“Of course.”
“And furnishings and beds and drapery?”
“It has all been promised.”
The rain slackens, but clouds still curtain the river and mountains. The Caribbean slaves, poling the Rouleaux’s boat, sing in their poor French. Our boat is silent, the rivermen grim.
“Maman?”
“Eugenie, you tire me. Allow me to rest, please.”
“Just this, Maman. The Queen will come, will she not?”
“She will.”
“She has escaped her captors and will come.”
“Yes.”
“We shall see her again.”
“Of course.”
“Even at this moment she may be on a ship nearing America.”
“Oui.”
“Maman, you must speak with Papa. He cannot—”
“Eugenie, enough for now.”
Then for a long while there is nothing but cloud and rain and the faint singing of the slaves. It tempts me to close my eyes and sleep, but no! I must not. My Lady, let this day pass soon. We are cold. We have not eaten since morning.
I hold Sylvette close and promise her a warm room and food. I do not tell her how the rain gives this day—or evening, if that is what it is—a gloomy aspect I do not at all like.
At last the Marquis de Talon stands in the boat ahead of us and gestures with his plumed hat. Our three boats begin turning toward a break in the forest on the left side of the river.
“Mes amis, we arrive!” the marquis calls. “Long live Marie Antoinette! Queen of France!”
Appearing along the riverbank are a number of silent figures. Maman takes my hand in hers. Sylvette looks alertly forward. Beyond the figures, a few hutlike structures appear indistinct in the mist like something in a dream.
Breath leaves me. Mama is holding herself stiffly, while Papa sags in undignified fashion against his pole. The nobles in our boat begin murmuring as our boat glides toward the landing. Then the boat is held fast and except for Florentine and us everyone else disembarks.
“I refuse to leave this boat,” I am finally able to say. “The marquis must take us elsewhere.”
“Eugenie,” Maman says. “You are creating a scene.”
“I care not! This is impossible!”
“Come now,” Papa says. “We are all tired and prone to worrisome thoughts.” He offers his hand.
“And famished, too,” I add. “But non! I shall not leave until we are taken to a proper settlement.”
“The mist and cloud obscure the maisons, Eugenie,” he says after helping Maman out. “Come now.”
“Papa, I am . . . afraid.”
“There is nothing to fear, chérie.”
“You do not know that for certain, Papa.”
“Eugenie, you have been courageous for many weeks. Do not allow your courage to fail you now, at this moment of arrival.” He offers his hand again, but I lower my head and tighten my hold on Sylvette. After a while, Papa, Maman, and Florentine leave the boat. Rivermen replace the gangplank and pull the boat, with Sylvette and me still in it, farther up onto the landing and walk off.
“Eugenie,” Papa says. “Please. Let us go and find warmth.”
I look at his sodden cloak and boots and almost relent, but say, “Papa, the marquis has tricked us. There is nothing here.”
“Florentine,” Papa says, “remain with mademoiselle, please. I shall find Talon.” Florentine bows, and then Maman and Papa walk away. My heart hurts as I watch them leave. Smirking Florentine asks if I am about to pole the boat back to Philadelphia. “It will be easier, mademoiselle. The current will be in your favor.”
I cannot allow him to see how fearful I am, or how angry and hurt. When Sylvette begins whimpering, wanting to leave the boat, I extend my arm to Florentine and unsteadily step out onto a large flat stone. It seems to sway underneath us, and for a long while I can only stand there, hoping not to pitch over.
Hannah
“Look, Hannah!” John says. “Surely, ’tis them.”
A rider brought word but an hour ago, and now a canopied longboat is coming into view at the bend in the river. Two others appear behind it. Any hope that this flotilla be simply an ordinary one is fully dashed. These boats appear to hold a cargo of flowers.
Nobles. My hands begin shaking so, I have to clasp them lest my brother tease me about being scared. Broadsheet sketches show how nobles favor elaborate clothing and ornaments like silver buckles and feathers, ribbons and lace and jewelry. How they powder their hair and wear it piled up like loaves of bread. They are used to much service, Father has told us. We may oft be called upon to practice patience and charity.
