by Kate Dolan
The shock of water jarred him senseless for a moment. Eventually, he gasped and forced himself to breathe when he could get his head far enough above the water to do so cleanly. Once he had mastered the art of breathing, he tried to look around.
The waves had made it difficult to see from the side of the ship; from the surface of the water where he now struggled to stay afloat, the waves made it nearly impossible to see. What could he do now? All three of them would drown. He had been a fool to jump in! But he had not been a coward, he reflected, finding it odd he could think about such things while working so hard to keep his head above the stormy waves.
He settled into a steady rhythm of treading water and reaching up for big gulps of air between waves. But his arms and legs soon grew heavy and cold—how long could he continue?
Caroline coughed and tried to take in as much air as she could before the next wave engulfed her again. Though she had untied and kicked free of her petticoats, her wet clothes weighted her like a stone. Her legs ached more with each kick, but she dared not stop. She had seen Charles dive in after her, and she would not stop until he reached her.
Could she hold on that long?
She had pushed back that thought each time it started to surface, but this time it fully burst forth into her mind. When would he reach her? She had not seen him since he’d plunged into the water near the ship. He had seemed so close. She had tried to swim toward him, but it had taken all of her strength merely to keep her head above the water; and she had made no progress toward him or the ship.
And now the ship seemed much farther away. Were they all going to leave her here to drown? Caroline tried to call out, but her words came out as a mere gasp. Over the roar of the wind and waves, no one would be able to hear her. Where was Charles?
She sputtered and coughed again as water raced down her throat. She could not see! She was sinking! What had happened? Had she stopped kicking? She tried to kick again with renewed vigor. Rain suddenly poured more heavily from the sky, as if from a bucket, stinging her eyes. She squeezed them closed.
And now, in the darkness, it suddenly all seemed too much. She was so tired, and so cold, and there was no one to help her. She would stop. Dear God, she prayed, please let me end this now. But it was too cold to stop. She kicked in despair. Wasn’t it supposed to be easier to give up?
Caroline then noticed the rain had lightened, and she could open her eyes.
She saw the most extraordinary sight. Not Charles, but Mr. Throckmorton pushed his head out of the water several feet in front of her. He flipped his hair back from his face and blinked his eyes several times then began paddling toward her. Mr. Throckmorton? In the water? Had he fallen in, too? She tried to swim toward him.
“Miss Carter?” he yelled over the howl of the wind. “Here!” He pulled a rope up from the water. “Take hold of this line.” He looked toward the ship and paused for a moment. “I’ll pull us back in toward the ship.”
It was awkward and slow, but putting one hand over the other, Mr. Throckmorton inched them back toward the ship. Caroline still drew as many mouthfuls of water as of air, but she kicked to keep from being a dead weight on the line.
Then they began to move much more quickly. She looked up and saw their line was being pulled in by men aboard the ship. They were going to be safe!
But where was Charles?
Chapter Twenty
Caroline’s eyes burned dully, as if the tears that had seeped out all morning had drained them to dry, hot cinders inside her head. She continued a plodding course up the path from the landing, staring at the ground as if it took all her effort to put one foot in front of another.
Then a breeze swept through the woods, rustling the leaves high overhead and cooling her tear-stained face. Caroline lifted her head and closed her eyes, letting the wind soothe her eyelids and cheeks. Refreshment seemed to spread through her body and into her soul.
She opened her eyes. It felt wrong to enjoy the breeze. She should be feeling this pain, all of it. Charles was dead, and it was her fault.
The worst of it would come soon, when she reached the house. Even now, as they drew near, Caroline turned with every crunch of leaves, expecting to see her brother ride out from behind the nearest tree. He’s not here; he’s gone forever! her mind screamed with each step. But she could not vent these screams, though they pounded inside her head in an endless echo. Hot tears again streamed down her face in silence.
And then she was home. In the clearing, her sisters, her father, her mother, her aunt and the servants all swarmed around her. Dear God, and he wasn’t there. There was no Charles—and there never again would be. A stifled sob escaped her lips.
The days of crying in solitude on the ship had seemed endless and wretched, but this was far worse. She was hugged by the women all around her but could not return any embrace. There was much talking and confusion, smiles and some tears. Did they know? No, they could not know. She had only just arrived.
How would she tell her father?
She bit her lip and looked around, determined to find him. He must be told first, no matter how difficult the task.
“Caroline, oh, Caroline, my darling, we are so very happy to see you!” But her mother was crying as she reached out her arms. They exchanged a brief, wooden embrace.
Her father next came toward her, looking suddenly very old. Caroline had never envisioned her father as an old man; it frightened her. How could she tell him now? “Father, I’ve–I’ve…”
He reached out and pulled her into a hug.
“Oh, Father, I–I don’t know what to say,” she cried into his shoulder. “Charles is—”
“I know, my child, I know. Charles is gone.”
“You–you know?”
“Yes. Mr. Throckmorton came and spoke to your mother and me, shortly before you arrived.”
