Along the march, other prisoners silently slipped away, their first thought being to find decent clothing, to get rid of what was left—often very little—of their uniforms.
Lieutenant West, young and strong, kept moving, keeping Corporal Ix and Samuel MacLeish together with the remnants of Captain Graves’s Royal Irish Artillery, but many of those men left shortly after the captain escaped from the camp. If their captain was going, so were they. The more phony discharge papers Charles created, the better he became at it. He could now mimic any signature.
Watching men literally fall by the wayside deeply affected him. He was told to keep moving, that wagons would come to pick up the weak and sick. Piglet marched along, too, no longer resembling a piglet but still healthy, ready for whatever life threw at him.
Once Charles reached Camp Security in Springettsbury Township just west of York, the frosts and cold had taken their toll. Trees denuded made the trek even more mournful.
Camp Security differed from The Barracks. A stockade of chestnut logs encircled the perimeter and the camp itself was divided into different sections. The captured officers had been billeted all throughout Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. Charles and a few others marched with the men, refusing the officer-class courtesies.
A giant rectangle, Camp Security looked foreboding. Its well-constructed cabins helped house the men, but Charles and the others knew life would be different from life in Charlottesville. Given the overcrowding, they expected some of them would be sent out to farms.
For the first time since he was actually captured, Charles felt downcast, worried. Eight hundred prisoners from Cowpens, South Carolina, had arrived shortly before the prisoners from The Barracks.
“It will be dark soon,” Corporal Ix noted. “So little light now.”
Walking along the symmetrical pathways, Charles agreed. “The winter solstice. As a child I looked forward to it. Christmas, you know, and I would be home from school.”
“I’ll be going tonight, Sir.” Corporal Ix nodded toward the guards. “They’ll all be bunked up.”
Although Joseph Reed, president of Pennsylvania, had objected to the Continental Congress about the large number of prisoners housed in his colony, congress adamantly refused to offer other locations.
The job of building a new, large camp fell on Lieutenant William Scott of the York County Militia. Colonel Wood, in charge of the camp, did all he could to see to further construction, proper food and water. As it was, even though the pay for guards was decent, three and a half shillings a day, there weren’t enough guards. The war siphoned off men. Often those left behind were injured, formerly wounded, or aged. Then, too, the overburdened colonel had to face the fact that Continental money was worthless. Congress blithely ignored this unpleasant reality, shifting the financial burden onto the people of Pennsylvania, much of it borne by those in York County.
Sharp in gathering information, Charles surmised this. He’d also heard that Cornwallis had burned all the tobacco warehouses in Petersburg during his campaign. He wondered if Ewing Garth’s tobacco had been stored in those enormous warehouses.
“Corporal, I don’t see how the war can continue, do you?” Charles asked Ix.
Piglet barked, for a rat shot in front of him, which he dutifully chased.
“No,” said Ix. “The Crown has to reach some agreement, and I fear that will take as long as the war.”
Ruefully smiling, Charles nodded. “You and I are all that remain of the marksmen.”
“Perhaps we should have escaped when Samuel and Thomas did, or Captain Graves.” Ix rubbed together his hands, wrapped in rags. “Tonight is a good night. I have my papers. Better than the real ones, Sir. Your hand is better.” He smiled.
“All right.”
At midnight, it was below freezing. The sentry at the front gate was dozing in his box. The camp was quiet, tendrils of smoke curling from the chimneys.
Charles and Corporal Ix left their cabin. Not unduly worried about awakening other prisoners, they still moved cautiously, fearing a stray guard. Piglet kept extra-alert.
Moving to the back of the camp, Charles said, “Up and over, Corporal.”
“What about you, Sir? How can you scale the wall? It’s too high to jump up and grab the top.”
“I can’t leave Piglet, Corporal. He’s been by my side since I came to this land. I’ll get on all fours. Step up on my back and over you go.”
The corporal looked intently at Charles. “I hate to leave you, Sir.”