“I’m counting seventeen . . . nay . . . twenty passengers,” John says, “and but three cabins finished.”
“Surely not thy fault, John. If thou didn’t have to work so on the Queen’s house, the others might be done by now.”
“And even her house remains unfinished. It will go hard, I fear.”
Father is standing with many of the joiners who have stopped work in order to see these nobles. They are talking among themselves and look worried. So do several of the other girls hired as servants for the French. Ten-year-old Rachel Stalk is tearing at a thumbnail with her small front teeth. Emmeline Cooper and Mary Worthington are leaning against one another. Older women, too, clump together like scared hens.
“John,” I whisper. “We’re in a real hobble, there being so many. Dost thou think the Queen be with them?”
His jaw is hard-set, like Father’s. “Could be.”
“Will they take our cabin?”
“Might.”
“Then how shall we do our work for them?”
“Don’t know.”
“Oh, John. Would that Mr. Talon had never found Father.”
“He wanted the best, and Father is that.”
“Aye, but all the same.”
“’Tis fifty cents a day, sister.”
“For thou, but twenty-five for me.”
“And more for Father. We shall prosper this year, Hannah, and earn enough for our farm.”
“We know their language but poorly, John. I fear we shan’t be able to do their bidding.”
“We will learn.”
“And they, English?”
“They may know it already. Father says they know a great many things despite their grand ways.”
Ladies walk down the gangplank like unsteady calves. The gentlemen do their best to keep them upright. Everyone’s feathers are drooping in the rain. All together, these nobles look like a flock of wet fancy birds.
“John, the colors!”
“Aye.”
Some ladies in rust red, others in deep green or blue. Some in light green and pink. The loveliest paint-box colors! The gentlemen, too. Frock coats of red and black, gold and black, blue and purple. Fur-trimmed cloaks of cranberry red and sky blue. And stockings so white. And beaver hats all beplumed. The ladies’ hats, as well. It fairly takes the breath. I clasp my hands all the harder.
They are like birds that don’t want to alight on the saw-dusty ground. Shaking their feathers, shaking their heads, holding up parasols, holding up gowns. Everyone is scowling. It bodes not well.
“Hannah,” John says.
The tone of his voice tells me something more is amiss. And then I see the two dark-skinned men hauling up the last longboat. One is tall and thin, the other much shorter and with white hair. A Frenchman shouts at them, but they say naught. There are two other dark-skinned people in the boat, both women. One appears young. The other is stouter and older. Both are plainly dressed compared to the Frenchman, who wears a bunch of green feathers in his hat and a dark green frock coat and ember-colored cape. He is a barrel of a man, his girth making up for a lack of height.
“If they be slaves, John, Father will be most displeased.” Father and Mother both have taught us that for one person to enslave another goes against the principle of equality stated so grandly in our new country’s Decl
aration of Independence. And it goes against our own belief that there is that of God in each of us because each of us is made in God’s image, male and female alike.
But these may be free Negroes. ’Tis possible, as there are a number of free Negroes within our Commonwealth. I pray for this to be the case, and then continue practicing the French word for welcome. Bienvenue. Bee-en-ve-new.
I survey all the ladies and decide upon the youngest, at the far end of the group. Look kindly, Hannah, and not like a rabbit caught within a hedge of brambles. Nobles pass us as if we aren’t here at all. One corpulent noble, though, a short white beard circling jaw and chin, does glance our way. With his left hand, he holds a long walking stick for balance, but with his right, he makes some motion on the air as he passes. His mouth twitches a bit. It seems a smile. Bee-en-ve-new, I whisper. Now comes the young lady. She is carrying a small dog with long ears. A young man walks with her, but she is nearer to me. I am glad, for the young man appears finical.
I take a step forward. “Bien—”
The lady’s face becomes a white stone, her eyes hard blue ones. She says something sharp in her language, and the finical young man gives us a look to send us under.
