"Uncle Willy died while you were gone," he told his father.
Stephen looked at him for a while.
"You chased away a flock of turkeys," he said, and looked away.
When Mathias Manning returned for his wife and daughter, he was less sanguine about his daughter's condition that Stephen had been when he was told. Stephen's resignation to the fact was an acknowledgment that the couple was beyond his control, and would have been if he'd stayed at home. Mathias made it personal, and in his anger he revealed an attitude of Stephen's neighbors that Stephen hadn't known. The political differences between the counties of Old Albemarle and those to the south had become open, political rebellion, and Stephen was associated with the enemy faction of Old Bath and New Hanover.
The Albemarle representatives had defeated a bill in the Assembly of June,
1746 that would have fixed a permanent capital of the province in New Bern or Bath, both points south of the Granville line. Governor Johnston ordered that the Assembly reconvene in Wilmington the next November, a busy time of year and a most distant location for the burgesses from Albemarle. Only fifteen of the fiftyfour members answered the roll call at Wilmington, not enough to constitute a quorum under all precedents of the legislative body. But Samuel Swann, the Speaker—Stephen's friend—declared the presence of fifteen members sufficient for a quorum, and the Assembly of southern representatives proceeded with the business of the session.
Two acts were quickly passed. The first declared that only two representatives would be allowed from each county, and gave one each to Edenton, Bath, New Bern, and Wilmington. The second act declared that New Bern would be the site of the courts, although not prescribing that the office of the governor be in New Bern, nor that the Legislature be convened there.
In defiance, at the February election, the residents of Albemarle elected five representatives, as they had always done. A new election was ordered, but the citizens of Albemarle simply stayed away from the polls. Since the new Assembly contained no representatives from Albemarle, the people there refused obedience to any of its enactments. Stephen Williams was an associate of Samuel Swann and the usurpers in the southern counties. People who knew him knew that he was, Manning told him.
He wished his cousin Willy were alive to help him. Willy had always kept his ear to the ground and he'd understood political intrigue. Stephen's interests had been more personal. Willy had talked to him about politics, but he'd never paid attention. To Stephen, politics was for town-dwellers. He knew that people were pouring into the county, that the northwestern part of Edgecombe had been made into a new Granville county, and that merchants in the area had laid out a town up the Roanoke. They'd named it Halifax, in honor of Lord Halifax, a member of the Board of Trade. But, Stephen had not known the extent of hostility that his neighbors felt toward the southern counties.
When the Mannings left for their land west of the Tar River's great falls, Stephen, Junior walked away with them. Nancy bit on her apron. Her only child was leaving and the barbs thrown by her angry brother still stung. There was solace, though, in that her son would be watched over by her brother. His newfound Baptist religion was stricter that her own, and might influence Junior to give him some direction.
Stephen heard a horse's hooves splashing in the puddles down the road. He opened the door and watched the rain while he waited for the rider to get within sight. He cursed Tony for not being here, then ran out to lead the animal to the barn while the stranger stood beneath the eaves of the house and shook out his long cloak. He hurried back to the house to discover who the stranger was.
"That wasn't necessary, Williams. I won't be long," the man said.
"Sit, Stranger, and let me have you cloak," Stephen said.
"Corbin told me in Edenton that the survey was over and that I'd find you home," the man said. "My name is Battle, Elisha Battle, and I own this farm."
Stephen didn't understand. He was surprised that Mister Battle would be discussing him with Earl Granville's agent, and wondered what farm the man was talking about.
Battle took a paper from an oil skin wrapper and held it out for Stephen to see.
"This is a copy of my patent to this land from Earl Granville," Battle said.
Stephen took the paper and looked at the writing and the seals that made it look official. He stared at it, uncomprehending.
"There's been a mistake, Mister Battle," Nancy said. "My husband bought this farm from Tom Hawkins, who got it from his father, who got it by grant from the King!"
"There is no record of such a sale or of such a grant," Battle said. "The patent I hold from Earl Granville is the only grant of record. You may remain as tenants, if you wish, but your neighbors tell me you have connections to the south. You will, doubtless, be much happier there."
Battle replaced the paper in the protective oilskin, took his cape from Stephen's hand, and threw it across his shoulders. He bowed to Nancy, and went out into the rain to fetch his own horse. Stephen and Nancy watched him through the open door as he rode away.
"Now, we have nothing," she said.
Chapter Twenty-six
The summer days were shorter but still hot. The corn was dry, and it was dusty from the clouds that arose from the path as horses and wagons and an occasional carriage rode by. The clouds had dusted Stephen's hair, and blended the blonde with the increasing gray. Nancy's skullcap covered hers but the gray hair that fell loosely about her shoulders at night made her look years older than her husband. Her looking glass had been broken long ago—foretelling this bad luck— and Stephen had never told her of the creases in her forehead nor of the wrinkles by her eyes. Lines above her lips and between her eyes were deepening from weeks of concentration and worry.
