Uriah gasped. “I had no idea. Surely, Mahala does not deny you.”
“Mahala is a paradise, Mister Carson. And Hester Wyley Carson, the angel who watched over it. She smiled in our darkness, warmed us in the cold, and relieved our hunger when no one else would. She saw the affliction of my people and sought to ease it,” Gideon answered, using his bare foot to push the shovel into the hard earth. “To us, she was hope.”
“You speak as though you’ve known her for years.”
Gideon tossed another shovel-full of dirt aside. “I have. She bought me in 1781.”
“Bought you? But Mahala does not abide slavery.”
“Nevertheless, Hester Wyley Carson owned me and your son inherits me.”
“Then my son will set you free.”
Gideon suddenly halted his work and glared at the elder white man. “By what right?”
“The same right she had to buy you, I suppose.”
“She bought me to save my life. Men, who flatter themselves gentlemen, put a rope around my neck, tied it to the saddle of a horse and then placed bets on how long it would take me to die. To them I was afternoon sport. When they happily fired their pistols, I believed I was dead. Then, for no reason I could determine, the horse stopped and before me stood Hester Wyley.
The horse, you see, was Miss Daisy, who halted on Hester Wyley’s quiet command. Not only did she scold the men for spoiling a perfectly good slave, she bargained the price, had me placed in a wagon and drove me away.”
“Hester drove a team?”
“As well as any man. Once we were safely away, she stopped the wagon, climbed in back and untied me. With water from her own jug, she began to wash my wounds and tell me about a place called Mahala. Then she sat down and cried. She cried for her hate of cruelty, for the vile nature of mankind and for a new Empire already drenched in the blood of slaves. I knew then – God had sent us an angel. The truth be known, Mister Carson, I know of no greater honor than to be the property of Hester Wyley Carson.” With that, Gideon went back to digging the grave in silence.
Perplexed, Uriah put his hat back on. “Am I to understand you have lived at Mahala all these years without my notice?”
“Occasionally,” Gideon answered.
“And you do not desire freedom?”
“No.”
“How is it you have a British accent?”
“I was born in London a free man.”
Uriah’s mouth dropped. “You’re a British subject?”
“I’m every bit as British as you.”
“Indeed, which side of the war did you favor?”
“Neither.”
“Oh, I see. Frankly, I did not think the British could lose. They had everything – the ships, the guns, even all the food. Did you come to America to see the war?”
Gideon smirked and tossed aside another shovel full of dirt. “Hardly, I went to see Africa in the company of a trusted friend who sought his fortune there. When his fortune eluded him, he sold me to pay his passage back to England.”
“He sold a friend? I have thought to kill a man for less than that.”
“So have I. But there are some men who deserve far worse than an easy death. Thomas Rodes is one such man.”
Once more Uriah’s mouth dropped. “Thomas Rodes? Might he be the son of Sir William Rodes of Shrewsbury?”
“The same, do you know him?”
“Not yet, but I intend to. Tell me, does Sir William yet live?”
“Not these ten years. He died in the winter of ‘75.”
Uriah composed himself and thought for a moment. “I see...and you say Thomas Rodes went to Africa to seek his fortune? Was there no inheritance?”
“He boasts of a considerable one, but there is some sort of odd provision in the will. He gets but a small allowance; barely enough to pay the taxes.”
“Is that so?” Uriah said, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. “I say, if I can persuade John, would you be interested in a little Carson sport?”
FIVE MONTHS AFTER HE buried Hester and Adam buried his tiny daughter, John stood alone in the bow of MacGreagor’s tall ship. Aimlessly, he watched the waves peak, lap white foam, and then melt back into the Atlantic Ocean.
Behind him, sailors sang chanteys, scrubbed the decks, greased the masts and adjusted the sails. MacGreagor kept an eye out for British warships, Uriah read his Bible and Gideon jotted notes in a log. But John barely noticed, lost and alone in his thoughts.
Uriah realized he was not concentrating on his reading, closed the book, stood up and went to stand beside John in the bow. “Your mother loved the sea.”
