Tidewater Bride

by Laura Frantz

  In the hall lay Ruby and Jett, their comforting presence an added safeguard to doors and windows shuttered and locked. Still, a whisper of alarm crept past Selah’s exhaustion.

  With matters still so unresolved, what would the morrow hold?

  45

  Wagons ambled along the rutted road from Rose-n-Vale toward Hopewell Hundred as dawn cracked open the sleepy eastern sky. McCaskey and half a dozen indentures followed Xander in the lead. Shay sat beside his brother-in-law, looking pleased as a fox in a henhouse to be holding the reins. But for one matter.

  “I’ve rarely seen you with a sidearm other than your pistols.”

  “Pistols are wildly inaccurate.” Xander shifted on the seat, the rapier riding his hip safely in its scabbard. “Swords rarely miss.”

  “You are taking no chances with Claibourne or Laurent, I’d wager.”

  “I hope to have no need of any weapon. ’Tis precautionary,” Xander told him as they rolled to a stop beside the warehouse.

  Since Ustis’s passing, Xander felt a bit melancholy coming here. Ustis had been a trusted friend, a wise counselor. He would have made a treasured father-in-law. His business acumen was second to none. Though a new supplier was needed for the upriver plantations, nothing had been done, the want left unfulfilled. Mayhap at the next general assembly he’d make a motion. In time, Shay could assume the position, if he was willing.

  A few boats bobbed at their moorings along the waterfront, mostly upriver visitors, a few vessels familiar. A small, unknown shallop at wharf’s end drew Xander’s notice, but he gave it no more than a passing glance as he took out a key and opened the warehouse. His indentures filed in, intent on the empty barrels. They weighed a thousand pounds each when prized with tobacco but were easily hefted when empty.

  “Now is the time to fetch your belongings,” Xander told Shay. “And see how the house fares idle.”

  Shay’s expression turned pensive as they took the path leading to the Hopewells’. He’d not been home since his return from the Powhatans. He’d only heard secondhand how his father had fallen. Did he blame McCaskey? The factor, Xander had noticed, gave Shay wide berth as if guilt dug a chasm not easily bridged.

  No sooner had they disappeared into the shoreline’s leafy shade than a commotion made them look back over their shoulders. Into the clearing near the warehouse came a procession nearly silent but for the rattle of chains and the clang of bells. Xander summed it up in a glance. Laurent and Nurse Lineboro on horseback. Six men in the coarse garb of indentures on foot. And one fettered slave.

  “’Tis the African.” Shay sucked in a breath. “The one who came to Rose-n-Vale and told us of Watseka.”

  The starving smokehouse thief.

  Xander said nothing, taking in the bloodied man from head to foot. The scars. The terrible iron collar with pronged horns that tore at the skin of his neck and shoulders. The leg iron that clinked loudly with every agonized move. An added humiliation was bells. Their music was anything but merry. The spectacle caused a fierce churning in Xander’s gut.

  “Stay here out of sight.” He laid a heavy hand on Shay’s shoulder. “Say nothing.”

  Laurent dismounted and strode down the dock ahead of his indentures, intent on the small shallop at wharf’s end. Were they taking the African to James Towne for more punishment? Handing him over to the authorities and gaol? Now chary, Rose-n-Vale’s own indentures paused in their loading of the wagons. McCaskey stared at Nurse Lineboro as she dismounted. The humid air ripened with hostility.

  Xander stepped into the open, beyond the concealing shade. A murmur passed through the indentures. Laurent swung round, gaze sweeping the onlookers before settling on Xander. For the briefest second he seemed caught off guard. His hand went to his sword’s hilt and stayed there.

  Slowly, Xander walked toward the African, whose head was bowed as much as the iron prongs would let it be. “What charge do you bring against this man to have him bound so?”

  “What cause have you to ask?” Laurent retraced his steps down the dock, past the African, to stand a stone’s throw from Xander. “This is my lawful property to be used—or abused—as I please.”

  “The charge?”

  Laurent’s features tightened further. “All here know the punishment for a runaway slave is death. I intend to make him a public spectacle before all James Towne as a warning to future offenders.”

