A Whisper Of Destiny

by Monica Barrie

  “Thank you, sir,” said Chatham, turning his full attention on the driver who was now standing on the auction block.

  Chatham studied the tall, wiry man as he stood there, his eyes looking straight out into the crowd, his hands hanging limply at his side. The auctioneer began extolling Abraham’s merits, his accomplishments as a driver and as a household servant. Then he started the bidding. Chatham waited until the low bidders began to drop out. Then with a quick signal to the auctioneer, he made his first bid.

  “Eight hundred.”

  “Eight-fifty!” came another bid.

  “Nine-fifty!”

  Chatham turned to the voice and saw Sanders, his nemesis from the previous bidding, smile at him. Chatham cursed his luck as he bid again.

  “One thousand!”

  “Good!” was the whisper from James Cornwall. “Sanders likes to play—Let him go until he reaches fifteen, then bid once more. He can’t handle it. Not after what he just paid.” Chatham nodded his thanks to Cornwall and watched Sanders.

  “Fourteen hundred!” he called.

  “Is he worth it?” Chatham asked Cornwall.

  “That and more. He’s young.”

  “Fourteen-ninety!” called Chatham.

  “Fifteen-fifty!” Sanders shot back. This time he didn’t even look toward the auctioneer, but stared directly at Chatham, challenging him.

  Chatham met the man’s gaze, then he smiled and lifted his hand toward his hat in mock surrender. But this time, as Chatham’s hand neared the brim, he turned to the auctioneer.

  “Two thousand!” Chatham glanced over at Sanders, who shook his head and turned away.

  “Well done!” said Cornwall.

  “Thank you. That man was bothering me.”

  “He bothers almost everybody. He’s a trader—buys them here and sells them up north,” Cornwall explained.

  Nodding to Cornwall, he said, “Well, I guess I had better take care of my purchase.” He didn’t want to spend any more time with Cornwall than was necessary.

  “You’ve bought a good slave. He’ll be a fine houseman.” Then he grasped Chatham’s arm. “I hope you’ll allow me to extend an invitation to join myself and my family at New Windsor one day soon.”

  “It would be an honor. I’ve heard wonderful things about the plantation.”

  “Yes, I’m rather proud of it,” Cornwall smiled, holding out his hand to Chatham. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  “Thank you for your advice,” said Chatham, as Cornwall turned and pushed through the crowd to his waiting carriage.

  Robert Chatham watched Cornwall go, his spirits considerably lighter at his sudden change of luck. Even though he had lost the majordomo, he had met Cornwall and hopefully the meeting would enable him to further his own ends. As for the driver, Chatham doubted that Abraham would be able to help them, but he would do his best to find out anything that the black man might know.

  Chatham paid for the slave, and went to the holding pens to retrieve him. From the slave dock, it was a short walk to Chatham’s residence and he and Abraham walked slowly. During the walk, Chatham spoke not a word but, instead, began to appraise the man silently. He could sense the depression underneath the man’s straight carriage and calm demeanor. It was unfortunate, but there was nothing he could do at present to help Abraham. Too bad he failed to buy one of the better informed household slaves.

  When they reached the house, Chatham took Abraham in through the foyer and rang for Jeremy, who appeared immediately.

  “This is Abraham,” he said and the two black men exchanged nods. “Fix up a sleeping place for him and acquaint him with the routines of the household.”

  “That I will, suh,” Jeremy nodded respectfully, leading Abraham out of the room.

  Chatham went to his study and poured himself a tall whiskey before lighting his cigar.

  He had no appetite and when Bella announced supper, he told her he would not be eating.

  “Look like that new slave be affectin’ your stomach.” She clucked her tongue and started to leave, but Chatham followed her into the hallway.

  “I’d like to talk to Abraham. Send him in to me.” Several moments later, a knock on the door signaled Abraham’s arrival, and Chatham called for him to enter. Abraham had washed and changed his clothing, but his mood seemed the same. He was somber and on his guard. As Abraham stood silently by the door, Chatham rose and, choosing his words very carefully, began to feel out the slave. He needed to know whatever Abraham could tell him.

  “Abraham,” he began, “I want you to know that you will not be mistreated in my household, nor will you be beaten.” Chatham waited for a response, but when one was not forthcoming, he continued, “Very well, I’ll be frank with you and then, if I find any reason to doubt that you cannot keep a secret, I will transport you from Charleston to some other place.” Chatham saw Abraham’s eyes widen slightly and knew that he had struck a chord.

  “I understand that you were Mistress Cornwall’s driver before her father’s death.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “How much time did you spend in the main house?” Abraham looked at Chatham quizzically for a second before replying.

  “I doesn’t rightly know. Sometimes lots, other times not much.” Abraham shrugged obsequiously.

  “Did you ever hear Master Cornwall and his daughter discussing his brother’s activities?”

