Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  “He didn’t like being left behind. It wouldn’t have mattered who was with him. Where is Charlotte?”

  “No sign of her, Lady Devane. Only this dog appeared, on the third day. Covered in mud. Briars and twigs in his fur.”

  Downstairs, Colonel Perry and Captain Randolph and Bowler were in her parlor. Perry looked at her hard. “You are not going out yourself?”

  “There is no need, Lady Devane,” Captain Randolph put in. “Others are looking—your neighbors, your overseer, some of the slaves. They will find him if he is to be found.”

  “And he is,” Perry said. “I’ve spoken with Bowler here. They are searching everywhere, along the road, on other plantations; they even sent word to your other quarters. You must not trouble yourself. You must sit here and wait. Come, sit down. Play a hand of cards with me. Mann Page said you won seventeen shillings from his nephew in Williamsburg.”

  She sat down, accepted the cards he dealt, played card after card; then, somewhere in the game she stopped, stood up abruptly.

  “If you become lost, searching,” said Perry, “it will only complicate matters.” He gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them again.

  She did not look at him, or at the others. She went outside to the yard and stood there.

  “She must have something to do,” Perry said to Randolph. “Let her be.”

  Food and drink. The searchers would come in tired and hungry. Here was something she could do. Barbara walked out of the yard to the kitchen, thinking of all that must be done, but there on the table were huge hams and loaves of bread, dishes of pie and beans, wooden bowls of figs and nuts. They had been brought from nearby plantations, from wives and mothers and daughters, who could not come to search, but sent their men and their plenty. It was kind, more than kind, but at this moment, it reminded her too strongly of a funeral feast.

  “What do you know, Mama Zou?” asked Barbara, but the old slave shook her head.

  She went back to the house and made Bowler help her bring up from the cellar brown bottles of rum, a cone of sugar, jugs of cider for a punch.

  She lit the fires in the fireplaces, moved from parlor to parlor lighting candles, had Bowler help her bring the food from the kitchen into the house; finally she went outside to walk the perimeter of the yard restlessly until finally she heard the sound of horses, men, dogs. Running to the barn, she searched for Hyacinthe among the men and horses.

  “You did not find him?” she said to no one in particular. “Please,” she told the dismounting men, “please come to the house and have a cup of punch and some supper.”

  She went to each man, repeating her invitation and introducing herself if she’d not met him before, thanking him for his time and trouble. She had to walk around the yard again, seeking command of herself, before she could walk into the house.

  There, at the door on the other end in the hall, beyond the stair, stood Valentine Bolling and Colonel Perry.

  “Your maidservant is here,” said Perry. “She is upstairs.”

  “What are you doing here?” Barbara said to Bolling. “Have you come to gloat?”

  He glowered at her. “I’ve only just heard the news. I came to help.”

  “He isn’t to be found,” said Perry gently.

  “I want one more day,” said Barbara. She lifted her chin, ready to argue, plead, or cry, whatever it would take to get her way.

  “If you list him as a runaway, the sheriff will post the description at the county courthouse,” said Bolling.

  “He is not a runaway.”

  “You would need to word the notice carefully,” Perry said. “Sometimes, runaway slaves are killed in capture. There is no punishment of those who do the killing.”

  “He isn’t a slave anymore. I’ve given him his freedom. He has been kidnapped. Pirates. Governor Spotswood said there were pirates all along the coast.”

  “Pirates seldom sail this far upriver,” Bolling said. “And they are not usually interested in slave boys—excuse me: servant boys who were formerly slaves.”

  “A Seneca, a Cherokee, a Tuscarora,” said Perry, slowly, as if Barbara had started him thinking along a new path. “If he got across the river, he might have wandered onto a hunting trail, been taken.”

  “I will offer a reward. A diamond necklace.”

  “He is not worth a diamond necklace,” said Bolling.

  “A diamond necklace and a pair of earrings.”

  “List your reward at thirty pounds, and if he is to be found, he will be brought in,” said Bolling.

  Merchant, thought Barbara, some things have no price.

