“God, what a lunatick country!” he grumbled to himself as he went to the house that had been Cornwallis’s residence. “Half the Regulators and Piedmont still against the Tidewater, the rest just Rebels, half of ’em still Tory, Scots who hated George the Second fighting for George the Third. The Tide-water mostly Rebel no matter what the Piedmonters think and at each other’s throats anyway. And you can’t even find an Anglican that’ll answer to the name anymore. They’re welcome to this asylum and good riddance.”
The Burgwin House was headquarters for the notorious Major Craig and his “witch-finder,” that anti-Rebel David Fanning, who was rumored to be so eaten with the scrofula, the King’s Evil, that he hated all of mankind. For such a nice house, it did have a bad air about it, due, Alan thought, to the smells arising from the cellars, which had been used as prisons for some time. Was it his imagination, fed by the choler of that . . . whatever he had been . . . at the manse, that he thought he heard the moans of tortured bodies from below?
He did find a harried staff officer who knew most of the refugees and steered Alan in the right direction down to Dock Street and then inland five blocks, up over the crest of the hill and down into the flats to a tumbledown mansion that had seen better days. It was a daunting sight; the yard was full of crates and junk, the stableyard full of carriages and wagons crammed in any-old-how. Laundry hung from every window and railing, and the place swarmed with men, women, and children in faded finery, with the occasional black face still in livery. People came and went on errands continually. He noticed it was shunned by most residents of the town—he would have shunned it himself if given a choice; it looked like a debtor’s prison.
The Chiswick family residence was a single downstairs room. Alan knocked on the doors and heard a stirring within. He tugged down his waistcoat, fiddled with his neckcloth, and adjusted his lovely silver-fitted sword at his side, waiting for admittance.
The rooms had once been a sort of smaller back dining room, for the doors slid back into pockets. The girl who opened the doors regarded him with a cool regality, a cautious nose-in-the-air aloofness at his presence.
“Have I found the Chiswick family?” Alan asked, taking off his cocked hat preparatory to a formal introductory bow.
“It is, sir,” she replied, a hitch in her voice. One hand flew to her lips, as if in fear that a man in uniform seeking them could only mean dire news about Governour, Burgess, or both.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Miss. I am Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy. I bring you tidings from Lieutenant Governour Chiswick and Ensign Burgess Chiswick,” he said, making a bow to her in the hall to the amusement of several small children who had followed him in from the front porches.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, almost biting a knuckle.
“Glad tidings, I assure you,” Alan went on, rising from his bow.
“Come in, come in, good sir!” she gushed. “Are they well, were they hurt? We heard the army had surrendered and feared . . .”
“They are in New York at present, both well,” Alan said.
Her face broke from seriousness or fear into the widest, most wondrous smile, and she flung herself on him and bounced up and down in glee, giving a little shriek of delight.
“Say you truly, sir? They are alive and well?” she beamed.
“Truly, miss,” Alan said, shaken by her emotion and how her slim body had felt against him as she jounced on her toes in relief and glee.
“Momma, Daddy, there’s a Navy officer here; he’s seen Gov and Burge, and they’re safe and well!” she called into the room. Taking him by the hand, she almost dragged him into the room. There had been some attempts made to provide privacy by hanging figured quilts and blankets from light rope strung from one picture rail to another, but the rooms were cramped by furniture; a large bed for the parents could be espied through a part in the curtains, another impromptu bedchamber further back—most likely for the enthusiastic girl—and a small cot sharing the space for a large black woman, obviously an old family retainer, who came trundling out, clapping her hands and weeping for joy at the news.
The parents had been seated in the middle of the rooms, fenced off into a tiny parlor of quilts by the hearth. A small fire tried to relieve the late-fall chill without much success. The man looked to be in his fifties, his hair already white and lank, and he had difficulty rising to greet his guest without support from a cane, and the daughter at his elbow. The mother was sprier, slim and straight-backed, her hair also almost white, and her face lined with care and years. Tears flowed freely as he was introduced to Mr. Sewallis Chiswick and his wife, Charlotte. When they got around to it, the black woman was referred to as “Mammy,” and the tall slim girl who had opened the door turned out to be the sister Caroline that Burgess had mentioned.
