They had come through a bad time, he thought, but it was over, and now, as the river creatures stated and restated with the insistence of the stonechat's knock, it was the time for renewal. He would make it work, he decided. He would do better at managing the estate. That overseer, Benskin, he didn't trust him an inch. He would keep a firmer eye on Benskin, and if he had the opportunity, he would dismiss him, find someone better. There were plenty of poor men looking for work - a man who had lost his smallholding and had a family to feed might work harder and more honestly than that fat, arrogant bully, who had never known the touch of hunger in his life.
And he would do better at market, too, and not let those sly-eyed merchants cheat him, as he knew perfectly well they did, but somehow shrank from acknowledging. If Angus did sent him money, he could take in that low piece of ground at the northern end, and drain it and fence it. He might also rent a warehouse in St Mary's, so that he could keep his crop until he got a good price, rather than being rushed into a sale.
He would be kinder to Eugenie, too. She had had a miscarriage last year, and was feeling unwell, and had been hankering after a visit to her cousins in Martinique, which he had briskly told her was out of the question. Thinking about her, he realized that her life must be as lonely as his - more lonely, for women needed a female companion, to spend their long hours of idleness and solitude with. Perhaps there might be some little cousin in the West Indies who would like to come out and live with them, as Eugenie's companion, for a few years until Charlotte grew up. He would make inquiries, and try in the meanwhile to be a better companion to Eugenie himself. They had been married seven years, and it was time he settled down and made the best of things. Seven years! And in seven years more it would be time to think about young Philip's education. Should he send him to England for it? And when Philip was a little older still, and able to take charge, he, Charles, might be able to get away for a while, and go back home and visit He stopped himself abruptly, having been trapped into thoughts of England and home by allowing himself to wander. This was home, he told himself firmly. No looking back! No hankering! He gave himself a shake by way of rebuke and, calling the dog, turned away from the seductive river and headed back for the house. Perhaps he ought to allow Eugenie her visit. The largest of the boats would be adequate for a coastal run. He could take her along the coast as far as Savannah, and get her a passage from there - that would save money. That His train of thought was interrupted by a sharp barking from Sally, the gun dog, who raced forward towards the landing stage, drawing his attention to the masts of a pinnace tied up there. His stomach turned over in sickening recollection of the time the Virginia Patriots had made their first call, and his hand tightened on his gunstock. But no, he told himself, the war is over. He forced himself to breathe deeply until his heart stopped racing, and then turned to walk firmly and calmly up to the house.
The visitors were in the drawing room, sitting on the edge of their chairs as if they were not sure of their welcome, four men in the snuff-and-bottle colours of well-to-do but serious-minded citizens. Not Virginia men, anyway, he thought with relief - he recognized John Chase and Judge Morris, both prominent men of St Mary's City. As Charles came in they all stood, but before anyone could speak Eugenie came running to him -Eugenie, running! Her face was white and distressed, all trace of her languor gone and as he caught her in his arms he felt the premonition of something terrible.
‘Oh, Charles, Charles, thank heaven you have come -these men - oh Charles—!' She clung to him with small, hooked hands like claws, while the four visitors stood up and regarded him solemnly - like executioners, he found himself thinking.
‘Hush, Eugenie, it's all right,' he said vaguely, patting her shoulders with a useless gesture of comfort, more suited to a dog than a wife, while his mind raced over the possibilities of bad news and came up with no answers.
John Chase cleared his throat, frowned, and said, ‘Mr Morland, I'm glad you have come back, sir. We were on the point of sending out for you. Sit down, sir, sit down.'
‘Charles, they say that we must go,' Eugenie cried breathlessly, as he tried to ease her into a seat. She would not unhook her hands, and so he sat down with her, on the end of her sofa, still patting her foolishly.
‘Go? What do you mean, go?'
‘Allow me to explain, sir. Madam, please, calm yourself.'
