by Nat Burns
By the Wind's Will
Copyright © 2018 by Nat Burns
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Two
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part Three
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Other Titles from Nat Burns
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By the Wind's Will
by
Nat Burns
Regal Crest Books
by Regal Crest
Copyright © 2018 by Nat Burns
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN 978-1-61929-376-2
eBook ISBN 978-1-61929-377-9
First Printing 2018
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design by Acorn Graphics
Published by:
Regal Crest Enterprises
Maryville, TN 37804
Find us on the World Wide Web at http://www.regalcrest.biz
Published in the United States of America
Acknowledgments
This novel required quite a bit of research. I wish I could say that many people helped in that effort but truthfully, I wrote this book during a solitary sabbatical, if you will, in an old 1835 Virginia plantation house. The research was helped along by the local library there, a good forty-minute drive away but filled with historical records, huge tomes that inspired me to continue Foxy’s story. The historic home I was in was inspiring, as well. Perhaps Foxy was there, whispering her story to me.
I do want to give a nod to the plantation-era novels of Lance Horner and Kyle Onstott. Though certainly not politically correct, and salacious at best, they have generally been deemed to be filled with authentic detail. They rose to prominence during the civil rights movement. But mostly, they tell a story of one person’s journey during a tumultuous time in American history. I, herein, have tried to do the same. My first reading of these books led me to imagine what the stories would be like if told from a powerful woman’s point of view.
Foxy is that strong woman and her story tells what life was like during the settling in of the prosperous southern planter, or plantation owner. She endures many heartbreaks in the raw wilderness of early America but continues on, blown to and fro by the wind’s will.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to history. We can learn so much by what our forefathers (and mothers) experienced, whether for good or ill. By studying history, we can see patterns that emerge and gauge whether these patterns will either lead us to make the same mistakes as before or show us how to avoid making those same mistakes. As our beloved Maya Angelou has said—History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.
History also forges connections, whether with tragedies or triumphs. By noting how our ancestors settled this country, understanding the hardships they endured, and reading about their joys, we can better understand our own lives and realize that we are never truly alone. What we experience now has usually come before and, if we wait it out, it will pass on to become our own piece of history.
A woman is like a tea bag — you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water
~ 1860 Irish Proverb
Part One
Chapter One
June 1749
ONE THURSDAY, AT dusk, Fidelia Grace Nelson, called Foxy because of her thick, bright auburn hair, sped barefoot along the cobblestones in front of the two-story row housing of the Old Close section of London. This street was but one street removed from the sluggish, wide Thames River, which, at that moment, was her destination. She ducked through the narrow, smelly alley between the houses nearest the river and eventually emerged onto the wooden planking of the busy, extensive London Dock, which followed the curve of the mighty waterway.
She darted around hundreds of stacked barrels, probably wine, and then two stacks of wool from the isles, trailing one hand along the oily softness of the errant wool protruding from the wrapping. She spied her father farther along and skipped gaily toward him. Several of the dockhands greeted her by name as she passed, and she bestowed each with a wave and smile.
“Just fetchin’ Da for supper, is all,” she explained to a few as she raced by without stopping for her usual chat.
She slowed and stepped to one side as her father mightily hoisted a final barrel of wine onto the Stanlish Inn wagon and waved the driver on. He sat heavily upon a coil of thick rope and scrubbed at his face with both hands, as though glad the workday was done. A flock of seagulls cried out as he shifted, and a gull landed in front of him, eyeing him with one beady eye as if estimating the possibility of a snack.
“Aye!” shouted Foxy as she leapt toward her father from her hiding place behind a stack of crates. The gull screeched and flew off, glancing back at her as though annoyed.
This was a game they played often, she and her Da, and he, as always, held one palm to his chest dramatically.
“You almos’ go’ me ‘at time for sure, me gurly! Keep ‘at up and soon I’ll be dead an’ buried. And who’ll feed yere belly then? Not thought of that, ‘ave you?”
He smiled at his daughter and poked her abdomen with one forefinger. His gentle eyes let Foxy know how precious she was to him, probably because, though her birth had been perilous, she and her mother, Mary, had both survived and for this, he seemed ever thankful.
She giggled and punched playfully at her father’s brawny shoulder, a move she’d learned from her friend, Degry, who she often played street ball with. Giles took it in good stead, absently pulling the child onto his lap.
“Come ‘ere, lass, perch on me knee. I wan’ to tell a tale and ask yere ‘pinion on a ma’uh.”
Foxy wriggled back against her father’s chest and stared up at his scruffy chin. Her hands absently twisted the fabric of her skirt into a cone of linen and she crossed her bare feet, her attention focused on his every word.
“Aw right, me darlin’, suppose there’s a poor man, ‘ere in London. And le’s say ‘e does work such as me. This man had a family that ‘e loved more than anyfing and ‘e fel’ that he couldn’ give’em aw the deedaws they deserve. Especially when it come to givin’ ‘em hope. And dreams, for de fu’ure didn’t look so ver’ promisin’ for ’em.
