“So that we are clear,” Hawk said. “You offer me a commission.”
Washington gave a deep nod.
“And for Mr. Adams, you offer an equal commission on his own ship—perhaps, thanks to him, the newly available Delight?”
Washington had the grace to let discomfort cross his face.
“Under the circumstances, you understand I cannot.”
“Nay, I do not. What are the circumstances? That I am asked to fight for freedom, while denying it to others? I regret I was not clearer that my partner and I jointly operate a business as equal executors. Watching over each other these past dozen years, it has become a habit.”
“You are welcome to take Mr. Adams into your service as a seaman, but he cannot captain a ship. We must be united against the enemy, and a ship with an African at the helm will be divided.”
“As I am reminded of the enemy,” Raven said, pointing at Washington, “I heard last night that they’re offering slaves in Virginia—any old farmhand, mind you—the very same deal you just offered me. How flattered should I be, sir?”
Raven rose and made to leave, then turned back to the general and spoke:
“Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev’ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, Washington! Be thine."
With that, he bowed deeply to Washington with the sort of sardonic insolence Hawk had seen only in Ashanti Adams.
“Bronson, you may not be finished with this insulting line of questioning, but I am.”
He turned on his heel and left. Hawk was startled into silence; he couldn’t remember the last time they’d called each other by their given names.
Washington, visibly shaken, raised a hand even as Hawk rose to follow him. The only reason he stopped was his respect for the grim task facing this embattled man, leading their fledgling country.
“Apparently abuse inspires the muse in my friend.”
“I know not how, but he quoted from a poem written by one of his own people, a young lady named Phillis Wheatley. She sent the poem to me, so I’m uncertain how he would know it. But twenty two years ago born in dark Africa, now penning lyrical and undeserved praise to her new country’s military leader.”
Bronson recognized the name—the Wheatleys lived not far from the Adamses, and Rashall knew her well. He likely had read it long before she’d ever sent it to Washington. “A country that still considers her property. Even in enlightened Boston.”
The general gazed at his desk. “Sir, I commend you on your loyalty, and your courage in taking a difficult position. But I am single-minded in my duty to defeat our enemy, the mightiest military power in the world. The role of the African in our country does matter. They must be properly established as free people. Either in this land or back in their own—at the right time. That, I fear, is a battle for another day.”
“So you do ask them to fight for a freedom that is not theirs.”
“I do not like it any more than you.”
Hawk’s laughter was mirthless. “Sir, you and I both know you’ve owned slaves since you were a boy merely dreaming of going to sea, at an age when Raven and I went.”
“Slavery is a difficult system to dismantle, and one man cannot do it alone. My slaves are accustomed to my protection.” He looked at the floor, conflict clear on his face.
Hawk exhaled. “Well. I am accustomed to my good friend’s protection, and he, accustomed to mine. We both shall continue to strive for the freedom of these colonies, as we have for these past five years. And might I add, you have turned away the bravest, most noble and clever ally you could have wished for, in Rashall Adams. Not to mention loyal.”
He walked to the door and stopped. “And for your own edification, General, Rashall Adams is not an African. His family was working and living free in this land while yours and mine were still bowing to the King. If anyone has earned the right to call himself an American, it is he.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Marley awakened that same morning with the memory of decadent warmth as she slept safe in Hawk’s arms. She remembered the evening before, when he caught her in the hallway—she’d been so certain he would kiss her then. And yet, the excitement over prolonging the delay was an excruciating pleasure.
A quiet rap came at the door, and when she answered, a young maid with bright blue eyes and freckles entered, carrying an armful of wood.
“Sorry to wake you, ma’am. You go right back to sleep, I’ll have you warmed up in a trice.”
Marley threw the covers back, shocked by the cold. Surely she should have listened to the girl, at least until the room warmed up a bit. Instead, she found herself excited at the prospect of spending the day with the Adams women. That was when the memory of Camisha’s good grief came to her and distracted her—and had her husband actually used the phrase group hug? Impressive, the clarity a good night’s sleep could bring.
She stopped in the water closet, scrubbed up, and then quickly dressed. How soon she’d lowered her expectations of the eighteenth century—and for that, she had the Adventurer to thank. Effectively camping out for a month had taught her to appreciate a bucket of fresh spring water at the ready and servants stoking fires.
She hurried downstairs where Parks was dipping scrambled eggs onto a platter.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. How can I help?”
Parks smiled at her. “Just have a seat. Everything’s ready.”
The gay laughter of children in the dining room captured Marley’s attention, and she followed the sound. Helen carried an infant in a sling contraption against her breast. A tiny pink cap covered the baby’s ears. The woman poured steaming black coffee around the table, then placed cream with the sugar in the middle.
“Boys, eat your porridge. That’s what your Uncle Ray had for breakfast. Shonny, don’t you want to grow up big and strong like Uncle Ray? You’re still a tiny thing.”
The boy—perhaps five years old—beamed with pleasure. His large dark eyes, as well as his cheeks and forehead, sparkled with his smile, as if his face were lit from inside. He laughed uproariously.
“I’m tiny. Tiny Shonny! Tiny Shonny!”