  “And I stand here and testify he did not run away but returned to you after leading us to the Indian girl caged on your land,” Xander replied, loud enough for all to hear. “If not for the African’s aid, she may well have perished, bringing the Powhatans’ wrath down on us all.”

  Cursing, eyes never leaving Xander, Laurent threw off his doublet. “You speak at your own peril, Renick, of matters you know not.”

  “I ken enough to defend a defenseless man. ’Tis you, Helion Laurent, who should wear the irons instead.”

  With a seamless sweep of his hand, Laurent drew his sword. “I am out of patience.”

  The ring of steel as it left the scabbard caused Xander to reach for his own weapon. Forgive me, Selah. I did not mean for it to come to this.

  They began circling on open ground near shore as indentures fanned out in a wide arc around them. Laurent’s weakness was his vanity. He would make a fine dance before so rapt an audience, displaying all the elegance of the art. But neither would he fight honorably. When his booted foot kicked sand in Xander’s face, stinging and for a moment blinding him, Xander was prepared and escaped his quick thrust.

  Lord, grant me a step and a mind sharp as steel.

  The ground was unmercifully uneven. Still, they exchanged several thrusts, the rise and fall of Laurent’s chest more pronounced as Xander lunged and sliced off his sleeve button. The rage in Laurent’s gaze built with every parry and riposte, giving Xander a sliver of confidence.

  An angry man was oft a losing man. And a dead one.

  They were on the wharf now, men scrambling to get out of their way. A cry went up from the nurse as Xander lost his footing and Laurent aimed for his sword arm. The blow was glancing but drew blood, a warm, crimson swath against his shirt sleeve. Atop the wooden boards, the clash of their blades carried crisp over the water.

  Laurent lunged and Xander parried, barely dodging the tip of his blade. They were now moving at a speed too fast for the eye, and Xander’s head spun traitorously. He feinted, fooling Laurent, who stepped too close to the wharf’s edge. Recovering, he found his balance and thrust again yet fell short. Strength ebbing, Xander struck him hard across his sword arm and put his point at Laurent’s throat.

  Xander forced one winded word through clenched teeth. “Yield.”

  “To the death!” Laurent spat as his sword lashed out, striking Xander’s thigh.

  They fought on, down the length of the wharf now cleared of all men. Color was leeching from Laurent’s face. His wounded sword arm trailed blood. Still, his shoulders tensed and gave a warning, and he lunged again. Breathless, Xander leapt back, deflecting his blade. Next came a final, irreversible thrust, Xander’s sword arm driving home. With a final cry of outrage, Laurent fell back into clear blue water with an ominous splash.

  Xander stood at the wharf’s end and looked down at him, chest so tight every breath was a battle. One of Laurent’s indentures dove off the dock and swam to retrieve him.

  In seconds, Shay was by Xander’s side, hands full of linen. His eyes were wild with worry. “I’ve brought this from the warehouse to bind up your wounds, which I pray are not mortal.”

  “Not mortal, nay.” Xander stood still as the lad began bandaging him, gaze never leaving Laurent as he was heaved to shore.

  A weighty silence ensued as the onlookers roused themselves out of their frozen stances and slowly surrounded the man lying on the sandy bank.

  Xander bent his head. Waited for what he sensed was to come.

  God forgive me.

  “Stone-cold dead,” someone shouted.

 
Xander turned toward the stunned group. Over the wails of the nurse he gave orders. “Take Laurent to James Towne for burial. Factor McCaskey and Nurse Lineboro shall accompany the body and explain to the governor and officials how things stood betwixt the three of them.” He looked toward the man in irons, head still bent as if he was uncertain of his fate. “Leave the African to me. With keys.”

  Nary a murmur of dissent. One of Laurent’s indentures came forward with the keys as others readied the shallop. Laurent’s body was bound in a sheet from the warehouse. His sword and hat had been swallowed by the river.

  Xander stood, breathing easier, till the shallop departed. As he took a step toward the waiting wagons with their load of hogsheads, his whirling head overtook him. He collapsed like a felled tree atop sandy soil.

  46

  Selah looked about the dining room table in the late September twilight. Her heart was so full she could barely speak. A husband on the mend. A child found. A brother and mother near at hand. Only one place remained empty at table, but Widow Brodie had set it just the same. Oceanus would come home in time, Lord willing.

