Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  “Many soldiers are from accomplished families. They’d return to England with a threat of military coup.”

  The entire table was listening now. Even the guards at the door were following the exchange. Grace didn’t know what to say; there was nothing to do but watch it play out. Governor Murray finally ended the silence.

  “Madam,” he said to Grace. “I now understand the perspective of Virginia’s businessmen.” He looked pointedly at Jefferson. “What do her families believe about the soldiers’ role?”

  Grace, wishing she had remained silent from the very beginning, weighed her reply. “I cannot speak for everyone. I am sure there are many different opinions.”

  “You oft quarter soldiers at your estate,” the governor said. “Do you believe ’tis your charge?”

  “’Tis English law.”

  “But if ’twas not, what then?”

  “We’d still open our farm to these young men.”

  “Do you believe they are essential to the defense of this colony?”

  “I do not know, Governor.” It was true. When Grace was a little girl, soldiers often returned from the frontier wounded. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen an injured soldier.

  “We must not be doing enough to demonstrate the role these soldiers play in Virginia’s security,” the governor replied.

  “My husband does not oft involve me in such discussions, Governor.” Disappointment surged through her at dodging the question like this, but she hoped the governor took it at face value.

  Grace saw she’d not escape so easily, though, when Lady Murray spoke up. She corralled Grace with piercing eyes. “I’m sure you have some thoughts on the subject, Mrs. Miller. Are the soldiers necessary for the defense of Virginia?”

  Grace met the countess’s intelligent gaze. Her sense of kinship for the astute young woman was slowly changing to animosity. “Our colony should be given a choice to defend its frontier with its own militia,” she said.

  “And you believe that the colony would be better served if the soldiers returned to England?”

  “I believe they could be used constructively elsewhere,” Grace replied.

  The table went silent.

  Chapter 22

  Blood

  Servants began to clear away dinner plates and began serving dessert. Lady Murray, having made her point, steered the discussion away from statecraft. They were soon discussing the challenges of raising children, and the table’s humor turned from heavy to light. Though the topics were often personal, they were safe. It was about eight o’clock when all the guests simultaneously seemed to grow weary and some to allow that they’d drank too much wine. Governor Murray stood and the rest followed his lead. Those staying at the farm went to their rooms and the others took carriages back to Richmond.

  Grace supervised the proper cleaning and storing of the china before beginning her rounds before bed. She always walked the barns to make sure the horses were housed and fenced appropriately for the night. Grace thought about changing her clothes, but there were still guests walking about and she knew that once she had her gown off she’d want to melt immediately into bed. Instead, she held her skirts high as she walked through the stables.

  Satisfied that all was in order, she patted Silver Star’s head and turned toward the house. Before she could complete her rotation, an enormous hand covered her mouth and a red-sleeved arm wrapped around her chest, pulling her off her feet and dragging her through the dirt. Grace’s scream trapped in her throat as a low bark. She could scarcely breathe through the tiny space that remained between her nose and his palm, but she sucked in air when she could. The fear, contortions, and violence required more breath than Grace was able and after a few terrifying moments, her mind started slipping away. “No!” she thought. “Awake!” She thrust her head to the side and drew a deep breath, but he covered her mouth again before she could yell.

  “This way!” a young man said. She recognized him: one of the governor’s guards. Grace’s eyes darted around the stables as she struggled against her captor, whipping her limbs in a wild attempt to break free. The churning in her head made it impossible to fix her eyes on anything. She wrenched her arm free and thrust an elbow into her assailant’s gut.

  “Bitch!” he said. “You wait.”

  She twisted again, but his arm was a vice around her. He thrust his hand past her lips to press it painfully against her teeth and her mouth filled with acrid tobacco ash. His skin was old, and it matched the rasp of his voice. When she tried to bite, he gripped her jaw mercilessly and cupped his palm, staying out of her reach. The understanding that this man had done this before chilled her soul.