“So you said,” John answered, turning slightly to look at his father.
“She...”
“Papa, I mean no disrespect, but it is not Mama I wish to speak of. We have said nothing about Hester since we set sail from Yorktown.”
Uriah lifted his hat slightly and shoved a loose lock of dark hair underneath. “I thought it helpful to wait until you could manage it more easily.”
“I cannot think how I will ever manage it more easily. I am so tortured, Papa. I did not love her as well as I should have. I found her delightful and beautiful, but I did not truly take the time to understand her.” John paused and looked back across the ocean. “I am so ashamed. I thought her...simple minded, caring about nothing more than the latest fashions. And just as I began to see her true nature, she died. She died, Papa, and I cannot remember telling her I loved her.”
“It is just that your mind is muddled. Shall I tell you what Rose said?”
“What?”
“She said she had never seen Hester so happy. That day, having at last told you the truth, Hester was overcome with joy. She felt she had finally gained your respect and admiration. Nothing meant more to her than that, and I doubt she ever imagined you did not love her.”
John closed his eyes. “I hope you’re right, my guilt devastates me.”
“Guilt, I know very well. But son, if a man is not mindful, guilt will destroy him.”
“But why has this happened?”
“That, I do not know. Nevertheless, I firmly believe Hester is with your mother and your mother is happy for the company.”
John finally sighed. “Thank you, Papa. It helps to imagine the two of them together.”
For a time they were quiet, as both men aimlessly gazed at the white billowing clouds that appeared to touch the sea. Suddenly, a puzzled look crossed Uriah’s face. “Do you think you will talk to Hester, the way I talk to your mother?”
“I hope not.”
“Then I am relieved. At least one of us should have his wits about him.”
Finally, John smiled, “Papa, the world should have half your wits.”
“Land ahoy!” a seaman in the crow’s nest shouted. Uriah instantly spun around. Searching for MacGreagor, he finally spotted him on the port side. “It is England?”
MacGreagor slowly put his one hand on his hip. “Mister Carson, I’ve sailed the seas these thirty years and never have I landed in a place I did not intend. It be England, or I’ll give over me other arm!”
“Remind me never to fall into that pit again,” Uriah muttered.
“Look, Papa,” John said, nodding toward Gideon. “He laughs. I’ve not yet seen the man smile, let alone laugh.”
“Aye, he and MacGreagor become thick as thieves. Dare I ask precisely where the land might be?”
“There,” John answered, pointing just left of the bow. Uriah’s eyes brightened. “Ah, there she is...home. I thought I’d never see her again.” He watched with a hint of a tear in his eyes, as the speck of land slowly grew in size. “England, oh England, can you not see it is we, the lesser of us, who love you so very well.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, just some words my father once wrote.”
“Tell me about her, England I mean,” John said.
“Well, she is green mostly, except where she is brown, and not so very unlike Virginia with rolling
hills. She was once thickly wooded like Kentucky, but the British have built exceedingly and used up the wood.” Uriah caught his breath. “I say, John, we are about to see our fill of redcoats again. Will it disturb you, having fought them, I mean?”
“I cannot think why. We are as British as they, and on British soil, they are our redcoats.”
“That they are, they protect us from the French.”
“Who helped us win the war,” John added.
Uriah wrinkled his brow. “So they did. It is all quite confusing, is it not?”
“Indeed. Have you a desire to see the king?”
“Certainly not! The man might actually remember me, my having spent considerable time with him as a boy. In fact, we would do well to avoid London altogether.”
“And the jewels, are you quite certain Thomas Rodes could not have found them?”
“Quite. You will see.” Uriah watched the tiny dot on the horizon continue to enlarge, tested the air for the smell of land and kept an eye out for seagulls. “Son,” he said finally, “have you thought, I mean...well, when we return, I would very much enjoy seeing the blue meadow again.”
“You mean you wish to search for Polly,” said John, his voice suddenly harsh. “Papa, we’ve had no word of her this year complete. They have killed her.”