With no-nonsense grace, Mrs. Adams swung the boy up and into his chair, putting a spoon in his hand. “Eat your oatmeal and hush, Tiny Shonny, Tiny Shonny.”
Deep, infectious laughter rumbled in his chest, and Marley covered her own mouth. When Mrs. Adams noticed her, she said, “He does sound like a tiny Raven when he laughs.”
“Ray was just like that when he was his size. Looked like him, too.”
“Tiny Ray, tiny Ray,” the boy sang out.
“Boy oh boy.”
Boy oh boy. Another anachronism. A peculiarly twentieth century phrase, she was sure. Could it simply be that the language hadn’t in fact changed as much as she’d thought?
No. Of that she was certain. She’d read enough eighteenth-century writing, and listened to the speech patterns of the men on the ship, that she knew something was different about this woman—and she couldn’t yet explain it. And she remembered Raven remarking on how her own speech resembled his mother’s.
Another boy, perhaps three years old, climbed down out of his chair, squealing in frustration when his grandmother scooped him up, too, and returned him to his chair, beside his brother. “Me wanna johnny cake. Tiny johnny! Tiny johnny!
Helen turned to her older son. “See what you started?”
Shonny grinned at Marley as if she were a secret conspirator.
“No johnny cake today, John. Today we have porridge. Let’s try some cinnamon.”
This bewitched the child, and with the slight doctoring, he began piling awkward mouthfuls of oatmeal into his mouth. Marley jumped forward and sat beside him. “Would you like me to help?”
He eyed her suspiciously, then nodded and held out his spoon, gummy with oatmeal. Marley quickly fed him, then wiped off his face
and served her own plate.
Mr. Adams had left the house before Marley ever awakened, busy with feeding animals and the countless other chores of an ordinary day. She’d learned he also owned a shop in town, but she wasn’t certain how the siege had impacted his business.
The women were finishing their breakfast by the hearth when they heard a pounding on the front door, followed by urgent cries.
Parks reached the front door first, and announced over her shoulder, “’Tis Mrs. Brownson’s maid, Susan.”
Camisha swung the door open wide.
A pale young girl stood there. She trembled in the snow, dressed in no more than a cotton dress and cape and mobcap.
“What’s the matter, Susan? Would you like to come in?”
She shook her head wildly. “No, mum. ’Tis milady. Her time’s come. Well, no. But she’s having her baby now, either way.”
Grabbing two woolen cloaks from a nearby closet, she looked at Helen. “Both you girls stay here and pack for the trip. Helen, you need to decide whether you’ll be going with us or staying behind. Perhaps you’d be especially useful at Mrs. Brownsons’ now. Marley, you come with me.”
She handed a cloak to Marley, and they followed the young girl down the snowy path to a farmhouse near the foot of the country road. “How long has she been having pains?”
“It started in the night, maybe four o’clock—she didn’t awaken anyone, only got up and sat by the fire,” Susan said.
Camisha explained to Marley quietly, “The poor woman has lost a number of babies. They’re always born early. One survived—at eight months, this baby should, it just depends on how well she’s been taking care of herself. I tell them to eat well to help the baby develop, but they never listen.”
As they entered the home, they heard a wail echo through the halls, and they followed the sound upstairs.
The woman in the bed wore a nightdress up to her neck, and a man of perhaps forty sat on the edge of the bed holding her hand between both of his. He ran a hand uncertainly over his rumpled hair.
He gave a sigh of relief when he saw the women. “Mrs. Adams, we are so relieved to see you.”
Camisha hung her cloak on a peg, and Marley followed suit. Both women quickly scrubbed their hands at the washstand.
The woman’s face was a pasty beige, and Camisha turned to the maid. “Susan, please go down and see if you can find us some frozen spring water, and bring us a glass of ice chips.”
The girl raced down the stairs.
“Caleb, if there’s any work you need to tend to for a couple of hours, I think I can manage here. Or if you’d like to wait downstairs, it might be simpler for you.”
He had tried to hide his worry, but at this offer, the relief quietly filled his eyes.
He leaned toward his wife. “Now you’ll call for me, won’t you, if you need anything?”
She nodded wearily.
When he left, Camisha drew back the covers and set them aside. “How are the pains?”
“Terrible.”
“Have you noted the frequency?”
“Every two minutes, for perhaps a half hour.”
“Well, we should see the baby soon. Mind if I have a look?”
Elizabeth shook her head. Marley folded her hands before her and waited.
“Well, I see the head, but you’re not quite dilated enough,” Camisha said. “It should be soon, though.”
Even as she spoke, the woman was wracked with another pang.
Susan entered the room and set the glass of ice chips on the night table beside the bed. Marley offered them to Elizabeth, and she sucked on a small chip, setting the glass aside.
And at last, time enough had passed. “All right, I can see the head crowning,” Camisha said with an encouraging smile. “Time to have that baby, Mama!”
And Elizabeth knew what to do.
Marley watched. Knowing full well what she watched, it was still astonishing to witness as the woman pushed. The head emerged, as tiny as a child’s doll, followed by wriggling shoulders, torso, hips, and legs. Elizabeth’s little girl was delivered, and Marley smiled, filled with wonder.
