He fell into bad habits bit by bit. And bit by bit it’s corroded him. I suppose you know he and Nelly have three children.’

‘Children! My God!’ This intelligence so disturbed him that he paced the room, then stopped before his mother to say bitterly, ‘They’re my brothers and sisters … in a manner of speaking.’ This image amused him and he broke into nervous laughter. ‘This is really quite silly, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It’s what any woman must live through … as best she can. That is, when she’s not pretty—I mean, when she’s ugly.’

‘Mother!’ The cry was an honest protest, and the confusion on Mark’s face proved this. His new mother was only six years older than himself, and this spare differential caused perplexity, but she was many years wiser, and her judgments often disclosed a profundity which surprised him. The simple fact was that he liked her. She possessed all the attributes he had wanted to find in his father, and none of the debilitating weaknesses which made the elder Steed such a pathetic figure.

‘Every year you’ll become more beautiful,’ he said. ‘And Father won’t be here to see.’

‘He’ll outlive both of us,’ she predicted.

‘I didn’t mean that.’

When Mark sailed back to Patamoke to enlarge the warehouse, he hoped that Nelly Turlock would not sashay in, demanding dividends for her family. But she continued to appear, insolent, provocative and infuriatingly self-assured. She seemed to have a nose capable of seeking out any item imported from London and an appetite so voracious that a good portion of every new shipment seemed destined for her. One afternoon Mark calculated that Nelly Turlock consumed slightly more than twice as much Steed income as Rosalind, but when he presented these figures to his mother, she pointed out, ‘There are more Turlocks in the marsh than Steeds on the island.’

This was not exactly true. Henry and Paul, sons of the original Edmund
who had settled at Jamestown in 1607, had produced eight children between them—Mark’s grandfather, Captain Earl Steed, was one of them—and these children had not been tardy in begetting offspring of their own, so that Devon Island housed many Steeds in the plantation hall and an equal number in smaller satellite cottages. In fact, the island was becoming so cluttered that Rosalind decided something must be done. Her husband humphed and garrumphed in his normal fatuous manner and said, ‘Any Steed can live on this island as long as he wants to,’ but Rosalind paid little attention. Instead she appealed to Mark, and her reasons for wanting to depopulate the burdened island were so cogent that he gave enthusiastic support.

So this second wife, this outsider from Virginia, assembled the clan in the room with the pewter dishes and spread out her plan: ‘The big house will remain here …’ (Some of the Steeds would later recall that when she said this she hesitated, as if uncertain about the continuity of the house.) ‘And the young people of the next generation who will be managing the estates can remain here. By that I mean Mark … and his wife, when he takes one. We’ll keep the Heron Cottage for members of the family, and Holly Hall, but the other cottages we’ll convert to slave quarters.’

This produced noisy comment, but she was obdurate. ‘Those little houses must go. They’re hovels.’ When family protest subsided she said, ‘Mark and I have been exploring our lands. On the north bank of the Choptank are many excellent sites. Each family should choose the one it prefers. Six hundred acres of cleared land will accompany every house you build.’

Now the argument became vigorous, with a dozen Steeds rejecting the plan, but Rosalind plowed on. ‘I’ve found one location superior to all others, and it seems to me that two or even three families could move there with gratification. Indeed, it seems finer than the island. With proper husbandry it could become a paradise.’

The undercurrents of protest quieted. The Steeds were not happy with Rosalind’s dominance in matters so vital to the family, but they knew that she was no fool, and if she was stating that one of the mainland sites was more appealing than the island, they would listen. ‘Sail to the western end of Turlock’s marsh and enter Dividing Creek. Go beyond the cove and on the western bank you’ll find a deep entrance to a splendid creek. Proceed up it for half a mile and you’ll come to a fork. It’s the land between the arms of that fork I’m recommending. They tell me an Indian chieftain used to live there, and it’s named in the deed our family bought from Janney as the Refuge.’ With these words she launched a treasure hunt, for numerous Steeds sent their sloops up Dividing Creek to evaluate the majestic triangle once occupied by Pentaquod of the Choptanks.

It was incredible how this choice fragment of land, denuded of every primeval tree by the clearing fires of 1631, had revitalized itself. For eight years the fields had produced moderately good Oronoco, but tobacco depleted minerals so swiftly that in the end the Steeds found it more profitable to abandon the peninsula and burn trees in other locations so that new fields still rich in nutrients could be developed.

On the abandoned fields birds had dropped seeds unharmed by passage through their bowels, and these had become cedars that grew like weeds. In time a few oak and hickory seeds took root, and with every autumn wind some loblolly blew in. Then holly berries arrived, brought by birds, and by the end of fifty years the land was once more as magnificent as in those far-off days when Pentaquod first identified it as his home; the giant oaks four hundred years old were gone, of course, and the monstrous old loblollies, but only an eye long accustomed to forests would have marked their absence, for the land was recovered: fire and overcultivation and the deprivation of minerals and leaching and every kind of abuse had failed to destroy this splendid soil. All that was required to renew it was the quiet passage of seventy years, during which it had lain dormant, restructuring itself.