“Go, make your way. I will escape in good time with Piglet and we will meet again.” He held out his hand, which Corporal Ix took in both of his.
“God bless you, Sir. We will meet in Virginia.”
“We shall.” Charles dropped down as the Hessian, thin, as they all were now, nimbly leapt off the lieutenant’s back, grasped the top of the palisades, hoisting himself over. Charles heard him drop on the other side, then he turned back toward the cabin.
The cold air filled his lungs; he felt as though they were expanding with the cold. Piglet’s breath emitted in tiny puffs.
“We’re together, Piglet. Forever, you know.”
The sturdy fellow looked up. “Forever.”
Being the second son of a baron meant something back in England, poor or not. Charles considered his life, something that being a prisoner gave him much time to do. Was it to be a life of service in the army, promotions painfully won, if at all? Anyone with more money could move ahead of him, despite lack of training or ever having been tested in battle. With luck, Charles might be promoted to major at the end of a long career. His only hope for some financial gain would be through the spoils of war. None of that here. Or he could hope for another posting, wherein conflict promised goods that could be exchanged for cash. If he lived through this adventure, that is.
He imagined attaining some success. Who could he marry? The great heiresses would be sold off to first sons of titled men. Every now and then a love match would spice up the marriage market, but he could hope for little in that department. Perhaps a suitable wife, herself of good name, would have a bit of a dowry, but the prospects before him dimmed. Could he ever return to the formality and suffocating social demands? Suffocating to him anyway.
Ideas battled one another after the first year of his capture. The eight-hundred-mile march from Boston awakened him to the richness of this raw land. The Barracks taught him how any man with a trade, a bit of boldness, might flourish. A man with gentle manners, good breeding, and a fine education had a great advantage. Charles never thought of himself as handsome, but he was, and that confers advantage as well.
He had made up his mind to stay, to study draftsmanship and architecture. Such an idea would horrify his father, but in it Charles found excitement, a kind of fulfillment he did not find in the army, although he liked the army. Anything was better than sitting idle.
He would leave before the fevers returned.
On Christmas Day, Camp Security’s guards and prisoners relaxed as best they could. Charles and Piglet presented themselves at the sentry box. Charles carried his portable drawing box, nothing else.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the sentry asked, his vowels quite broad.
“To deliver a present to the Wolf family, Sir. Here.” He reached inside his worn, torn coat and pulled out a forged pass signed by Colonel Wood, the signature more clear than Wood’s own signature, giving Charles freedom to deliver a gift from the colonel to the Wolfs.
Charles knew the Wolfs to be a prominent York family. He also knew the sentry, any sentry, would know that. And a sentry wouldn’t wish to run afoul of their commanding officer’s desire to please the wealthy Wolfs on Christmas.
The sentry read the paper, handing it back. “You may pass.”
“Happy Christmas to you, Private.”
The private touched his forefinger to his cap.
And Charles West, formerly of Captain Alexander Fraser’s Company of British marksmen, began th
e long walk back to Virginia, various forged papers in his pocket, his faithful dog by his side. He had not a penny to his name, all he had was youth, strength, intelligence, hope, and, of course, Piglet.
May 14, 2015
Standing once more at the milestone near the eastern end of Continental Estates, Harry spread facsimiles of two old maps on the back end of her F-150. She’d copied the maps from Ginger’s editor’s bin, along with the old highways maps, like that for the Valley Road. Trudy happily allowed her to do so.
Harry had studied the documents at her kitchen table and now on the site of those old properties. The first hand-drawn map showed the Harvey lands, the Garth lands, and the Ashcombe lands. An east-west road, now called Garth Road, was a rude scribble. This map was dated 1774. The second map, dated 1794, showed a widened road. The black line was thicker and had more offshoots: one being the road that this milestone marked, the road into the back of The Barracks passing over lands marked GARTH. Garth had absorbed the Ashcombe lands. The back of Continental Estates rested on the old Ashcombe/Garth land.
