“They do?”
“Indeed. I have found that when Mama makes demands on Papa, it is the last thing he will likely agree to.”
“But why? Doesn’t he wish to please her?”
Rose retrieved her sewing and took the next stitch, “Not always, and certainly not when she is forceful. Men tend to be far more amiable when they are persuaded rather than commanded. A woman simply must be more resourceful than a man. She must be cunning like a fox, as patient as an eagle, and ready to pounce more swiftly than a lion.”
“Rose, what are you talking about?”
“Allow me to put it another way. A man notices a woman’s skirts before he learns to walk, but noticing the rest of her can take years. Nevertheless, our skirts offer the advantage of rendering a man breathless. And in his breathlessness, he can easily be persuaded to do most anything. One merely must learn how to accomplish it.”
“Is that how you came to marry Adam?”
“Well, no. Adam was so persistent, he did not allow me to refuse. But I’ve seen it work with other men.”
“But how, precisely? What does a woman do?”
Rose paused to think for a moment. “Well, it is not easy to explain. Hester, do you think you could follow my instructions, even if you do not fully understand them?”
“To marry John, I would do anything.”
“Even if it means shedding your widow’s weeds?”
“But it’s only been five months,” Hester said.
“It may not be proper, but wearing black to Maralee’s wedding ball is completely out of the question. It would only serve to remind John of your former husband.”
“You’re right, I will shed them immediately.”
“Not just yet,” Rose said, motioning for Hester to come sit by her. “We have much to do before you see the last of black.”
KENTUCKY
Kentucky was a graceful, pleasing land and everyone wanted it; the Shawnee, the Cherokee, and the Long Hunters; the French, the Spanish and the British; North Carolina, Virginia and Pennsylvania; and the Ohio, the Loyal and the Transylvania Land Companies. First came men like Judge Richard Henderson, George Rogers Clark and Daniel Boone. Then came settlers who gave rise to Harrodstown, Lexington, Maysville, Frank’s Ford, and the Ohio Falls.
But the Quaker Ezekiel Lewis cared only about a life without the burden of heavy taxes, the frustration of unyielding Pennsylvania soil and the terrifying sounds of war. Therefore, in 1781, and out of sight of the king’s men at Fort Pitt, Ezekiel loaded two cows, three horses, a mule, a haystack, household goods, six pounds of gunpowder, two pounds of shot, four muskets, five chickens, nine children, and one wife on a crudely constructed river raft.
He sailed down the Ohio River to the land the Indians called Ken-tu-kee, and when he reached the Ohio Falls, he began the treacherous task of pulling the raft up the Kentucky River. At last he stopped, choosing a place not far from Harrodstown where game was easy, the soil looked fertile and water was plentiful.
The first year, he cleared the land and planted a modest crop. He built a one-room cabin complete with a stone hearth, and nine children became ten. The second year, his crops flourished, he added two more rooms and ten children became eleven. The third year, he grew less food and more hemp for cloth. He built a chicken coop and a woodshed, nailed yet another two-legged box bed to the wall, and eleven children became twelve. All in all, he was a happy man, except for his headstrong, defiant eldest daughter – the Quaker, Polly Lewis.
“Thee can’t make me!” Polly said, holding tight with both hands to the seat of the three-legged stool she was sitting on. On beds, stools and the floor of the crowded room, the eyes of her mother and all her siblings shifting from her to her father.
“How well I know,” Ezekiel said, seated opposite her at the long table.
Usually, Polly looked just like her father, with auburn hair, a narrow pointed nose and light blue eyes. But today, her eyes were the deeper blue of revolt.
“Daughter, thou art being unreasonable. The man only comes to speak, he will not harm thee.”
“He comes to renew his advances,” she said, “just as yesterday and the day before!”
“Mister La Rue loves thee. He has asked for thy hand in marriage, and thou wouldst do well to accept.”
“Doth thou intend to force me?”