  “You may have heard that the Privy Council and Parliament in their wisdom dump convicts from Newgate upon us.” Bolling was looking at her as if she were an idiot. “News of a diamond necklace would be up and down the river in days. You might find yourself the hostess of most unwelcome visitors. Even more unwelcome than I.”

  “Captain Randolph has a brother who lives above the falls in the river. There are trails there the Indian traders use. We can make sure word of the boy’s disappearance is passed along. The Governor might inform his rangers,” said Perry.

  “Rangers?” She pounced upon the word, which had a hopeful sound.

  “They scout along the frontiers, past the heads of the rivers—”

  “The boy is a sl—a servant,” Bolling said impatiently. “The Governor will hardly call out the rangers for him. She has to understand. Lies will do her no good.”

  He will call out the rangers if Robert Walpole so orders, thought Barbara. Or His Majesty. You have no idea of my friends in England, Colonel Bolling. And then she thought, despairing, that it would take months to hear from them.

  “It’s settled then: one more day of searching. And we will inform the Governor. If you will excuse me.” She went up the stairs before either of them could answer.

  Bolling walked into the parlor, nodded to various men there, saw Margaret Cox sitting off by herself, and went over to her.

  “Lost him, did you?” he said.

  She didn’t answer. He left her and went across the hall to the other parlor.

  UPSTAIRS, BARBARA and Thérèse talked.

  “What if he is dead?” said Thérèse. “How will we bear it?” Her face was swollen from crying.

  “Until we find him, he isn’t, Thérèse. Listen to me. I can’t stay in this house. I’m going to go and hunt for him. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You go downstairs first. Just go quietly around the stairs and out the door that is on that end of the hall. Here, take Harry. Wrap this cloak around him so no one sees him. Wait for me.”

  Barbara rifled though a trunk, picked out a shirt, pulled a cloak from a peg, and then counted to a hundred. It was all she could do to wait. Stay here, they’d told her. These woods are thick. But she didn’t want to stay here. She was going to do what she was going to do, and not a man was going to stop her. She walked down the stairs, paused a moment on the last step. She could hear voices in both parlors. She turned quickly, walked past the stairs to the door at the end of the hall, and stepped outside. She waited a moment, fastening her cloak at her neck. No one followed. No moon tonight, she thought, looking up. No moon for Hyacinthe. Thérèse stepped from behind a pine tree.

  “You have Harry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. There will be a lantern in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it.”

  That done, she leaned down and gave the dog Hyacinthe’s shirt to smell. “Good boy. Good dog. Find Hyacinthe. Where’s Hyacinthe, Harry?”

  The pug barked and ran into the night, and she and Thérèse followed.

  “WHAT’S THAT?” said Margaret Cox. “Do you hear it?”

  She opened the door, and the sound was clearer, a lilting, mourning wail that grew stronger and stronger. Finally, men came into view, led by a giant, bearded, who marched into the yard of First Curle, some five slaves behind him, and gave a final squeeze to the bagpipes he
played.

  “It’s John Blackstone,” said Bolling, who had come outside. Indeed, everyone in the house had come outside as the sounds from the bagpipes had grown louder.

  “We heard about the boy and came to help find him,” Blackstone said. “They can find anything.” He tilted his large and heavy head backward to indicate the slaves with him.

  “You’re across the river on another quarter, aren’t you?” said Perry.

  “I owe the ferryman for crossing us, but I figure Lady Devane will pay it if we find the boy,” Blackstone answered.

  “Well, come inside, Mr. Blackstone,” said Mrs. Cox, “while I fetch her.”

  “I’M TIRED,” Barbara said. “How long do you think we’ve been walking, Thérèse?”

  “An hour or more. Harry! I don’t see him, madame. Madame!”

  Barbara stumbled, and her cry of surprise turned to a scream as she fell down a bank she’d not known was there. She fell into water; at the sound of the splash, Thérèse cried out her name.