‘Calm? How can I be calm?' Eugenie cried shrilly, startling Charles, who had never heard any but a low, lilting voice from her.
‘For God's sake, sir, explain!' Charles said angrily. Chase hemmed again, and said, 'That is what I am endeavouring to do, sir. We have come - we four - as representatives of the Assembly of Maryland, to acquaint you with our decision concerning you, reached at the last session of the committee appointed to deal with Tories.' ‘Tories?' Charles said, utterly astonished. 'Decision? What are you talking about?'
‘You, sir, have been declared an undesirable person. Your activities during the war have been amply proved; you were undoubtedly associated with the British, passed on information to naval officers, and hampered the Cause in every way possible. Therefore we have declared all civil rights suspended, your property confiscated, and yourself and your family exiles. You are to leave here forthwith, never to return, on pain of imprisonment.' The tone of his voice suggested that he was disappointed not to be able to say on pain of death. But, Lord, these were civilized times! Charles stared, dumbfounded, no longer ever noticing the pain in his arm from Eugenie's fingers. 'Hampered the cause? Are you mad? This house was all but taken over by the Patriot Party - it was camp, hospital, and staging post. What activities are you talking about? You have the wrong man, sir, the wrong man.'
‘Not at all,' Judge Morris interposed sternly, lifting into a view a rolled document. 'It all came out in your trial.'
‘My trial?'
‘Your trial, sir, the day before yesterday.'
‘You held a trial of me, without my presence?'
‘Your presence was not necessary,' the Judge said implacably. 'There were ample witnesses to your villainy.' ‘What witnesses?' Charles almost shrieked.
‘The chief amongst them was a leading member of the Patriot Party, who himself witnessed your infamy. And your own overseer gave evidence against you, sir,' Chase said. 'Could anything be clearer?'
‘No - it is becoming clear to me now,' Charles said slowly. 'This leading member of the Patriot Party - what is his name? Could it be Hampson?’
The four men exchanged significant glances. That he knew the name of the informer was clear proof to them of his guilt. 'It is,' said Chase, triumphantly.
‘And of what, in particular, am I accused?' Charles asked with a terrible calm. The Judge unrolled the document with a grand gesture.
‘Item: that you communicated by letter with the enemies of the American people, namely officers of the British navy. Item: that you did infamously and seditiously oppose and criticize the Declaration of Independence, and support the continuing tyranny of the British rule. Item: that you did refuse to make men and funds available to Congress for the furtherment of the war effort. Item—' here he paused and looked up, as one coming to the nub of the matter, 'that you did receive into your house a naval officer from the British ship of war Ariadne, and did in the presence of a witness give him certain information which led to the confiscation or destruction of a large number of sailing vessels belonging to Patriotic Americans, and the destruction of large amounts of property, whose value is as yet unassessable.’
He rolled up the document again, and fixed Charles with a gimlet eye. 'Mr Hampson was able to give us full particulars of that little transaction. He was concealed in this very room, sir, and heard everything.'
‘Ah, did he?' Charles said. 'And is that all?'
‘All? Is it not enough?' Chase said indignantly.
‘There is, in addition,' the Judge interposed, 'the matter of the British sailor you picked up after the battle in the mouth of the Bay, and failed to hand over to the a
uthorities. No doubt you found means to return him safely to his friends - with useful information.'
‘He was dying when I picked him up,' Charles said mildly. 'He died the following day. We buried him out there, in the family plot.' He gave a vague gesture towards the window. The whole business had taken on a quality of nightmare. He looked at the stern faces of his accusers, and knew without a doubt that anything he might say would be useless, or even be twisted about to make fresh accusation. He could almost hear the undercurrent of thought behind this ludicrous 'trial' - he, Charles, was an Englishman, and someone must be blamed. His wife, her father, were French by origin, and though the French had lately been their allies, they were not to be trusted, and would no doubt have turned the war to their own advantage had they been given the chance. And they were Papists into the bargain. Someone must pay. And speaking of pay - Benskin would not have done this without some advantage to himself. What could it be? And what was Hampson's benefit in this? He had the glimmer of an idea.