  A fortnight had passed since the duel, when Xander had returned to Rose-n-Vale in a wagon bed, frightening them all out of their senses. Selah looked to him now, hale and hearty and home from a day’s trip to James Towne. And bringing news more fair than ill, she hoped.

  “You look no worse for wear despite your journey.” Candace smiled at her son-in-law as he carved a roast goose brimming with juices. “I suppose I should let you finish your supper before pestering you with questions.”

  Xander gave a mock glower as he finished carving.

  Widow Brodie harrumphed, her gout making her testy. “Perhaps you can eat with haste.”

  To his left, Watseka smiled at him sweetly, her voice a whisper. “Bring sweets?” She’d not forgotten that Ustis once filled her pockets.

  He winked. “The shallop nearly sank from the surfeit.”

  She giggled, taking a bite of meat with a fork and eyeing Widow Brodie, who’d nearly given up reminding her to use utensils. Shay began passing dishes and reported on the fieldwork, the remaining barn to be rebuilt, and how Ruby and Jett had treed a bear cub near the mill.

  Selah listened and savored her meal, thinking of her own busy hours stripping the geese of their feathers for quills and coverlets, then picking bayberries alongshore with Watseka ahead of candle dipping. But her every thought while at her tasks had been of Xander and how he fared in James Towne.

  Once Izella served dessert, the barrage began. Xander pushed back his plate and opted for a pipe instead, giving his serving to Shay.

  “You’re no doubt wondering about McCaskey and Nurse Lineboro.” He drew on his lit pipe for a few seconds, leaving them on tenterhooks. “They remain in gaol on charges of thieving and whatnot. The governor’s council will decide their fate.”

  “What of the African?” Shay asked the question closest to Selah’s heart. “Can he stay on here? He’s a fine hand alongside your bound men.”

  “He’s to remain at Rose-n-Vale, though I’ll not enslave but indenture him.”

  “Praise be,” Selah breathed, for that had been her very prayer.

  “And Helion Laurent?” Widow Brodie remained the most vocal in her condemnation of the man and his misdeeds. “I suppose the miscreant’s been given a proper burial.”

  “His casketed body is on a ship bound for France.”

  “Ah, his homeland. ‘It is joy to the just to do judgment: but destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity,’” she quoted with no small satisfaction. “I suppose all Virginia is aflame with talk of his demise, though such tragedies are almost commonplace.”

  Selah didn’t miss the shadow that settled over Xander’s countenance. He’d told her of the duel in detail. How Laurent refused to yield at the last and live. But would her husband ever escape the harrowing memory? His sword he’d since hidden away.

  “Let us talk of more pleasant matters,” Selah said, summoning a smile. “A letter came from Cecily this very day—”

  “Your tobacco bride?” Widow Brodie interrupted. “Goodwife Wentz?”

  “The very same. She’s expecting a child next spring and has asked we be godparents—”

  A shout beyond the windows stopped Selah midsentence. All turned toward the sound. It rang out again, clear and joyous.

  “Wingapo!”

  Mouth open in wonder, Watseka jumped up from her chair. Her expectant gaze swung to Xander, who merely said, “Your kinsman comes.”

  Kinsman? Did he mean Meihtawk?

  They all got up with a great clatter, Watseka leading as they made their way to the riverfront door and portico. Though only a scarlet ribbon of the brilliant sunset remained, Oceanus’s silhouette was unmistakable, Meihtawk by his side. Even in the gathering shadows, the new confidence and strength Oceanus exuded could not be overlooked. He was changed but still the beloved son they had so missed.

  With a little cry, Watseka rushed toward them with such gladness that tears came to Selah’s eyes. Xander soon stood beside Selah, his arm warm about her waist. Together they observed the long-awaited reunion, too overcome to speak.

  Truly, joy cometh in the morning.

  And the evening too.

  1

  We mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Sacred honor.

  The Declaration of Independence

  On this day, 8 August, 1778, a child was safely delivered . . .

  Nay, not safely. Anything but safely.

  . . . to Anne Howard Ogilvy and Seamus Michael Ogilvy of Tall Acre, Roan County, Virginia.

