Some stories I told in order of when they happened; the day we buried Miss Mary Finch, followed by being sold to the Locktons, followed by the dreadful trip aboard the ship from Newport to New York, followed by our first encounter with Curzon.
(I suffered an odd pain when I spoke his name, and changed the course of that tale.)
Other stories grouped themselves together, like sorting peas from pebbles. Talking about our father led me to his stories about the country marks on his face, the scars he was given by his elders in a ceremony in the village over the sea where he’d been born. How he’d been kidnapped from his parents, his brothers and sisters, and all his friends. This spun itself into the telling of the few stories I knew of Momma’s mother, also born over the sea. She was stolen from her home when she was full grown and taken from her husband and children there. I told Ruth how our Momma carried Jesus in her heart always, and about the differences between our Congregational church and the Catholics and the Quakers, and the little I knew about the folk called Jews, and the folk called Mussulmans, who prayed five times a day. Why some people born over the sea paid special respect to springs of clean water, and how they greeted the sun with reverence each morning.
I’d run down one thread of the stories that I wanted her to remember, then chase back up it so I could travel down another thread. Back to Momma; her songs, her kindness, her rules. Back to New York; the rooms of the Lockton house, the sunflowers that grew outside, and Becky Berry, who cooked there. Back to Rhode Island; how I tried to teach her the letters and numbers, how she’d fed chipmunks, how she’d woken afore anyone every morning of her child days.
I took short breaks to eat the tiny fish that Aberdeen caught in the stream, taking care to set aside the longest bones that could be used as pins. He sat and listened in as I told Ruth about snow, how it fell like frozen feathers from the sky, how it could be formed into balls and thrown at a sister, how icicles grew like frozen giant’s teeth off the edge of the roof, and how everything melted into water and mud when spring took winter’s place. Aberdeen did not believe me about the snow. He wanted me to tell every story I knew about the great ships that crowded the wharves of Newport and New York, how far they journeyed, and what it sounded like when the wind filled their sails and pulled them from the harbor toward the endless sea. So I told those stories too. He wanted to hear about England and Scotland, where there was a city named Aberdeen. Said he fancied a trip there one day.
I talked until my voice was rough and raw, all the while keeping up a steady application of hot poultices on her dreadful cut, as well as a constant stream of prayer to God and supplication to the ghost of our mother.
Late the second night Ruth regained enough awareness to drink some tea and eat a few bites of egg. On the third morning she woke enough to drink a full pot of willow tea. That afternoon I had to help her take care of a call of nature, which was a momentous jolly occasion, for it meant that her insides were working proper. The next day I noted a resolute change in her wound; the skin around it had cooled and the swelling had much receded. She ate an entire egg as well as a handful of grapes. Best of all, she complained that the grapes were sour. Aberdeen laughed out loud and said that if she was restored enough to be peevish, then she was well on her way.
Once she was fully awake and returned to the land of the living, I stopped telling her stories. I had enjoyed the telling, but when Ruth regained her senses, she became wary of me again. The unsettled sensation betwixt us flared. Her eyes narrowed when I stepped close to her, as if she were a cat who’d just spied a snake in the grass. She did not argue or turn away. She even conversated a bit, asking for water for Nancy Chicken or if there was anything left to eat. That was an improvement, to be sure, but any hopes I had of my sister arising from her sickbed with newfound love for me were soon crushed.
Four days and nights had passed and Curzon had not returned. I worried about his absence ceaselessly. Aberdeen shared a tiny bit of my concern, but he was younger and more inclined to hopeful thoughts. That night Nancy Chicken wandered off whilst we slept and did not return. Ruth understood the meaning of this tragedy as well as we did. She lay on her back and cried quiet, with her hands covering her face.
And then the fifth day passed, a day when Aberdeen and I ate nothing. The fish had vanished, we’d plundered all the grapevines we could find, and we’d lost our source of eggs. Ruth could walk a bit, but only with one arm over Aberdeen and the other round me. I counted it as a victory that she was willing to lean on me without shrinking from my touch. But it would take weeks before she could walk for hours on end, and then only if we could find some food.
