Darkness

May 19, 1812

Homochitto

Moses

When Gregor offered to help me build a cabin, I didn’t realize this is what he meant. I pictured the two of us toiling together, trying to piece together a little one-room structure, something very simple and rustic, just enough for Dalila to move into after we get married.

But Gregor never does anything in a small way. He didn’t mean to just lend a hand, he meant to do it all. He has had wagons coming out from Natchez in a steady stream over the last few days, from the sawmill, from the carpenter, from the mercantile. There is a huge stack of supplies growing here, on the site that Stephen approved for the building.

I shake my head as I look over the pile, remembering the scene in March when he insisted on taking my place at the whipping post. Just like then, I tried to protest, tried to tell him that he is doing too much, this isn’t right. But just like then, he carried on with his plan despite my objections. At least this time I am only grateful, if abashed. I am not horrified like I was then. And Gregor has seemed to be having the time of his life making these plans, the couple of times he has come out here in the past week to speak with Stephen and I about it.

As a result, everything is ready, and today the building will begin. I can hardly believe how quickly my life is being transformed. A few months ago I was living in Natchez, working for Gregor, and living for the snippets of time I was allowed to see Dalila whenever he chose to visit the Duncans. Now I am here at Homochitto, and engaged to be married to her. My head feels like it hasn’t stopped spinning for two weeks.

The sun has just come over the hills to the east as I wait at the building site, and already I hear the first wagons starting to arrive. Soon, Gregor’s crew begins coming into view, led by the man himself, riding his big brown horse Issoba. By the time several wagons full of men have arrived, and a number of riders on horses, there are at least three dozen people here in the clearing, ready to work.

Gregor comes to stand next to me, and claps his hand on my shoulder, grinning. I look down at him, meeting his eyes, speechless with gratitude, feeling emotion welling up within me. This is an incredible gift.

I don’t have to say anything, though. He nods, obviously able to tell just what I cannot find the words to say. “I’m happy to do it, my friend,” he tells me quietly. He pauses for a moment, looking into my eyes, then grins. “Ready to get to work?”

Gregor

I pitch in, working as hard as anyone else, deciding to stop trying to stay out of the way in order to spare the feelings of the men who still feel uncomfortable around me. It’s been two months, either they are going to get over it or they aren’t, and I don’t think that lurking in the background is doing the trick. So I just roll up my sleeves, and revel in the feeling of toiling as hard as possible, feeling my muscles strain and the sweat pour down my face, just one of the laborers for the day. It feels really wonderful, and the hours pass by in a flash.

At midday we stop for the meal that Polly had the kitchen prepare for us, an entire wagon laden with an enormous picnic lunch. I look around the clearing with intense satisfaction at the men lounging on the ground, eating and talking and joking. It feels like a privilege to be one of them.

The sun is setting in the west as we finish the work on the cabin for the day. We made an incredible amount of progress for one day. The site has been cleared and leveled, a foundation laid of flat paving stones that had been delivered by the stonemason, and the floor has begun to be fashioned, wide wooden planks closely hewn by the sawmill. Tomorrow we’ll start framing the walls, and it is possible we will even get the roof up.

I thank my crew for their hard work today, and they load into the wagons, or climb onto their horses, exhausted but pleased with themselves. It always feels so good to know that the day has been spent in a productive way, and that excellent work has been done.

I shake Moses’ hand, and he quietly tells me, “Thank you.” I nod. I was glad to see that he got over his overly emotional gratitude this morning. He expressed himself all day by pitching in with my crew, working harder than any five of them put together.

“We’ll see you in the morning, Moses,” I tell him. “Get some rest.”

Our whole parade of wagons winds its way back into town, the men chatting and laughing, looking forward to a hearty supper at the boarding house.

When we get a couple of miles away from Natchez, Wolk has news. “Darling, it appears that a few more cases of yellow fever have begun among the townsfolk.”

Well, here we go. It happens most years. “Is anybody very ill yet?” I silently inquire.

“Not yet,” he replies. “Samuel Duncan has spent his day being summoned from one place to another as new cases arise.”

“How many so far?”

“Samuel has treated half a dozen. A few other people appear to be in the very early stages as well, but it is unclear whether the true fever will manifest.”

Hm. From two last week, to at least six today. Things are increasing. Yellow fever isn’t consistent or predictable, but by the laws of mathematics I think we can expect there to be many more cases within a few days. Too bad that I’m committed to being at Homochitto over the next several days, otherwise I might offer to try to help Samuel. It’s a lot of work managing an outbreak like this, especially if he has to go riding all over town from patient to patient.

Or, does he?

The steamboat won’t be back for almost two weeks, and the boarding house extension, although complete, is standing empty, waiting for the first passengers to book rooms there. Maybe it would make sense to just use it again, try to gather the patients together so that they can be tended more efficiently.

“I’ll stop by and talk to Samuel as soon as we get into town,” I think to Wolk, and he nods approvingly. It’s a good plan.