Two weeks later, another sloop arrived with the news that Colonel Nathaniel Bacon was dead! The bloody flux, it was, that killed him. His body had disappeared so that it wouldn't be displayed for public humiliation. A mere disease had brought the adventure to a close. In only weeks, the Rebellion totally collapsed.
Anne had no arguments with the severe punishment Berkeley meted out to the traitors. He hanged more than twenty of them. But before he could restore confiscated lands to their rightful owners, Commissioners arrived from London to inquire into the Rebellion and its causes. Sir William Berkeley, the premier gentleman of Virginia, returned to England in expectation of an honorable, grateful reception from King Charles, but instead was left to wait in humiliating indifference as plotters laid the blame for the uprising at his feet. The King—as outrageous, in his way, as Bacon—was heard to refer to Governor Berkeley as an "old fool," and to have accused him of hanging more men after the Rebellion than were killed in it!
The Loyalists were left bitter and, in many instances, destitute. Grandfather Ware was landless and Uncle John left only the acreage of his wife.
Within six months the gallant old Governor, Sir William Berkeley, was dead. Well before the word arrived of that tragedy, though, Grandfather and Grandmother Ware were dead—within days of each other—from the same, dreadful flux that killed Bacon. Anne was the last of her line.
She mourned her losses and tried to hide her growing bitterness. She ceased turning to her husband for solace.
Richard had his losses, too. His oldest friend was dead. He was estranged, again, from his Uncle John. The gulf between him and his father-in-law had widened. The drought, this year, had killed his crop, and a tavern argument had killed his newly purchased servant, Fred. His isolation was relieved only in the presence of his adoring children. The only bright spot in the year of death for Anne and Richard was the birth of a daughter, whom Richard named Sarah Alice, in hopes of pleasing John Biggs.
Increasingly, Richard turned to his oldest sons, John and Joseph. He still loved his wife, but after what he considered her betrayal of him during the Rebellion, coupled with the spurning of him by his uncle and his in-laws, he held firmly to the respect shown him by his boys.
John was daring and aggressive. He reminded Richard of himself at that age. John was already keen on amassing his own fortune, and by the age of twelve was hunting wolves for the bounty on each head presented, and by continuing to set traps in the swamp for beaver, otter, and mink hides. He was useless with a hammer or a froe, so Richard let him contribute to the family coffers in the ways that suited him. Sometimes John was accompanied by his brother or by a servant boy, but that was usually at the insistence of his mother.
Anne worried for the future of her children. The land was being rapidly depleted, and she feared that when their times came to inherit, the property would be valueless. She'd mentioned that to Richard and he'd agreed.
He'd agreed, feeling her remark was meant to be an accusation against him, but that, somehow, she was right.
As Richard hoed at the sandy soil, or planed an oak stave for a hogshead, or sat within a bush waiting for a deer, he'd think of how he'd fallen from the pinnacle he'd reached as a youngster of twenty-one.
His marriage to the respectable Anne Biggs—daughter of the saintly and renowned Mister John Biggs—had changed him, he decided. He'd turned into a milk-sop who lacked the gumption of his own sons. Uncle John—and all the respected gentry—insisted that land be the only basis of wealth. For years, now, he'd accepted that as the goal: land, more land, to grow tobacco. He now had a plantation of seven hundred acres and he was dirt poor. Land poor! If land was the answer, this wasn't the land.
He'd been a fool. He'd find a scheme, whether smuggling, or forging headrights—he had experience! He was willing to wager that old Sawyer, back in Gloucester County, hadn't suffered from the years. These years of playing by other people's rules hadn't worked.
Chapter Ten
A cacophony of gobbles, flapping wings and children's shrieks and cries rose from the cornfield. Down every row, a child was running, calling, or kicking. The obstinate and ravenous flock of turkeys escaped the rush of boys and girls, then settled back behind the onslaught to resume its devastation of the crop.
John, the oldest boy, was thirteen now and clearly in command of his siblings. He commanded them in imitation of the militia captain he watched with admiration on training days. John directed three-year-old Sarah Alice to run back to the house for reinforcements from the servants. Edy was to wave her skirts frantically as he and Joseph waved their shirts. Edward and Richard would scream as if Indians were after them, and all together, as a team, they'd sweep the field of the marauding pestilence.
Back and forth they ran until, exhausted, they fell to the ground, defeated. The turkeys had their fill of corn before George Dawes and servants arrived with guns to scatter the sated flock. The Williams family could, at least, supply their neighbors with big birds for a day's meal.
Sarah Alice still whimpered. She'd gotten lost in the tall corn and was frightened by the birds and all the yelling. Richard stood by the biggest turkey and examined the red folds of skin that hung from its head. Edward tugged at a tailfeather until it pulled free. Edy had already composed herself and was pulling one of the birds home behind her. Joseph was glum and John was angry. They didn't like defeat.
"I don't know why we have to live here," John said. "Uncle John said there was no future here. He says that the swamp is the Devil's territory and that our plantation is on the outskirts of hell. I believe him!"
"Turkeys just like corn. You can't blame that on the Devil," Joseph said.
