Carolina had changed in the years since he'd gone into hiding from Blackbeard and from the evil spirits that had haunted him. There seemed to be people everywhere; people were moving to the colony in ever-greater numbers. Some said there were thirty thousand souls in North Carolina—including the bondsmen and slaves. The manufacture of tar, pitch, and turpentine had become a valuable resource for the British Empire. With the export of these commodities, along with the great footage of lumber, staves, and rows of barrels, many folks were growing wealthy. Many more, smaller landholders were able to provide for their families and live an easy life in the land of plenty. A tide of new Europeans, mixed with the influx of Virginians, pushed past the falls of the rivers towards the hill country of their sources, some already seating near the mountains. Bertie precinct was created from Albemarle County, and Bath County had been subdivided into Beaufort, Hyde, and Craven precincts. Carteret precinct was created to the South, and New Hanover in the area by the Cape Fear River, where settlers were arriving from Barbados and from Scotland. And talk was current of subdividing from New Hanover, an Onslow and a Bladen, and from Bertie, an Edgecombe precinct.
The political situation appeared to have changed, but it was merely some of the players and their titles that were different. Mister Moseley remained a power, and when he returned from the interrupted boundary survey in April, he reentered the struggle for a people's party in the government, fighting to hold off the arbitrary use of power by the executive, be he a proprietary or royal governor.
The attitudes of the soon-to-be-royal colonists were unlikely to change, all agreed. Royal and Parliamentary authority would be more direct, with the change, without the middlemen of Proprietors and their appointees, but the tradition was well established of an aggressively independent populace.
The political influence of Quakers was gone. Oaths of qualification had weeded out that faction, although dissenting sects still abounded. England's Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts was occupying itself with the spiritual needs of "Rogues Harbor," but churches were rare and the ministers set poor examples. The times were unfettered by moral constraints. Fear of the church, itself, no longer sufficed to curtail the sensual appetites of the people, and name-calling, profanity, and violence were the usual tools in disputes among all layers of society. Unwed mothers were not uncommon. In this milieu, Stephen no longer felt hunted, but liberated.
With his reputation as a woodsman well established, and his curiosity about the wilderness piqued, Stephen accepted an offer of partnership with the merchant trader, Peter Michie. Michie was a small trader who poled the inland waterways and rivers to the falls, and followed the paths and rough roads that connected them. Most Indian traders were based in Virginia or in South Carolina since most Indians, by this point, lived far to the west. There remained the Tuscarora Town up the Roanoke, and the Meherrin Indian Town north of that, near the Virginia line, but the eastern tribes and nations had largely been slaughtered or transported after the great Tuscarora War. And, since the great rivers of North Carolina flowed from northwest to southeast, commerce from the Albemarle required too many dangerous crossings or extended detours.
Michie's trade was with the farmers and tar men who'd moved westward to the falls, claiming the farms and houses and outbuildings that had been deserted by owners who wanted larger claims for their cattle and hogs. Immigrants and freed bondsmen moved to the deserted holdings, or the small, individual holdings were bought and amassed by Virginia planters who found that an easy, inexpensive way to avoid the supposed limit of 650-acre grants. Michie's flat boat or his mule train were welcome sights to the old and the new settlers because he brought the sugar, salt, ammunition, and luxury items they craved. In Stephen Williams, Michie supplied an adventurer for them to see up close; a storyteller to gather crowds, open doors, and loosen purses.
Stephen felt alive, again. Those years alone in the woods were forgotten, and he decided that either the evil spirits had fled him, or that conversation and people kept them quiet. He never talked of his past, except to remind his listeners that he came from Norfolk County. Many of the colonists of Albemarle, still, came from Norfolk or Nansemond, or Princess Anne and his connection lent credibility and trust to newcomers who knew or knew of his family, or were acquainted with names he dropped. The two traders were warmly receive by the isolated settlers they searched out.