  Grace panicked, whipping hard again, hoping someone would hear the tumult, but she was already too far from the house. She could only just hear the voices of the few people that remained. Her dress, also, conspired against her to muffle her contortions as it wrapped its folds around her legs.

  “Better for you if you don’t fight,” her captor said.

  Grace forced herself to go still, trying to regain her composure for one hard attempt at escape.

  “There’s a fine lass.” Her massive attacker relaxed, too, and dragged her easily between the two main stables. She fought the temptation to fight; she knew she couldn’t overpower him. Animals tossed their heads and clomped their hooves in agitation. Grace met their eyes as she dragged past and it pained her. Horses recognized cruelty, and she chafed at their having to see humanity at its worst.

  Matthew’s stallion, Thunder, strained against his gate and whinnied loudly. He kicked hard at his stall and bellowed, then calmed suddenly and watched Grace as she tumbled past. His deep brown eyes were full of helplessness. As they pulled her away, Thunder started to whinny loudly, bellow and scream.

  “Hither!” the sentry said, no older than a boy. “Take her away from these animals.”

  Grace heard a door slide open behind her. They dragged her across the polished wooden floor of the hay barn and the young soldier slid the door shut.

  “This should do,” her captor said. He loosened his grip on her face. She used the space to inhale deeply and then to scream, but the scream was slapped away by the gloved hand of the young soldier. “You squeak again, we’ll kill you,” the older guard said into her ear. “And we’ll come back and burn this farm to the ground with your little bastards inside.” He squeezed the breath from her chest with his massive arm and smacked her again.

  “Don’t bruise her,” the young soldier said. “You should have gloves.”

  “Shewing her what is,” the older man replied. He dropped Grace to the ground, and she tumbled forward onto her hands and knees, crumpled in her dress. She turned back and looked into the face of the older soldier. “You mind your manners and it’ll be between us. No one will ever know. Not your husband, not the governor, none of your fancy ladies.”

  “I’m with child,” Grace pleaded.

  “Good for you,” the young soldier replied. “Then there won’t be a bastard to explain.”

  “If you go, I’ll pretend nothing has happened—”

  “Just like that?” the older man said, laughing. “You ungrateful whore. You’ll take what’s coming.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “My mates died so you could gripe about living on your fine estate.” He gestured to the young man. “Pull her dress off and let’s see.”

  The younger soldier dived onto Grace, trying to pin her to the ground, but she rolled away in the folds of her gown and was somehow able to take her feet.

  When the young soldier rushed at her, Grace thrust her fist into his face, shouting “Hi-yah!” He staggered back, blood streaming from his mouth. The larger soldier charged forward and shoved her against the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. He charged again and lifted her against the wall. She brought her knee up hard, but her skirt stifled the impact of the blow.

  “Take this damned dress off,” he commanded.

  The y
ounger man held her as he ripped her gown open. The older man tore it away from her legs. Grace struggled, pretending to want to keep the dress on, but once her legs were free, she thrust her knee up into his face. She heard the crunch of knee against bone. He staggered back, surprised, and Grace pushed herself off the wall and into the center of her practice floor.

  The younger man met his partner’s eyes as the older man regained his feet. “Too much woman for you?” he said with a mad laugh. “I like it when they fight.” He had a grin like a frenzied predator as he approached Grace. He was deliriously pale.

  Grace was free now, standing in the center of the hay barn in bare feet and pantaloons. She knew she was fighting for her life, and she felt like she had a chance. She would die before she’d let them touch her again.

  The young soldier walked toward her as she gathered her composure. She executed a perfect spinning kick and hit him squarely in the temple, then stepped back to watch him wobble and collapse.

  “Bitch,” the older man yelled, charging. Her shout was loud and her sidekick was hard, but she was too light to match him, and he reached out and wrapped his arms around her legs and pulled her down to the wooden floor. She struggled and rolled away, but he was on top of her again, and as she felt her strength ebb, she yelled as loud as she could.