  The shock of water closing over her head made Barbara lash out. Her head above the water now, she saw the light of the lantern, heard Thérèse calling her, and moved herself in that direction. The bank was close, but so steep she almost could not climb up it. But Thérèse was there, on her knees, hand extended down to help her, and Barbara crawled back up, the ties of her cloak nearly choking her, her heavy skirts fighting her every inch of the way. She coughed and sputtered and cried once she had gained the top, which was fine, because Thérèse was crying, too.

  “We’re a pair of fools,” Barbara said. “Give me that lantern.” She stood, but all she could see was trees. She sat down, trying not to shiver.

  It wasn’t so much that she was cold. It was more that she had really frightened herself. If this happened to Hyacinthe, she thought, did he survive? If there was no one to help him? I must not think of it. I must believe he is alive.

  “Let’s just stay here,” she said, “until morning.”

  You’ll become lost, Colonel Perry had said. You don’t know the woods well enough. She knew them well enough to find the second creek: She had just fallen into it. Thérèse sat down beside her. Barbara took her hand. “Hyacinthe has Charlotte with him. He won’t feel so alone with Charlotte.”

  After a time, they fell asleep, waking to scream, one after the other, when Harry leaped out of the darkness and into Barbara’s lap.

  BARBARA WOKE. She heard a bagpipe and stood. “Here!” she cried over its sound, “over here! Wake up, Thérèse, we’re rescued.”

  And there in the distance was the wonderful sight of lighted lanterns bobbing, as the sound of the bagpipes grew stronger.

  “Thank God,” said Perry, when he saw the two of them.

  Barbara ran to him, her skirts tangling around her legs. “I got lost.”

  “Well, now you’re found.”

  SHE STOOD in the misting rain, at a place where the second creek joined the river. They had given her her second day, but the rain had been falling for an hour, and any child of the country knew it would erase tracks, eliminate scents. She had been riding along the river in both directions all morning, looking for some sign, following Harry’s erratic lead, when Colonel Perry had ridden up to tell her they had found something farther upriver. She stood now on the bank, watching.

  Across the river, a rowboat was grounded upon a small sandbar set close to the other shore. For several minutes now, the heads of slaves had been bobbing in and out of the water. Blackstone was there, too, swimming among the slaves. There was sudden activity in the rowboat as those inside it bent over to work with the slaves and Blackstone in the water. She pushed back the hood of her cloak and shaded her eyes from the rain with her hands. They had pulled something into the boat.

  Perry put his arm around her. She held up her face, white and set, to the rain for a moment or two, eyes closed, and when she opened them again, the boat was rowing across the current toward them. Tony, she thought, where are you? I need you, now. When Roger had died, Tony had ridden through snow and ice to come to Tamworth, to comfort her. She had not appreciated, until this moment, his gesture.

  They were having trouble landing the boat. Blackstone leaped out; the water reached to his shoulders, but he pushed the boat to the bank. A slave handed him something small, wrapped in a bit of blanket. It was too small to be a boy, Barbara saw. Blackstone walked up the bank, and it seemed to Barbara that three-quarters of him was leg. She wiped the rain out of her face, straining to read his expression. He seemed to want to say something, but all he did was kneel and gently unfold the blanket. Charlotte lay there, tangled in slimy weed. At once, Harry sniffed her body up and down and whined and pawed at her.

  “Her back’s been broken,” he said. He pointed to her head, to a small hole and the puckered, whitened flesh around it. “Mercy killing,” he said. Barbara knelt to touch her. She pushed Harry aside, folded the blanket back around her dog, and picked her up.

  “I’ll want to go home now,” she said.

  She rode toward the house, Harry at a trot behind her, and Perry behind them both. At the barn, she dismounted. At the gate to the yard Harry ran past her, barking. She looked up and saw Thérèse standing in the doorway.

  “He isn’t found,” she said. “But Charlotte is.”

  Thérèse looked at the blanket-covered lump in Barbara’s arms.