  “I doesn’t know what ya’ll means,” replied the slave. This time the reply came too swiftly, and Chatham detected something different in the man’s voice. Very slowly and deliberately, Robert Chatham walked to his desk and opened a small side drawer. He withdrew a small object and, with his hand held behind his back, he approached the waiting slave. When he was within arm’s reach of Abraham, he quickly pulled out his hand and put the barrel of his small handgun against the black man’s forehead. He watched as Abraham looked up, moving only his eyes, and he noted that the man’s face raced from surprise and fear, to acceptance of the fact that Chatham would use the gun.

  “You ken pull the trigger, it don’t matter no mo’,” he said in a flat voice.

  “I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Chatham, as he threw the empty gun on the desk top. “Who are you trying to protect? Are you trying to help James Cornwall? Dammit, man. I need your cooperation if I’m going to help your former mistress.” Chatham immediately regretted this outburst. Now that Abraham had this information, it would be impossible for him to remain in the household.

  “You’re trying to help?” asked Abraham, so shocked at Chatham’s words that he forgot to speak like a plantation slave.

  “Yes, dam—” Chatham stopped as Abraham’s words and tone registered. “You’ve been educated,” he stated in amazement. Abraham refused to answer, and the two men stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Chatham went back to his desk and picked up the pistol, placing a ball into the barrel and filling it with the powder. He cocked the firing mechanism and aimed the weapon at the black man.

  “As you see, my literate friend, this gun is now loaded. I want the truth from you. If I don’t get it, I’ll be forced to protect myself. I am not on James Cornwall’s side and I am doing everything possible to help Mistress Cornwall.”

  Abraham looked defiantly at Chatham. Then he took a deep, rasping breath. “My wife is with Mistress Kira. She is her personal maid.”

  Chatham lowered his gun and stared as he listened to Abraham’s story. The man was a veritable treasure trove of information, and of course he had something at stake, that being united with his wife.

  Chatham promised Abraham help, then cautioned him to speak as a slave even to those in this house. Uneducated slaves could be jealous and vindictive, particularly to a newcomer who was being treated well by the master. Because of his relationship with Ruth, Abraham had become privy to a tremendous number of facts, and Chatham knew that when Sean returned, he would be more than pleased at this find.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sean sat on the carv
ed wooden bench, studying the paintings on the walls. He had so many fond memories of the times in past years that he had been seated here waiting to be called. These paintings were like old friends. Sean stared up at George Washington’s face. The portrait projected a serenity that Sean knew had never existed. The artist had made the first president look years younger by removing many of the lines that the great man had earned in the service of his country. The artist had also taken the liberty of giving him more hair than he’d had since he was forty.

  Sean remembered standing near his father during Washington’s funeral and recalled his father’s warm words for the man they buried that day. “Although we disagreed, sometimes bitterly, it is because of Washington that we are able to stand here and be free.”

  Beyond Washington’s portrait hung one of John Adams, and beside that, one of Thomas Jefferson. Sean regarded this one closely, and recalled the days when Jefferson was obliged to sit patiently for the artist.

  “Mr. Rouger,” the clerk’s flat voice interrupted his reverie, “the president will see you now.” Sean pulled his eyes from the portrait and stood, smiling down at the desk.

  “Don’t take everything so seriously, Daniels. You’re starting to look older.” Sean smiled again and walked to the open door before the man could reply.

  When Sean entered the office, he found he was alone with the president and bowed his head slightly.

  “How are you, Sean?” asked James Madison.

  “Fine, sir. And yourself?”

  “Not bad for a doddering old fool!” Madison grinned at the self-deprecating remark and Sean returned the smile. “That’s what your father called me last month.”

  “What happened?”

  “I told him about the possibility of reinstating the renewed, non-intercourse proclamation against Britain, but not France,” the president sighed.

  “And he told you that it would escalate the chance of war,” finished Sean.

  “Absolutely.”

  “It probably will, sir—but still, I side with you.”

  “Thank you. The reason I asked you here has to do with that very issue.” Madison paused and then came from behind his desk. He walked to a window and stared out at the street.

  “Sean, I need to have more information. I need to know whether the proclamation will bind France to us. I don’t know what Napoleon stands to gain by tricking us. We certainly can’t fight the British on their seas.” With that, the president turned and walked to a door on the opposite side of the room.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” The president opened the door and called softly to the man who was waiting to join them. Sean knew him slightly. He had seen him once before, briefly, in the company of Commodore Finch. The man was Commodore Uria P. Levy, one of the best naval commanders in America. Commodore Levy was in charge of the United States Navy in the border waters near Canada.

  Sean stood at attention and extended his hand as Commodore Levy approached him.

  “I’m glad to meet you at last, Captain Rouger, after all the reports I’ve received of you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” responded Sean. Commodore Levy was only a few inches shorter than Sean, but his carriage made him seem taller. His wavy, receding hair, his large nose and his deep, brown eyes conveyed strength.

  “Captain, I will come right to the point. The work you’re doing now is important, but we need you for something else. There is a network of informants scattered around the world that has been very useful to us. Several of the informants are currently studying the advisability of pursuing the non-intercourse proclamation. We want you in direct contact with them.”

  “Sir,” said Sean, desperately seeking a way to avoid this assignment which would take him far from Kira Cornwall. “Surely anyone could get this information for you.”