  The barn door crashed open with a bang and Jonathan burst in, wielding the pick he’d used to smash the lock, ahead of a stream of men including Governor Murray. Jonathan flew to Grace’s side and thrust the pick into the old guard’s stomach as the man struggled to his feet. The massive soldier crumbled to the floor. “Fucking Redcoat,” Jonathan spat.

  Grace stood up cautiously as the men surrounded her. Their concern was palpable as they tried to assess the situation. “I fought them,” she informed them staunchly. “I’d not let them violate me.” Stand up straight! You’re a Daughter of Virginia! The room was suddenly silent. Everyone was staring at her. Grace felt naked in her white petticoat, and it took a moment for her to realize that their eyes focused on her legs. She followed their eyes and saw that her petticoat was turning red with blood. Not long after, despite her best effort to stand, Grace collapsed onto the floor, whispering, “Matthew.” She opened her eyes one last time to see a piece of barley float from the rafters to join her on the polished wood floor.

  Part 2

  Virginian

  “Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I’d advise violence.”

  ~ Mahatma Gandhi

  Chapter 23

  Land

  Matt walked down the plank followed by David Sutton. Merchants, traders, and seamen crowded the dock. A random vagabond in tattered clothes stood in front of them to block their stepping onto the wood platform. The old hobo was perusing the Norfolk with a smile on his face and ignoring everything else around.

  “Pray, pardon me, sir,” Matt said. “Could you move?”

  The man continued his upward gaze. “That an American vessel?”

  “It’s the Norfolk,” Sutton said. “Finest ship in the colonies.”

  “You don’t say,” the hobo replied. He moved the unruly black hair out of his face, which was cleaner than Matt expected for the way he was dressed. Looking over Matt’s shoulder at Sutton, the hobo said, “You Americans?”

  “Mr. David Sutton and Mr. Matthew Miller of Virginia,” Sutton replied.

  “Virginians proud, are they?” the hobo asked.

  Sutton went to reply, but Matt stopped him. “It’s been a long journey, sir,” Matt said. “May we pass?”

  The hobo smiled and moved aside while they stepped from the ramp onto the wooden dock. He watched them until they were on the platform and then he walked away, all the while looking up at the ships.

  “Odd bird,” Sutton said.

  “I’d be careful of telling strangers our names,” Matt replied as he was trying to adjust to the unmoving wood platform. Matt made himself step away from the plank to let the other sailors pass. The wood dock was dark with rain and worn smooth from footsteps and wheeled carts. Matt strode wide to avoid a pool of water that had gathered in a depression and then turned to face the vessel that had been his home for six weeks.

  “Takes time to get your land legs,” David Sutton said as he exaggerated his standing on his two feet while looking down at the wood dock.

  “I’ll miss her,” Matt said, still gazing at the ship. He smiled at his urge to walk back up the plank and pat the ship goodbye.

  “I’m in high spirits to be off her,” Sutton replied, lightly rubbing the spot where the bullet had entered his arm. “I’ve got relations here.”

  “We have much to do in the next few months,” Matt declared.

  “I’m most happy to help, Mr. Miller,” Sutton said. He dropped the hand from his arm.

  Matt smiled at the satisfaction of being able to help Sutton, and he looked forward to being a mentor to the young man. Matt had hoped to convince the ship’s surgeon to take Sutton as his apprentice, but Callaway had confessed plans to retire to his family farm and spend time with his grandchildren. Matt offered to take Sutton as his secretary until they found him a situation that matched his intellect. Matt knew he could trust Sutton and felt like he’d need as many allies as possible in the days to come.

  “Let’s go find Benjamin Franklin,” Matt declared as he made another effort to stop swaying. He searched the docks planning how they’d make their way to Franklin’s apartments and then took a moment to fill his lungs with morning sea air. It was fresh, with only a hint of the fishy decay that would overwhelm toward midday. Matt, with Sutton in tow, scanned the line of structures that littered the dock, to figure out a direction, and then set out to hail a cab. He turned to the Norfolk one last time, hoping that its crew could be trusted to deliver his three chests. Sutton’s footsteps beside him were enough to remind Matt that these types of problems were now the purview of his new secretary.