It startles tears. I lower my head and turn to leave, but John whispers, “Wait, Hannah. Look how they’re bowing. ’Tis a sight.”
Gentlemen are removing their feathered hats, taking a step backward and bowing to the ladies and to other men. Ladies hold onto their gowns, take a number of fancy steps backward, and sink downward before one another. So does the one with the white dog. The ladies, though, don’t remove their high-crowned hats. The young one sets her dog down on the ground but it cries, so she lifts it up again even though its paws have gotten muddy. I might do the same, the wee thing so scared. This lady can’t be as snarlish as she made herself out to be.
“John, what did I do wrong?”
“Naught, Hannah, but try to greet them. What she did was wrong. Don’t blame thyself.”
“Well, ’twas a poor start. Father might know. Surely I do not wish to give such offense again.” I raise my apron to my eyes.
“Ah, Hannah. They be the ones who need to learn manners.”
“I fear they shall want us to bow and—”
“Well, we shan’t. Father has explained it all to Mr. Talon. Do not worry so, Hannah.”
“But if the Queen—which one was she, John? Dost thou know?”
“They all looked one and the same to me.”
“I cannot be the one to serve her!”
“Worry not. Talon will see to it. Now I must find Father. And thou had best seek out Talon. He shall tell thee what to do. Quick, now.”
He runs off in the light rain. I wish Father had not chosen me. A year. A whole year. It seems so unfair that I am weepy again. But then ’tis as if Mother is standing here alongside me, her white apron and cap glowing in the mist. The year shall pass swiftly, dear daughter. Remember, too, that work done with love is joy.
Mother’s voice fades, but I feel warmer now, less shaky. I hold my face to the soothing rain.
Mr. Talon is calling to the girls and older women who have been hired to help. I hurry toward them.
Rushing back to our cabin, I pass Rachel, Mary, and Emmeline. Instead of getting to their tasks for the French, they are playing at curtsying before one another. “Hannah! Your Majesty!” Emmeline cries. “What shall be your bidding? I shall do it forsooth!” Grasping her gown with both hands, she bobs down, then up again, her face merry.
“Now you, Hannah!” they cry. “’Tis but a game.”
I shake my head and keep going.
“Your Majesty,” Mary calls. “What matter a bow if thou dost not believe in it?” They laugh. Not worried a whit.
Oh, I wish Father had picked Grace instead of me. She is but a year younger, at twelve, and so wanted to come. But Mother decided upon me because I’m older and can do more work. Grace will help Mother with the chores and with six-year-old Suzanne and watch Richard, our baby.
Thinking of Richard, his bonny cheeks and pointed nose and agreeable smile at whatever you say to him, makes tears come again. I have not seen him since July past and will not ’til July next. A year! And he shall be so different by then. He may not even remember me.
How hard it is to do what is bid thee.
I stir the venison stew and take several loaves from the warming oven. Then John and Father both enter.
“Dost thou wish thy tea?” I ask. “Or supper?”
“Hannah, daughter,” Father says. “John tells me that one of the ladies was rude.”
I take my chair at the table, and Father and John, theirs. “I tried to welcome her in French. It seems I did wrongly.”
“Nay,” Father says. “’Twas not wrong. Let us not be troubled by their bad manners. In time, perhaps, they shall learn better.”
Words push forth, needing to be spoken. They are so different from us. Could I not just take care of our house and animals and make our meals? Could not another be found to do for them?
But I draw a long breath and remain silent so as not to offend Father.
“Hannah, remember how France came to our aid during the war with England? Had she not, we might still be under English rule. But apart from that, ’tis our Christian duty to help these nobles, now. They’ve lost near everything.”
Tears pinch through. I feel as if I’ve lost near everything, too.
“Daughter, daughter, come now.” He places one hand, still cold from outside, over mine. “With our earnings this year we shall finally be able to buy our farmland. Fine valley land. No more rent that continually rises. We might even earn enough for a team of oxen. ’Tis all to the good, child, aye?”
“Aye, Father.” Blinking, I keep the tears back.