“So, you know? And…he did?” Caroline had been vaguely aware Mr. Throckmorton had left the ship before her. She assumed he had been anxious to see how his plantation had fared in his absence. Now, she looked toward the house and saw him standing discreetly by the door. He tipped his hat and nodded at her before turning to speak to one of the servants who had just come out.
Relief flooded through her as tears poured out in force. They all knew. He would never come back. And they all knew.
“Well, do you not think we had better all go back inside?” Caroline heard her mother’s voice rise pointedly toward her, but she refused to look up or move toward the house as her aunt and sisters did.
“Caroline,” her mother hissed into her ear, “please, not in front of the servants, not in front of your aunt.”
Caroline ignored her and continued to cry on her father’s shoulder.
“Look at your nose! You are blubbering like a street beggar. I do not wish you to disgrace yourself any more than you already have. Mr. Carter, take your daughter into the house.”
Caroline allowed herself to be propelled toward the house but turned her head to the side to avoid looking at her mother. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jimmy Dyer standing with a group of servants near the stables. But she couldn’t blame this on him anymore. She had wished this adventure on herself. And nothing good had come of it.
Inside the house, she glanced around at the countenances surrounding her, some sad, some anxious. She could face none of them. This was all her fault. She turned and bolted clumsily up the nearest flight of stairs, tripping over her skirts in her haste. In her room, she collapsed on her bed and pulled the covers over her eyes.
Josiah rode back toward Hanset alone, grateful for the lengthy exercise. The road, really only an old Indian trail, wound erratically through the forest, requiring him to duck his head continually to avoid low-hanging branches. Moreover, it took a fair bit of concentration to keep his borrowed horse on the poorly marked path.
All of this enabled him to avoid giving full rein to the unpleasant thoughts that haunted the edges of his mind. What would be left of his pla
ntation? What was left of his plans? If he had no viable plantation, how could he marry? And whom would he marry? Miss Carter was obviously no longer a suitable candidate.
What would he say to her father? He could not discuss the matter this day, or anytime soon—it would be improper so soon after…
And that was worst of all. Josiah felt like he had been kicked in the stomach every time he thought about Charles. His absence left a painful void—and one completely unexpected. He had come to treasure Charles’s companionship far more than he realized.
Josiah thought back to episodes with Charles—their entrance aboard the Sea Lily, their first meeting with Captain Spittel—and it seemed as though they’d never happened, or had happened only in some hazy, dreamlike netherworld.
Was it not hypocritical for him to miss Charles? He had never really liked him, had he? He had put up with his company out of necessity only, hadn’t he? Well, yes. And no. He had begun to admit he admired the forthright, courageous young man. There was something to be learned from him. And Josiah had felt privileged to think he could count himself among Charles’s friends.
But that was all over and done now. Friends he had none of, at the moment. He sighed and urged the horse to go faster.
He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as the moment of truth approached. He would view the plantation not from the creek, as he had always imagined, but from the overgrown road, thanks to the horse borrowed from the Carter stable. All the fields he passed thus far were worn out from the greedy tobacco plants, already abandoned by the time Josiah had purchased the estate. The newer, cultivated fields lay on the other side of the house, so the first thing he would see of value would be a tobacco barn.
It should be full of tobacco, hanging to cure in the crisp, fall air. Or, if it had dried quickly, the plants could already have been taken down and piled up to sweat. In any case, the barn should be full of tobacco.
And the fields should not.
This was all assuming Ellis, that fool of an overseer, had followed his instructions and directed the harvest and curing on time. This was all assuming Ellis was still here. That all of them, servants and slaves, were still here.
The horse snorted as he and his rider came out into a clearing before the tobacco barn. Josiah’s heart sank. He would not find tobacco hanging from the roof of this barn, for most of the roof had caved in. Though he wanted to ride on to the main part of the plantation, a morbid fascination forced him to stop and examine the damage closely. He touched the rotten boards with his fingers. A large bird’s nest was nestled comfortably in the rafters. The barn had not been used this season. It decayed in silence, like a fallen tree in the forest.
Josiah rode on, now allowing himself to imagine the worst. The house would be…caved in? Closed up? Picked apart? No—burned, he decided. With only the stone chimney standing and a few bits of broken crockery and charred furniture scattered on the crumbling foundation. But the new kitchen building would not be burned, it would still be standing. Everything in it would be gone, of course. Maybe a bird’s nest in the fireplace. And the slaves’ quarters would be—
It was no use imagining the quarters because he was now within sight of them. They looked the same as when he had left. Vacant, as should be with all hands working at midday, but well kept, with tidy garden rows stretched out behind. Someone still tended these gardens. Josiah grew a little hopeful.
The springhouse and smokehouse also remained standing; at least, as much as they ever had. And then he reached the main clearing. It all seemed to be there. A comforting stream of smoke curled upwards from the kitchen chimney. He rode the last few yards with a sense of anticipation then dismounted and tied the horse to a small sapling.
“Betty?” he called into the kitchen as he approached. Without even waiting to get inside, he looked around at the other buildings—and stopped in his tracks. He could tie the horse up in his stable. He could walk in and sit down on a chair in his house. Or he could walk into this kitchen and get a bite of his food from his servant. It was all still here! And it was all his.