The afternoon sunlight brightened the room through half-opened wooden shutters. “Thee thinks I somehow could?” Ezekiel shot back, “I’ve yet to see that day.”
“Good,” Polly said, glancing at the staring children. When her eyes fell on her mother, Nancy Lewis quickly rose to tend her stew in the Dutch oven.
“Polly, thou waits for the wrong husband.”
“Thee can’t know that,” Polly said, turning her attention back to her father.
“I know this – John Carson left. If he truly loved thee, he would have stayed.”
“Thee favors La Rue because thee can’t wait to be shed of me.”
“‘Tis not so, but thou will marry someday and I wouldst have thee marry the right man.”
“John Carson is the right man.”
Ezekiel unfolded his arms and calmly rested his hands on the table. “Is he? He has no craft, no money and no talent for planting. He knows only horses, and thou heard his father – the British took all they owned. John Carson cannot afford a wife. Marriage to him would be...”
“Grand,” Polly interrupted.
“Grand does not endure, daughter. The remainder of life is hard work, and harder still for a man with swamp fever and no talents.”
“Thou could teach him farming.”
“Yes, just as thy mother could teach thee to weave, if by some miracle thou were willing to learn. Suppose John Carson is unwilling to learn farming, what then?”
At last, Polly folded her hands in the lap of her faded brown dress. She slumped and dropped her eyes. “Thou can’t know he is unwilling.”
“No, but I can know this. Thy mother dreams of a big house with fine clothing and servants to tend her children.”
“Ezekiel, I...” Nancy started, but when her husband raised his hand slightly, she quieted.
“Does thou not have dreams, Polly?”
“I do, but thee asks me to marry a man I do not love.”
“I do not ask that at all, I only ask that thou speak to him. Give him careful consideration before thou rejects him.”
“Oh, very well then,” Polly said, getting up and grabbing her bonnet off a nail next to the door. “But thee need not get thy hopes up. I will love John Carson until the day I die, and I’ll have no other husband.”
With that, she lifted the latch and walked out. In a huff, she put on her wide-rimmed bonnet and marched across the yard to the man waiting at the edge of the forest.
“Mademoiselle,” Jacque La Rue said, quickly getting off his dapple-gray horse. Just as quickly, he removed his coonskin cap.
She stopped. Her head down and her eyes glancing from side to side, she slowly turned to look back and found her father watching from the doorway. Polly heaved a sigh and forced a grin. “Good day, Mister La Rue, thou art even more handsome today than yesterday.”
“You jest, no?”
Polly tilted her head to one side and contemplated his wavy blonde hair and green eyes. “No, thou art a handsome man.”
“Then you will marry me?”
“No, but thou can walk with me,” she answered, starting to walk away. The smell of pine hung heavy in the air, and lush trees and thick bushes cast dark shadows across the narrow road to Harrodstown.
His musket in hand, La Rue put his cap back on, grabbed the horse’s reins and hurried to catch up. He walked beside her for a time and glanced her direction occasionally, but did not say a word.
Finally, Polly broke the silence. “Has thee any news from town?”
“Oui, mademoiselle, Harrodstown a un nouveaux chef de la police,” he said, the fringe of his deerskin shirt and pants swaying as he walked.
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“English, Mister La Rue, English. Doth thou have good news or bad?”
“For Harrodstown, good, very good. Monsieur Purdy becomes sheriff.”
“That is good news.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
Polly pretended to admire the remnants of the tiny fall flowers and the turning leaves along the way. “Is he a very fine man?”
“He is Dutch, not British.”
“And if he were British?”
“Mademoiselle, I am French, no?”
“So thee has said, but can’t the French and the British be more kindly to each other? We are so very far from Europe and we must learn benevolence. We must love each other, Mister La Rue.”
“Oui, passionately,” La Rue said, beginning to smile.
“I did not mean in that regard.”
“Mademoiselle Polly, you will marry me. I will build a big house, buy you—”
“Thou has already convinced me of thy wealth,” Polly said, quickly glancing behind her to be sure the cabin was out of sight. She stopped, turned to face him, and peered deeply into his eyes. “Doth thou wish to kiss me?”
