Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3)

by Annette Laing

  After reading the minutes of the previous meeting, Mr. Jones turned to Mr. Gordon. “I wonder, sir, if you would report to us on the convict girl who was removed from the household of James Burton?”

  Mr. Gordon rose to his feet. “I have little to report, but it is promising,” he said. “My wife is teaching Jane to be a tolerable house servant, and if she proves suitable, I will send her to my house in South Carolina, if that would prove agreeable to the vestry. I would, of course, pay the parish for her.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, and Mr. Gordon acknowledged it with a curt nod. “Thank you, gentlemen. The girl will remain on trial in my household for the next few months.”

  Mr. Jones coughed. “There is one item that I am embarrassed to say that I forgot as we began business today,” he said. “Gentlemen, I trust that you will join me in making a formal welcome to our new missionary, Mr. Osborn, who, as you know, recently arrived in St. Swithin’s Parish.”

  There was a general cry of “aye” and stamping of feet from everyone except Mr. Gordon, who stared dolefully at the minister.

  Undeterred by Mr. Gordon’s coldness, Mr. Osborn got to his feet and gratefully thanked the committee. Mr. Jones then picked up some papers and shuffled them, as though he was about to move on to other business. But Mr. Osborn had something to say.

  “Gentlemen, I would beg your indulgence for a few minutes,” he said. “I come before you as a humble servant, but not, if you will pardon me for my directness, as a servant of this vestry. No, gentlemen, I come not as your servant, but as a clerk in holy orders, and as a servant of God. If you have had occasion to see the great seal of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, that august organization that sent me hither, you will know that it depicts a rector reading God’s word to the eager masses on America’s foreign shore.”

  The men looked at him expectantly, but they also seemed puzzled, except for Mr. Jones, who appeared worried, and Mr. Gordon, who looked hostile.

  Mr. Osborn faltered, paused, and then seemed to regain his courage. “Moreover, I come not only to minister to the white inhabitants of this far-off land. Although your spiritual welfare is certainly an important part of my mission, I am also bound to bring the Holy Gospel to those poor, pitiful souls we know as slaves.”

  Brandon could see that Mr. Osborn was startled by the range of reactions to what he had said. Mr. Jones looked peeved. Mr. Gordon looked furious. And the other men laughed.

  It took a moment for Mr. Jones to regain control of the meeting.

  “What do you propose, exactly?” one man asked with a cynical smile.

  “I propose,” said Mr. Osborn, desperately seizing on the question, “that Brandon here becomes a catechist to the slaves. He can read and write, and he is learned for a boy of his years and station. I have examined him at length on his religious knowledge, and found that his Biblical understanding is sound. I fear that his grasp of Church principles shows the pernicious influence of dissenters, but I have been instructing him in the one true faith of our most holy church . . . .”

  Brandon had not mentioned to Mr. Osborn that he was a Baptist, but he had learned that anyone in 1752 who belonged to a Protestant Christian church that wasn’t the Church of England was known as a dissenter.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Gordon scowled even harder. Finally, he leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Osborn, what mean you by slandering my faith? I am what you call a ’dissenter.’”

  Mr. Osborn blinked, but he was not put off by Mr. Gordon’s hostility. He lifted his chin. “I am aware, sir, that you are a Scottish Presbyterian, and thus may be offended by my remarks. However, I am a clergyman of the Church of England, and I cannot pretend that your faith is the equal of mine. Furthermore,” and here he turned to the other vestrymen, “I must protest the presence of a dissenter on a Church of England vestry.”

  There was an embarrassed silence, and all eyes were on Mr. Gordon, who looked ready to explode.

  Mr. Jones saved the day. In a soothing voice he said, “As a newcomer, Mr. Osborn is as yet unschooled in the ways of America.” The vestrymen nodded, with the exception of Mr. Gordon, who slumped in his chair and seethed.

  Turning back to Mr. Osborn, Mr. Jones reproached him. “I must remind you, Mr. Osborn, that the vestry is the governing body of the entire parish, and not merely of the established church. We have developed a tradition here by which the vestry has greater powers than in England, and for all our sakes we must include our foremost citizens on this body, even when, like Mr. Gordon, they are not formally members of our church. In any case, Mr. Gordon takes communion at St. Swithin’s, and regularly attends our services. His religious opinions notwithstanding, he does conform to the Church of England.”