She also noticed two smaller holdings on the other side of Garth Road. Cited as being owned by Garth in 1774 was one now owned by West and the other by Schuyler. This had to be the Charles West who designed and built St. Luke’s.
The 1794 map showed more estates than the 1774 map, but Garth remained the largest landholder.
Hammering and sawing could be heard in the background. Driving through Continental Estates, Harry saw how quickly the men worked. Of course, framing goes up fast. The interior work takes forever, but still, three new homes were being framed. She also noticed that the neighborhood square now had a cross through it of trees with a smaller cleared square, no shrubs or anything in the middle. How beautiful it would be someday.
Walking to the shallow ravine, Tucker skidded down. He was followed by Mrs. Murphy and Pewter. There were enough bushes and saplings here to entice them to hunt.
Harry figured the ravine had last been cleared maybe ten years ago. The gullies, with less growth, had been cleared by faster rushing waters sweeping everything before. They were proof of the term gulley washer.
Her cellphone rang.
“Harry, it’s Snoop.”
“How you doin’?”
“I’m doin’, but I need a break. Can you pick me up just for a ride, just so I can get out of here?” He paused. “Too much goodness.”
“Sure. I’ll be right over and you can help me.”
“Right.”
Harry then called Cooper. “Hey, Snoop needs a break. I’m going to pick him up, give him a ride and a late lunch. Will you clear it with the house mother or house father?”
“Sure.”
The house, which Harry thought of as Snoop’s holding pen, wasn’t far. Within fifteen minutes, Snoop, scrubbed, wearing a new T-shirt and jeans, sat in the truck. Pewter was on his lap, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker were between him and Harry.
“It’s good to see you looking so well,” said Harry.
“It’s good to see you. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been treated well, but…” His voice trailed off.
“This won’t take long. But I can use your eyes.”
“Yeah, sure.”
They drove through the open, huge wrought-iron gates, down the main strip of Continental Estates, as Snoop intently observed the activity. “Man, they sure done a lot of work.”
“Wait until you see the square.”
Just as she drove toward the square, Marshall drove past and waved. Paul and six other men were working in the square. Harry also waved at him. He smiled, returned the greeting.
Another five minutes, and she was back at the milestone. Hopping out, she unfolded the two maps as the animals again rushed into the ravine.
The sound of an approaching car turned their heads. Marshall pulled up in one of his company work trucks painted Continental blue. He stepped out onto a gleaming chrome step, then onto the dirt.
“What are you doing out here, Snoop? If you want work, I’ve got it. And Harry, I can hire you, too.” He grinned.
She spread out the two maps. “Look at this. Well, you may have seen this in your research.”
“Sure. The old Garth estate. Huge.” With his bandaged hand, Marshall pointed to the second map.
“If you compare this to the first one from 1774, you can see how Garth expanded his holdings. Continental Estates is on a large portion of Garth’s land.” She swept her arm outward.
“A very good businessman, Ewing Garth. Ginger and I talked about him a lot. He was so shrewd. He picked up properties owned by Loyalists when the tide turned in the war. They were glad of the money.”
“What if they hadn’t sold?” Harry queried.
“The colony, soon to be the state, would have taken possession. Garth beat them to it, and so did other men who could tolerate risk. After Yorktown, it wasn’t as big a risk, obviously, but still the terms of disengagement, if you will, drug on for two years.”
Knowing little history, Snoop said nothing but observed. He could read a map well enough.
“I bet Ginger loved going over all this.” Harry smiled. “Researching new things.”
“He’d light up like a Christmas tree. Now, I enjoy it, but I also enjoy the historic tax credits, so my research, which often was his research, borrowed, has to be impeccable.”
Harry put her finger on the WEST name, then moved it to SCHUYLER. “A West was the architect for St. Luke’s. Herb said he married one of Garth’s daughters.”