“Then, one fine day, this man happens onto an ol’ friend of ’is. This friend tol’ him of a way to start over again in a far land. In a new country across the ocean. In America! He even told ‘e man ‘at ‘e could own land, be a farmin’ man, aw wi’out cost. Even the passage on ‘e ship
was free, aw by ‘e king’s order. The friend was takin’ advantage of ‘is and says ‘come wif me! There’s noffin’ for you here. We can own lan’, live side by side, work togevah, raise our children togevah. It would be ver’ grand indeed.’”
Her father fell silent, a distant, dreamy look in his eye. Groggily, he shook his head and turned his attention back to his daughter. “Now, me question for you is dis, what should the man do? Should he be an adventurer? Or stay safely in ‘e way ‘e’s accustom’ to?”
Foxy frowned in thought. Then, with a logic much older than her nine years, spoke softly. “Well, Da, it seems to me that a man’s happiness has to be most important. If the man’s unhappy, then he should make a go of it and travel. He may be no more satisfied, but ‘twill have tried to better his lot and that’ll be worth rememberin’.”
She took in a deep breath and paused. “Mayhap the man should make sure his friend speaks true, though. It’d be a shame to reach this new country and find he has nothin’, perhaps less than before.”
Foxy looked up to see her father watching her with narrowed eyes. She squirmed when the thoughtful gaze lingered.
“Darlin’ Fidelia. You are wise beyon’ yere years and you’ve helped me much. Now, le’s go home and talk to yere ma. I’m a bit famish’, and ‘at’s sure.”
Foxy frowned slightly as they walked home through the narrow, darkening streets. How had she helped her father in any way?
There was beef for dinner and the smells permeating their small house soon had Foxy’s stomach rumbling. Foxy and her mother walked six town blocks early each morning to the parish workhouse, so they could earn enough to have meat with their evening meal. There, Mary supervised the orphan children as they went about their work, spinning flax thread and knitting garments for the wealthier women of the city.
Often unable to sit still long enough to spin or do the necessary needlework, Foxy usually worked as a runner. She replenished supplies, fetched and carried water and lugged the heavy, tagged garments to the front of the warehouse for delivery.
Two days a week, she eagerly visited the local Dissenter’s school where she learned about Protestantism and how to read books and write down ideas copied from the great writings of the Dissenters. She was also taught elocution and how to lose her Cockney burr so she could speak like a lady. Though her parents were not part of any church, her mother’s friend, Damarus Cord, was a proud Dissenter who believed girls should learn just as boys did. She even let the young girl borrow books from the small library they’d set up there. From this, Foxy developed a passion for reading, using up many a precious candle with her nighttime forays into fiction and adventure. Done with her onerous daily responsibilities, she would happily lose herself in other worlds, then would eventually fall into exhausted slumber on her pallet by the kitchen fireplace.
Later that night, after supper, Foxy was having a hard time falling asleep. There was a tension in the air and she could feel that her parents were still wide awake. So suddenly did her mother speak, that she jumped nervously.
“Aw right, Giles, wot is it ‘at’s troublin’ you?”
Her father chuckled softly. “Ah, Mary, ye know me too well.”
“And I should, af’er aw the years wed we’ve ’ad. Now, what is it? ‘Tis money troubles again?”
Giles sighed deeply. “In a way, love. Do you remembuh Charles Scott?”
“Charles Scott? Oh, yes. That tall, skinny bloke who used to work wif ye, near the shipping office. He used to tell ‘e merriest tales, ‘e did.” She chuckled at the memory.
Foxy, lying in the glow from the dying fire, quickly formed a mental image of Scott as she remembered him from their one-time encounter. Tall and thin, with a shock of unruly black hair, and deep blue eyes that seemed too large and sad for his gaunt face. It was said that he always had an amusing tale ready for the telling and he told them with such a sad, miserable, woebegone look that it made his listeners laugh twice as hard. She banished the image for her father was speaking.
“Yes, ‘at’s ’e fellow. I met wif him today. He was at the shipping office, arranging fo’ ‘is passage to ‘e colonies. He’s ask’ us ta come alon’ and I fink it’s a good idea.”
“Giles!” Mary sounded shocked. “The colonies! Wherever would we fin’ money for the passage?” She laughed outright. “You mus’ ‘ave ‘ad too much gin wi’ yere sup tonigh’.”
When Giles spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically harsh. “Listen, woman! I’m not sotted. Le’ me tell ye aw that Charles tol’ me and ‘en we can decide. A few years ago, ‘e king and ‘at Oglethorpe chap got togevah and tried to carry a lot of the prisoners in gaol to the colonies. Do ye remember the fuss ‘at was made?”