Stephen's mind wouldn't concentrate. He'd ridden to the home of the Edgecombe County clerk to make sure Battle made a mistake, but was told that no, there was no mistake. Battle's grant was the only one of record. At the ordinary where he stopped for a drink, Stephen learned that his case was not unusual. Since the transfer of the Granville District to Francis Corbin's control, many men had found themselves dispossessed of land they thought was theirs. With Corbin as the agent, grants from Granville had been issued to more than one person for the same land, officials had been paid to change names in the entry book, and deeds had been issued to people when others had already paid for them. Even people with secure titles to their land were charged ruinous fees for surveys or recording, or for processioning. And, since these were only landlordtenant problems, the government in New Bern had little jurisdiction or inclination to become involved, especially with the entire Granville District exempt from Crown quit rents, and the counties in the District disavowing and ignoring actions of the Assembly. There was near chaos in parts of Albemarle; jurymen would not sit, cases were not heard in court, and prisoners were released by armed friends.
Stephen returned to Nancy a broken man. His slave, his land, his son were gone. He was too old to start again, and the thought of going back to Deep Creek in such desperation and defeat worked on his mind and churned his stomach.
Stephen and Nancy both heard the horse coming down the road, but neither got up from their seats. They were tired from packing the wagon, and riders didn't stop at the Williams house anymore. There was some comfort in that. No longer did young men come to pull down the fences around Nancy's garden space. The cornfield by the road had already been burned down. She'd found Junior's dog, Amos, hanging from a tree limb by the door, one morning.
When, in fact, the horse did gallop to a stop in front of their house, the aging couple looked at each other in anticipation. They were ill-equipped to entertain. The house had been stripped and their belongings put onto the cart. Alone, the couple had pulled and pushed iron pots up onto the cart, then piled the bed, chests, and hogsheads on top. They sat on a split-long bench and planned their last night in Edgecombe on a pile of pine straw. They did have bread, and the remains of a small turkey that Nancy had roasted before the fir
e as it turned, hanging on a string.
It was Tom Biggs, who'd been a stranger since his father died. Stephen and Nancy weren't surprised. Young folks of his generation didn't care about old people. Like Junior, they seemed to care for little other than their own amusements.
"Mother sent me," the young man said after he'd sat down. "She sent me to tell you that Preacher Whitefield's coming back through on his way to Georgia. It's the biggest thing since…."
He couldn't think of anything, and just circled his hands in the air, searching for a comparison.
"The biggest thing since Tony ran away," Stephen said, remembering the coincidence of Whitefield's last journey through the province.
"You'll never see so big a crowd," Tom said. "They say that thousands come to hear him!"
"He comes, again," Stephen mused, "as I return to Virginia. Maybe I should detour, this time, to see him," he said in jest. "Maybe it's a command from God."
"It's not a great detour, Husband," Nancy said. "The road is better, you said."
That was true, and there was a ferry across the Sound to Edenton.
"Thank your mother for thinking of us, Tom," Stephen said. "We will pass that way, and we'll see her at the meeting."
Nancy rode the horse as Stephen led the ox that pulled the cart. The road to Edenton was busy. People passed them on foot and by riders hurrying to Edenton for business, but most of the traffic was heading to hear Whitefield. Late in the afternoon they reached the grove of oak trees they'd slept under nearly twelve years earlier, when they were heading westward, full of hope. After she'd fed the ox and horse, Nancy spread blankets beneath the trees and put two Indian baskets in the middle that held bread, turkey, and dried peaches. Other travelers had chosen the same spot for resting, and by dark a friendly group had gathered around the fire, exchanging food and stories. It was the first time in months that Nancy hadn't felt shunned, and she watched Stephen drinking and talking with other men as he had used to do.
By noon the next day, the road had become so busy that Stephen had to pull the ox and cart by the roadside to let faster, horse driven wagons pass. Twice, the ox cart got stuck in low, wet ground by a pocosin, but willing hands appeared to free the ox and cart. By mid-afternoon, the busy road had become a ribbon of pilgrims, a moving throng. The pace quickened with an air of excitement.
A lathered horse came from a path in the woods, it's riders—a man and his wife—looking as pressed as the animal. The man reined his horse in and merged with the flow of people. He dismounted from the horse and walked beside Stephen as his wife, and the horse, caught their breaths.
"I thought we'd miss him," the man said. "I was in my field at work when I heard he was coming. I dropped my hoe and told my wife to make ready quickly. We've been ten miles in little more than an hour!"
Stephen noticed that all the fields were empty of workers. Everyone was going to hear the great George Whitefield.
As they neared the road that met the ferry, they saw a cloud of fog rising. The weather had turned cool overnight, an early touch of Fall, and Stephen thought the cloud rose from the river or the Sound. But, as they came nearer to the road, they heard a low rumbling thunder, and soon saw that it was the noise of horses coming to the intersection, and that the fog was a cloud of dust made by the horses. It rose over the tops of trees, and when Stephen's group grew closer they could see men and horses moving in the cloud like shadows. They became one steady stream of horses and riders, scarcely one length behind the other, all lathered in foam and sweat.