  “Hyacinthe isn’t dead,” Barbara said, pulling up strength, pulling up a ferocious determination from someplace deep inside her, “until he’s found.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  SOME MILES UP THE RIVER FROM AUNT SHREW’S, THE PRINCESS of Wales stepped onto the royal barge. The barge was draped with cloth of crimson and gold, its flags flying in honor of the occasion. She nodded her head graciously toward the oarsmen and their leader. She and the Prince of Wales were to spend several days at Hampton Court, and they were going there by river.

  The visit was an impulsive thing—and therefore, an unusual thing, for Prince George was almost never impulsive. He was a creature of habit; one could set one’s watch by the unvarying routine of his days: audiences; official business in the morning; a drive in the carriage or a long walk in the afternoon; his nap; backgammon or basset at night; at nine in the evening, an hour or so alone with Mrs. Howard, his mistress. Not at eight-thirty, or a quarter until nine, but at nine sharp. Day after day after day, the same routines followed, the same paths in the gardens walked, the same partners chosen in cards or dance or bed.

  The Princess made her way back to her chair under the gilded, painted wooden canopy, smiling to her ladies, who were excited to be making the journey and who chattered among themselves like birds, the skirts of their long gowns belling under their cloaks like the cups of so many flowers.

  Yesterday afternoon, as she strolled with him through the gardens of Richmond House, the Prince had said to her, “Let us go to Hampton tomorrow.” And then, as she showed her surprise, he said, “We will have a fête. Yes, a small fête. Lady Alderley would like that. She is taking her daughter’s absence so hard.” And he had smiled in a satisfied, pleased way to himself, and afterward bragged to one and all of his plans.

  The Princess allowed one of her ladies to settle a soft woolen lap robe about her. She smiled at one of her favorites—a young maid of honor, as the young, unmarried women who served in her household were called. She smiled at Harriet, who would marry the young Duke of Tamworth. It was a good match, the joining of the strong Whig Holles family with a family whose fame was legend—including scandals and disloyalties, but that was another story. The others watching (someone was always watching) she ignored as she waited for her husband, who was at the other end of the barge with the musicians. She could hear his voice, always too loud, and now and then the murmurs of a quite different voice, a woman’s voice, low, husky, unmistakable. The voice of Lady Alderley, of Diana, aptly named for the huntress of myth.

  Courtiers leaped to the right and left as the Prince walked in to join the Princess
under the barge’s canopy. On his arm was Diana. She curtsied to the Princess.

  “Please, my dear,” said the Princess, looking directly into Diana’s famous violet eyes. They had snared many a man, including the one most disliked in London at the moment: Robert Walpole. Diana and Walpole had been lovers for some years. She had survived being tied by marriage to Alderley, an infamous Jacobite, to become lovers with Walpole, a man whose loyalty to the Hanovers was unquestioned. She always landed upon her feet, like a cat.

  “Sit here, beside me. We would enjoy your company…. I’m told there is no word from Lady Devane in Virginia. How you must fret,” said the Princess. She made it her business to know everything, all the gossip, all the scandal, all the happenings of those who served court.

  “I pray to God, my daughter is well.” Diana, her low voice sending a shiver up even the Princess’s spine, looked away, out to the river, as if she could not bear her sorrow, allowing the Prince and Princess the sight of her profile, somehow poignant in its imperfections, the sags and lines overlying what had once been matchless beauty. It was still an extraordinary face.

  Laurence Slane could do no better than the way she plays this role of tragic mother, thought the Princess: the sadness in the eyes, that throbbing undertone of grief in the voice. Diana had somehow managed to turn the Prince’s rage at Barbara’s leaving to her advantage. Lady Alderley is looking unwell today, he told her. Or, Lady Alderley seems sad. He put his own emotions upon Diana. Clever huntress. Manipulator of men.

  There was a lurch, as the barge was pushed away from the bank. The oars were uniform in their straightness against the sky. Then came a barking command, and the oars dipped down in unison, like weathered brown birds, into the water. The breeze from the river lifted the edges of the ladies’ small lace caps and played with the long curls of the men’s wigs. There was a murmur of talk as the musicians began to play.