Savannah Bound

Savannah Bound

Bernard Hardy

Copyright Worthwhile Word 2011

Published by Worthwhile Word at Smashwords

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Bernard Hardy writes about times and places that are in his blood—the heartlands of Lancashire and Northern England.

Cotton is king as Savannah Bound brings together the sparse hill farms of The Peak, the cotton fields of Georgia and the busy bye-ways of Manchester.

Suzannah from Savannah leaves the cotton fields of Georgia on a promise. A bright future beckons in that wonderful, distant city of Manchester. Ben’s roots in the Peak District guide him through difficult times as he moves to Manchester to sell milk from the family’s farms.

Can Ben and Suzannah survive the malevolent entwines of Mr. John and the smart young men of business?

The pull that youthful optimism exerts on family roots is a theme as relevant today as it was on the occasion of Queen Victoria’s grand opening of the Manchester Ship Canal, or on the arrival of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show on the banks of the River Irwell.

Prologue

Year by year the story of his beginnings grew in Ben’s mind and caused him to wonder. Myths grew well in the evening shadows of those far off days. Could myth be as important as truth? The tale never lost its grip on his imagination. As a result, he always knew from whence he came—always knew where lay his roots.

*

The gnarled tree had twisted through space and time and taken over the cottage. For stark, wind-filled decades its woody roots probed the wasted soil, searching for sustenance and knotting anchors around abundant rock. Sucking moisture from the peaty earth, the tree undermined the cottage’s foundations. The trunk pushed at the thick walls, causing them to angle and crack. Swayed by the wind branches banged and thumped against the roof. Rain dripped from the roof into buckets. It oozed down the tree trunk, now visible through the wall, and ran over the floor. The legs of the solitary wooden table had blocks to level the slope of the stone cold floor. Dampness and mould collected in the low corner of the room.

The cottage had been there since before recorded time. Once it must have been new; once they had been young. Cottage and couple had weathered the moods of The Peak, but time had taken

its toll. The twisted tree was skeletal, the cottage was a broken shell, and the couple had the haunted careworn look of poverty. The plight of their offspring was worse. The first baby should have been alive and well, and the second well fed and warm.

In their sparse shelter, the couple were lean and desperate. I’m going downhill fast, Benjamin Shatwell. Her new-found energy was manic.

You, Eliza? Never! His wiry body shook.

I’m going downhill fast, I tell you.

You’ve been ill before. You’ll pull through.

Not like this. She wheezed as if for effect, but they were beyond pretence.

He grasped at her arm. You’ll live to see him at twenty-one.

No I won’t, Benjamin; neither will you. My cheeks are burning; they’re hotter than the fire.

He cast a doleful look at the ash-filled grate. The fire is out, Eliza.

Then it’s only my cheeks that are keeping our baby warm. She thrust her flushed face into the patch-ridden covers.

Tugging at an outer quilt with his rough farmer’s hand, he said, Look—he’s well wrapped.

Aye, but the blankets are damp. If we don’t do something he’ll not reach his next birthday. He’ll get to be no older than our other.

Don’t talk like that, Eliza.

Tenderly she stroked her baby’s cheek. You’re going to be just fine, my sweet boy. Trust your mother to do what’s right. She moved decisively and unlatched the cottage door. With a thump, the wind blew it open.

Eliza, where are you going? Benjamin’s raised, querulous voice wavered, almost washed away by the whine of the storm.

I’m going out.

Where to? You’re not well enough for wandering The Peak in these gales.

She cast off his restraining hand all too easily. We don’t have much longer left. Let’s just make sure he lives.

Then let me take him. You’re not strong enough.

No, I’m his mother. I have to do this.

Don’t rush…

She disappeared into the howling gales, leaving the door swinging. Benjamin shuffled across and leaned wearily against it. Eventually the wind relented and the door creaked shut.

She burst back, still charged with desperate energy. He was cowering in the dry corner, eyes tightly closed, bony hands pressed hard against the sides of his head, his wasted body shaking to an inner rhythm.

She knelt and took hold of his hands but he resisted. Once there had been flesh in their grasp.

He’s safe now?

Aye, he’s in a better place. Calantha and John Thomas will do what’s right. They’re his mother and father now. She collapsed beside Benjamin in wretched sobs.

He mustered strength and sat up straighter. Cradling her in his arms, he kissed her forehead. My brave wife. One day he will know how much you loved him.

Calantha will see to him. From now on I don’t count. She lingered in his warmth for a few moments, and then rose. I didn’t know it would be this hard. I need to lie down.

