Carolina Built: A Novel

PREFACE

I first heard of Josephine Napoleon Leary’s story from a tweet. A simple blip on my feed, a chance encounter with someone else’s thoughts, led me to write this book. It’s funny, because I was forced into using Twitter by a writer friend who insisted I’d need it for networking. I was already exhausted with Facebook, being a private person by nature. I fought tooth and nail but finally caved and got a Twitter account in 2011. Nowadays, I use it far more than any other social media site.

When I saw the tweet about Mrs. Leary, I was immediately intrigued. I was also upset that, as a native North Carolinian, I had never heard of her or her accomplishments. In eighth grade, I was required to take a state history class, one that was supposed to have given me an in-depth picture of North Carolina from its first colonies to the twentieth century. Where was the mention of Mrs. Leary, whose remarkable accomplishments should have more than secured her place in the annals of state history?

Years of independent research, to satisfy my own insatiable curiosity about my history, have shown me that this is often the case. The accomplishments of African Americans have so often been minimized, overlooked, or outright dismissed to serve a narrative that relegates us to the status of second-class citizenship. I decided to be a part of the solution, by putting my efforts into a project that would shine a light on someone who would otherwise be forgotten by history.

I began my research as most of us do in this age of technology: online. Using the Digital Archives of the Josephine Napoleon Leary Papers, housed at the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library on the campus of Duke University, I was able to establish a baseline of knowledge about Mrs. Leary’s life and work, particularly as it pertains to her finances and her real estate transactions. The collection, acquired from Mrs. Leary’s grandson Percy Almeria Reeves in 1991, has been an invaluable source of information. Most of the factually verifiable information known about Mrs. Leary’s life is sourced from the materials in this collection.

My assistant and I first traveled to Duke University, to visit the reading room at the Rubenstein Library. As a registered researcher there, I’d requested the two boxes of items from the Josephine Leary Papers that had not been digitized to be brought up for my inspection. Holding the papers that Mrs. Leary herself handled only served to increase my level of passion and excitement for this project.

We then traveled to Edenton to get a firsthand look at Mrs. Leary’s building, which is still standing today and in very good condition thanks to faithful exterior restoration. The building currently houses the local newspaper, the Chowan Herald. We spent several hours touring the town on foot, visiting the Historic Edenton State Historic Site, the site of Josephine’s old barbershop at 317 South Broad Street, and Shepard-Pruden Memorial Library. We found valuable sources at all these locations, both in the form of documents and of helpful staff. Our walking tour also afforded us a view of many stately homes of the era, giving us a peek into life at that time.

At the library, I became the grateful recipient of a copy of the booklet The Life and Legacy of Josephine Napoleon Leary, 1856–1923, by Dorothy Spruill Redford. Mrs. Redford, a noted historian and former site manager of the Somerset Place State Historic Site in Creswell, North Carolina, compiled the booklet from primary source research during the 2010s. The forty-seven-page booklet is, thus far, the most in-depth writing that has ever been done on Mrs. Leary’s life, and it has enhanced my research immensely.

I’ve spent the better part of the past two years combing through historical databases, newspaper clippings, and scholarly articles to form a solid basis of knowledge on the life Mrs. Leary lived. And now that the book is finally in the hands of you, the reader, I’m proud to share the fruits of my efforts. It is my hope that you will be just as inspired by Josephine Napoleon Leary’s amazing life as I am.

PROLOGUE

July 1870

Williamston, North Carolina

Josephine? Josephine, don’t you hear me calling you, child?

Snapped back to reality by the sound of my grandmother’s exasperated voice, I close my worn copy of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. In the doorway of my family’s small cabin is my grandmother Milly. She is dressed in her typical working uniform of tan blouse and earth-grazing brown skirt, her silver curls wrapped and tucked beneath a red scarf. Her brows are furrowed, her jaw tight.

Heavens, Jo. It’s good that you read like you do, but you get so wrapped up in those books, nobody can reach you. Grandma Milly shakes her head. You liable to miss the Rapture, child.

I answer her with a crooked grin. Sorry, Grandma. What do you need?

I need you to get out here in the yard and help me with Mr. Stutts’s laundry. She props her fists on her hips, as she’s apt to do when she’s about to lecture me. These linens ain’t gonna wash themselves.

Yes, ma’am. I tuck my beloved book beneath my low cot, climb to my feet, and follow Grandma Milly out into the front yard. The moment I step outside, the heat of early summer in North Carolina meets me, and I groan. It’s hot out, Grandma.