"And what about those Carolina parakeets that destroyed all our apples last year, just to get the seeds! Those birds aren't supposed to come up this far. Tell me that wasn't the Devil's doing! Uncle John told me…."
Joseph interrupted his brother.
"Uncle John is not God. Uncle John isn't a saint. Uncle John isn't even rich anymore."
Joseph still hadn't gotten over his brother John's taking away his own invitation to visit the old man in what was now Middlesex County. Uncle John had asked him to visit when they met in James Town. But their father had said his oldest son should take the trip. John was his uncle's namesake, after all. Suddenly, it was like Uncle John belonged to John!
At least, Joseph had gotten to see James Town when it was still a town. John hadn't. John always stepped in and claimed something if he wanted it. Was Uncle John just an old fool, Joseph wondered? Couldn't he see through John? Their uncle had practically adopted him! Trying to trade in his own worthless son, their father's Cousin Thomas, Jabez Biggs had said.
The boys heard Edy calling as she ran by the edge of the field, looking down each row to find them.
"Here we are," John shouted back, and waved his shirt above the dried tassels of the corn.
Edy ran down their row, shielding her face and arms from the sharp leaves with her apron.
"Riders coming hard from the Great Bridge road!" she cried.
"Let the men collect the birds," John said. "Let's go see who's coming!"
Edy led Sarah Alice by the hand as the boys rushed back to the house.
Three men whose horses and boots were covered with dried mud reached the house at the same time as the boys. John, Joseph, and Augustus, the new African slave, held the reins as Anne stepped out of the house to greet the visitors.
"Again I welcome you, gentlemen," she said. "I gather from the looks of you that you're are on important business again."
"Indeed, we are, Mistress Williams. Is your husband at home?" the short man asked.
"I'll send for him, so come inside and be refreshed. Augustus, go get Master," she said to the slave.
Anne ushered the visitors into the old house. It embarrassed her to entertain gentlemen in this house. She'd insist, this year, that Richard build them a new and larger manor house. If he could borrow to pay his gambling debts, he could borr
ow for what she and the children needed.
The young black man ran towards the column of smoke rising upstream by the Creek. The pine knots had been fired this morning to start tar-making.
"It's your Carolina kinsman, Timothy Biggs," the short man said to Anne.
"I figured as much," she said. "How many times is my husband supposed to save him? If your Lords Proprietor expect to keep Carolina as their own, they better take care of their governing. It hasn't been theirs for very long. The King should take it back and quiet those rebels. Like we did here in Virginia."
Anne bit her tongue and hoped she hadn't offended the men enough to cause them to repeat the outburst to her husband. Still, the Albemarle County of Carolina—unlike the more settled and prosperous area further south, around Charles Town—was in constant upheaval. The original, resentful settlers of Albemarle sometimes seized control of the Proprietors' weak government by throwing out their governors, or even by jailing them. They terrorized the Proprietors' men who did managed to gain some control. And, most scandalously, the Quakers of Albemarle were not only allowed their religious freedom, they were the controlling political force. Timothy Biggs, her father's cousin, was one of the vocal pro-Proprietor Quakers and was a frequent target of the rebellious faction.
Cousin Timothy's personality—like that of Friend Charles Shaw—created animosity. He angered everyone with his vindictiveness when he held any office of power, and with his petulant complaints to the Lords Proprietor whether he was in or out. As Deputy Customs Collector, Timothy Biggs had fueled hate by attempting to enforce the universally hated Navigation Acts. These insisted that some products—notably tobacco—be shipped only to England, and only in English ships. Making it worse for Albemarle, Virginia's Burgesses passed a law prohibiting the export of Carolina tobacco from her ports, refusing to aid their competitors.
New England traders entered Albemarle's shallow waters in small sloops and ketches to trade directly with the planters. To stop that leakage, the English government passed the Plantation Duty Act, which allowed trade between the colonies, provided a duty be paid. Albemarle ignored the Act, except when Cousin Timothy and some others of the proprietary faction held the reins.
"They finally brought Governor Thomas Miller from the jail to trial, and now they've released him to the custody of the County Marshall," the Welshman from Carolina said to Richard.
Richard and the men sat on benches beneath an arbor of roses. They all drank deeply from tankards of cider and brandy. The piercing odor of smoldering pine-knots was heavy in the humid August air.
"The men of Albemarle have finally brought the drunken fool to trial, have they? I'm surprised they bothered. They still might be the first Englishmen to hang a governor!" Richard laughed loudly.
"From the skillet to the fire," he laughed again. "Your Lords will soon be losing their charter, I warrant. They're squandering the king's great gift. Most of the men he gave Carolina to have sold their shares anyway, haven't they?"
The men from Albemarle found no humor in Richard's teasing and they drank from their tankards in silence. Richard decided to change his tone. He wasn't being hospitable to the visitors, and that was wrong. Even though he knew that they were here, again, to ask him for a favor.
"Your wife's kinsman has sent us to appeal to you. Mister Biggs needs assistance, this time for Governor Miller."
Despite his good intentions, Richard was taken aback.
