Wild, Beautiful, and Free(44)

“I said leave it!” Mr. Colchester’s skin grew flushed, but he quickly recovered himself. “The factory is what matters now. Come, I want to see it.”

Outside Mr. Colchester helped me back onto the now-empty cart, and the men mounted horses. I didn’t know the factory he spoke of, but it was obvious I would soon see it. We ventured down a road I’d never noticed before, one that went quite a ways away from the village. Eventually it turned eastward, traveling uphill for a bit before plateauing on a large parcel of land not far from the river. And there it was—a building made of red brick, three stories tall, and smoking in a long thin stream drifting up from a round smokestack made of the same brick. It was functioning, whatever the place was. If I had come upon it on my own, I never would have thought it was associated with the village.

“Do you work here, Templeton?” I asked when he had dismounted.

“I have a shift tomorrow,” he said. “Right now we gotta split the labor. Some of us working in the factory, getting the shoes made. Some of us working on the factory, finishing up the building.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Miss Bébinn?” Mr. Colchester took me by the arm and guided me toward the structure. “Manufacturing is the future; at least it will be for the people of Lower Knoll.” We entered a warehouse type of space, hundreds of yards long and filled with machinery. The men, all negroes, worked the machinery. A structure that seemed to be an office jutted out from an upper floor, and a flight of stairs connected it to the main floor.

“Once this factory is at full capacity, it will provide a comfortable living for the community. The workers will take what pay and profit they need for their families. The rest will go into maintaining the business—purchasing materials, keeping the building and machinery in good repair. My visits and provisions will no longer be necessary.”

“Sir, do you want to sever your connection to Lower Knoll?” This seemed strange, especially in light of his warm reception.

“Miss Bébinn, if the community can’t sustain itself, if it were reliant on me for its upkeep and the payment of necessities such as yourself, a teacher, then how would the place be any different than the way the people lived in the South, enslaved and dependent?”

While I considered this, he continued.

“The product created here is a necessity and made well. Such a business will not be influenced by the whims of nature. In fact it is positioned to benefit from certain tides.”

A gentleman emerged from the office, waved to Mr. Colchester, and moved downstairs to join us. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a set of wire-frame spectacles was perched high on his forehead. His complexion was similar to mine, but while my fairness contained yellow tones, his was more beige, like sand. He greeted Mr. Colchester with a warm handshake.

“I take it you bring good news, Christian?”

“Yes. I signed the contract in Washington. Stanton himself agreed to it. He’s pleased that the Union Army’s shoes will come from Ohio.”

“He is? Christian, what a success. You’ve secured our survival, should it come to war.”

“Don’t sound so mercenary, Richard. We’re not profiteers.”

“No, but do not doubt—a war would be the making of us.”

The two men walked away from us to discuss their business in private. It was hardly necessary—they only needed to move two steps before the machinery muffled their voices considerably. I continued to watch them. After a few minutes, the warmth of Mr. Colchester’s good news seemed to cool, and their expressions, though I could see them only in profile, no longer smiled. Richard tried to throw an arm around Mr. Colchester, but he stepped away from the embrace. Were they angry? No, not quite. Some disagreement persisted, though. After a brief glance in my direction, Mr. Colchester concluded the conversation and returned to me.

“Come, Miss Bébinn, let us return to Fortitude. Mr. Mason has our productivity well in hand.”

The sun was high and headed toward midday. Mr. Colchester took a hat from underneath our seat on the cart and pulled it low over his brow. I turned my head up into the light and was grateful for the measure of warmth it provided. He was silent, and I stayed the same. He led the horses, I noticed, down a road bypassing Lower Knoll. It went through a scruff of thin trees divided by a low creek.

“Tell me, Miss Bébinn,” he said at last. “How many times should a man pay for a sin?”

I looked at him. He stared at the dusty road. Nothing signified that he was anything but earnest in the question.

“I’m not sure, sir. Seems to me once is plenty.”

“Plenty?”

“Yes, sir. And if the sin is forgiven, it is more than enough.”

“Ah, forgiveness! Now that is something. Who should forgive the sinner?”

“Sir?”

“What if the sin was not against one person but many? Must the sinner receive forgiveness from all?”

“I suppose so.”

“What if they were a score in number? What about five score? Hundreds? Shall our sinner go hat in hand to each one?”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“Let me tell you a story, Miss Bébinn. Maybe that will help you construct your answer. My father’s father was a British farmer who traveled to America and made a fortune by purchasing land in North Carolina and starting a tobacco farm. My father expanded the family’s interests further south and moved into cane and cotton.”