You’re telling me. Grandma Milly chuckles as we move across the crispy brown grass. So hot out here it could fry the curls right out of your head. She reaches over, tousling my hair. I cringe, knowing that if she upsets my bun, it will be hard to wrestle my thick waves back into submission.

We stop walking as we approach Grandma Milly’s washing station. Two large, galvanized tubs, each outfitted with a washboard, sit in the grass. One suds-filled tub stands ready for washing; the other is filled with clear water for rinsing. Each washtub boasts a crank-operated wringer, poised to squeeze every drop of water out of Mr. Stutts’s bedspreads and pillow slips. Beyond that, we have six sturdy poles, from which Grandma Milly has strung the clothesline on which the freshly laundered items will dry, and a small basket containing wooden clothespins.

All right. Time to call on the muscle of this operation. Cupping her hands around her mouth, Grandma yells, Octavious! Come on and bring the laundry.

Yes, ma’am, his small voice calls back. A few blinks later, here comes my little brother, pushing a wheelbarrow full of dirty laundry. His brown shorts and worn, once-white shirt are streaked with dirt as always. Parking the wheelbarrow near the washtubs, Octavious asks, Can I go play now, Grandma?

Grandma Milly smiles at him. In a minute. First, get your mama. We gonna need some more help with this washing.

Yes, ma’am. He runs off. Octavious is a ball of energy, most of which he uses to run around the farm, climbing trees and troubling the hens. Mama says he was born under the wandering star and that’s why he can’t keep still.

Octavious comes back with Mama, whose attire is similar to Grandma Milly’s. Mama isn’t wearing the headscarf she normally wears; instead, she’s wound her long wavy hair into a tight bun on top of her head, like me. Mama walks over with a smile and pinches my cheek. Finished reading that play again, honey?

I shake my head. Not yet.

This is, what, the fourth time you’re reading it?

Sixth. I reckon I’ll finish it in the next few days.

Grandma scoffs. Honey child, how are you gonna find a husband if your nose is always buried in a book? You ought to look up once in a while; you never know who might be nearby.

I shrug. I suppose it’ll have to be a man who likes to read.

Mama sighs. Anyhow, we just want to make sure there’s somebody to look after you when we’re gone.

Gone? You two are gonna always be with me.

My mother and grandmother exchange a look, but neither of them speaks.

We womenfolk set about the task of the Stutts family laundry, while Octavious busies himself climbing trees. Mr. Stutts, a pretty well-known lawyer in town, hired Grandma Milly on as his personal washerwoman after Emancipation. I was a girl of nine at the time, and my brother was around seven. Ever since we left the plantation, we been working as free Blacks on a small corner of his land. The plot, and our one-room cabin built upon it, are considered part of Grandma’s pay.

It isn’t a fancy life by any means, but near as I can tell, it’s far better than it used to be. The best part of being free is that I can read whenever I want and not get into trouble for it. That is, as long as I keep up with my chores. I took many a whipping from our old mistress for my desire to educate myself. Mrs. Stutts is nice enough to loan me books, since I always give them back in good condition. Reading is my favorite way to pass the time, and whenever I get the chance, I love to find a quiet corner and dive into a good story. I love to read about different times and different places, and all the lives that people can live.

Bent over the rinsing tub, Mama says, My stars. It’s mighty warm out here.

Nothin’s quite as hot as a North Carolina summer. Grandma Milly chuckles. I mean, other than hell.

Mama shakes her head. The hot weather always reminds me of summers gone by, you know, Mama? It’s been five summers since we walked free from Master Williams. Twelve summers since I had Octavious. Fourteen since I had Jo. And fifteen since Colonel Lamb first visited the plantation.

Grandma Milly gives Mama a look. Jeanette. Why you always talking about that white man? No good’s gonna come of it.

Mama runs the bedsheet she’s been rinsing through the wringer, then heads for the clothesline. She stoops, snatching up a few clothespins, then tosses the sheet over the line. Mama, that man knows he fathered these children. Why else would he send me that portrait of him? And that lil’ bit of money that we put toward outfitting the cabin?

Grandma Milly just shakes her head. That’s neither here nor there. I’m not saying he didn’t sire these children, just like a hundred other white men who tipped into the quarters when we had no other choice. She works a pillow slip over the washboard, stirring up a heap of suds in the hot, lye-laced water. What I’m saying is, it don’t make any difference to your life, or to my grandbabies. You and me, we the ones that’s gon’ make sure these children are all right.