  Dropping his quill pen, Seamus ran callused hands through hair bereft of a queue ribbon and watched a stray droplet of ink soak into the scarred desktop. Steadying his breathing, he picked up the pen and pressed on as if time was against him.

  The infant’s name is . . .

  The heavy scratch of the nib against the family Bible’s fragile page was halted by a knock on his study door. A servant to tell him he could finally see his firstborn? Or that his wife was dead? Or the both of them?

  He called out with a shaky voice, but it was Doctor Spurlock who appeared, shutting the door soundly behind him. “A word with you, General Ogilvy, if I may.” At Seamus’s taut expression, Spurlock gave him a slight smile. “At ease, man, at ease. I’m not the undertaker.”

  Pulling himself to his feet, Seamus came out from behind the desk. “A word and a glass of Madeira are in order, at least.” He went to a near cabinet and filled two crystal goblets as a newborn’s wail rent the summer stillness, sharp and sweet as birdsong.

  “’Tis about Anne,” Spurlock said, a careful note to his tone.

  Seamus passed him a glass. The doctor looked haggard after the lengthy ordeal, silver hair standing on end, spectacles askew, to say nothing of his waistcoat. Seamus was sure he looked equally unfit, having spent the night in his study.

  “I don’t need to tell you what a trial this birth has been. You’ve nearly worn a trail in the floor with your pacing.” Spurlock regarded him with bleary, apologetic eyes. “Your wife is very weak. The baby, being so large, took a toll. Anne is a very narrow woman and continues to bleed heavily.”

  Blood. Wounds. Life and death. Seamus was used to such things. These were the staples of a soldier’s life. Childbirth was, in a very real sense, battle. “I trust she’ll recover in time.”

  Spurlock frowned. “Mistress Menzies, the midwife, nearly lost her at one point. If not for her presence of mind and the use of my forceps, we’d be having a very different conversation.” He removed his spectacles and began cleaning them with a handkerchief. “On a brighter note, your wife’s sister is coming from Williamsburg to help care for her, though I do worry about you returning to duty so soon.”

  “Orders,” Seamus said through a stitch of guilt. “General Washington wants me at reveille come morning.” As it was, he’d have to ride all night to reach camp by the appointed time.


  “I speak not only out of concern for your wife but for you, General. I can tell from looking at you that your own health has been compromised.”

  Seamus squared his shoulders. “A malaise of war, little more.”

  “Spoken like a true soldier.” Spurlock fixed his gaze on an open window. “Very well, I’ll talk plain and fast. Your wife faces a long recovery. She’s always been a bit fragile, a true gentlewoman. And though it will be hard for you to hear, I’m duty bound to tell you her very life will be in danger if there’s a second birth. Mistress Menzies concurs.”

  A second birth—and she’d barely withstood the first. The words spun round Seamus’s head but made no sense. Remembering his Madeira, he took a sip, listening as the doctor explained feminine things he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Things that made him itch under his uniform collar with a heat that had nothing to do with the humid Virginia afternoon.

  “Of course, husbands have certain needs, certain rights, if you will . . .” The doctor’s words were becoming more labored, nearly lost as the babe’s cries reached a crescendo upstairs.

  “Say no more,” Seamus replied. Spurlock’s warning was clear as a midsummer day. All marital intimacy was at an end. “As it stands, I’ll be away for the duration of the war.” His outward calm belied the storm breaking inside him. “I won’t—I mean, there won’t be occasion to—” He stared at his boots. “I understand.”

  Spurlock nodded and downed the rest of his Madeira. “I knew you’d take it like the officer and gentleman you are. Now, if you’re ready, your wife would like to present you with your firstborn.”

  Firstborn. Final born. And a robust daughter at that.

  The bedchamber seemed strange since Seamus had been away so long. Stepping inside the elegant green and gilt room brought about unwanted, ill-timed memories—a crush of passionate encounters beginning on their wedding night. It was the eve of the war when he’d wed the belle of Williamsburg, three years later when their daughter was conceived on a hasty visit. He hardly remembered either. War had driven such sentimental things from his head, replacing them with the stench of smoke and powder instead.