The Brave

The Turner Plantation

The summer of 1859 was as memorable for it's hot weather as it was for it's politics. It was the hottest day of the year. Georgia had been hot and sunny all summer, but today was particularly sticky and still. I had sat on the porch steps that morning and watched the cotton pickers working their way through the crops. The sweat glistened like jewels on the deep brown skin of the slaves. My father, Benjamin Turner, worked alongside, his fingers worked quickly, plucking the white plumes from the foliage. His generous and familiar form bobbed along the rows of plants, I had sat out on the white washed porch steps every day of my life and watched this very site. The shapes and faces of the men and woman in the fields had changed a little over the years, but the oversized baskets of cotton dotted through the fields had not.

"Elizabeth Caroline Turner, what are you doing sitting out here in your prettiest dress? "My mothers' exasperated tones cut through my thoughts like a knife. She was stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, her slender frame accentuated by a well fitting cornflower blue dress. I turned and stood, my mother had taught me to always be polite and courteous, especially when in trouble.

"I'm watching father working." I innocently responded.

My mother rolled her eyes as her hands crossed in front of her as she spoke, "And why are you wearing your new dress to watch your daddy in the fields?" She continued.

I looked down at the pink taffeta skirt. It was the prettiest dress I had ever owned. My mother had asked Mrs Ansel to make me a new dress, we had travelled to her house many times to be measured and pinned and adjusted. I bit my lip in defeat, my mother had distinctly told me that my dress had been made for our annual garden party. In the fifteen years that my father had owned the plantation, my mother had insisted on inviting the whole town to celebrate the Summer solstice and as my father's success grew so did the amount of food prepared, the guest list and my mothers fussing and fretting.

"Beth, you are ten years old now. You know how much I have to do. I need you to help prepare the garden, not sit here daydreaming on the porch, getting your dress all dusty. Now, I want you to go up to your room, this very minute, and take that dress off. Do you hear me child?" She barked.

I nodded in response, instantly stepping up onto the porch. My mother held open the door and I quickly ducked underneath her outstretched arm. The house was filled with the comforting smells of roasting meat and apple pie. The servants bustled about the house, armed with linen, produce and flowers. Noisily, I plodded up the creaking wooden staircase, the heat intensifying with every step upwards.

My room was at the back of the house, overlooking the woodland that separated our plantation from our nearest neighbours, Edward and Catherine Landy. The Landy's 800 acre farm produced crops, dairy, livestock as well as the largest cotton crop for miles. The Landy's influence over our town was clear to see; their name was stamped over many of the shop fronts. They employed a large number of locals to help run their various businesses. The Landy family had been good to our community and in return, the community was good to them. My parents had been their closest friends from before I was born. My grandfather had sold Edward Landy the land on which he had built his empire. He often spoke of the 'history that entwined our families'.

I wondered if my father ever felt angry that he was left with the unwanted land. If he did harbour any bitterness, he hid it well. Perhaps the fact that my grandfather drank and gambled his profits away in the two years before being found dead in the river, consoled him. My father was a hard-working and proud man. He had been left with nothing but a plot of overgrown land when my grandfather passed. He built our house with his own hands and gave every day of his life to produce the finest quality cotton crop in the whole of Georgia.

A cool breeze blew through the opened window of my bedroom. The white cotton voiles, danced subtley in the gentle flow of air. I sat on the oak framed bed, the taffeta of my dress crinkled and crunched beneath me, instantly reminding me of my mothers instruction. I stood, pulling handfuls of ruffled fabric up over my head, wrestling the layers of pink and cream like a wild beast. Somewhere, between the sounds of my breathing, my grunts of frustration and the sounds of the undefeated dress, I could distinctly hear laughing. I paused, wondering if my imagination was playing tricks on me. The sound of laughter came closer. I struggled the dress back down over my petticoat and there, sitting in my window, clutching a half eaten apple, his face filled with amusement was Joseph Landy.