  Brandon cringed on Mr. Osborn’s behalf, sinking low in his seat. Mr. Gordon said nothing, but he continued to glare at Mr. Osborn. Mr. Osborn, it seemed, had made an enemy.

  But Mr. Osborn was nothing if not proud. And he did not know when to shut up.

  He gave the vestrymen a stern look. “There is another matter I must raise. I must express my grave disappointment with the vestry’s accommodations for me and my family. My house, sirs, is entirely unsuitable. The roof leaks, and the wind blows through the walls. By winter, our situation will have become intolerable. I demand that you provide me with a suitable house.”

  There was another stunned silence. Everyone was uncomfortable, especially Brandon, who wasn’t used to being around a bunch of scary white guys in wigs fighting a battle of wills.

  Mr. Jones said icily, “I believe that you and I have already discussed this matter . . . .”

  Sitting forward, Mr. Gordon waved at the chairman to hold his tongue. “It seems that we have done very little to please you, Mr. Osborn,” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. “Is there anything else your parishioners have done to offend you?”

  “Yes, there is,” Mr. Osborn said stoutly, looking him in the eye. “I refer to the unseemly, indeed, the disgraceful behavior of several men outside my church during services. I believe that you, Mr. Gordon, are among those who go to drink punch when you should be attending to my sermons. I expect better of a member of my vestry, and I trust that you will show repentance. Perhaps such behavior is acceptable among the Presbyterians, but I assure you that it has no place in the one true Church.”

  Mr. Gordon gave him what Brandon could only think of as the Evil Eye. Finally, Mr. Osborn lost his nerve and looked away.

  Brandon had scribbled down what he could, which wasn’t much, since he had very little experience with quill pens. He had also had a hard time following everything that was said, although the men’s body language was clear enough: The entire vestry, and especially Mr. Gordon, with the exception of Mr. Jones, had it in for Mr. Osborn.

  Mr. Jones now cleared his throat. “Perhaps,” he said, “we ought to adjourn, and reserve our discussion for a time when tempers have cooled.”

  As Brandon corked the ink and wiped off his quill with a rag, he worried. The meeting had not boded well for Mr. Osborn. Not at all. But then he wondered why he was worrying. At that moment, the answer came to him: He liked Mr. Osborn more than he had realized. The guy at least stood up for what he believed in.

  First thing in the morning, Mrs. Gordon ordered the girls to bring her tea. Hannah was about to head outside when she realized that she had never seen Jane prepare hot water. “Hey, Jane?” she called, “Could you go boil the water?”

  Jane shrugged and examined her fingernails. “Dunno ’ow to light the fire, do I?” Hannah’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously? I thought everyone in the olden days . . . I mean, I thought everyone could do that?”

  Jane shook her head, looking bored.

  Digging in her pocket, Hannah fished out the metal tinder box, flint, and striker. “Okay, let’s go,” she said with a sigh, picking up the water bucket. “I’ll teach you.”

  She was a little irked. She seemed to spend a lot of time teaching Jane. Reading and writing she didn’t mind—quite enj
oyed, in fact—but housework lessons were always a chore, especially because Jane looked put upon every time Hannah asked her to do anything. Outside, Hannah carefully built a fire with kindling and logs from the woodpile, as Jane watched. She pulled a tiny piece of blackened cloth from the tinder box, and put it on the ground. Taking some shreds of kindling, she rubbed them between her hands to make tinder, and carefully placed it on the charred rag. Then she held the flint and striker over the tinder. But despite repeated efforts, she could not get a light. As she struggled with the flint, Jane smirked. Finally, Hannah looked up at her, annoyed. “You’re so smart, why don’t you try?” Jane took the striker and flint from Hannah. On her first attempt, sparks flew from the flint, and a tiny glow appeared in the pile of tinder. She gathered up the tinder in her cupped hands and blew on it. Smoke began to appear between her fingers. Carefully, just as flames erupted from the handful of smoking tinder, she nestled it among the kindling, then blew on it again. Soon, flames were leaping up.

  Hannah looked at Jane suspiciously. “I thought you said you never did this before?”

  “Fortune smiled on me,” said Jane in a sing-song voice.

  “Liar,” Hannah said irritably. “I’m going to get the water.”