“Give ye joy, Mister Lewrie!” the mother said once everyone had had a good weep and a snuffle. “And did you meet my boys in New York?”
“No ma’am, I was at Yorktown with them, from the very first,” he said, taking his ease as best he could in an old-fashioned dining chair that threatened to go to flinders if he shifted too much or leaned back too far. “Our ship was trapped in the York River with the army and I had to go ashore with artillery. I met them there.”
“Then they were with the army,” Caroline said. “However did then ya’ll escape the fate of the others?”
There was nothing Alan liked better than a receptive audience, so he regaled them for an exceedingly pleasing few minutes, telling them all about the thwarted evacuation, the storm, and their adventure on Jenkins Neck, glossing over the battle and their eventual escape to sea.
“Stap me, what a grand adventure,” the father said, thumping his cane on the floor in pleasure and upsetting the teacup which had been balanced on his knee. There was an uncomfortable silence for a second, but the girl leapt to kneel and begin picking up the pieces while the mother shifted uneasily and gave a loud sniff. Alan thought the old fool had broken one of her priceless wedding china. The black woman puffed into action, trying to do the job instead.
“Sit back, girl, an’ let Mammy at it. Lord knows ah kin do fer the mister, ain’t nothin’ new ta me, my, my. Res’ easy, Miz Chalotte.”
“I have letters from Governour and Burgess,” Alan said to break the embarrassing scene, realizing he had monopolized their time too long.
“Have ye now?” the man beamed, the incident of the cup forgotten. “Carry, where’s my spectacles? I want ta read ’em. May I have ’em, sir?”
“Daddy, you know they’re lost these two weeks past,” Caroline told him firmly, getting back to her feet. “But I have young eyes, I’ll read them to us all, would you like that, Daddy? Momma, you shift your chair over here so you can read over my shoulder. I know you want to see ’em just as bad as Daddy.” She went on like a governess cajoling children.
“Perhaps I should intrude on your joy no longer,” Alan said, beginning to realize that Mr. Sewallis Chiswick was adrift in his dotage and was an embarrassment to the mother and daughter. The man spent a full minute patting himself down searching for the lost spectacles, and then called Mammy to fetch them. The daughter got a sad look and shared it with the black woman.
“Lawsy, Missa S’wallis, yo speckticles ain’t nowheres ta be foun’ an us all lookin’ fer ’em all las’ week, we has,” she chided.
“Let me be your eyes, Daddy,” Caroline said soothingly. She sat down by his side on the shabby settee and patted him on the shoulder until he calmed down.
“Yes, you read that letter, Carry. And you stay, young man, and hear about my boys up in Virginia. Mose, get this lad a glass of something, will you? Where is that lazy black squint-a-pipes, anyway?”
Caroline looked up at him, as though daring Alan to even think a single bad thought about her family, and he was forced back into the rickety chair as though driven. The mother was busy shifting her chair, insisting that Mammy assist her. Alan rose instead and did it for her, and the chair was as light as a feather
, something even a child would have no trouble shifting. As he resumed his chair, Mammy fetched out a silver service and poured tea for them, carefully rationing the sugar. The tea was not much better than hot water, so she must have been rationing the tea leaves as well. There were, however, some fresh ginger cookies, and Alan chewed on one while the daughter broke the seal on the letter to reveal large folio sheets of vellum. She smoothed them free of travel wrinkles (she cannily saved the wax wafer seal for later use) and began to read.
God, I wish I was anywhere but here, Alan thought as he let the first part of the letter wash over him without impression. If I hadn’t promised the brothers, I’d have just dropped this off and been on my merry way.
He let his attention wander about the place to take some sort of inventory of their furnishings and possessions, to see if they were as rich as Burgess had stated, and it was hard to judge. There was good silver and china alongside cracked glasses. There were gilt-framed paintings of nature scenes and relations leaning against some of the most hideous, scratched furniture he had ever laid eyes on. Having found nothing of interest in the room, he let his eyes wander over to the people; the mother sitting rigid as a grenadier guard with a handkerchief screwed into her bony little fists, awaiting bad news; the old man, almost drowsing with a faint smile on his face as he listened to the family chatter from his sons; and the daughter.