Every house had its hills and rows of tobacco, which were lovingly tended, whether as a cash crop to be rolled or floated to market, or as the family supply of smoke, chew, and snuff. Michie, the Scotsman, carried his own rapee snuff, ground from Spanish leaf he'd traded for, grated on his little rasp, and carried in a pouch close to his body.
Most of the isolated planters welcomed them with a home brew made from fruits of their orchards or from native grapes, cherries, plums, or persimmons. While Stephen drank with the men, regaling them with tales of the Great Dismal Swamp and sometimes lapsing into remembrances of the great Blackbeard, Michie talked to the mistresses of the household, showing them his collection of buttons or bottles or pins. It wasn't work, to Stephen, but a continuation of his celebrity in Edenton, spread out to the distant precincts.
Michie and Stephen pushed up to the head of the Cashie River, up the Roanoke River, past Tuscarora Town and the settlements that dotted the river above the marshes and islands at its mouth, up to its first boulder-strewn falls. They lugged goods up the road to Virginia that Stephen had traveled down with Swann. They poled up the Chowan and its tributaries into Virginia, carrying small packets of tea, ribbons, and flower seeds. They carried candle molds and wicks for making quantities of candles for housewives who had hoarded tallow and bits of old ones. Stephen had become adept at making candles by watching his grandmother and Sister Mary, being careful not to get the wax too hot, for fear of it's not setting, nor when it was cold, which made the candles lumpy. Making candles gave Stephen an opportunity to tell his tales to the women and sometimes make amorous conquest of a daughter, widow, or lonesome wife.
Nancy Ruffin was widowed and living with her brother-in-law, Benjamin Ruffin, when Peter Michie and Stephen Williams arrived to peddle their wares in the summer of 1729. Her husband's estate had been consumed by his debts and Nancy survived on the generosity of her in-laws. The Ruffin plantation was the last stop of what had been a successful summer and Stephen convinced Michie to accept Benjamin Ruffin's invitation to linger for hospitality.
An old, forgotten feeling filled Stephen when he saw Nancy again; a feeling accompanying lust, but one that made him speak gentler and softer than was his custom. When all the brandy had been drunk and Stephen walked Nancy by the river in hope of catching a cooling breeze, her reaction to his solicitous attention was hunger and surrender. There was nothing to restrain her, as she lay back on a bed of grape leaves and lost herself in an ecstasy that changed her life.
Nancy Manning Ruffin had never forgotten Stephen Williams. She'd turned her thoughts from him when he left Deep Creek, but she'd not forgotten. Her mother had refused to hear his name mentioned, and Nancy, herself, was too preoccupied with her own ambitions to dwell on the non-productive passions that flushed her skin when she saw him. He was but the son of a prospective miller, she'd decided, and a second son at that. Still, those distracting thoughts did come to her, at times, although she'd always, and easily, deflected them. But, on the occasion of the family visit to the Speights' the previous year, she'd seen Stephen—of whom everyone was talking!—lying on a high-wheeled cart, his fair skin browned dark as sin, needful in his pain, and breathtakingly handsome. Her feelings were almost suffocating, and she pretended to lose her daughters in order to flee the intensity.
When Stephen had left Deep Creek in disgrace she'd set her sights on James, his brother, but she'd quickly lost interest in James and focused on one of the Etheridge boys. That was for naught, too, because her father had decided on Charles Ruffin, a man already in his thirties.
Her marriage to Charles Ruff
in was a profitable one. Charles gave her all she could reasonably hope for in lower Isle of Wight County. He spent lavishly on construction of their house, she was allowed two slaves for inside duties, and he imported enough furniture and clothes to keep the servants busy polishing and mending. Nancy was a dutiful and obedient wife. She gave him two beautiful, adoring daughters, but she'd not given him a son and heir. Still, there'd been no pressure of disappointment from Charles; she was only twenty-nine years old, he said. That was how old she was when she'd seen Stephen at the Speights'.
