by Mary Calvi
“Make the man build us a fire,” George advised Gist. “When darkness falls, we shall let him go.”
“We must get away from this place.”
“We shall travel through the night. If the enemy is watching, they will believe we stayed encamped by the fire.”
Hours later, they freed him and listened until he was out of earshot.
The two ran for miles through the threatening wilderness, only pausing to set their compass to lead them toward the Allegheny River, hoping to find the river frozen, which would allow them to walk over it.
Instead of an icy sheet, they found ferocious currents breaking apart whatever blocks of ice remained.
The next day was spent building a makeshift raft to cross the river. When they completed this task, they placed the raft in the water, setting their sights on the other side. It was not to be:
before we were Half Way over, we were jammed
in the Ice, in such a Manner that we expected every
Moment our Raft to sink, and ourselves to perish,
I put-out my setting Pole to try to stop the Raft, that the
Ice might pass by; when the Rapidity of the Stream threw
it with so much Violence against the Pole, that it jirked
me out into ten Feet Water: But I fortunately saved myself
by catching hold of one of the Raft Logs. Notwithstanding all
our Efforts we could not get the Raft to either Shore; but
were obliged, as we were near an Island, to quit our Raft
and make to it.
A numbing chill penetrated George’s body. He felt ground below his feet. They waded in the water through the dead of night, continuing to cross. George placed the knapsack above his head, tying the handles about his neck to keep the French commandant’s letter secure. The struggle left them fighting against rushing hunks of ice.
Land brushed George’s hand. A small island was before them in the middle of the river. George pulled himself up onto it and assisted Gist. A great sense of relief led to a deep exhale that looked like a frozen mist in the night.
Without a raft or access to food, George believed they could be doomed. The cold turned even more severe. Gist’s fingers and some of his toes became frostbitten.
* * *
MORNING ARRIVED.
George awoke to a silence emerging like a loud boom through ominous lands. His bleary eyes opened wide after seeing an unexpected occurrence of fortune. He told Gist to arise, to view the miracle before them. No longer were they in a life-or-death situation. The water had completely frozen over.
The survivors of winter’s fury crossed the Allegheny on foot and headed home, battered but alive.
* * *
MARY REACHED THE end of Colonel Washington’s journal. She never put the publication down without reading every last word, as if he would not survive if she didn’t finish. She knew how he must have felt in that water, the fear of being one breath away from your last. This one moment in his life she shared with him.
She looked up, trying to imagine how far her eyes would have to rise to look into his. Carefully, she folded the newspaper and placed it on the shelf, always on the same shelf in the same position with the writing away from her. Best to keep him away from the cursed. That is how she viewed herself. She felt responsible for the deaths of a little boy, her mother, her father, her Margaret. She was the cursed one.
Chapter Three
Charming Miss Polly
… the passions of your sex are easier roused than allayed. Do not therefore boast too soon, nor too strongly, of your insensibility to, or resistance of its powers.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON
FEBRUARY 14, 1756
The grand Banneker in the hall struck ten o’clock—time for her lesson. Mary found the dancing master already in movement on the makeshift dance floor on the second level of the manor. With finesse, Michael Tenoe, a picture of masculinity, leaped into a split in the air. When his arms extended, he reached high, appearing as if his life depended on it.
Mary never asked about the scar on his face that shone clear when angled in the light. The first time she saw it, a fright came over her. She didn’t need to know. She could only imagine the trials he must have been through.
Now he greeted her. She assumed her first stance.
“In a delicate manner.” His voice sounded pleasant even when correcting her. “The placing of your heel must be in gentle fashion.”
She tried to perfect her posture as Tenoe directed: “Imagine a string running from the bottom of your back to the top of your head and to the ceiling.”
Mary knew she was not quite balanced. “If grace could choose her dancer, I would be left at the wall.”
“Free yourself.” Tenoe shifted her shoulders back. “Without words, communicate what lies deep within your soul. The only limit to your possibility is the limitation you’ve made possible. This is your time.”
Truth be told, it was also his. Mary meant to see him released from the indentured servitude out of which her family temporarily hired him, and planned to take the necessary steps to make it so. “What will you do when you’re pronounced free?”
“Oh, what will I not do.”
“You will make the world your dance floor.”
“Each time my feet are on the floor, I am no longer servant, but sir.” He reached for her hand. “This is why I dance.”
She placed her hand in his and curtsied. “Henceforth, Sir Tenoe is what I shall call you.”
Like nearly everyone else, she read what was printed in an advertisement in the New York Weekly Journal about him:
Michael Tenoe is my servant, and hath been for
near seven years past; and all sums of money due for
teaching are due and payable to me. And I do hereby
forewarn all persons from paying him any money,
giving him credit or dealing with him,
on any account whatever, until he has discharg’d
himself from all obligations due to me; which shall
be publickly advertised, when accomplished.
Tenoe himself told her his story. Poor and without shelter at the age of fourteen, he sold himself to a ship’s captain for passage to the New World. He confided in her the rumors that drew him across the Atlantic: bountiful feasts and limitless moneys. Those were not to be his fate, for his life dues were immediately purchased by Jones Irwin. Mary asked Tenoe to bring the contract papers with him this day.