I separate the pieces of laundry to hand to Grandma for washing, then carry them over to Mama for rinsing. Mama and Grandma don’t talk about Colonel Lamb very often, especially when I’m around, so I follow with interest. I know the colonel is the stern-looking, dark-eyed man who sired me, then denied me. I suppose he’s simply doing what other men of his status do, but I try not to think on him too much. All I know is, the folks with me right here, right now, are my family. My grandma, my mama, and my worrisome brother are my family. They love me, and I love them right back. Not knowing both of one’s parents is a common predicament, so to me it makes no difference if my father comes around or not. The four of us have been doing just fine without him.

The sounds of wheels rolling over rutted earth and the clopping of horse’s hooves make me turn my eyes toward the road. Seeing an approaching buggy, I point at the vehicle. Somebody’s coming.

As it stops in front of our yard, Grandma Milly drops the pillow slip into the rinse tub and wipes her hands on the front of her skirt. I wonder who it is.

The laundry work stops as we watch a bespectacled white man, carrying a notebook, walk up the steps to the Stuttses’ front porch. As the stranger carries on a conversation with Mr. Stutts, he jots something in his notebook.

Who’s that man talking to Mr. Stutts? Octavious asks from his perch on a low-hanging poplar branch.

Mama shrugs. I don’t know. Looks like they doing some kinda business.

The man shakes Mr. Stutts’s hand, then climbs back onto his buggy seat.

As the buggy moves away, I catch a glimpse of something. Something’s painted on the back of his buggy. I squint, shielding my eyes from the hot July sun as I try to make out the words. U.S. Census Bureau.

Octavious calls out, A census what?

I roll my eyes. Bureau, Tavious. Bureau. He’s a bit younger than me, and he’s not as inclined to read as me. I do read to him sometimes, though.

Mama chuckles and shakes her head. It’s a government thing. Every so often, somebody comes around and counts all the folks in every household.

I nod. Right. So they can know how many folks there are, right?

Yep. Well, the show’s over, folks. Back to work. Grandma Milly gestures to me. Jo, give me the next thing to wash.

I hand off the next pillow slip while I watch the buggy rattle back down the road. That road leads away from Williamston to the whole wide world. I close my eyes and imagine what lies beyond the road in front of me. I picture myself in a fancy traveling costume, strolling up to the train ticket window, then boarding a train headed west. I picture my seat by the window, and the views of the rolling plains, the buffalo, the mountains, and the valleys. I’ve seen these places in drawings within the pages of my books, and in the paintings hanging on the wall in the Stuttses’ big house. I can see it all so clearly in my mind, and one day, I will see it with my eyes.

When I’m full-grown, and my life is my own, there are so many things I can pursue. Will I have a buggy of my own someday? Maybe a house, with a husband and a baby and a vegetable garden?

I know freedom holds endless possibilities for me, but I can’t see how any of those possibilities will come to pass until we leave Williamston. Yes, we are free now. But there are just too many memories here, lingering memories of the lash, the cold nights sleeping on hard dirt floors, and the long days tending the crops under the hot Carolina sun.

My future isn’t here. It’s somewhere else… somewhere I can make a fresh start.

1

January 1873

Elizabeth City, North Carolina

I take in the view, looking at the way the sun sparkles on the surface of the Pasquotank River. It looks like ribbons of light dancing over the water. Walking hand in hand with my Archer, I let out a happy sigh. We stroll toward the waterfront, and he gives my hand a squeeze.

So what do you think, Mrs. Leary? Archer smiles down at me. Do you approve of your honeymoon so far?

I melt, just as I do every time he looks at me this way. As I said to you a few days ago, Archer… I do. I lean up, place a soft peck against his jaw. The two days’ worth of stubble there make him look rugged, daring.

I’m glad to hear it. Only the best for my bride. He cups my cheek, affection shining in his eyes.

His touch is familiar, soothing. I suck in my bottom lip and release it before speaking again. Come now, Archer. We’ve been locked in the room for two days. If you really want to get this fresh air, keep your hands to yourself.

You accusing me of tempting you?

I give him a sidelong glance. You know full well what you’re doing, Archer Leary.

His answering grin is broad. Heavens, Jo. What can I do to get you to call me Sweety, as everyone else does?

I shrug. I never cared for that nickname. Nothing. Besides, I’m not everyone else. I’m your wife. I circle my arms around his waist. "I love the way that word sounds. Wife." I never would have guessed I’d be fortunate enough to get married at a prime age to give my new husband all the babies he—and I—might desire. Mama and Grandma Milly were pleased when I met Archer on the Folly plantation, where I was sent to train in barbering.