When the Ruffins returned to their Black Water home from the Speights', Nancy had changed. She didn't know how or why, but she was vaguely discontent. Her daughters were no comfort to her. The servants kept themselves busy out of her sight and Charles was kind and forgiving of her slights, but his touch had become overpoweringly distasteful, and she was sleeping in another bedroom by the time Charles and the girls became ill. Guilt and confusion plagued her as she fought for their lives, but tears and prayers and costly doctors weren't enough.
As she shuddered after making love with Stephen, she felt free and cleansed. The passion that shook her had been foreseen in the feelings she'd suppressed when thinking of him over the years, and she'd never known a power so shattering and compelling. Then, guilt, confusion, and fear erupted in tears and shattered her idea of who she was and had been. She'd not been a good wife to Charles; maybe she had let him die! And, she became afraid, afraid of what passion had led her to do; afraid of what that emotion might make her do. When she yielded to Stephen there was a madness, a heat inside her that was unholy. When he touched her, she became something alien to herself, something carnal. A power outside of herself took over. When Stephen left her to go back to Edenton, Nancy thought of him and shuddered as she had with him there, knowing that the power that shook her was unhealthy and unchristian.
Nancy sent word to Stephen when she was nearing delivery of the child they created on that night. Stephen was shocked and suspicious, at first, but when he accepted his paternity he rushed to the Ruffin plantation to collect his family. There was no minister available to them and Nancy was too ill to travel, so the child was born, in the Spring of 1730, outside the sanction of the church or of the law. Stephen, Junior, was named by his father, after himself, to declare that a new dynasty of Williamses would start with him.
Solomon Wilson, the county clerk, read the will.
"In the name of God, amen.
"I, Joseph Williams, being sick, etc., do make this my will, etc.
"Imprimis, I give and bequeath to my loving wife Mary Williams free privilege of my plantation and land, and the half of my water mill during her widowhood…."
Stephen studied his mother. She was calm and composed. She looked like the wife of a successful miller; no trace of her swamp origin showed. The Widow Williams owned a pew in the Southern Branch chapel.
"Item. I give to my son James Williams, after my wife's marriage or death, my plantation, including with it two hundred acres of land to him and his heirs forever, and one Negro boy called Cush, and after my son James Williams's deceased, I give this Negro boy Cush to my grandson, John Williams, and if my grandson John Williams dies without heirs, then I give the Negro boy to Elizabeth Williams, my granddaughter…."
Lawyers use a lot of words, Stephen thought, as he looked at James. James was head of the family now. He looked like the head of a family. His tri-corner hat was new, as was his full suit of coat and waistcoat. He and his were being wellprovided for. That was as expected, and as it should be.
"Item. I give to my son Stephen Williams, one hundred acres of land joining to my son James's land, being the upper part, and one hundred acres in the Western Branch joining to Williams Bass, to him and his heirs forever, lawfully begotten of his body, and one Negro boy called Tony and one hand mill, and if my son Stephen dies without, then I give the Negro boy called Tony to my Grandson James Harbut, and his heirs forever, and I give to my son Stephen Williams one feather bed with the furniture belonging to it…."
"Lawfully begotten of his body." The slight was no surprise to Stephen but the smirk of satisfaction on Ann's face was galling. His son, Stephen Junior, would have no need for Virginia land, anyway, Stephen hoped, but the hypocrisy was too much. The Bournes had never wed!
"Item. I give to my daughter, Mary Williams, one Negro boy called Pompy, one feather bed with some furniture, and an iron pot; and if my daughter Mary dies without heirs, then I give my Negro boy Pompy to my daughter, Ann Harbut, after the death of my wife."
What would happen to Sister Mary after her mother died? This item settled that. She'd live with Dick and Ann.
"Item. I give to my daughter Edy Williams, after my wife's death, one Negro boy called Sharper, one feather bed with some furniture, one iron pot.
"Item. I give to my daughter Sarah Williams, after my wife's death, one Negro boy called Philly, one feather bed with some furniture, one iron pot."