“Now?”
“Another time then,” she said, quickly walking on. But just as quickly, La Rue let go of his horse and took her hand. Again, she stopped, but she did not turn to face him. “If I let thee kiss me, thou must understand I’ll not mean anything by it.”
“Oui.”
“And if thou tells, I will shoot thee.”
Jacque La Rue gently pulled her hand until she looked at him. When she did, he grinned and handed her his musket. “I am at your mercy, mademoiselle,” he said, once more removing his hat.
His eyes were kind, his touch gentle, and his smile warm when he let go of her hand, removed her bonnet and took her in his arms. Then he kissed her. His lips touched hers only lightly at first, then his embrace tightening. His breathing quickened and his passion steadily increased until Polly suddenly pulled away. “We make progress, no?”
“Well...” she began, pausing to catch her breath, “if I did not love another, we might have.” She quickly exchanged his musket for her bonnet and put it back on.
“It is the Brit, no?”
“Yes.”
“But no one loves a Brit.”
“I can see how thou might think that, Mister La Rue. But I do not love John because he is British, I love him because he is John.”
His hat still in his hand, he watched the determination on her face, then stared down at his feet. “You will marry me...someday.”
“Thou art a good man. Any woman would be blessed to call thee husband. But I am not that woman, and I do not enjoy constantly rejecting thee.”
“But mademoiselle, a Frenchman never resigns.”
“So I am learning.” Polly headed back toward home. “Good day, Mister La Rue.”
He watched her walk out of sight, and then slowly mounted his horse. Thoughtfully, he cupped both hands around his mouth. “But no one loves a Brit,” he shouted.
“I do,” Polly’s voice echoed through the forest.
JOHN AND URIAH STAYED half a day in Williamsburg. They spent a whole day in Jamestown and more than a week at MacGreagor’s house in Yorktown, even though MacGreagor was still at sea. Finally, John set out to find the mother of his dead friend. Trenches, redoubts, cannon blasts, burned houses and damaged ships littered the harbor, but not a scratch could be seen on the brothel.
Uriah waited outside and politely declined the advances of a painted lady with her skirt shockingly hemmed above her ankles. He moved just in time to avoid the bump of a pickpocket and then noticed the chastising stare of three ladies in a passing carriage. Embarrassed, he lowered the brim of his tall, round hat, walked down the wooden sidewalk and pretended interest in a fine black stallion. At last, John came out.
“Well?” Uriah asked, falling into step beside him.
“She was grateful.”
“She knew of his passing?”
“Aye, his name was posted. I did not think it would be since we moved on so quickly. Papa, it was she who comforted me.”
“Some women have a way about them. Perhaps now you’ll rest more peacefully,” Uriah lifted his hat as a young woman approached. First, he noticed her resemblance to Polly and then he noticed how John watched her, even turning his head until she was past. He raised an eyebrow, but kept silent as they walked on, nodding to the gentlemen and lifting their hats to the ladies. Then John paused, ran his fingers through his jet-black hair and said, “Papa, I believe I hear Mahala calling.”
“It is about time! You’ve decided then, about Hester I mean?”
“I have.”
“Might I know what you’ve decided?”
“I’ve decided not to discuss my decision with you,” John said, abruptly disappearing through the door of a general store.
Uriah stared after him for a long moment, shook his head, sat down on a nearby bench and let Sparky climb into his lap. In a little while, he lifted his eyes upward and began to softly mutter, “Oh Mary, I fear he will choose Hester, and with Hester we stay in Virginia. ‘Tis not a bad thing, mind you. After all, no one loves Mahala more than I. But the boy loves Kentucky and Polly. Why can’t he see that? If only Polly were in Virginia...”
“Papa, to whom are you speaking?” John asked, suddenly standing in front of him.
Perturbed, Uriah glared up at him. “You know very well to whom I speak, and you need not lurk.”