"Gentlemen, I would, again, willingly help my wife's uncle increase his reputation as a well-traveled man, but to help Miller escape to Virginia is another matter," he said. "I do business with all the factions of your county. I can't afford to offend so many by helping Miller."
Richard was thinking aloud. For the last three years he'd been doing some trade with those people. Captain Ingolbreitsen came up with the idea.
Richard had sailed with the Captain on his sloop, the Clarendon, down the Elizabeth River, into Hampton Roads, past Cape Henry, and down the sandy Atlantic coast for the short distance to the shallow inlet into Albemarle. Richard saw how hungry those settlers were for goods that were so rarely available. Large ships couldn't enter these waters and, although helpful, New England's traders couldn't fill the demand. Captain Ingolbreitsen reminded Richard that there was a trail from the nearby Great Bridge, only eight miles through the edges of the great swamp, connecting to a landing on the North West River. Flatboats could then move down the North West River into the Sound of Albemarle and then to other rivers that connected with most of the Albemarle settlers.
"Mister Biggs has thought of that. If Timothy Biggs remains in Carolina, no one would think there was a connection with you," the man said. "He asks that you help Governor Miller, only."
"Cousin Timothy, and his Quaker righteousness," Richard mumbled.
"Mister Biggs is in no danger, anyway," the Carolina man said wryly. "He was a member of the Court that jailed Governor Miller."
Timothy Biggs antagonized everybody.
"Still, there is risk for me, gentlemen. I willingly endanger myself for relatives and family, of course, but for this man of yours, Miller…. It would be irresponsible to my family to put myself…."
Richard was interrupted.
"Mister Miller will gladly satisfy your concerns about family financial responsibilities," the man added. He knew there was no time for quibbling. The mob in Albemarle hated Miller, a man who'd expanded a flimsy claim to the Governorship into a position of power that squeezed and arbitrarily threatened, fined and jailed opposition. Miller had to escape the mob in Albemarle, then hurry to London in order to defend his reported abuses before the anxious Proprietors.
Richard had a momentary problem. The tar-making had already started. The new servants and the slaves had only done it a few times. George Dawes would have to stay and supervise. Richard would need help on the trip, though, and he didn't trust his servants or slaves to go along. The Swamp was haven to renegade Indians and runaway servants and slaves. Richard's young servants were too excitable to place in temptation's way. Especially this week, when Richard had been forced to whip two of them for their surly laziness.
His oldest boys would go with him. They were old enough to learn of trading, they'd enjoy the journey, and their presence would lend an air of innocence should they be stopped for questions. It would be a great adventure he'd be giving them. There'd be danger for him, possibly, but the boys would be held guiltless should they be caught in aiding the escape of a prisoner. A wealthy and well-connected prisoner.
"Make it secure," Richard told his man, Harris, that afternoon. Harris had been a sailor at one time, he told Richard when Richard bought his contract. Richard, since, had figured out what flag the man had sailed under—a skull and cross-bones—but Harris could tie a knot, and would be a good man in a fight.
"That hogshead must lie heavy and unmovable on the cart," Richard said. Two staves had been left loose, allowing the tobacco leaves he'd stuffed in to poke through down the length; rare sweet-scented leaves, that wouldn't be seen as coals being taken to New Castle. The respected and coveted cargo was to be sold at Currituck for its value in whale oil. No suspicion would be aroused of the Virginia trader. Especially if the trader shared his personal pouch of the rolled leaf. The old tricks still came back to him, Richard was pleased to know.
The boys were told that, finally, they were to be allowed to accompany their father on a quick trading trip to Carolina. They'd been begging him for a year to let them go, but he'd put them off. The road—better called a soggy path—was often dangerous. Traders were attacked by desperate swamp dwellers who fell upon them to take their wares and, sometimes, their lives. Richard was less vulnerable than many. He knew some of those swamp dwellers—he traded with them, too—and anyway, the road would be alive with the Albemarle Militia when it was known that Thomas Miller, their hated former Governor, had escaped the Marshal.
The plan was simple and had already been worked out on the Carolina side. Timothy Biggs was a me
mber of acting Governor Harvey's court and he'd been instrumental in getting his old colleague, Thomas Miller, released into the custody of Marshal Thomas Lepper—a fellow Quaker. Miller's escape from Lepper would be delayed until the last moment, then, with the help of Biggs and other conspirators, he'd flee to Dean's Landing near the mouth of the North West River to an empty hogshead and the bumpy ride to Virginia.
Anne was silent as her husband prepared for the trip. She was terrified and angry that her husband was endangering himself and—more importantly—their children, on a scheme that was important only to the Quakers and to the residents of a colony of thieves, runaways and pirates. Most of Albemarle rightly belonged to Virginia anyway, according to its original charter. When, and if, the line between the colonies was surveyed, many of that rabble in Albemarle would be landless, as their patents weren't from the Crown, but from the Proprietors. Sarah had told Anne that the fear of just such a happening was a big part of the problem in what was, really, Old Virginia. Anne would be glad to see the day, she'd told Sarah. Being the nearest neighbor to such rabble was bad for Lower Norfolk. Carolina's problems were spilling over, and Lower Norfolk had enough problems of its own.
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