His decision, however, as to which building to visit first was made for him when Betty poked her head out of the kitchen door. “Mr. Throckmorton, sir? We was expecting you from the creek. Didn’t that boy come down with the boat?”
“Yes, and he’s helping the Carters with their luggage. Are you well, Betty? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Not expecting to see me again, were you?” Josiah smiled.
“Ah, no, sir. I mean, yes sir, we was expecting to see you again. ’Course, we were. We knew you’d be back, and this soon, too. It’s just…”
“Yes, go on.”
“When I heard the horse, you see, I thought it was that rogue Ellis come back to take more.”
“What?” Josiah’s smile vanished.
“Ellis—he run off with the horses.”
Horses gone. And the tobacco? “When did this happen?” Josiah gestured for Betty to head back into the kitchen as they spoke.
“Weeks and weeks ago. Right after you left.”
So, the tobacco would have been left to rot in the fields. Josiah felt a sudden weakness in his legs and was relieved when he could take a seat in front of the worktable. He was equally grateful the dim light in the kitchen would make it difficult for the servant to see the anguish on his face.
“I am glad to see that you are well, Betty.” He forced himself to look up with a smile. “And the others? The people?”
“Well, Ellis is gone, o’ course, but Priscilla is still here, and as healthy as she’s ever been, which isn’t saying much, but if she’d eat a little more food and drink a little less cider in the evenings—”
“Yes, yes.” Josiah had been made fully aware many times of the shortcomings of Betty’s assistant. At least she was still here. Her indenture had more time left than any of the others. Except the slaves, of course. Their lifetime indenture made them the most valuable, at least in theory. To Josiah they seemed so exotic, so foreign, that he was uncomfortable speaking to them. He supposed he didn’t really trust them. But under Ellis’s direction, they had always done their duties in the fields so he’d had no cause for worry. With Ellis gone…
“And the people? Are they…all well?”
“Yes, your slaves are all fine now. We had some down with fever weeks ago but all recovered, ’mazing enough.” She looked at her master pointedly. “They’re all still here.”
“So, Ellis is the only—”
“Ellis is the only bad ’un.” Betty gave him a funny smile.
“And I left him in charge, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir.” She sat back and her smile broadened.
“Yes, well, I won’t do that again.”
“Thank you, sir. And the next time?”
“The next time I go away on business, you shall be in charge, Miss Betty, at least of the house. But, don’t get your hopes up. I’ve no plans to leave again for some time.” And by then, he’d have better found a new overseer, someone who could relate to those mysterious people in the fields.
The fields. He should go see them. What were the people doing without an overseer to direct them? Did they leave each morning to go picnic in the fields all day on the pretense of working?
He stood to leave. “Thank you for your kind welcome, Betty. Please give my regards to Priscilla when she comes in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Josiah knew he should ride the horse to the new fields; it would take much longer to walk. But he was almost afraid to face what he feared he’d find: tobacco and corn rotting in the fields, slaves idly picking apples and playing some sort of strange tribal games. So, he told himself the horse needed a rest and started out on foot.
As he passed through more of the fallow fields, high with grasses, he could eventually see the next tobacco barn. He let out a small sigh of relief when he saw the building remained at least intact, but the real question was whether it was empty. Through the wide-spaced rough planking on the side
s, he thought he could see the plants hanging, but it was hard to be sure. He nearly sprinted the last few feet toward the building.
Tobacco plants hung from the walls, ceiling, and rafters of the barn. Evenly spaced rows of plants hung from every available inch of space in the building. When Josiah came out the other side of the barn, marveling at this unexpected good fortune, he received an even bigger shock. A new tobacco barn had been constructed several hundred yards away. Was it his? It had to be; it was on his land.
He realized he had moved into the cultivated fields as he approached the new barn. All the tobacco had been harvested. And the new barn, like the first one, was full. He reached out a hand to touch the drying leaves. The edges felt crisp, crumbling slightly in his fingers. He knew that if fully cured, they should be brittle, but he did not know just how brittle. The whole leaf, or just the edges?
“A’most ready. A few more days, mebbe a week.”
Josiah turned around to see who had spoken.
“Welcome home, suh.” A short, wiry black man took off his hat and bowed briefly toward Josiah. When he stood again, Josiah studied his face. He looked familiar; the man must be one of his people.
“Thank you, uh…” It had been Ellis’s job to know their names.
“John, suh.” The man gave another brief bow.
“Thank you, John.” Josiah cleared his throat. “When Ellis left, did you…?” He gestured to the tobacco hanging on the walls around them.
“Yes, suh.”
“Well, thank you. You saved the harvest.”
The slave looked at his master with a puzzled expression. “’Course, suh.”
“I owe you a great deal.”
John cast his gaze down in response.
“Your competence will not be forgotten.”
“Thank you, suh.” The slave still did not look up, and Josiah did not know what to say next. After a moment, he simply turned and walked out. He supposed he should go see what was happening with the corn, but he did not want to. He felt he could trust John to oversee it, at least for today, at least until he found a new overseer. When the next convoy from England came in, there should be a good selection of servants. Or perhaps he could hire a free laborer as overseer.