"Our things will be ruined with all this dust," Nancy said. "Our things will be stolen in this crowd!"
But Stephen hardly heard her. His eyes had widened, and his heart was beating faster, in anticipation. His throat was tight and he felt drawn to reach the center of the force that pulled him. People walked or rode in silence, no one speaking as they pressed on.
Through the pine swamp on their left, Stephen could see the dark water of the Albemarle Sound. Ferry boats and private craft were bringing people over, leaving them and going back for more. The waterside was black with horses and people, and Stephen remembered the stories of a great crowd gathered to watch the witchcraft trial of Grace Sherwood so many years earlier. It was right that God's work should draw multitudes.
A platform had been built to elevate the speaker above the crowd so that all could see him, but Stephen and his new friends couldn't get within a hundred yards of the platform and despaired of hearing the great preacher. Other ministers were seated on the platform and spoke in turn, preparing the people for the great man.
In bits and pieces, Stephen heard them tell of Whitefield's journey to this place; how he had been condemned by the worldly ministers he had preached against, the "unconverted ministry," he called them. He had said the clergy were "earthly minded," and had called them "slothful shepherds" and "dumb dogs," the speaker said. The clergy had said about him that he was a "raw novice" and that his open-air preaching was a reproach and affront to the Church of which he was a minister. The speaker said that the assembled were about to hear words that they should receive as though delivered from the mouth of God Himself. Then hymns were sung and prayers were given as the throng settled into place.
George Whitefield came to the stage and the crowd was quiet. He was a slim, young man, younger than Stephen had expected. He was well-proportioned and graceful, moving about the platform and making gestures when he spoke. There was a boldness and power in his voice that made Stephen solemn and afraid. There was no difficulty in hearing him, and the words he spoke were clear, distinct, and practiced. Stephen was pulled by the voice as by a lodestone. He took Nancy's hand and edged through the silent crowd, compelled to be near the man. Slaves stood beside well-dressed free blacks, and the dirtiest of immigrants and derelicts stood with handsome gentlemen and their ladies. Stephen had never seen such a mixed grouping, but in his distraction it seemed a natural gathering.
He had pulled Nancy to within fifty feet of the stage when the gaze of Whitefield stopped him. The man had small, sharp eyes of dark blue. One of them was nearly closed in a tight squint, but their focus on Stephen stopped him in his tracks. The preacher was speaking to him.
"Christ is the only rest for the weary and heavy-laden," he said.
Stephen was frozen in the place and time. Mary squeezed his hand, but he was caught by those sharp eyes.
"…and that there must be a new birth, and we experience the pangs thereof; and that you must feel yourselves weary and heavy laden with your sins, before you would seek for deliverance from them…"
Had his sins brought him to the weariness he felt? His losses were, indeed, a burden. Was that what the preacher meant?
"Those who think themselves good enough, and are pleased that they are not so bad as others, these are not weary or heavy laden. No, these Pharisees are not thus troubled. They think if they do but mean well, and say their prayers, it is sufficient…"
Nancy squeezed his hand, again. He looked at her with kindness in his eyes. His wife was a good woman.
"…while you flatter yourselves you are good enough, and that you are in a state of salvation, you are only deceiving your own souls, and hastening on your own destruction. Come unto Him, not as being good enough, but as vile sinners, as poor, and blind, and naked, and miserable, and then Jesus will have compassion. However you may think of hell, indeed it is not a painted fire; it is not an imagination to keep people in awe; then, then you will feel the power of the Almighty Arm. Then you shall have proof of it. He will exercise in preserving you to no other end, but to punish you forever. Thus you, who please yourselves with being good enough now, who are not weary and heavy laden with a sense of your sins here, will be weary and heavy laden with a sense of your punishment hereafter."
Nancy took her hand away and wrapped her arms about herself. Her face was creased with worry.
"When once you are sensible of your being lost, damned creatures, and see hell gaping ready to receive you, then, then
you would cry earnestly unto the Lord to receive you, to open the door of mercy unto you."
Stephen looked around the crowd. Some scoffers were smiling and shaking their heads, but most people were still and intent. The sun was going down already. The preacher had been talking for an hour, he realized.
"Where then must the sinner and the ungodly appear? Where wilt thou, O Sabbath-breaker, appear, thou, who canst take thy pleasure, thy recreation, on the Lord's day, who refuseth to hear the word of God, who wilt not come to church to be instructed in the ways of the Lord? Where will you, O ye adulterers, fornicators, and such-like of this generation appear? Whoremongers and adulterers God will judge, and them he will condemn. Then you will not call these tricks of youth; no, but you will call on the rocks and the mountains to fall on you, to hide you from the fury and anger of the Lord!"
There was low moaning in the crowd. Stephen found himself swaying back and forth with the rhythm of Whitefield's voice. He knew that God had sent this man to speak to him. The sins and weaknesses of himself and his family were brought home to him.
Becoming Americans Page 52