“I was hardly lurking. Here, I bought a gift for Maralee,” John sat down beside him, unwrapped the cloth and handed a clock to his father.
Uriah smiled. The polished oak clock was square, with a large round, gold-trimmed timepiece in the center. “Has it a false bottom?”
“It does. I say we fill it with money in case she has a particular need.”
“Such as escaping her husband?”
“Precisely. You were right, Papa, she faces an unfortunate marriage.”
“Indeed she does.”
IN THE LIGHT OF A HALF moon and dressed in ragged black breeches, Gideon Ross lay on his belly with only a makeshift raft between him and the waters of a river. Using a long, crooked tree branch, he guided the raft toward shore until he could quietly slip into the knee-high water and loosely tie his means of escape to a bush. Then he paused to listen. He heard nothing.
Walking several yards into a cleared field, he opened a cloth sack, pulled out four chicken legs and placed them on the ground. Next, he withdrew a handful of strawberries, smashed them against his bare chest, and began rubbing the juice all over his body. When he finished, he tossed the sack away and headed toward a darkened plantation house.
As he hoped, the smell of strawberries disguised his presence and the dogs did not stir, so he carefully made his way to the slave quarters behind the house. Not so many years before, white indentured servants had filled the demands for cheap labor, living in the windowless, run-down cottages. But now the labor was black and the cottages were even more neglected. Gideon quietly eased the warped door open, stepped in and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“Not’s again, Massah,” an African woman moaned, still half asleep as she rolled over to face him.
Gideon quickly knelt by her thin mattress on the dirt floor and laid a hand gently on her head. “Shhhh,” he whispered, glancing at three other shadowy figures lying nearby.
Awake and starting to get up, the woman’s eyes widened at the sight of the white scar around his neck. “Is you Banutu? You free us?”
“Not tonight, love,” he softly said, leaning over to lightly kiss her forehead.
VIRGINIA
The ride from Yorktown to Richmond along the banks of the James River was a quiet one for John and Uriah. Before the Revolution, hundreds of vessels crowded the deep water, with an occasional British warship meandering between them to look for smuggled goods. Now the waters held only a few square-rigger tall ships, a couple of barges and no British warships.
&
nbsp; When they came to the spot where his regiment fought the Queen’s Rangers, John paused to remember. The ragged Patriot regiment had been no match for the marksmanship of the king’s best men, and many a good American died there. For a moment, he thought he could still smell the blood, so he nudged his horse onward.
“Caleb and I arrived not an hour or two later,” Uriah said.
“Did you? I wasn’t aware of that.”
“We had food for your regiment, but you had moved on when we arrived. It was Caleb who examined every face until he was certain none were you. Then off we went again to find you. Did you know we fought with you at the battle for Guilford Courthouse? Naturally, we did not join up officially, being British and all. We were right behind you when your musket jammed, and...”
John just let him talk. Most of the stories he’d already heard and this was one of them. As soon as they reached Richmond’s busiest street, he suggested his father visit the barber while he caught up on the latest news at the general store. But when John returned to the barbershop, Uriah was nowhere to be found. It took nearly half an hour to find him. “Papa, where have you been?”
“I merely went for a walk,” Uriah lifted his hat to show off his new haircut. “Have you any news?”
“Three boys stole a pie from the Widow Thatcher,” John answered, leaning against the outside wall of a newly built clothier, “and the Elder Moss accidentally shot a hole in the carpenter’s water barrel.”
“Mister Carson!” a man shouted from across the street, dodging a mule and a cart in his attempt to hurry. He stopped, waited for a rider to pass and then rushed on, only to find his path again blocked by three covered wagons.
“What is it, Mister Keswick?” Uriah asked when the man finally arrived.
Keswick waited until he caught his breath and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose. “Good day to you, John.”
“And to you.”
“It’s about the express,” Keswick said, turning to Uriah.
“What express?” John asked.
“The one to Harrodstown. I’ve neglected to write the proper directions.”
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