She struck him as gawky, God help her. Taking her measure from how she had hugged him with so much abandon at the door, he thought her barely an inch or two less than his five feet nine, much too tall for beauty. Most men, Alan included, liked their girls a lot smaller, more petite, and more roundly feminine. This one was long and lanky, almost skinny. He tried to remember how old Burgess had said she was— eighteen? Maybe she would fill out, but she could also shoot up like a cornstalk and become even less desirable.
Probably going to be a spinster for life, poor girl, Alan thought. Be lucky if she can take service with some monied family, and that’ll be a comedown, though you can’t get much further down than this shabbiness now. Maybe a poor tradesman or curate would have her. Hell, even a peer’s daughter would have problems getting a husband, being that tall. Don’t know though, if she gave up heeled shoes, had any sort of decent portion, she might be worth troubling with. She is pretty, in a way.
The more he studied her, the prettier she looked, but Alan put that down to his lack of mutton for comparison lately, except for the Hayley sisters back in Virginia, and they had not been raving beauties fit enough to light up a London season.
Her forehead was high, her brows arched naturally. Her face was a long oval, but not horsey long; her chin firm but small; her mouth was wide and expressive, one minute pensive, the next curving up and dimpling her lower face, stretching lines from chin to near her nicely rounded cheeks. She wore no powder or artifice, but her skin was clear and smooth, with just the hint of the lightest down. At one moment her eyes would be wide with happiness—hazel eyes like her brothers—the next minute they squinted in concern or concentration. Her hair was long and straight and very dark blonde, fine and a little flyaway. Had she the same ash-blonde hair of Governour or Burgess, she would have been too severe, but she gave off more warmth by her very appearance than ever either of those worthies did.
She read well, with a pleasant voice, and Alan did not mind her provincial accent, for it was soft and lyrical. Of course, after listening to sailors for nearly two weeks, creaking iron doors could have seemed lyrical. More than that, she did not falter over words, nor did she read slowly in a monotone, but was expressive enough to give life to the letter, and Alan could imagine Governour reading it aloud. Someone had spent some time educating her along with her brothers, he decided, even if it ended up being wasted on novels and housewifely guides like most of the women back in England, who had so little to do.
Rather cute nose, he decided also, after thinking on it.
She was slim, though; tall and slim, almost skinny. Alan thought she would not gross between seven and eight stone even soaking wet. Her bosom was small and neat. Though she does have a nice neck, Alan thought.
He shifted in his precarious chair with an ominous squeaking of weak joins, and crossed his legs. She looked up at him, pausing at the end of one page, and gave him a smile that raised another squeak from the chair as he sat up straighter and smiled back.
“And so we arrived in safety in New York, and expect to sail to Charleston once the elements shall admit safe passage. Father, I enclose a list of those of our men from the Royal North Carolina Regiment of Volunteer Rifles we know for certain have fallen, or have suffered wounds for their rightful King.” She read on, frowning sadly as she did so. “Some of the most grievous hurt we were forced to leave behind in the care of the enemy, praying to Providence that they shall have decent treatment. Alan Lewrie generously gave twenty guineas to our hostesses for the better victualing and physicking of our men. All others who escaped with us, I also detail, so their families may know they are well and whole.”
“That was good of you, young man,” the mother wept, plying at her eyes with a fresh handkerchief.
“It was the least I could do, ma’am,” Alan said modestly, feeling truly modest for once in that emotion-tinged room. “There were several of my sailors left behind as well, too hurt to be moved without causing them more suffering.”
“We must confess,” Caroline began again, “that the fight to save our boats was a spirited engagement of the most desperate neck-or-nothing nature, and only by the utmost bravery and pluck did we prevail, though whatever joy we had in a final victory over the Levellers and their allies, the slaves of a Catholic King, could not assuage the grief of losing so many fine men and neighbors. The bearer of this particular copy of our letter, Alan Lewrie, we recommend to you, and trust that you shall show him what you can of Carolinian hospitality and gratitude.”