But even as she opened the blanket prepared for the child, as Camisha quickly fished her finger inside the child’s mouth to remove the mucus, they both watched the tiny infant gasping vainly for breath, turning blue, silently struggling to breathe with lungs too small to do the job.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out against what she saw. She prayed for the baby, fearing she was far too small to survive.
“Come on, sweetie, breathe,” Camisha cried, turning the baby over, massaging urgently. She turned her over again and puffed gently into her tiny mouth. The baby lay still.
Camisha continued to rub her in different positions, she lay her against her mother’s stomach, rubbing her back—dear God, so tiny!—and patting lightly.
Marley glanced at Elizabeth Brownson, but the woman’s head was turned aside, silent tears streaming into her pillow.
For another twenty minutes Camisha continued attempting to save the child, puffing into her mouth, until Elizabeth touched her arm.
Camisha looked up at her, her eyes and face bright with tears. “I’m so, so sorry, Lizzy. Her lungs were just too small.”
But Marley could only think of modern incubators and how preemies months younger could survive just fine.
“How many, Camisha?” This, from the woman in the bed, a husky whisper.
Camisha didn’t respond, as if she knew it was a rhetorical question.
“How many times will God allow me the joy of feeling my child grow within me—only to watch the poor wretch die before my eyes? Nine so far! How many more?”
Camisha washed the infant gently, then wrapped her in a blanket. “Would you like to hold her?”
Elizabeth looked up, considering. “No, not this time. This time, I can’t bear it.”
Camisha cradled the infant.
“But I want you to take her.”
After a moment, Camisha nodded. “Thank you. Did you … What was her name to be?”
“Sunny Abigail.” After a moment, she added, “And for a boy, Nathaniel.”
“All right, then.”
She placed the baby into the bassinet and covered her with another blanket, then moved the bassinet nearer the door. Almost immediately, Susan returned, lifted the bassinet, and silently carried it downstairs.
Returning to the bed, she helped Elizabeth expel the afterbirth, then disposed of that. She washed her hands again, then gently gave the grieving woman a sponge bath, speaking softly all the while.
“Nine so far, you said. Boys and girls, named for the heroes of the Bible, the heroes of our new country. Elizabeth, my dear friend, their spirit lives on in the freedom of others whose own mothers could not grant them that freedom.”
Marley listened in bewilderment, trying to understand her words. The mystery of Camisha was beyond her.
Glancing at Marley, she said, “Run downstairs and heat some broth, if you can find any. And send Susan for Caleb, if she hasn’t already gone.”
As she left, she heard Camisha explaining to the woman that Helen would be staying with her to help for the next few days.
In the kitchen, its hearth cold, Marley looked vainly for broth. The bassinet sat near the back door, a white sheet covering it. Just the sight of it saddened Marley. The door opened, and Susan entered, awkwardly hauling in two large baskets piled with snow.
“Do you know if there’s any broth?” she asked the girl.
The girl set down the baskets and nodded. “Yes. Give me just a moment.”
Susan hastily drew back the sheet and began filling the bassinet with soft, dry snow.
Marley gasped, shocked.
The girl glanced at her. “Something amiss, milady?”
Marley shook her head hastily. No doubt they were simply preserving the child until a burial could be arranged. But this was a colonial practice she’d never read about, and it was a little uns
ettling.
Why were these women attempting to preserve this child, as if for some pagan ritual?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Later that afternoon, Marley set the rich mahogany dining table while Parks and Helen finished preparing supper. She heard the noise of horses outside, and she raced to the window, the gloom of the day’s events lightened by the shadows of Hawk and Raven returning from Cambridge. But even in that moment, she could tell from their rushed, terse motions that something was wrong. Soon she saw it firsthand, when they entered through the front door.
Raven, cool and distant, gave Marley a curt nod, walked through the kitchen—no doubt a simple check on dinner—then strode straight back outside to help his father finish unloading the wagons.
Hawk had only just arrived, pleased at the sight of Marley, when Raven nearly ran into him headed back out.
Marley looked to Hawk for an explanation, but he silently shook his head, gently raising a hand even as he placed a stack of newspapers on a nearby table. Then he turned to follow Raven back outside in stalwart support.
As they brought load after load of produce and salted meat onto the rear porch, the women left supper warming on the stove and went to work, transferring the foodstuffs to the larder.
It was long after dark when they finished, and the supper they sat down to was hardly the festive affair of last evening.
Parks ladled hot beef and barley stew into bowls, and Helen passed the cornbread. Fortunately, she’d put the children to bed earlier, and Marley was relieved. At least they would be spared their uncle’s inexplicably black mood.
She wasn’t sure what had happened in Cambridge, but after a few minutes she understood that Hawk was simply upset on Raven’s behalf.
Raven gazed into his stew, stirring morosely and occasionally tasting his wine.
After he’d eaten enough to dull his hunger, Mr. Adams cleared his throat and said, “Out with it.”
Raven looked at him matter-of-factly. “What?”
“Whatever happened today to turn you into, well, me.”
Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2) Page 20