“You cannot know that, Laughing Rain would have sent word.”
“Would he, and break your heart? The man loves you as much as I do. The truth is, Mama has more company in heaven than you think.” With that, John abruptly walked away.
Uriah watched him go and then turned back to watch the land. “So that’s why he grieves so, he thinks they are both dead.”
CHAPTER 7
England
Put to shore at the busy seaport of Southampton, John and his father disembarked, and then watched as MacGreagor and Gideon set sail for Sweden. First, they delighted in three days of hot meals, long baths and steady beds, and then they bought horses and rode off to tour the Isle of Great Britain. Along the way, Uriah attempted to give historical accounts of castles, villages, and royalty. Unfortunately, his accounts were frequently mistaken and annoyingly corrected by the villagers. He found the winter climate muggy and uncomfortable – when it wasn’t cold and unbearable; the food overcooked—when it wasn’t undercooked; and the people standoffish, when they weren’t nauseatingly friendly. In spite of his grief, John learned to laugh again.
Together, they marveled at a newly completed iron bridge, the first of its kind. They visited the tiny cottage where John was born in Northern England, and the small deserted country manor where his mother and Aunt Elizabeth had once been servants. They drank ale at MacDougal’s Inn and learned the fate of Uriah’s acquaintances. Lady Phillips, Mister Findley, and Sweet Katie, had all passed away. Remarkably, all five of Mister Findley’s less than attractive daughters found husbands.
At last, the time had come. Uriah led his son further north, to a barren land which supported little more than tall, course grass, clumps of heather and an occasional tree. A brick wall as high as five feet in places, and wide enough for a Roman chariot stretched east to west across the moors. Casually walking their horses adjacent to the stone structure, their conversation turned to the Revolutionary War.
“Pity the Tories?” John asked, following his father across one small, then two larger knolls just north of Hadrian’s Wall. “Have you forgotten how the Tories pillaged and murdered hundreds of Americans?”
“No more so than Americans pillaged and murdered them.”
“Papa, had it not been for the Tories, we’d have won the war far more quickly. They defied and maligned us at every turn.”
“They were merely Brits loyal to the British. And having exhibited their allegiance, magnificently I might add, the least the British could do is welcome them home. Instead, they are outcasts faring no better than the impoverished. Worse still, they’ve yet another war to pay for, and this time without benefit of taxes from the Colonies.” Uriah halted his horse near a sharp bend in the wall. “The British,” he went on, carefully surveying the gentle curves in the wall to the east, the surrounding landscape, then the more pronounced bends in the wall to the west, “easily find defeat tolerable, since Americans are little more than impertinent Brits. But the Tories face disenchantment from both sides.”
“Tell me, have we arrived?”
“Aye,” Uriah answered, getting off his horse.
John dismounted and held the horses while his father withdrew a short iron rod and a cloth sack from his saddlebag. “Where precisely did you hide the jewels?”
“There, in the bend in the wall. We need only count the bricks, five right and ten down. Or was it ten right and five down?”
“Say you’ve not forgotten, Papa.”
Uriah rolled his eyes and puffed his cheeks. “If I have, it matters not. We’ve seen but one man this day complete, and I daresay none would bother to protest should we tear down the whole wall. On the other hand, I had hoped to spend this night in Scotland,” he went on, holding the tip of his rod to the corner, then marking five bricks right. Counting ten down, he wedged the rod between two bricks, loosened them, pulled them out, and set both on the ground. Inside, the dirt was solid. “I believe it was ten right.”
“Allow me,” John said, exchanging reins for the rod. From the corner, he counted five down, then ten across. As soon as he removed the bricks, he sighed. “This night we see Scotland.” He removed more bricks, reached in the hole and carefully eased the decayed leather satchel to the ground. He worked the wide strap free of the rusted buckle, and then gently pulled the metal bands apart. Instantly, the jewels sparkled in brilliant shades of red, green, and white.
“There, you see, you need not have worried.”