We turn left toward the center of town, headed away from the water. An assortment of one- and two-story buildings line the road on either side of us. Some are fashioned of planks, while the older, more established ones are built from brick and stone. We pass a bakery, with its pink-and-white-painted exterior resembling a fancy wedding cake, a tailor shop with several fine suits on display in the glass-paned window, and a small general store advertising a sale on collards.

Do you smell that? Archer asks.

I sniff the air, and the scent of leather being worked sparks instant recognition. There must be a tanner nearby. I inhale again, more deeply, and let the memory wash over me.

I reported to the Folly barbershop at seven sharp, ferried there by Glasgow, Mr. Stutts’s ornery older brother and right hand. Get on in there and learn something, gal, Glasgow admonished as he pulled the buggy away from the walk.

Inside the shop, old man Folly stood by the door, wearing a fine black suit beneath a muslin apron. You Josephine?

I nodded shyly. Yes, sir.

He foisted a heavy bucket into my hand.

The acrid scent of lye hit my nostrils immediately. But I detected something else in the water, something fruity. Lemon oil, maybe?

Before I could pinpoint the other scent, the old man started barking orders. First thing you need to learn: how to clean your implements. There’s four pair of shears and six combs in there. Take that bucket on the table over there and scrub ’em all clean. And be quick about it, gal.

Yes, sir. I did as he instructed. Rolling up the sleeves of my worn shirt, I used the tattered cloth I dug out of the water to cleanse the tools.

I was still elbow-deep in the bucket of warm suds when he entered the shop. He was tall and well-built, his skin the color of Mama’s coffee after she added a good dose of milk. His hair surrounded his handsome, angular face in a silken mass of dark curls.

I stopped, stared. For a moment, his golden eyes met mine, and my heart pounded in my chest like the sounds rising from a Sunday drumming circle.

Our gazes met, and time seemed to fall away.

Folly croaked, State your name, boy, instead of standing there like a damn statue.

He snatched away his piercing eyes, leaving me both relieved and bereft.

Sorry. I’m Archer, sir. From the Leary spread.

Archer. What a strong name for a sturdy young man. My tongue darted out to dampen my lower lip as I resumed my cleaning duties.

Well, boy, go over there and get the clean shears from that gal, and I’ll show you how to sharpen them on the strap.

He strode toward me, and I dropped the cloth into the bucket, trying to keep my composure. As he reached for the shears, I moved the clean pile closer to him.

For a moment, our fingertips touched.

Something shot through me, like a bolt of lightning firing across a storm-darkened sky. If his widening eyes were any indication, he felt something similar.

We stared at each other again, for another long moment, until Folly’s angry shouts pulled him away from me. I moved across the shop to hastily grab a whisk broom, staying busy to avoid Folly’s wrath. As I swept the floors, I watched Archer work a straight razor over the leather honing strap, the smell of warm leather permeating the air.

Old man Folly wasn’t pleased about us sparking, but nothing could stop what fate had already begun. In three months’ time, when our training as barbers ended, our love story began in earnest. I was only thirteen, but old enough to know that he made my heart skip a beat. I was immediately smitten, but it wasn’t until two years later, during my fifteenth summer, when Archer had shown up at our cabin at the Stutts place, intent on calling on me. I was so red in the face at his arrival, I must have resembled a large tomato. Still, I couldn’t resist his charm, his sharp wit, and his wavy-haired handsomeness.

My mother and grandmother indulged my budding feelings for Archer. They listened with knowing smiles as I chattered on about him and encouraged us to spend time together under their watchful eyes. They were elated when Archer asked for my hand; he’d always been charming, considerate, and respectful during his visits, but their approval of the union went even deeper. Both older women were afraid I might be destined for spinsterhood. They say I’ve got a fierce independent streak.

But Archer’s different. I can’t count the number of afternoons we spent happily sitting in companionable silence, me lost in my books, him lost in his thoughts. When we daydream together about the places I’ve read about—striking out, traveling, and trying something new—he always has something to add that I’d never considered. Daydreaming together feels like more than just dreaming; it feels like planning a life.

Standing next to him, I admire his handsomeness. The tone of his skin allows him to pass for white, but no matter his race, no one with decent sight could deny his attractiveness. He has a head full of luxurious dark waves, framing a perfectly symmetrical face. His eyes are hazel, flecked with green, and easy to get lost in. And his mustache frames lips that are soft, smooth, and just full enough to cover mine when we kiss.