Aberdeen and I did not talk about this. We did not discuss Curzon, either, because to do that we’d have to entertain the notion that he’d abandoned us or he’d been captured, and I could not decide which would be worse.
And so the sixth day passed too.
I woke the morning of the seventh day to find Ruth staring at me, the tip of her nose almost touching mine.
“I hear a donkey,” she said.
“Donkey?” I asked, startled by this strange declaration. “Are you certain?”
She nodded.
I cautiously peered outside. A thin finger of smoke rose from the ashes of the fire. Aberdeen was nowhere in sight. I held my breath but heard only the wind in the trees and the burble of the stream.
“There is no donkey,” I told Ruth.
She looked at me with pity, as if my ears did not properly work. “It’s coming closer. Sounds like a nice donkey.”
A voice bellowed from the woods: an exuberant, loud, comforting voice. “Is anyone to home?”
CHAPTER XIV
Monday, September 3–Saturday, September 8, 1781
THE GENERAL DOES NOT MEAN TO DISCOURAGE THE PRACTICE OF BATHING . . . ; BUT HE EXPRESSLY FORBIDS, ANY PERSONS DOING IT, AT OR NEAR THE BRIDGE IN CAMBRIDGE, WHERE IT HAS BEEN OBSERVED AND COMPLAINED OF, THAT MANY MEN, LOST TO ALL SENSE OF DECENCY AND COMMON MODESTY, ARE RUNNING ABOUT NAKED UPON THE BRIDGE, WHILST PASSENGERS . . . ARE PASSING OVER IT . . . : THE GUARDS AND CENTRIES AT THE BRIDGE, ARE TO PUT A STOP TO THIS PRACTICE FOR THE FUTURE.
–GENERAL ORDERS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON
RUTH MOVED ACROSS THE HOVEL on her backside and sat in the doorway.
“Donkey,” she said to me. “Told you.”
Curzon emerged into the clearing very slowly, tugging behind him a reluctant donkey attached to a small cart. He didn’t look any worse for having been gone from us for a week; indeed, he looked better, smiling easily and seeming quite pleased with himself.
“Egads!” he exclaimed at the sight of Ruth. “Lazarus is a lass.”
I helped her to her feet as Curzon brought the donkey closer. The astonishment and joy in his face had me grinning like a fool.
“Her fever broke on the third day and the cut is beginning to heal,” I said. “Where did you–”
“It’s a long story,” Curzon said in a rush. “But I’ve got apples, bread, and cheese in the cart, enough to feed us all for days.”
The possibilities all of this offered us–plentiful food and a way to transport Ruth–cheered me more than anything had in ages. “That is the finest boon I’ve ever seen.”
“What’s a boon?” Ruth asked.
“A boon is a nice thing that makes Isabel smile,” Curzon said. He chuckled and tugged on the lead rope.
The shock of seeing him again, along with the sound of his laughter, set my belly to wiggling, as if toads had begun hopping within it.
“Don’t pull so hard,” Ruth scolded Curzon. “He don’t like that.”
“Consarned beast thinks I am the Devil,” Curzon answered cheerfully. “Mayhaps he’ll like you better.”
Ruth tilted her head and looked the donkey over like a fine lady measuring the worth of a racehorse. To me the poor thing looked like a collection of sticks wrapped in a moth-eaten hide.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“He wouldn’t tell m
e.” Curzon took a small sack from the back of the cart. “He is fond of biting folks. We could call him Gator.”
He pulled an apple from the sack and handed it to Ruth. Instead of eating it herself, she set it on her palm and slowly extended her hand, offering the treat to the donkey. The creature gave a great snort before biting into the apple.
“You’ve already captured his heart!” Curzon said. “Every time I try to do that, he bites my fingers.”
Ruth regarded the creature with a practiced eye. “His name is Thomas.”
“Thomas Donkey?” I suggested.
“Don’t be silly,” Ruth said. “Thomas Boon.”
* * *
While we feasted, Curzon shared all the news he’d gathered. We had indeed reached Virginia, where the British army had treated the countryside wickedly for months, burning crops and stealing livestock. Curzon thought we’d best make for Richmond, the new capital of the state. We could seek work for the winter there and push farther north come spring. I argued for traveling on to Philadelphia and finding work with the Quakers.