  “Nah, I’ll do it,” said Jane, putting a hand on Hannah’s arm. “Sorry, ’annah. I meant well. I was showing you a lesson I learned from them slaves at my last place. I saw one man pretending not to understand ’ow to use a wheelbarrow, no matter ’ow many times ’ee was shown how to do it. I thought ’ee was simple, until one of them slave girls tells me that if you don’t want to do all the work, you ought to make the master fink you’re foolish. If the master sees it’s too much trouble to teach you, he might even do it ’imself. ’annah, you do as you’re told too much.”

  Hannah couldn’t help smiling at that. “Nobody ever said that to me before,” she laughed.

  “Well, you do,” Jane insisted. “But mind, now, arguing too much does no good, neither. Best to agree with the masters, and then do as you will, yes? Now, as a sign of good faith and friendship, I will fetch the water. You sit down and watch the fire.”

  She took the bucket from Hannah, who sat down gratefully next to the fire, thinking again to herself how funny it was that Jane had told her she was too obedient. Soon Jane returned from the well and poured water into the cauldron, watching eagerly as flames leaped into the air.

  That evening, Hannah, Jane, and the Gordons sat down to their supper of cornbread and sliced ham by the flickering light of a single candle in a hurricane lamp. No sooner had Hannah settled on her stool, but Mrs. Gordon commanded her to fetch a glass of shrub, a drink made from a vinegar and sugar syrup mixed with water.

  As Hannah resentfully uncorked the bottle of shrub syrup, she remembered Jane’s advice that morning, and decided not to rush.

  Mrs. Gordon said, “Mr. Gordon, I have been wondering whether it is proper to continue to permit our serving girls to eat at table with us?”

  “Should I not permit it?” Mr. Gordon asked with concern, through a mouthful of cornbread.

  His wife replied, “In Charleston, we wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

  “Aye well,” said Mr. Gordon, taking a drink of rum and water, “This isnae Charleston. This is the frontier, and things are less genteel here than in the city. But at least we have a white servant, nay, even two white servants, and I doubt they have many of those in Charleston.”

  “But don’t you plan to sell Jane?” asked Mrs. Gordon, her face creased in concern.

  “No, I do not,” Mr. Gordon said firmly. “I had thought to send her up to Sidlaw, but I have changed my mind. Unlike Hannah, she is proving a fine seamstress. Hannah’s skills in sewing are poor, but she is a competent cook, unlike Jane. Between the two of them, they ensure that you, my dear wife, need not lift a finger. Since you are concerned with the gentility of this household, I suggest that you use some of your time in polishing your learning for those conversational arts so necessary to a lady of Charleston. That way, you will find your re-entry into Charleston society takes a smooth course. I will order some books for you, and I hope that we may discuss them together.”

  Hannah and Jane had exchanged delighted looks on hearing the news that they wouldn’t soon be parted. But after the discussion, Hannah couldn’t help but feel that it was creepy for a stranger like Mr. Gordon to have so much power over her life.

  While Hannah was milking the cow, she heard the front door of the house open and close, and the creaking sounds of someone walking down the wooden steps. Soon Jane was at her elbow in the cattle shed.

  “Nasty stinky fings,” she grumbled, her arms akimbo.

  “She’s kind of nice, actually,” Hannah said, turning to address the cow. “Aren’t you, Bessie? Anyway, Jane, it’s not your job to do this, so don’t sweat it.”

  Suddenly, Hannah found herself sitting on a pile of straw. In one swift motion, Jane had shoved her off the milking stool and wrapped her hands around the cow’s teats, even as she giggled at Hannah.

  Hannah was flabbergasted. “What . . . What did you do that for?”

  Jane giggled again as the warm milk squirted into the wooden bucket. “Just jesting. You didn’t think I could do this either, did you? What with me being a London girl. But my mum and dad used to work in an inn, remember? My mum used to let me help with milking the cow.”

  Hannah looked at her disbelievingly. “You had a cow in London?”

  “Yeah, ’course. ’Ow else would an inn get fresh milk?” Jane rolled her eyes at Hannah, and then smiled. “You are a country girl, be not mistaken.”

  Hannah smirked at the very idea. If only Jane knew she was from San Francisco. Of course, San Francisco probably didn’t exist yet.

  “So what amusements shall we find here?” Jane asked, wiping her hands on her skirt. “I am city born and bred, and this place is so quiet, it is eerie.”

  “I know, right?” Hannah said with a smile.

  “I have a notion,” Jane said decisively. “What say you we go down to the river?”

