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He wheeled toward the back of the building. As she followed him beneath the overhang, she reflexively ducked her head, causing him to smile. She had cleared the low, spider-infested ceiling, but not by much.
“I’ve never had that problem myself,” he said. He then pointed to the faint ring in the hard-packed earth. “If you look closely, you can see a circular depression there in the dirt. That’s the path worn by the mules that turned the drive wheel that powered the gin stand.”
“Up there?”
“Right. When cotton was king, it was brought here by the wagonload. Long-strand sea island cotton. High grade. Silky in texture and more easily separated from its seeds than other varieties.”
“Therefore very desirable.”
He nodded. “And the island’s sandy soil was ideal for growing it. It was unloaded onto a platform outside and carried up to the second floor, where the gin separated the fiber from the seeds.
“The lint was then blown out, collected, and carried to an outdoor screw press, which was also mule-powered. Once it was pressed into bales, they were bagged and hauled cross-island to the dock for transport to the cotton exchanges on the mainland.”
“It sounds very labor-intensive.”
“You’re right. From the time a cotton seed was planted in early spring until the last bale of the crop was shipped out, the process took a year.”
“Was this the only gin on the island?”
“Right again. One planter, one gin, one family. The family that built my house. They had a monopoly that made them rich until the whole market collapsed. They tried to switch to oyster canning, which was being done on other sea islands, but they didn’t know anything about it, went completely broke within a year, and cleared out.”
“So this structure more or less chronicles the island’s history.”
“Nineteenth century history for sure,” he said. “It’s documented that in 1878 a little girl, a child of a worker, walked behind one of the mules turning the screw press outside. The ornery animal kicked her in the head. She died two days later. Her father put down the mule, execution-style. The details of what he did to the carcass are gruesome. A duel between feuding brothers is also recorded. They shot and killed each other in 1855.
“Then there’s a romantic myth about the love affair between a white overseer and a beautiful slave woman. It’s told that their affair was looked upon with such vicious disfavor that they were cast off the island in a small boat. It’s said they were bound for Charleston, but folks watching their departure through spyglasses reported that they saw them capsize and perish, which many thought was a befitting punishment.
“However, years later, a colony of mulattos was discovered living peacefully on another sea island previously thought to be uninhabited. These people were believed to be the descendants of the mixed couple and the survivors of a shipwrecked slave ship. They were an incredibly handsome clan. Some had skin the color of café au lait and eyes as green as jade.
“A visiting French nobleman, who was deep-sea fishing in the area, sought refuge from a storm on their island. While he was there, one of the nubile young ladies caught his eye and captured his heart. They married and he took all her family back to France with him. Where they lived happ’ly ever after.”
Maris drew in a long, slow breath. “You tell good stories, Parker.”
“It’s a fable. Probably untrue.”
“It’s still a
good story.”
“So you’re a romantic?”
“Unabashed.” She smiled, then said, “You know a lot about the gin. Was your family in the cotton business?”
“I think my great-granddaddy picked it by hand during the Depression. But so did just about every able-bodied person in the South. Women, children, blacks, whites, all struggling to survive. Hunger doesn’t discriminate.”
“What did your father do?”
“Physician. Family practice. The gamut. From delivering babies to lancing boils.”
“Is he retired?”
He shook his head. “He couldn’t break a forty-year habit, and he couldn’t heal himself when lung cancer caught up with him. He died long before he should have.”
“And your mother?”
“Outlived him twelve years. She died several years ago. And before you ask, I’m an only child.”
“So am I.”
