Of the one hundred twenty-four delegates who convened on January 14, seventy-six were black. Only twenty-three of the white delegates were Carolina-born, but of those a fair number were former hotspurs. Joe Crews had traded in slaves. J. M. Rutland had collected money for a new cane when Preston Brooks broke his over the head of Charles Sumner, almost killing him. Franklin Moses had helped pull down the American flag after Sumter surrendered.
Andy sat among the delegates in his dusty orange frock coat, the first volume of James Kent's Commentaries on his knee. He was very erect, proud to be at the convention, but overawed, too; many of the Negro delegates were far better educated than he was. Alonzo Ransier, a native-born freedman, had chatted with him at length about the sweeping social changes the convention would produce. The most intimidating Negro was a handsome, tall, portly chap named Francis Cardozo. Although his skin was the color of old ivory, Cardozo, a free-born mulatto, proudly seated himself among the black delegates. He was an example of what a man could make of himself if he had unlimited opportunity, Andy thought. Cardozo had graduated from the University of Glasgow and formerly held a Presbyterian pulpit in New Haven, Connecticut
To overcome feelings of inferiority, Andy frequently recalled some earnest words that Jane spoke when she said goodbye to him at the river road. "You're just as good as any of them if you prove you are. You all start out equal in the eyes of God. Mr. Jefferson said so, and that's what the war was really about. Whether you end up ahead of where you started is up to you."
She'd hugged him then, kissed him, and whispered, "Make us all proud." Remembering it, he sat a little straighten.
There was none of the predicted "Negro bedlam" on the convention floor, though enthusiastic black spectators in the gallery had to be gaveled to silence by the temporary chairman, T. J. Robertson, a well-respected businessman of moderate views. The noisiest part of the hall was that occupied by members of the press, most of them Yankees. Many were dressed in plaid suits and gaudy cravats. Andy saw one reporter spit a stream of tobacco juice on the floor. He felt smugly superior. Earlier, Cardozo had remarked to him and some other black delegates, "The reporters have come down here to measure this convention against Northern morality. They'll measure our utterances and our behavior as well. Take heed and act accordingly, gentlemen."
Robertson's gavel brought the hall to order. "Before I turn the chair over to our great and good friend Dr. Mackey" — he was another respected local man — "I should like to remind those assembled of our high purpose. We are gathered to frame a just and liberal constitution for the Palmetto State, one which will guarantee equal rights to all, and gain us readmission to the Union."
The spectators demonstrated their approval. Again Robertson gaveled them down before continuing.
"We do not claim any preeminence of wisdom or virtue. We do claim, however, that we are following the progressive spirit of the age ... and that we shall be bold enough, honest enough, wise enough to trample obsolete and unworthy laws and customs underfoot, to initiate a new order of justice in South Carolina. Let every delegate turn his thoughts, and his utterances, solely to that purpose."
He means my thoughts, Andy said to himself. All right, he'd speak up. If he was wrong about something, he'd learn. Without making a few mistakes, how could you lift yourself from what you were to what you wanted to become?
He straightened in his seat, hand firmly on the law text. A rush of pride renewed his courage and restored his confidence.
"Now, ma'am," said Mr. Edisto Topper of Beaufort, "this is why I urgently requested a meeting." Standing beside Madeline in the pale January sunshine drenching the fallow rice square, the small, dapper attorney broke open the blue-gray lump of clay.
Madeline stepped back from the familiar stench. "I've always called that our poisoned earth."
Topper dropped the clay lumps, laughing. "Poisoned with riches, Mrs. Main." He turned to his young and servile clerk. "Gather several of those nodules and put them in the bag. We'll want an assay."
Madeline's forehead glistened with perspiration. When Topper's carriage had come rattling up the lane, she was busy brushing a new coat of whitewash on the pine house. Specks of it stippled her hands and the bosom of her faded dress.
"I can hardly believe you, Mr. Topper, though I'd certainly like to do so."
"Do, my good woman, do. The rumors are true. There is mineral treasure hidden along the Ashley and Stono rivers, and in the riverbeds as well. Your so-called poisoned earth is phosphate-bearing."
"But it's been here for years."
"And not a soul realized its worth until Dr. Ravenel of Charleston assayed samples from Lambs last fall." Topper swept the vista of rice fields with a flamboyant gesture. "Mont Royal could run as high as six or eight hundred tons of marl per acre. High-grade marl, sixty percent tricalcic phosphate, ten percent carbonate of lime — far richer than the marls of Virginia."
"It's very welcome news. But a little overwhelming."
He laughed again, and dry-washed his hands. "Understandable, dear lady. After years of defeat and privation, we are quite literally standing upon the economic rebirth of this section of the state. It's there in those foul-smelling nodules. That's the smell of money. That's the smell of fertilizer!"
They returned to homemade chairs on the lawn in front of the whitewashed house. From his valise, lawyer Topper produced reports, assays, surveys which he thrust at Madeline, urging her to read every word.
"Already there's a positive stampede to buy mineral rights from property owners. I represent a group of investors organized as the Beaufort Phosphate Company. All fine Southern gentlemen; Carolina natives, like myself. I'm sure you'll feel more comfortable knowing that when we do business."
Madeline brushed back a stray strand of graying hair. "If, Mr. Topper. If."
"But you have the complete advantage in the matter! It's our capital what will be at risk, whereas all you give up is temporary use of your land. We handle everything. Dig the pits, build a tram road for horse carts, install steam-driven washers to separate out the sand and clay. We assume full responsibility for freighting or barging the washed rock to drying yards. Then we negotiate a favorable sale price. Mr. Lewis and Mr. Klett have already capitalized one processing firm to crush the rock and convert it to commercial fertilizer. Competing companies are sure to spring up soon. We'll be in a splendid position."
It was all too perfect. She kept searching for flaws. "What about men to dig the rock?"
"Likewise our responsibility. We'll hire every available nig — ah, freedman. Pay them twenty-five cents per foot dug, rock removal included."
She shook her head. Topper looked puzzled. "Something wrong?"
"Very definitely, Mr. Topper. There are black families starving all along this river, and I don't exclude Mont Royal. If you're going to mine my land, you'll have to create jobs that are worthwhile. Shall we say fifty cents per foot dug?"
Topper blanched. "Fifty? I'm not certain —"
"Then perhaps I should negotiate with someone else. You did mention competition."
The lawyer began to squirm. "We can work something out, dear lady. I'm certain we can work something out. Here, I've brought the option paper. I'd like to obtain your signature this morning, in advance of a full contract satisfactory to both sides." He took the folded document from his clerk. It was thick and wrapped with green ribbon. He flourished it as if it were a road map to El Dorado.