Foxy noted the disapproval in her mother’s voice when she answered. “Yea, I remember t’well.”
With a deep sigh, Giles continued. “Well, af’er the first few ships wen’, ‘ere was some trouble with ye Indians and ‘ey stopped any furver settlers from arriving at ‘e colony. Charles, after he lef’ the shipping dock, went on to become a clerk to ‘is ’ighness. He tried ta get on ‘e first ships, but ‘e king didn’t find suit to let him go at ‘at time. Now, he’s letting Charles go and Charles said that aw I ‘ave to do is petition King George. If ‘e grants ‘is permission, we can ‘ave free passage, seed, livestock, and aw de tools we will need to work de land an’ build.
“Ah, Mary.” His voice held a distant, dreamy note. “I’ll build ye a fine home. One wif a ‘uge kitchen and many windows. We’ll ‘have a great, large bedroom and Foxy‘ll ‘ave her own room, too, one wif a big, sof’ bed. Outside, ‘ere will be a lawn and praps a rose garden. You’ve always loved roses. What do ye say, love?”
There was a heavy silence for a few moments but to listening Foxy, it seemed to stretch for hours. When Mary finally replied, it was in a firm, steady manner.
“No, Giles, ye must be daft. ‘Tis ‘at Mister Scott’s fault, puttin’ ‘ese fool notions into yere head.” Her voice softened. “Ye jus’ don’t do it, love, not wif a young chil’. We can’t just pack up an’ go gaddin’ about across ‘e ocean to a place fuw of ‘eathens and dangerous animals that we know noffin’ about. Use ye God given brain and ye’d see ‘at I’m speakin’ sense.”
Giles began talking almost immediately, and his voice was so cold and stern that Foxy, next to the feeble fire, shivered.
“Can’t ye see? I’m doing ‘is fo’ Foxy, so she’ll ‘ave somefing. I don’t want to see ’er, a few years from now, married t’ some bloke who’ll be breakin’ ‘is back under ‘ose crates for a lousy two shillin’s a week. Is that wha’ ye want for yere daughter? I don’t. If a man owns land, ‘e ‘as somefing t’ leave behin’, somefing ‘is children can leave their children. ’ere’s noffing here for us, Mary, noffing but worries an’ troubles. I don’t wan’ me daughter to inherit ‘e same worries I got from my Da. I want her to have somefin’ solid, somefin’ to hold onto after I’m dead an’ gone. Can’t ye understan’ this?”
Mary’s tone was soft and almost sympathetic. “Yea, Giles, but everyfing we know is ’ere, our friends, Fidelia’s friends, Mother. ‘ow can we leave aw this which is familiar and go to where we know no one an’ so much is unfamiliar?”
“We can do it, fo’ Foxy’s sake, fo’ our sake. You won’t ‘ave to leave yere mother either. I plan to ask ‘er to go.”
“No, Giles, I won’t go an’ neither will Mother or Foxy. We are not fools. Ye’ve just got a bad case o’ colony fever, it will soon pass.”
Foxy, in the near darkness of the room, could sense the anger boiling up inside her father and pictured it as water in the pan just before it exploded into mist. Quickly, aware that she would probably receive a sound ear-boxing for her trouble, jumped up from her pallet and ran around to her mother’s side of the bed.
“Mother, please, I want to go. Father is doing what he feels is best. I feel good about it, too.”
She saw her father rise from the pillows and shut her eyes in anticipati
on of the blow she was sure to receive. Instead, she felt herself grasped beneath the arms and lifted into the middle of her parents’ warm bed, Soon, she was snuggled down between her parents and her father was speaking.
“Now, what were ye sayin’, me chil’?”
“I think we should go, Da. It’s probably not half bad over there now because so many people have gone. Have you heard of Captain Paully? Lives on Crenshaw, around the corner?”
Sensing Giles’s thoughtful nod, she continued. “I was talking to his boy, Albert, the other day and he told me all about it. His father carries goods between here and the colonies in his big ship and then comes home to tell Albert and his mother about the colonies. Albert tells me that there’s not just a few...uh, settlements, that’s what he called them, but a whole lot of them all along the coastline. Captain Paully told Albert that most all the places were well protected from the Indians now and from wild animals. He said that land stretched as far as the eye could see and if a man was willing to work it, he could own it.”
She quieted and turned to her mother. Seeking beneath the blankets, she located her mother’s hand and held it tightly. “There are children there, Ma, so it can’t be so dangerous. Captain Paully says it’s just like here ‘cept bigger and better. And clean. Please, Ma, couldn’t we try?”
Mary spoke gently. “But wha’ of yere friends, Foxy? Would ye wish to leave ‘em behin’?”
Foxy frowned in the darkness. “Well, of course, I will miss them, but I will make many more. I feel certain of that.” A note of excitement brightened her words. “Just think, Ma, it would be so excitin’.”