  Hannah was doubtful. “I dunno. I’m kind of late with the milking, and we’re supposed to make supper . . . .”

  But Jane gently cajoled her. “Come, ’annah. Mrs. Gordon’s taking a nap, and she won’t be up to eat, I would venture. We have some ham and cornmeal anyway, and so supper need not be a great labor. Come on, won’t you? You must learn to take your pleasures when chance warrants.” She stood and held out her hand to Hannah.

  “Okay,” Hannah said. Then she smiled as she clambered to her feet. “Sure, why not? Where do you want to go?”

  Jane shrugged. “I don’t know. Let us see what there is to see. Just so long as we don’t go deep into the woods.”

  “Exploring shouldn’t take too long, then,” Hannah muttered to herself. “This place is all woods.”

  Jane ran ahead of Hannah under a huge oak tree, picked up something, and threw it back at her friend. Hannah caught it, and saw it was an acorn. “Hey!” she yelled, and picking up a handful of acorns, flung them back at Jane, who laughed and dodged the tiny missiles, then ran ahead of her friend across the cow pasture, nimbly dodging the huge cow pies.

  “Hey, don’t get us lost!” Hannah yelled.

  “I won’t,” Jane yelled back. “I can see the slave quarters from ’ere. Come, let us go and see who’s there.”

  Hannah jumped at the chance to go see Alex. She hadn’t seen him in a couple of days, and she missed him.

  With relief, she spotted her brother standing by the door of Sukey’s hut, feeding chickens from a pot of grain. He waved happily to her, and then nodded shyly to Jane.

  “Hi, uh . . . Cato,” Hannah stammered. “This is Jane. I met her in London.”

  Alex said nothing, but he looked at Jane with suspicion, and Hannah wondered why. Was it because she was white?

  Jane ignored him. “Is the river near here?” she asked Hannah. Hannah pointed to it in reply. They could see Sukey washing the laundry at the
water’s edge, slapping wet clothes against an old log. Jane clapped her hands together in glee and sprinted toward the riverbank.

  Alex turned to his sister. “Where did she come from?”

  “She’s cool,” Hannah reassured him. “I met her in prison.” Alex’s eyebrows went skyward, but Hannah explained. “She’s not a scary criminal, seriously. She was nice to me on the ship and everything. I would have died without her.”

  “Where does she live now?” Alex asked, flinging another handful of meal to the chickens.

  “Here. Her master was beating up on her, so Mr. Gordon and the other magistrates took her away from him. He’s decided she’s going to work with me. I guess it’s kind of a coincidence she ended up here, right? Wonder if she’s got anything to do with the time travel thing?”

  Alex shrugged. “Who knows? I guess we’ll find out. Must be nice being white, though. None of us slaves have ever been rescued from Mr. Gordon because he’s cruel to us.”

  Hannah looked curiously at her brother. “You’re not black, remember?”

  Alex looked determinedly back at her. “Yes, I am. Look at me.”

  Hannah scowled. “Yeah, but you’re not black, not like Brandon’s black, you know?”

  Alex bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean? I mean, Brandon’s African-American, and I’m not, and that hasn’t changed because he’s turned white and I’ve turned black. It’s a . . . I don’t know what to call it . . . . I guess it’s a culture thing. But we’re still the same inside. What’s different now is how people treat us. White people are scary to me now, except for you of course. And they’re a whole lot nicer to Brandon.”

  Hannah couldn’t really argue with that. After an awkward pause, Alex said lightly, “By the way, Mr. Gordon wants me and Sukey to go upriver to trade with the Indians for him.”

  “Why you?” Hannah was incredulous. “That sounds dangerous. How would you protect Sukey if you guys got attacked?”

  Alex shrugged, and said, “Well, we don’t trade directly with the Indians. We go see some Scottish guy who trades with everyone. He buys from the Indians and sells to us. I’m going to keep Sukey company, I guess. Gordon trusts her, because she always gets a good deal from the trader. We’re taking some things to sell that he got sent from England, and we’re gonna bring back deerskins, then he’ll ship them to London. It’s not how he makes most of his money, but I guess he makes a profit. Anyway, it’s something he’s been doing for years, since he got to South Carolina. His uncle made the money to buy Sidlaw Plantation from trading with Indians under the noses of the rich men who tried to keep the trade for themselves. When Gordon inherited Sidlaw he took up trading, too.”