Stephen was glad of that. The twins would have something to bring to a marriage when the time came. The Negro boys would grow up and bring good prices—if they stayed healthy and were taught to work.
"Item. I give to my youngest children, Stephen, Mary, Edy, and Sarah, all my pewter, to be equally divided amongst them at my wife's death, and if my wife deceases before my youngest children comes to age, I do give them to my daughter Ann Harbut, and to my son-in-law Richard Harbut, and their portions belonging to them; and I do give all the rest of my estate not here named to my loving wife Mary Williams, within and without, during her life, and at her death to be equally divided among all my children. And I do appoint my loving wife Mary Williams full and whole executrix of this my last will, disanulling all other will or wills made by me heretofore, where I have hereunto set my hand and seal, this 19th day of January, 1734."
Solomon Wilson put down the paper.
"Joseph wrote that a year and one month ago," he said. "A difficult year for you, it was, Mary. Joseph was a fine man. I hated seeing him suffer. A distinguished funeral, you gave for him."
A cold rain blew against the window. Wilson's man heaved another oak log onto the fire.
"Thank you, Mister Wilson. My husband thought highly of you and your family."
The Clerk spoke to each of Joseph Williams's grieving children and ushered them to the door. He was a busy man.
Outside, heads turned as the beautiful, seventeen-year-old twins, Edy and Sarah, walked past, fluttering eyelids in search of conquests as their mother shepherded them down the street, back to the boat. Edy held the hand of six-yearold Joseph; Sarah that of five-year-old William; both girls terrified that they'd be mistaken for the boys' mothers!
James held two-year-old Bess in his arms. James's wife, Elizabeth, lagged behind, slowed by her swollen belly as she waited for their fourth child to be born.
"He could have been more loving," Stephen said to his mother. "My son was his grandchild as much as James's boys!"
"Stephen, we'll not discuss it," Mary Williams said. She slowed to wait for Sister Mary to catch up. "You were not wed in the eyes of the church, nor of the Crown. Not even by the laws of Carolina!"
"What difference is there between my son and you?" Stephen asked. "Your parents were not wed!"
"We're not discussing me. It's different with a male child," she said. "The church…."
"I'm tired of hearing about the church and what it would or would not approve of…."
"Stephen! Someone might hear you!"
Mary looked around to see if anyone was listening. She took Sister Mary's hand and walked faster towards the river.
"Stephen. Could this wait?" James asked. He looked around. Dick and Ann walked with Little James, himself a young man.
Stephen lifted his son to his shoulders.
"There's nothing to wait for," he said, and galloped ahead to the boat as the boy laughed and urged his father on.
Stephen returned to his father's grave and stood there, cursing the insulting legalism o
f his father's will. His face was twisted and tears glistened in his eyes.
"Even from the grave he ignores me and denies his own grandson!"
Nancy reached to comfort him but he brushed her hand away.
"And you! He insulted you! Ann and James and the twins, he loved. But you, and I, and our son…."
"He didn't ignore you, Stephen," Nancy said. "He gave you land, furniture, like the others."
"And his pewter. Things. That's all he cared for. He bought a pew before he died to insure a place in heaven! Now he lies rotting. He had no thoughts of God. He didn't believe in anything he couldn't buy. In the old days people used to believe in things. Grandfather Biggs did. They say he went to the James Town jail for his Quaker beliefs. And Grandfather Williams! He was killed doing something he believed in. My father wasn't religious…"
Stephen stopped. A chill swept over him. He was no more religious than his father had been. His father had paid the church his tithe and repeated the words in church that he was told to say. His father probably died feeling that he was going to some majestic home in the sky, never questioning his right to join the well-dressed, well-fed saints who'd be waited for him. Stephen dismissed such a worldly belief, but had nothing to replace it. He stood at his father's grave, startled, terrified of his own, eventual death.
Becoming Americans Page 49