“So many,” John mumbled, dipping his hand in, and then allowing the jewels to slip through his fingers.
“Aye. ‘Tis the wealth of a generation long since departed—their lives, their passions and their war, nothing but a brief mention over tea in an afternoon.”
“Whatever became of Bonnie Prince Charlie?”
“Still Catholic, in France and childless, I have heard. Most of the Stuarts left Great Britain except for a few Protestant cousins, twice or three times removed.”
“Like my mother and her sister?”
“Indeed. I must say,” Uriah went on, opening the cloth bag and holding it while John transferred the jewels, “that is the first question I intend to ask God when I get to heaven. Which does he truly prefer, the Catholics, the Protestants, or the Quakers?”
“Papa, Quakers are Protestants,” John smiled and put the last of the jewels in the sack. “And your attempt to remind me of Polly is not as clever as you think.”
Uriah rolled his eyes and ignored the comment. “Leave one.”
“Leave one?”
“Aye. Leave a diamond in the satchel, put it back in the wall, and perhaps some remarkable day, someone in need will find it.”
“There’s a pleasant thought,” John said, dropping a diamond back in. When he finished replacing the bricks, he brushed the dirt off his pants, tied a cord around the sack and mounted his horse. “Papa, have you become sentimental again?”
“I could have sworn it was ten down and five right. You’ll not tell my brother, will you?”
“For a price.”
Uriah turned his horse due north. “You cannot be serious. You’ve a fortune in jewels, what more could you want?”
“A meal or two without your complaining might be pleasant.”
“I see. In that case, you’ve nothing to worry about. Scottish women know precisely how to please a man’s palate. You’ll see, you’ll not hear a word out of me.”
KENTUCKY
Something was amiss. In the bitter cold of thick falling snow, only a whisper of smoke drifted upward from the Lewis’ chimney. The chicken coop was open, the chickens were gone, no children played in the snow, and no tracks led to the creek or the woodshed.
Dresse
d in his fur trapper clothing with his long hair hidden under a beaver skin cap, the Cherokee, Laughing Rain, quietly dismounted. He loosely wrapped the horse’s reins around a tree branch and stepped into the yard. Then he spotted it—a small strip of black cloth nailed to the front door. Slowly and reverently, he pulled his cap off, allowing his long hair to fall freely to his shoulders. Then he turned to carefully scan the edge of the forest with his eyes. There, not far from Polly’s favorite tree stump, stood three crudely made crosses. For a long moment, Laughing Rain bowed his head.
Then at length, he walked to the door and gently pushed it open. “No, go back!” Ezekiel shouted, his voice hoarse and cracking. He was seated alone at the long table with his hair disheveled, and his skin red with fever. One arm was raised to protect his eyes from the light. Ezekiel squinted and then lowered his head back down to the table. “Thou hast come too late...spots!”
Stunned, Laughing Rain stepped back. The cabin was eerily quiet. The embers in the hearth were nearly out, the table was filled with dirty pewter plates and bowls, and children lay on the floor shivering under too few blankets. Slowly, Laughing Rain leaned forward until he could reach the latch and pull the door closed.
ENGLAND
In the drafty master bedchamber of a house twice the size of Mahala, Thomas Rodes couldn’t sleep. He wanted to, and was certainly drunk enough to, but unfamiliar noises kept his eyes wide open. A lone candle flickered on the night table beside his bed, and outside, the wind had begun to howl, taper off, and then howl again. Suddenly, three flights below, the heavy front door slammed shut.
Rodes threw back the covers, shoved his feet into slippers, pulled off his sleeping cap, and grabbed the candlestick. His nightshirt barely covered his bony knees, and his thinning brown hair was unbound when he reached the stairs. Then he hesitated. Rodes quickly went back, grabbed a long-barrel pistol off his chest of drawers, and then darted down the three flights of cold stone stairs. But when he arrived and stepped into the foyer, the door remained just as he had left it – closed and bolted on the inside. Just then, he heard the tinkling of a glass servant’s bell. Abruptly, he spun around.
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