Alan made much of his teacup and looked down at the carpet as his pride began to scratch at him; false modesty be damned, he thought he had been pretty good back there during their adventures.
“As a comrade in our distress, we have not, in a cause replete with leaders and fighters suitable for commendation and emulation, seen the like in our mutual experience,” Caroline read. She looked up at him with such a smile and such a fetching rise of her bosom that Alan could look nowhere else but directly at her. “To him, we owe our very lives. Were it not for his sublime courage, even in the times when things looked blackest, his canny knowledge of the sea and its navigation, we would now be prisoners of war, or worse. He knew no exhaustion, no sense of gloom, no defeatism, and brought us out of bondage like Moses fetched his Israelites. He . . .”
She had to stop and take a deep breath or two, and lift a handkerchief to her own eyes before continuing. “He is the finest comrade in arms we have ever had the privilege to know, and can only conjure you to share your gratitude at our good fortune with him.”
Damme, that’s a pretty high praise for a toadying little shit like me, Alan marveled. Now when was I canny and optimistic? I can’t remember anything like that. Still, have to remember, this letter was penned by one of the coldest murthering black-hearted rogues I’ve ever seen.
“God bless you, Mister Lewrie,” the mother bawled, rising to give him a hearty hug, some slobbery kisses on the cheeks, and pats on the back that stung right through his wool uniform and waistcoat. He had to help her back to her chair before she swooned, then got pawed by the old man as well, who could not rise, and Alan had to bend down to receive the elder Chiswick’s benison. The black mammy had at him next, and it felt as if he was trying to wrestle his way out of a bear-baiting pit. Caroline hugged him and wept on his shoulder, swearing he was the finest Christian in the world, and he got a chance to take a circumspect survey of her charms, which seemed a lot nicer than his first impressions.
“I cannot pretend to understand military or nautical matters,” Caroline said, stepping back from him but keeping her slim hands tight on his s
leeves, “but you kept my brothers alive and got them out safely, and I shall forever be indebted to you.”
“And we shall regard you as fondly as any member of our family,” Mrs. Chiswick said in a high, fruity voice, to which her husband lent his vociferous agreement with so many “hear hears” he sounded like the Vicar of Bray in a Parliament back-bench.
“We have something, finally, for which we give thanks,” Chiswick senior roared heartily. “There’s a tom turkey much too fat for his own good strutting the yard. We should roast the gentleman before he’s one hour older. Mother, where are our manners? There’s two dozen of claret in the pantry, is there not? Tell Old Mose to fetch a couple out! I want to take a glad bumper or two with this young fellow.”
Once again, Alan got the impression that something was wrong, for the happy mood dissolved in an instant, the mother going for her handkerchief again, the black maid piping her eyes, and Caroline had to go to her father and cosset him into a calmer mood. Alan looked about the room. There was no pantry, no sign of a crate bearing even a bottle or two, and most definitely there was no black male servant named Old Mose, or he would have been in the room to hear the news with Mammy. Alan got the impression that Sewallis Chiswick was living in some dreamland in the past, before they had been burned out by their own cousins and run to Wilmington with what little he saw in their rented lodgings, and those were damned poor, at that.
“But I want to take a glass with the lad, Caroline,” Mr. Chiswick whined in a pet, and Caroline gave Alan a stern look, touching her lips with a finger and shaking her head slightly.
“Mr. Chiswick, under any other circumstances, I would be delighted to accept your hospitality. I have not had a good roast tom since I left London nearly two years ago, and normally I’d not say no to a glass,” Alan replied, rising, “but, my captain only allowed me a few minutes ashore to see you, and I must not allow even the most charming surroundings, and company”—he bowed slightly to the mother, which made her chirp with some remembered coquetry, and to Caroline, who was nodding as though he was a good pupil to say his lesson so well—“to detain me from my duties. Perhaps in future, before the town is evacuated, we could visit again, if you would be so gracious as to receive me.”
The French Admiral Page 39