Benjamin stayed put for a while, but when he rose, it was with resolve. He reached up for a bottle on the cockeyed shelf above the fireplace. It toppled on its side before his shaking hand got a hold. A few minutes later, he joined her. You’ve been coughing badly today. I’ve brought you a mixture.

Get me warm again, Benjamin. When the coughing ceases I’m as cold as the grave.

He set the mixture down on the nightstand. I’ll look after you. He pulled the covers up to her chin.

We should never have come here. She poked him accusingly with a bony finger. You should have stayed on at Mr. Kenyon’s.

How could we know that farming would get so hard?

Farming’s always been hard in these hills.

We did the best we could. There were some good times, too.

Propping herself up on her elbow, she traced the pattern of the near threadbare embroidery. Look how worn the blankets are. I was proud of these once. She lay back on the bed. I’m tired, Benjamin, mortal tired.

A small sob escaped his lips. Turn to me, Eliza. Let me see your face.

She shied away. Oh, don’t be cruel. A gentleman would not look so closely at a lady’s wrinkles.

I am a gentleman, even in these rags.

You always have been that to me—a god-fearing gent.

A light, knowing look came into his eye. And I don’t see any wrinkles. I see the face that slept here with me the first night.

She responded to the memory. The fury of the wind was exciting to us then.

He nodded.

And the rain made a cosy pitter-patter sound on the roof. You said they were the sounds of freedom.

His face relaxed nearly into a smile as he looked up at the roof. Yes, I remember. As always, the storms broke into their dreams. Now it threatens us. He looked at the billowing curtains. It’s beating us, draining away our energy.

I’m not scared, Benjamin, not for us. What troubles me is our little Ben. I know Calantha and John Thomas will be good to him, but I wish we could leave him something. An idea perked her up. She pushed at his arm. Benjamin! Wake up! We must do something. You’re a writer. You can write.

Hmm? I’m not asleep, just resting.

I said, you’re a writer. You kept books for Mr. Kenyon.

Yes, but that’s not writing.

A good strong hand.

He looked ruefully at his trembling fingers. Not any more.

You must write him a letter. Tell him about the good book. Tell him about friends. Tell him all we know about troubles. Tell him to be polite, to have consideration. She lay back down, exhausted. Then in a voice that was choked and despairing, she said, Tell him that we love him.

He reached for the cup and pushed it clumsily at her. Take the mixture, Eliza.

She looked at him sharply. What mixture is it?

It’s Mrs. Winslow’s, with some Cambridge Laudanum added.

Her voice grew soft with submission. Is it time for me?

Yes, love, take it. He stroked her lifeless hair and tucked a strand of grey behind her ear.

You gave some to our first born to save her suffering.

He nodded. You’ll join her soon enough.

I’ve always trusted you, Benjamin. She looked away as if searching for an escape.

I know what’s best. After I’ve writ the letter I’ll be taking mine.

She straightened the collar of her tattered nightdress and made a despairing attempt to press her hair in place. Once or twice she looked him deep in the eye, checking the rightness. Presently she nodded. You feed it to me. I want your hand on the cup.

He took hold at the base, Take it, Eliza.

You feed it to me, gently.

Take it from me. It’s all I have left for you. His hand shook badly. She looked into his eyes again and saw hard tears of failure. Steadying the cup with her hand, she helped feed the mixture onto her own trembling lips

One

Ben spent a lot of time in his first years in the warm kitchen at Shatwell’s Peak Farm. It wasn’t his first home; he knew that. He had been taken in. Whenever he searched the earliest recesses of his mind, he could never quite get beyond that kitchen—not quite. There was a feeling, though, of rushing wind, of a hot burning on his forehead, of gasps and sobs.

It often came as a dream in the night and whenever the dream occurred, his own tearless sobs woke him up. His dream had no images and when he opened his eyes, all around lay hidden in the blackness of night. Listening to the cries of the wind-swept peak, there was also the scent of earthy dampness and the soft sound of gentler sobs that kept in time with his own. It was a scary awakening, yet he was reluctant to let the dream go. The dream was his own, a secret. He told no one, not even Calantha.

Ben’s schooling began in that kitchen, and his lessons, if that is what they were, contained plenty of adult common sense.

Show me a pattern. John Thomas asked one day.

Ben carefully drew one, a new one, one that ranked amongst his best.

John Thomas laughed. Not bad, but I was talking about life’s patterns.

Ben screwed up his face to make lines on his forehead similar to those of John Thomas. How do you see those?

It’s not always a case of using your eyes; some patterns are about what your head knows. He gripped Ben’s arm secretively. You see Calantha?