Our destination remained undetermined, but we agreed that we needed to move.
To travel with a cart, we needed to travel by road. That meant we ought make ourselves more respectable looking. We took turns washing our bodies in the stream as best we could, with handfuls of wild mint having to substitute for soap. I boiled more mint in the pot and poured the water over our ragged clothes in an attempt to make them smell less foul. The purchase of the cart and the foodstuffs had taken every last shilling we owned, so it was going to be a while before we could buy anything new to wear.
We headed for the road at dawn and reached it by midday. Curzon was confident that we were far enough north to travel safely in daylight. I was unsure, but we could certainly move faster when the sun was shining. Ruth drove the cart, which kept her occupied after the sad disappearance of Nancy Chicken. Having spent years on a farm, Ruth was well acquainted with the short and perilous lives of chickens, and she quickly transferred her affection to Thomas Boon. He was fond of her, too, and would do her bidding long as the boys kept their distance. He could not abide anything dressed in breeches.
I pulled the thin shawl from my haversack and kept it handy. On the few times that we encountered other travelers, I used it to secure my hat on my head and to hide the scar on my cheek from view. The folks we passed paid us little heed. They were either driving a slow wagon filled with children and furniture or galloping at top speed on a lathered horse. Everyone was fleeing the war best they could.
After five days of walking the war found us, despite my fervent prayers. A company of Patriot soldiers, moving twice as fast as we were, overtook us on the road. Their officer called a halt and hailed us loudly, asking us to stop as well.
“Don’t say a word to anyone,” I told Ruth.
She stuck her tongue out at me.
Curzon strode up to the officer, slipping back into the soldierly way of speaking to a fellow of higher rank. Aberdeen stayed with Ruth and me, his hand resting protectively on the cart. The soldiers, sitting in the shade and drinking from their canteens, were as bedraggled as we were. Some walked barefooted; all of them were exhausted and filthy. Most of them were white, but a few conversated and joked freely with the black lads of the unit. This eased my mind some.
“What do you think they want?” Aberdeen asked.
“Mebbe food,” I said, happy that we’d already eaten all of the bread and cheese and most of the apples.
Curzon and the officer finished their confab and approached us, striding quickly. Thomas Boon flattened his ears back.
“It’s not much of a cart, sir,” Curzon said.
The officer reached out to grab the donkey’s reins from Ruth.
“Don’t!” Ruth cried.
Thomas Boon brayed loudly and kicked, missing the officer’s legs by a whisker.
“This wretched beast is terrible fearsome,” Curzon said. “The bane of my existence. You are welcome to him.”
Another soldier approached and tried to reach for the reins. Thomas Boon brayed even louder and snapped at the man with his yellow teeth. He succeeded in tearing the sleeve of the fellow’s jacket. Both of the soldiers now took two cautious steps back.
“Except for his biting and kicking,” Curzon said, “he’s capable enough. He has worms in his bowels, of course, but you must expect that in a beast this old. Whatever you do, don’t let him haul gunpowder. He does have a tendency to rear up when startled. He takes great pleasure in dumping everything onto the ground.”
“What say you, Pearce?” the officer asked the soldier with the torn sleeve.
“More trouble than it’s worth, sir,” the man answered, scowling at Thomas Boon. “If we hurry, we’ll make Williamsburg by dark.”
“Williamsburg, sir?” Curzon asked. “I thought the army was encamped at Richmond.”
“Cornwallis has holed up at Yorktown, a day’s march from Williamsburg,” the man said. “The French army is already there, waiting for the rest of us.” He put on his hat. “Best of luck with this beast.”
Pearce yelled, “Rouse yourselves! Time to march!”
We waited until they were well ahead of us, then resumed our journey. A few miles later we paused outside a ramshackle tavern that sat at the crossroads; Richmond to the northwest, Williamsburg to the southeast.
Curzon, with his gift of the gab, went inside on a scouting mission. He returned with the facts geographical and military that we needed. American troops and their French allies were indeed camped near Williamsburg, and the British at Yorktown. Both towns lay on a finger of land that jutted into the Chesapeake Bay, and were separated by miles of farms and marshes.
The news discomfited me.