  “No,” Levy disagreed. “We need you. It will not be easy, and there are several people who you must track down before you will be able to get the information.”

  “I am sorry, sir, but I can’t leave my people stranded in the middle of an operation. Besides,” he continued, taking a deep breath, “we’re very close to finding out how the British are being supplied.”

  “Captain Rouger, if this were not a matter that was infinitely more important, do you think I would pull you away from Commodore Finch’s work?” Commodore Levy paused and he gazed intently at Sean. “But I do understand your situation, and if you finish the job or send in replacements, I think we can wait a week or two before you depart for France.”

  Sean stood there and stared despairingly at the two men. How could he make them understand what it would mean for him and his group to pull out of Charleston now? But he wisely held his tongue. And as the men talked on of strategies and tactics, Sean made his own plans.

  He would not leave matters unfinished in Charleston, and he would not let those who had died, Jonathan Cornwall among them, become worthless sacrifices to a greater plan. Only when the course of action that Sean believed would work the best had been settled in his mind did he turn his full attention to the men in the room and begin to memorize every name and place of which Commodore Levy spoke.

  “This information network,” Levy explained, “is not one bound to a nation. Instead, it is made up of a loosely woven group of merchants, farmers, shippers and even clergymen who have banded together for the protection of a race. You cannot understand what we are doing, Captain Rouger, until you see it for yourself. Here.” He handed Sean a small slip of paper. “This is the name of your final contact. This man will be able to tell us whether we should go ahead with Madison’s proclamation.” Levy shook his head. “I must warn you. He is not an easy man to persuade. But you must, either through argument, logic or even pleading, enlist his help. Otherwise, we may find ourselves in the midst of another British-American war.”

  Certain promises were made by President Madison to add weight to Sean’s words, and by the expression on Uria Levy’s face, Sean knew that what he was about to do would not only benefit this country, but help thousands of people.

  When every detail had been worked out and the three men were satisfied with the arrangements, Sean brought up his own hastily formed plan. Commodore Levy was in full agreement, but the president expressed some doubts.

  “Sir,” Sean added in a persuasive tone, “it will allow us to operate on two fronts, with a back-up close to my personal field of operations.”

  “Haven’t you exposed your sister to enough danger?” Madison shook his head. “Must you demand that she play the same roles over and over, until she is killed?”

  “And what of all the others who have died to help us? Are they to be forgotten? What if I am found out in France? What if I am killed? It would be months before you knew and then additional months before a replacement could be sent.” Sean raised his voice, feeling tension course through his body.

  “He knows what he is saying, Mr. President. Remember, word can be sent to her much sooner by one of the network and she could replace Mr. Rouger—to a degree.”

  James Madison looked at Commodore Levy for a long moment, then he sighed and gave Sean the permission he wanted.

  Sean and Levy left the president and walked down the corridor, talking quietly. Just before they approached the main doors, Levy handed Sean an envelope. “This must be given to one man only. It is not a military matter, but a personal one.”

  An hour after the meeting, Sean arrived home, his mind preoccupied with a variety of matters.

  “You’re to pack my European clothing,” he explained hastily to Ian. “I’m going to France in two weeks. Have everything waiting at Norfolk.”

  “Will I be going?” asked Ian, always ready for an adventure.

  “Not this time. I have other duties for you.” Then Sean outlined his plan concerning Francine and what he wanted Ian to do. The valet listened quietly, and when Sean was finished, he smiled delightedly. This was just the sort of assignment he craved.

  “I’ll take good care of her,”
he declared.

  “I know you will.” Then he instructed Ian to pack another bag for his trip to Charleston.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was late, and the moon had set. The cool night was over, and there was no breeze. The humidity promised another suffocating August day. Kira sat quietly staring out her window, the same window she had looked through for so many hours during the past weeks. She was lonely, vulnerable, and longed to call Ruth. But she would not disturb the sleeping girl. Ruth had many extra duties now that kept her working more hours than ever before in her young life.

  The slave’s extra duties had started only a few days after Kira and Ruth had arrived and settled in at New Windsor. Every night Ruth was gone from the time she assisted Kira into bed until about one o’clock when she returned to her sleeping mat.

  It must have been the incident about the sleeping mat, Kira decided, that had caused Ruth’s extra work. When they arrived, her uncle informed Kira that the slave girl would sleep in front of her mistress’ door, like all the other personal slaves at New Windsor, on a sleeping mat. By the third night, Kira could no longer tolerate this degradation of her friend and she confronted her uncle. He had looked at Kira for several seconds before replying in a manner that brooked no argument.

  “No!” was his gloating response. The next night, Ruth’s new duties had begun.

  The whole thing seemed like a nightmare. When Kira had expressed a desire to visit a friend several miles away from New Windsor, her uncle had forbidden it. She was not to leave the plantation without permission, nor was she to accept visitors without her uncle’s approval. She and Ruth were prisoners on the plantation.

  In the afternoons, Kira was permitted to take her roan mare and ride the fields, but even then someone was watching her. By the end of the first week, Kira had adjusted to the situation as much as possible and began making her plans.