“You will not only impress the crowd but intimidate it,” Tenoe encouraged her.
The sounds of someone racing up the stairs stopped them. Eric Arthur Angevine rushed into the room.
Tenoe showed disappointment in his face. “Your expected time of arrival was a quarter of an hour ago.”
Mary thought Eric Arthur the perfect choice for a dance partner. His father served as estate steward for the Philipses, loyal, efficient, and at the constant side of her brother. Eric was a working lad, helping his father, but also elected to a position at the town’s church. The occupation of sexton sounded prestigious. Mary had heard Eric wanted the young females in town to know his title. While some boys turned away from girls like Saint Vitus’ dance, not Eric. He gave the girls tours of the church, showing them the secret passage to the bell tower, and he always had enough coins to crowd his pockets. Mary knew, as sexton, Eric was really just the town grave digger, shoveling out an adult person’s grave for eight shillings, four shillings for children. Being practically a child himself, Eric complained about that part of the job, but about shillings in his pocket he did not.
With pockets stuffed with coins, Eric took his position apart from her on the expansive floor. They began their practice of the baroque steps of the flirtatious minuet. She became nervous as she imagined a dance with the colonel and made a failing attempt to punctuate the complex nature of the dance with the Z figure sequence of steps. Right foot. Left foot. Right again. Left toe
points. Three taps. Left hands touch.
“Again.” Tenoe had them join hands. Eric, with his weighty pockets, reached out his right hand to hold her left one. Coins jingled. They retreated to both touch right hands. The quick change that followed to touch left hands did not go according to Tenoe’s instruction. Instead, Eric’s breeches fell around his feet. His undergarment made an appearance. Tenoe howled. Mary giggled. Eric hurried to tug up his waistband. “I will never be caught with my breeches down again!”
Mary completed her lesson with glee.
Before leaving, she requested from Tenoe his contractual papers and moved to the privacy of her study to read through each detail:
This INDENTURE witnessed that Michael Tenoe
doth Voluntarily put himself as servant to Jones Irwin,
for and during the full Space, Time and Term of 10 years
from the first Day of the arrival of the Ship; during which
time, or term, the Master shall and will feed and supply
Michael Tenoe with sufficient meat, drink, apparel,
lodging and all other necessaries befitting such a servant;
and at the end and expiration of the said term;
Michael Tenoe is to be made Free, and receive
according to the Custom of the Country. If the servant,
Michael Tenoe, shall pay Jones Irwin 15 pounds
British with twenty percent interest before that time,
he shall be free. In Witness whereof the parties have
hereunto interchangeably put their Hands and Seals.
Mary secretly tallied the amount with interest and marched to the library to make her demands. There, she informed her brother of the sum to be paid for Tenoe’s services once the pleasure ball ended.
“Eighteen pounds!” Frederick shouted. “I have already settled with Mr. Irwin for a smidgeon of that amount.”
“Mr. Tenoe has developed a number of new dances for the ball. I believe he deserves compensation. Besides, he is a master of dance!”
“A self-taught dancing master?” Frederick grimaced. “It is unheard of.”
She knew the total was exorbitantly higher than what should be required for one evening of work. But she also meant to see him freed. “If he is not paid properly … you will not see my feet upon that floor.”
“Eighteen pounds for a dancing man … absurd! Eight is all. Not a shilling more.”
“Then, Frederick, I expect a fee”—she stomped her feet—“for my attendance!”
His eyebrows lifted high. “A fee?”
She raised her hands in front of him with fingers outstretched. “Ten British pounds.”
“An outrage!” His nostrils flared.
“Ten.”
“Eight.”
“Ten.”
“I will make my decision tonight.”
“Fine … eight. If you find the evening a success, I expect the full amount.” Here she was negotiating terms for an event she wasn’t even confident she would attend. If Frederick allowed her to handle her own money, this would be completed already, but Papa had written that upon his death, Frederick would remain in charge of the estate.
Susannah marched in. “We will be late.” Clutching her arm, she led Mary toward the door. “Frederick, our sister has her final fitting. Now leave her be.” She walked Mary out of the room, the manor, and straight into the coach awaiting them.
* * *
MARY STOOD ATOP a wooden stand inside a little yellow box of a house on a hill, a stone’s throw from the manor. The cottage belonged to the Sherwoods. Rosie, with pointed spectacles hanging from her neck and a bun never quite neat atop her head, created the finest gowns in the Hudson Valley. Susannah and cousin Eva joined her for the fitting.
Throbbing started squarely between Mary’s eyes and an ache moved patiently through her midsection. Did she position the newspaper on the shelf correctly with the words away from her, words always away from the cursed? She didn’t have time to double-check. Clamminess on her palms was the first sign of trouble. She tried to remain calm through the pulling and tugging. She needed to take her mind off the publication and instead concentrate fully on the details of the gown or maybe on the man who would see her in it tonight. She just had to go, or at least peek out a door to see him. This was the hero of the South who charged into enemy territory with nothing more than a knapsack. Just months ago, they lauded him again for saving an army from defeat on the battlefield. This was the same person coming to her home in just a matter of hours.