“And Hannah,” John says, “thou needn’t have one reason in the world to be afeared of anyone who walks thus.” He lurches on his toes from one end of our cabin to the other, Father saying, “Now, John,” but smiling.
I smile, too, as I pour cups of elderberry tea for us. “Where are they to dwell, Father?”
“’Tis a problem. Talon fully sees his error—now.”
“Are they still out there, in this drizzle?”
“They are, and need shelter but don’t want to double up. So for some, it will have to be pine boughs and animal hides for now. John and I must leave in a trice.”
“Dost thou wish they supper first?”
“Nay, not when others are doing without.”
Father’s words remind me how the nobles were bowing and curtsying to one another in the cold mist. One gentleman’s clothing looked wet through and through and yet there he was, bowing to everyone. Most folks would rather just run somewhere dry and warm.
“They must be hungry,” I finally say.
“Aye. And John, we need to build fires within the few cabins we do have. I’m told these people are quite helpless. Unlike the great La Fayette.”
“Father,” I ask. “Dost thou know, is the Queen among them?”
“Nay, but they expect her in the next weeks or, if not, then in the spring.”
“Those others, the dark-skinned ones. Are they . . . slaves?”
Father bows his head awhile. His hair is wet. The shoulders of his deerskin jacket are wet as well. After a moment, he raises his head and regards us gravely. “Aye. Their owner is a sugar cane planter from Hispaniola. Dost thou remember thy geography, Hannah?”
“Hispaniola. ’Tis in the Caribbean Sea, to the south of our country.”
“Aye. See John, our Hannah forgets naught. Well, the man has sanctuary here as well but is in a thundering tirrit at the state of things. And the unfortunate souls be bearing the brunt of his ill will. I said to Talon that we might shelter them here.”
“The slave owners, Father?” John fairly shouts.
“Nay. His slaves.” Father stands. “Should there be no dwelling for them, as there shan’t be, I fear. John, we need—”
“Could we help
them run away, Father?” I ask, the idea of it just there, bright and large.
“Hannah,” John says, “art thou forgetting that law?”
And now I do remember. The Fugitive Slave Act. It was passed in February of this year by our new Congress in Philadelphia. Even though our country’s Declaration of Independence states that all men are created equal and have inalienable Rights, many of those who signed this wonderful document turned around and wrote a law that condones slavery! Are we already snarled in hypocrisy as a nation? Father worries that we indeed are.
“These be French slaves,” Father is saying. “So any law of ours may not apply to them. But now let us have a moment of quiet before we see to our tasks.”
I close my eyes and a scene shapes itself around me, a grove of young maples, my favorite summer place, at home. At my feet, long thin blades of grass, curving over last year’s leaves, brown and crumpled. I sit on a rock ledge and just look. The green all about gladdens my heart. So, too, the shade. The whisper of wind. My face grows warm, and my hands. I breathe in the grove’s sweetness and my heart slows.
After Father and John leave, I fill a pot with stew and a basket with bread and sweet butter and prepare to carry these things to my two families, the La Roques and the Aversilles, who have been fortunate to have won, in a lottery, cabins for themselves.
As I hurry toward the new cabins, I shiver with cold and the strangeness of it all. Nobles, here. Slaves. And soon, the Queen of France.
Eugenie
Looking through the low door, I can only gasp. Our maison is merely a single room! Hardly even that—a mere storeroom! Still, warmth flows outward from the fire on the hearth, and so, compressing our redingotes about our traveling gowns, we dare to enter, Maman first.
Inside, we take in the rude furnishings. Gateleg table against one log wall. Candleholder and candle upon the table. Three wooden, utterly plain chairs. A peculiar small bed against the opposite wall. A bench with a high back near the fireplace. Black iron utensils to either side of the raised hearth, with wood stacked on the left. One unglazed window open to the darkness gathering outside. As workers carry in our three barrels and two trunks, Maman and I must press against one another to make room for them. When they leave, I set Sylvette down on the plank floor. At once she jumps upon the bench and sits trembling before the fire.
Waiting for the Queen Page 2