John Thomas spoke so closely that Ben could feel the tickle of the dark full beard. Yes.

Keep quiet and watch her.

They observed conspiratorially as she busied herself around the kitchen. Just before each action, John Thomas predicted what she would do.

Time after time Ben laughed. How do you know?"

I just do—she has her patterns. Now she’ll undo her pinnie, straighten her hair and go out to the washing line. She’ll go over to the pantry door and get her green coat.

She did just that. Glancing over her shoulder, she gave them one of her lovely smiles. I don’t know what you men find so funny. She ran her hand over her hair again and checked the grips. I hope it’s not me.

John Thomas and Ben chuckled closer. Nooo! declared John Thomas.

Nooo! declared Ben, making a vain attempt at his uncle’s gruffness.

Everything has patterns, lad, and if you can find them folk will say you’re a clever man.

Calantha was his mother’s sister. Ben often gazed at her and wondered. He wished he had a portrait of the two old ones. A painter had done a good one of Calantha and John Thomas. They said that Mother had wanted a family portrait with the cottage and the twisted tree in the background but Father wouldn’t agree. Vanity was a terrible sin in his father’s eye. Not just vanity either—lots of things were. Calantha said she had never known a man who knew so many sins. He could make a sin out of eating dinner. Mother wasn’t even allowed a mirror to comb her hair. John Thomas made them laugh when he said she kept one hidden away and made up for lost time while her husband was working in the fields.

Ben felt the old folks’ presence. They were always watching over him from Heaven. There was no escaping their attention. Under their benevolent gaze, he felt a strong urge to show off. Climbing trees, running fast, diving from the bank and swimming in the river—all were better for being observed from on high. From on very high, observed from just about high as any human could hope to get.

Calantha, why are they always dying? Young Ben asked one day in the kitchen. He remembered the first time he asked the question and the way it had caught on. Often John Thomas would shout out why are they always dying and shake his head. Whether he was happy or sad, or even making fun, was not easy to tell.

Calantha smiled. They weren’t always dying.

They are always dying when I hear about them.

They were often ill.

…but they only died once?

Isn’t once enough for you?

It doesn’t sound enough, not for all the time they spent in bed.

They were godly and brave.

And humble.

They were humble, yes, in a nice way.

Tell me again about the last time they died.

The kitchen was washday warm. From the hob, John Thomas was bringing over black kettles with chattering lids and Calantha was causing steam around the sink. Ben was podding peas.

The sixties and seventies were hard times. She came over and stroked his hair. Much harder than you know about. They didn’t eat well and their house was cold and damp. They never should have moved there. They lost your little sister. She was called Calantha, after me.

Was she as nice as you?

Nearly, very nearly, but not quite.

Ben did one of his rare laughs and got up from the chair to throw his arms around her waist. He hugged her, pressing his face hard into her tummy, pressing so hard that she had to tell him to stop.

Then your mother caught the fever. The very last time she left the cottage, she carried you over here. Can you imagine? A great heavy lump like you, wrapped up so you couldn’t be seen? I thought she’d brought me a present.

She did bring you a present. Ben knew the story backwards.

Yes, she did. She carried you here across the watercress fields, through all the wet and mud. Then she went home to her bed.

And never left it.

No, she never did.

She tossed and turned.

Yes and cried out for her baby. She wanted to write you a letter, but she was too weak. Then your father caught the fever and joined her in bed. And together they decided what you needed to know. And after she died, he still kept writing. He wasn’t a man of letters, he was a farmer, and by that time his hand wasn’t steady. It wasn’t easy but he did it, and when I took round his broth, he was lying with his pen still in his hand and the letter on the floor. He finished the letter, though, and I’m sure it tells you all they wanted you to know.

When can I see it?

You will see it when the time is right. You have us to guide you for now.

John Thomas brought over another steaming, rattling kettle. I think the lad should see it now. After all, it was written as much for a child as for a man.

He used a chair to reach up for the cash box that was safely out of the way on top of the dresser. There were papers and envelopes in the box older than any Ben had seen before. At the bottom was an envelope that had Ben spelled out in a faded, unsteady scrawl. John Thomas took it in his sturdy hand. He read in a stumbling way. Ben found it hard to imagine what it was like to lie in bed dying. Probably, it would make you want to write important things.

The memory of the letter came back from time to time. It was good to share days with his old parents, hoping they could see all they were missing as they sobbed gently in Heaven. He liked them to be looking down, watching him play as he swung on the rope from a branch that jutted out over the river, as he dropped into the shining river like a stone. Were they watching in awe and asking themselves how it was done?