She felt flushed. She took in a deep breath. What is that lingering reek overwhelming my nose? Mary wondered. At least it provided a distraction.
Susannah and their cousin, seated near Mary, kept up a bombardment of adulation. “Nature exhausted its charming stock in her creation. Every belle will stand in envy.”
“Polly’s beauty is beyond compare!” Her cousin added a theatrical emphasis with the flailing of her arms. Mary knew her unrelenting onslaught of flummery was nothing more than a mummery. Mary was envious of how Eva was so at ease in her own skin. She had large brown eyes, a full face, and a chuckle that was infectious. Mary called Eva her cousin, but in truth she was related via adoption; two generations earlier, Eva’s grandmother had been taken in by the Philipse family. “You do look lovely,” added Eva with sincerity this time, slouching comfortably in the chair.
Mary’s mind would not be calmed until she got back to that shelf. Yes, she believed she placed the newspaper correctly. At least she thought so. Mary stood nervously, looking at her reflection as she wore a shimmering gold silk dress made up of three pieces. The first was the bodice, which was corseted at the back and had an opening at the front that fell too low for Mary’s comfort. She pulled it higher.
Rosie removed the needle and thread from its holding spot between her lips. “Miss Polly, we must emphasize your apple dumplin’ shop, dear.”
Eva broke into sounds halfway between giggling and cackling.
Mary would rather cover her full bosom than put it on display.
The skirt was conical to show off her elongated waist. The train, which could be removed for dancing, was made of a highly decorative cloth with rich embroidery in pure gold thread. The ball gown had frilling at the hem so as to allow her ivory silk shoes to show through the bottom. They were highly embellished with floral embroidery in delightful colors of blues and plums.
Rosie lowered the gown below Mary’s shoulders.
“Each gentleman shall behold our charming Miss Polly with love’s eye,” Susannah said, continuing her near exaltation.
“A sight so amiable and lovely.” Eva fluttered her eyelashes.
“Even deformity is pleasing, I suppose, if there is some good food and drink.” Mary had quite enough of the encomiums.
Eva smiled. “And beauty, hideous, if there is none.”
Rosie adjusted the lace at the bottom of the gown’s sleeves. “Nary a thing, not even a hogshead of rum, can help a gentleman of three outs.”
Mary knew exactly what she meant.
“Three outs?” inquired Susannah.
“The raucous rogues about town, men of the three outs.” She lifted a middle finger. “Out of money.” She raised a pointer finger. “Out of wit.” And she added her thumb. “Out of manners. They’re not worth a farthing of ye time.”
“And what do you make of the sheriff, Rosie?” asked Eva.
“That man again,” said Mary. He was the suitor who shared tea with Frederick when Mary refused to come out of her bedchamber.
“He’s as divine a young fella as nature could form, plus I appreciate a belly that’s fulla money.”
“He’s of the mind that his purse can seduce any woman to fall in love with him. He’s employed every talent against the female persuasion. Each has fallen, except for one, of course.” Eva stared Mary’s way.
“Stay aside, ladies, from a gilly gaupus, like the man with the head that flares like a bell, Timothy Scandal, or whate’er he calls hims
elf today.” Rosie made a bell shape with her hands around her head.
“I take offense! Yes, he’s a bit of an awkward fellow, but using a sobriquet is quite romantic, Rosie, and I admire his hairstyle. He’s a fine writer, you know. Tell them, Polly, what the poet sent over to you.” The grin on Eva’s face grew larger.
“What did the scandalous one write to you this time?” Susannah appeared none too pleased.
Mary stayed quiet for a moment but relented and recited the lines he had written. “‘So desirous I felt from only a light touch…’”
“Oh my.” Susannah huffed.
“‘Unaffected thy were, and I too much!/ How is this, that few gains move me thus, and my love reigns?’”
“Please keep going. Keep going,” urged Eva.
Mary did so. “‘I grin, then sigh, I shake to and fro; / Such a fleeting moment to cause me to flutter so.’”
“‘A Touch of the Petticoat,’ he entitled it.” Eva was hardly able to contain her amusement. “A touch of the petticoat.”
“Did he touch your petticoat?” Susannah asked abruptly.
“Absolutely … not. No. No. Certainly not.”
“He is a superior writer.” Eva always defended the man. “I’ve read his elegantly styled essays with their Latin phrasing. Not many men can quote a philosopher quite like he can.”
“A philosopher? Better to choose a gollumpus,” Rosie muttered. “He may be clumsy, but properly fat. And if you see an owl in an ivy bush run the other way, the same goes for the nick ninny, the niffynaffy, and the nickumpoop.”
“Tell us the difference, Rosie,” Eva pressed her.
“The nick ninny is too simple a man. The niffynaffy is too trifling a man.”
A low titter from Mary soon turned into a chorus of unrestrained merriment between her and Eva.