“Ginger loved that story. Charles West escaped from the prison camp in York, Pennsylvania. He’d been confined to The Barracks first. Anyway, he made his way back here, offered his services to Garth, who somehow or other was able to keep him from being sent back to The Barracks.”
“Wasn’t the war over? Really?”
“That was part of it. At least that’s what Ginger thought. They had enough mouths to feed, and Garth, a very important man, vouched for West. West created new barns for him, outbuildings, an addition to his house, and he also fell in love with Garth’s younger daughter. Curiously enough, the captain who captured him had fallen in love with the older daughter. He fought so bravely at Yorktown that he was upped to a major, brevet major. He and West got along famously. One of history’s oddities.”
“I hope you put this on a plaque somewhere in Continental Estates.”
“I promised Ginger I would. It’s such a good story. The older Garth daughter, Catherine, took over all her father’s businesses when he died. Both she and Major Schuyler ran them, but she was the brains behind it.”
“Love is always a good story.”
“She also bred good horses. Her favorite slave, Jeddie Rice, worked with her on this. Seems he, too, had a real gift. Well, I’ve nattered on, but you can see that Continental Estates has a rich history and hopefully a wonderful future. I’m going to re-create the stables, riding trails. I’ll try to duplicate those structures for which I have drawings or photographs, as many remained standing once photography was invented.”
“That will be fabulous.” Harry thought it sounded like a fitting tribute to the early owners.
“That it will, but historical fidelity distinguishes my developments from all the others. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are some very good builders out there, but they don’t have a theme.”
“I guess you could say that Ginger made your career,” Harry replied.
“He did. Otherwise, I would have been just another high-end construction firm, development firm, after college.” He looked at Snoop. “Sure you don’t want a job?”
“Not right now.” Snoop tightly smiled. “When I’m free, maybe. I remember that I liked working out here.” What Snoop didn’t say was that whatever is out here may have killed Frank Cresey.
Harry folded up the maps. “I like coming to look at the milestone.”
“You come on in here anytime you want. I’d be happy to sell you a house, but I know you’ll never leave the farm. Tell you what,
if I had inherited that farm I wouldn’t leave it either.”
Marshall bid them goodbye. Harry, Snoop, the two cats and dog crowded back into the truck. She drove to Blue Mountain Brewery on Route 151 to take Snoop to lunch, first dropping off Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, not at all pleased that they wouldn’t be having lunch.
“After all we do for her,” Pewter groused.
Sitting outside, the Blue Ridge Mountains were a stunning backdrop behind a greenhouse called AM Fog. The rolling hills were greening up to the mountains. Harry devoured a hamburger. Snoop did also, and although this was a brewery, he didn’t seem tempted by beer. He drank an iced tea, as did Harry. She found she much enjoyed his company.
“Being a cabinetmaker, you must have a feel for the properties of each different kind of wood.”
He nodded, swallowing. “And the beauty. Some wood sings in your hands.”
“What a wonderful thought. Okay, maple.”
“Hard, lasts.”
“Heart pine.”
“Not buggy like some wood. It sort of glows. Soft, but people have loved it since way back when. I do, too.”
Harry, as always, was curious about everything. “What about the imported woods like mahogany, zebrawood, stuff like that?”
Snoop shrugged. “I’ll work with anything, but we have so much good wood here, why spend the money on that stuff?”
“You have a point there.” She wiped her fingers on the napkin. “My farmhouse and barns, outbuildings, everything, are built from trees, stones taken from the land. I think when the house was built they struggled to pay for glass, but they were frugal and obviously good builders. The house is still standing and it was built in 1834.”
“They knew what they were doing, the old people.”
“What do you think about the houses at Continental Estates?”
He thought about this. “Big. He’s not cutting corners. I don’t think the landscaper is either, but I know less about that even though I’ve done what they asked when I would get day jobs out there.”
“Marshall asked you back.”
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