The letter affected him differently in church. The dim light, the shiny oldness of the wood, the stone memorials to dead people, the mournful deep organ—all brought visions of the old folks on their deathbed. One Sunday morning when he was thirteen the spectre of their sufferings finally became too vivid.

The scene was as clear to his mind’s eye as it would have been to an observer in the cottage. As they writhed on in their bed, they went through pain unimaginably worse than anyone could know. Inside their tattered nightshirts, their thin wasted bodies were fearfully cold. Great wracking coughs tore at their throats and lungs.

The injustice of life filled him with a fury that was quite out of place wearing Sunday best clothes in church. Energy was bursting from him. It could not be contained. He turned from his pew and walked, almost ran, right out of church.

Outside were sky and wind and grass. A man and a woman were pushing a pram along the road. The very normality of their Sunday stroll soothed his nerves and his panic left as quickly as it had come.

It wasn’t long, however, before guilt came rushing in. Turning his back on the vicar during a sermon was not good. He half expected to become a pillar of salt or to develop palsy. He could not go back inside, so he set off for the farm at a fast pace. If a greatly deserved misfortune was to strike him down, it would be best to be as near as possible to Calantha

Two

In the days before his eighteenth birthday, Ben became aware of a sort of rumbling. On the hillsides sheep grazed and watched. In the pastures ruminant cows stood, their sleepy eyes cautious. The ground didn’t shake underfoot or tremble with fear, but it did have an unmistakable hum of worry. John Thomas had started it all off. In his gruff voice he had called out, There’ll need to be some changes, lad.

What did that mean—changes? Why did they need change? What was the point?

In the past there had been great changes. History was full of them, and usually they were bad news. On many a Boxing Night when the family gathered in Calantha’s parlour he heard the talk. Changes led to upheavals. Upheavals drew from the uncles tooth-sucking, head shaking disapproval.

Now it was summer and John Thomas persisted in making worrying predictions. There’s a world out there! he shouted for no apparent reason. To emphasise the point, he put his rough arms around Ben’s shoulders and pointed out of the window. You’ll have to buck up your ideas. You can’t hang onto Calantha’s apron strings forever.

What did that mean? Why say that? Why say it now?

Even Calantha didn’t know. Don’t be asking me about what’s in that man’s mind, she said.

Then one day out of the blue Ben learned he had to go down to the station to meet trains arriving the next morning. Uncles were coming from far and wide and they were to be taken to the Town End Hotel.

It was a worrisome day, and Ben sought out the familiar. He strode back and forth, covering the nearby well-trodden paths of The Peak—but his disquiet was not easy to appease. It drove him on. Along Rushup Edge he tramped, up Mam Tor, across Edale Moor, round by Jacob’s Ladder and to the top of Kinder Scout.

There were parts where the hills flattened out, distant places. Standing on the highpoints, looking to where the sun sets in mid-summer, over the horizon was Stockport and further on was Manchester. Looking to where the sun rose in winter was Sheffield. In the direction of the mid-day sun was Buxton. They were names to ponder. Sheffield was steel, Stockport was hats and Manchester was cotton.

The train that passed through Chapel en le Frith went to Buxton by way of Dove Holes. Once or twice Calantha had taken him to see the shops and the sites. As far as Calantha was concerned, nowhere else in the world had finer buildings or more horse-drawn carriages than Buxton. It was a spa town with Roman baths. Romans! He shook his head in wonder; a long time ago, Romans were here in Derbyshire.

Never before had his hikes gone this distance. Feeling the need to test himself, he clambered up an ever-rising ridge. Ahead, the ridge disappeared into a gentle cushion of white cloud.

On his left was a valley with fields divided into odd shapes by stonewalls. A flock of scattered white specks dotted the hillside opposite.

Fluffy clouds sailed across the blue, each pulling a swift shadow over the farmland. Reaching steeply rising ground, the clouds climbed with effortless ease. A pleasant misty oblivion engulfed him, limiting his horizons and keeping the world at bay. On the inside, the clouds were a blustery turmoil of rushing air. The coldness numbed his cheeks and made his eyes swim. A million droplets stung his face and small pockets of cold invaded openings in his coat.

The top was disappointing, just a gentle slope over a shoulder of shingle and a rock cairn. Stooping low to avoid much of the wind, he found shelter in a shallow, rocky hollow. The wind whistled around the stones and the mist was a driven mass.

He lay down satisfied. It was good up here, matching himself against the force of the elements, breathing in the cold wetness of the mist. It was exhilarating.

Getting to his feet the wind was almost strong enough to lift him in the air. He leaned further and further forward, letting the wind take more of his weight. Then without a hint of a warning, the mist cleared.