As easy as he is on the eyes, his looks alone wouldn’t have been enough for me. After every indignity I suffered under the hand of old Master Williams, I could never have settled for less than true love. And I do love Archer. I love him as flowers love the sun, as fields love the rain.

Let’s go, Jo. He takes my hand again. I don’t want to be late for my appointment.

I chuckle. I’m never going to let you forget what a reasonable wife I am, Archer. Not many wives would agree to allow a business meeting during a honeymoon trip.

I know. And you have my endless gratitude. He bows with a flourish. If I wait, though, this prime piece of land is going to sell… to someone else.

I sigh as we walk away from the water, not quite ready to leave the beautiful scenery behind. But Archer has his heart set on this property. He is more than handsome and affectionate; he’s ambitious. He’s been talking about this plot of land on Road Street for several weeks now. According to him, the location and size of the plot make it ideal for commercial development that has great potential to be leased for a good profit. And when the seller contacted him with a meeting date that happened to fall within three days of the date we were to be married, he’d agreed anyway.

I’ve got to admit, his excitement is a little bit contagious. I love the way his eyes light up when he talks about business, because I know the root of his ambition. To make something of himself, to prove to anyone that he can be successful in life. I want that too.

You know this meeting is really about you, my dear. I’m looking at every opportunity to take care of you, to make sure you have a good life. Archer squeezes my hand again. Remember that. My goal is for you, and our future babies, to enjoy all the fruits of freedom.

I appreciate that, Archer. Easing closer to him as we walk, I rest my cheek against his strong upper arm.

Soon, we arrive at the intersection of Road and Main Streets. The intersection is busy with both foot and buggy traffic, and it takes some maneuvering to get around everyone else. Finally, we come to the lot, the only vacant land in the near vicinity.

So where’s this Mr. Charles?

He’ll be here. Archer checks his pocket watch before tucking it back into the inner pocket of his coat. There are lots of folks out today. Let’s just give him a few minutes.

I stand with him on the edge of the lot, doing my best to stay out of the way of passersby. I shift my weight back and forth, growing somewhat impatient with the situation. This business meeting is putting a damper on our romantic getaway. Still, I know better than to try to persuade Archer to leave once he has his mind set on something.

Finally, a man in a fancy black wool suit appears a short distance away. He has a ruddy complexion, ice-blue eyes, and tufts of straight blond hair sticking out from beneath his bowler. As he walks toward us, he eyes us cautiously. Are you Mr. Leary?

He smiles. I am. You must be Mr. Charles.

The man in the bowler nods, sticking out his hand. A real pleasure to meet you. Charles’s gaze swings toward me, and a slight frown creases his brow. Is… this your, uh, wife?

Yes, this is my sweet Josephine. Archer beams. We’ve not been married a full week yet.

After a few beats spent looking back and forth between our faces, Mr. Charles says, Wonderful. Congratulations to you both. The compliment is strained; there’s a tinge of disapproval, or maybe pity, in his voice.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Ever since Archer began courting me, I’ve seen that same look of disdain and disbelief from most of the white men we encounter. In a way, it tickles me. Archer and I are both of mixed race, but my husband possesses a fair enough complexion to pass; I do not. It’s a mere coincidence, a trick of fate. Yet wherever we go, people assume he is white and that I’m Negro, and therefore unworthy of his love and his name.

So let’s talk business here. Archer claps his hands together. What can you tell me about this property?

Mr. Charles scratches his chin. Yes, well, let’s see. It’s prime land, well-kept, as you can see. It’s the only vacant lot for five or so miles, and this area is booming. We’re seeing an influx of freed people; you know, like your ladylove here, looking to establish themselves by plying their trades to the locals. As more folks settle down in the area, more and more businesses will open to accommodate their needs. He gestures around at their surroundings. Only a matter of time before somebody wants to build something here.

I agree. Seems like a very sound investment. Archer smiles. I’ll take it.

Wonderful. All I’ll need is five hundred dollars, cash or bank draft. Mr. Charles sticks out his hand.

Archer’s face crumples into a cringe. Heavens. The whole purchase price, up front?

Charles scoffs. Why not?

Because that isn’t what the advertisement said, Mr. Charles. Archer’s jaw takes on a harder set. The advertisement calls for one half of the purchase price up front. That’s two hundred and fifty dollars.

"I see you’re decent at math,