“We’ll be trapped,” I said after he’d finished. “Surrounded by water on three sides, with not just two but three armies, counting the French? We’ll be like partridges driven into a net.”
Curzon held up his hand and counted off the advantages of Williamsburg on his fingers. “One: Where there is an army, there is work. Two: We’re far enough north to not fear the Locktons. Three: With so many folks of all sorts there–black, white, Indian, slaves, free people, indentured folk–we’ll be able to fold ourselves into crowds with ease. Four: It’s harvesttime, so there will be food. Five: We’re worn down. Injured. Broke. A month in one place would do much to restore our strength and spirits.”
I opened my mouth to argue but closed it without saying a word. He was right. We were hungry and weak. We had no money, nor prospects to earn any in the open countryside. The road to Williamsburg was safer, if only by one small peppercorn. It felt like we were marching ourselves straight into trouble, but I could not think of a better course.
CHAPTER XV
Sunday, September 9, 1781
I AM NOT SORRY THAT THE LINE OF CONDUCT SEEMS NOW CHALKED OUT, . . . BLOWS MUST DECIDE WHETHER THEY ARE TO BE SUBJECT TO THIS COUNTRY OR INDEPENDENT.
–KING GEORGE III, WRITING TO HIS PRIME MINISTER, LORD NORTH, NOVEMBER, 1774
THE ROAD SWELLED LIKE A springtime river as we neared Williamsburg. Countless muddy boot prints and deep ruts carved by the wheels of heavily loaded wagons overflowed into the fields on both sides, cutting down the corn and wheat nearing harvest. We found ourselves in the company of more travelers than we’d seen in all the weeks since we fled Riverbend: sutlers with wares to sell, drovers leading herds of cattle, highborn gentlemen riding fine horses, farmers with wagonloads of hay, common folk on their way to work for the army or to enlist. Ruth watched all with wide-eyed fascination. Curzon took the measure of every man he met, conversating with some and keeping a distance from the rest.
After years of keeping to the shadows, it unnerved me to walk in the sunlight, surrounded by so many strangers. I stayed close to the cart and gave myself a strict talking-to, on the inside, where no one else could hear: Chin up, walk proud. Chin up, walk proud. Free people didn’t dart their eyes fearfully, as if waiting for a b
low or accusation. We had as much business on that road as anyone else; more, mayhaps, for we were honest people, seeking only work and safety.
Chin up.
Midway through the hot afternoon we crested a long hill and stopped, agog at the sight below. Thousands of dusty white tents were pitched in arrow-straight rows on both sides of the road, an encampment that stretched a mile or so from the base of the hill to the houses of Williamsburg.
“What regiments are those?” I asked.
“I do believe we’re looking at the army of the French king Louis number sixteen,” Curzon said.
“Lord save us,” I murmured.
“Seems the French have come to take care of that.” Curzon grinned. “Pardon the blasphemy, Country.”
I smiled despite myself. He had not used my old nickname for a very long time. It cheered me to hear it again, and to see his face alight with excitement.
As we progressed, the road filled with French fellows laughing, talking, and shouting, all of it in their curious tongue. The French uniforms were vastly superior to the rags that the Americans had worn at Valley Forge. The men around us wore white breeches and shirts, with white jackets trimmed in blue. Nothing was ever truly white in an army encampment, of course. Mud and blood and the sundry stains of daily life put paid to that. But the high-spirited fellows around us nonetheless looked fresh, strong, and ready for a fight.
The sound of French spoken by so many recalled to me the months we spent at Valley Forge, a bleak and sorrowful time. I’d been forced back into slavery by an odious lickspittle named Bellingham, a rich man trying to become richer by befriending the Continental army. He made me work at Moore Hall that winter, where General Greene conducted business and kept company with friends and his wife, Caty. The dashing young French general, the Marquis de Lafayette, dined there often and spoke French with Missus Caty, who flirted more than was seemly for a married woman. The marquis was always kind to serving folk, be they paid servant or enslaved. He took the time to thank me for ordinary tasks like pouring wine or removing stains from his waistcoat, and he was never rude nor frightening, the way some men could be. His gentle politeness made me rather fond of the sound of French words on the air.
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