Fear caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle against his collar. Like an eagle ready to fly from its eyrie, he was leaning outwards over a sheer drop, resting on nothing more than waves of wind.

For a second he struggled to draw his weight back. In the howling gale, he heard the haunting cries that tormented his night time imagination. The wind thrust at him until he was finally able to cast himself clutching, trembling to the ground.

The mist returned, but not the feeling of safety. He pondered the possibility that even the slightest movement could cause the shale to slip and slide. Inch by inch he moved landward until far enough from the edge to haul himself to safety. At the cairn he found the path and followed it with precise footsteps until it dropped out of the cloud covered summit.

*

On the day of the uncles’ visit there wasn’t much time for thinking. Following John Thomas’ carefully drawn plan, Ben got all the uncles installed into the upstairs meeting room at the Town End Hotel. It took several rushed trips. The first train arrived at the Midland Station at half past eleven, travelling in from the South. The last train arrived at one o’clock at the South Station, from the North. This meant that the Matlock uncles had been drinking for two hours.

They were a funny lot, these uncles. They had all shared the family likeness of dark hair—now touched with grey and brown eyes. The ones from the South were fatter and had speckled beards; the ones who arrived on the Chinley train were thinner and clean-shaven.

There needs to be some changes.

Where’s the lad as will be doing the setting up?

You’ve met him.

What?

You’ve met him. Ben, where are you?

Ben was in the passageway. The dashing had left him out of puff. He straightened his jacket, brightened his demeanour and went in.

The room was a haze of bluish-grey tobacco smoke. Stepping inside was like diving into the murky waters of the Shining Brook. Pairs of scrutinising eyes puckered the haze in the way that buttons in Calantha’s chair cushions pulled at fabric.

Is this him, then?

Of course it is. I told you—he met us at the station.

Are you Benjamin’s lad?

John Thomas interrupted. Aye, this is Ben, son of Benjamin and Eliza.

Have you been raised well, would you say, lad?

Sit down, lad; we’ve seen how tall you are. Sit down, will you? They pushed a chair out to the front. Sit here where we can see you.

He’s got the face of his mother. He’s lean and he’s got a big nose.

How’s your book learning?

Before he had time to answer any of the questions, there was another to think about.

What do you think of the milk?

John Thomas interrupted, He doesn’t know nowt about it yet.

He’s going to get a surprise, then. It’ll be a big change for you, lad.

Have you been beyond the hills?

He won’t have. He’s had no need.

It’s different in the city. You won’t like it.

But it’s where the money is. They’re crying out for milk in the cities.

And we’ve got too much of the stuff. I poured away more than a pail or two away last week.

There’s a lot of starvation around the mills.

He won’t like it.

He’ll have to. He’ll be our outlet.

Shatwell’s Dairy. It’ll be our salvation. God be praised!

Have you ever been to the city, lad?

He’s already answered that.

If he did, he spoke quietly. Speak up, lad. Have you been beyond the hills?

No, he managed to say.

We’re too much for him. We’re over-facing him. Are we over-facing you, lad?

He could hardly say yes, so he shook his head.

It’s a grand opportunity for a young lad.

Have you heard about cotton?

Of course he has. What sort of question is that?

Have you seen the mills?

There are mills all around here. He’s seen those.

Not the big ones full of steam power that work all night.

King Cotton is running the world.

Has anyone seen the Ship Canal?

Some of us went from Chinley to see Queen Victoria open it a few years back.

I’ve seen the pictures. There were flags flying everywhere.

A bearded uncle named Buckley reached out and got hold of Ben’s arm. Can you believe this, Ben, lad? Ships come all the way inland to Manchester. They enter the Mersey at Liverpool and come inland through fields and all sorts. I know a farmer who had to go to Warrington to see a man about a pig. He was walking down a lane near the town. It was a lane such as any we have in Matlock, and across a field no farther away than a stone’s throw he saw an ocean going steamer taller than two houses, longer than half a street.

Ben silently shook his head at the wonders of the world. No words from him would be adequate.

It was full of lascars, brown ones.

Brown lascars? What are they?

I didn’t ask, but it was full of them.

There’s nothing in the world worth having that doesn’t come down the Ship Canal.

Ben found his voice. And it stretches to the sea?

All the way. Well it would. Buckley laughed. There wouldn’t be no point in stopping half way to Liverpool in the middle of a field. The uncles rocked with laughter.

Ben shook his head.

Don’t embarrass the lad. I had trouble grasping the Ship Canal when I first heard.

"Aye well, it may be that cotton is king, but