NOTE
It may be wise to explain a peculiarity of our low-country rice region. From the last week in May until the first week in November it was considered deadly for an Anglo-Saxon to breathe the night air on a rice plantation; the fatal high bilious fever of the past was regarded as a certain consequence, while the African and his descendants were immune. Hence every rice planter had a summer home either in the mountains, or on the seashore, or in the belt of pine woods a few miles from the river, where perfect health was found. In 1845 my father built a large, airy house surrounded with wide piazzas on Pawley's Island, and there he spent the summer, with occasional trips north and abroad, until the war made it unsafe to occupy the island. Then he built a log house in the pineland village of Peaceville: this large house with double shingled roof was built by his plantation carpenters with wooden pins, owing to the blockade there being no nails to be had. After the war my brother owned this, and my mother in spite of great difficulties returned to the beach as a summer home. As the crow flies this island was about three miles east of Cherokee, but for us mortals to reach it, many miles by land and water had to be traversed—all of our belongings, servants, horses, cows, furniture, were loaded on to lighters and propelled seven miles through broad rivers and winding creeks to Waverly Mills where they were disembarked and travelled four miles by land, but when we reached this paradise on the Atlantic Ocean we felt repaid for all the effort. It was here we spent our summers when I began my rice-planting venture. As my mother reached the limit which David places for the span of life, she shrank from the long move and bought a house in Peaceville just opposite the church and here the last beautiful summers of her life were passed in peaceful serenity.