  **********

  Everything around Matt and Sutton made it hard not to be impressed as they made their way to the street, despite the extra time required to dodge men and crates. London was competing to be the most trafficked port in the world, and it was something to see. Once they were off the wood and onto the cobblestone, Matt looked for evidence of the transformed city that Franklin had described in his most recent letter. He had alluded to new machines but had not been specific.

  Matt detected a smell of oil and smoke in the air, and it made him look up into the sky. The buildings obscured most of the skyline, though, so there was no way to tell whether the grey he saw above the structures was from the natural overcast of the seaside or smoke from a factory somewhere. Franklin’s letters made him suspect that it was a little of both. Matt waved to the first cab that he saw. It was brand new inside with leather seats and plenty of window space to gaze out into the city. It only took Matt a few blocks of driving to his destination to realize that something, indeed, was not quite right about the city of London. He could have sworn that a bicycle had just passed.

  “I’m going to see if I can ride up top,” Matt said to Sutton, but the young man had already fallen asleep against the side of the coach. Matt reached his head out of the cab. “Driver,” he said. “Can I ride up there with you? I want a better view of this city.”

  The driver steered the two horses to the side of the road and halted abruptly. Matt opened the door and climbed up to sit alongside him. “Finest city in the world,” the cab driver said. His head was shiny on top with a thick rim of grey hair that extended down onto his shoulders. The age lines around his eyes weathered his face and fascinated Matt almost to silence. The driver waited for Matt to situate himself, then he slapped the reins, and the carriage jerked forward.

  “A man was riding on something…just now.”

  The driver gave Matt a puzzled expression.

  Matt made a motion with his arms. “He was holding a handlebar, like this.”

  “A Ferguson Two-Wheeler?”

  “A Ferguson Two-W
heeler?” Matt repeated.

  “Don’t like them much, myself,” the man replied. “Hard enough to drive a lorry around London without young folk on Fergusons jumping about the streets and scaring the horses.”

  “How long have these Fergusons been around?”

  “Few years,” he said.

  “Has the city changed recently?” Matt asked.

  The driver nodded. “Even I’ve been to an electricity shew.”

  “What occurs at these electricity shews?”

  “Magic, certainly,” the man replied. “Never expected to see such in my lifetime. Still not sure if it’s natural for a man to control the lightning.”

  Matt looked back at him expectantly.

  “You’ve never been?” the man asked.

  “I’ve just arrived from America.”

  “I only seen the modest ones. They say that the one at Ferguson Manor is the spectacle.”

  Matt was not regretting his decision to sit up front. “Know much about the inventor of this Ferguson?”

  “He’s sitting pretty, but ain’t one a them chaps that was born to it. Makes a commoner proud to see one of your own shew them flashy fops.”

  “He discover gold or something?” Matt asked to keep the driver talking.

  “Got factories in London. Makes brilliant machines and lots of them, too.”

  “What kind of machines?”

  The driver looked at Matt suspiciously. “Are you joking?”

  “We’re years behind the times where I’m from,” Matt replied. While he was talking, another bicycle passed.

  The driver pointed down to his left at a metal moniker on the carriage with a picture of a stylized letter “F” integrated into the image of a lion. “Ferguson Industries,” he said.

  “This carriage?”

  “Makes them with something called mass production,” he explained. “Still, there’s a waitin list.”

  “Interesting,” Matt said. It was interesting. He had noticed that something was different about the carriage as soon as the driver had started. The cobblestone roads were rough, but the noise of the wheels was muffled, and the ride was smooth. He leaned over the side to inspect the wheels and suspension while the driver watched him curiously. The wheels were the conventional spoked wood, so nothing different there, but they rested on a coiled-spring suspension. Coiled springs weren’t supposed to be on carriages, yet.