‘Tell me, what do you intend to do with my estate when you have - confiscated it?' he asked, still with that deadly calm.
‘It will be sold, and the money used to offset the war expenses,' Chase said.
‘Yes, of course - someone must pay for the war. Sold by auction, I suppose?’
Not necessary,' said the Judge. 'We have a purchaser already.’
Charles smiled, and at least John Chase had the grace to redden. 'The purchaser would be one Mr Hampson, I presume?' There was no need for anyone to answer him. Benskin's price would be a percentage, perhaps, or merely a rise in salary for continuing with the same job. York House was the best, the most beautiful house on the Bay, and it was natural enough that Hampson should have a hankering for it, as well as the good waterside property. He must have offered the Assembly a very good price for them to prefer his offer over that of a native Marylander.
The four men had risen, evidently feeling the matter was concluded.
‘You will prepare yourselves at once to leave here, sir,' said John Chase sternly. 'You will be permitted to take a boat, your personal effects, and your personal servants. You have better make careful selection. We shall return tomorrow to take possession in the name of the Assembly.’
Eugenie began to weep hysterically. 'No, no, you shan't! We won't go, we won't go, I tell you! You can't turn us out of our own house, like dogs. We won't go!’
Chase kept his eyes from her, as if the sight embarrassed him, and addressed himself to Charles. 'We shall return tomorrow, sir, with a detachment of the militia, just in case you should think of making a foolish resistence.'
‘But where can we go?' Eugenie cried. 'What can we do? If you send us away, how shall we live?'
‘I am sure your British friends will help you,' the Judge said nastily. 'They would have rewarded you, had they won the war, so the least they can do is compensate you for your efforts on their behalf.’
Eugenie only wept louder. 'I don't know any British,' she sobbed. 'I don't know what you are talking about.’
John Chase, looking more embarrassed than ever, said, ‘Most of the exiles are going north, to Canada. I believe there is a scheme by the British Government to award land in Canada to exiles in compensation. That would be your best bet.’
The Judge looked angry at this unwarranted softness. ‘We leave you now, sir,' he said sharply. 'We shall return tomorrow. You had best be ready.’
For a long time after they had gone Charles sat still, holding his weeping wife in his arms, staring into space. He was utterly dazed. In a few minutes his life had been turned upside down, and everything still had the unreal air of a dream. He looked about the drawing room, remembering how strange its pirate's-hoard furnishings had seemed to him when first he saw them. They were all familiar to him now, as familiar as the lie of the whiskers on his own face when he shaved in the morning. Blindfold he could have walked about the room and never have bumped into anything. Over the chimneypiece was the new portrait of Eugenie and the children, smiling out serenely into an unchangeable world, flanked by the old and familiar likenesses of her mother and aunt. Outside the window the white roses burgeoned sweetly as they had done for a hundred and fifty years.
But tomorrow it would all be past for them. Tomorrow all these things would belong to another man. Tomorrow! They had only this one day to decide what to do, where to go, what to take with them. They must hurry, they must not waste time in useless grief. So he told himself, but he could not move. He held Eugenie, and waited for her tears to subside, for something to suggest itself.
Tomorrow they must leave - but the land would not know it, and the house would not care. They would go on just the same, as if he had never been. The crop would ripe and be harvested, the house would mellow a little and Then the idea came to him, not in a blinding flash, but creeping into his brain stealthily, like a dog inching towards the fire. The land - the house - it was a terrible idea, his brain wanted to reject it, and yet, and yet - it would be a revenge, would it not? it would be some small sweetener to the bitter days to come. But he must make haste - they must make their plans, and pack up, and be away before anyone came.
‘Eugenie, Eugenie, sit up, dry your face. Here, take my handkerchief. That's right. There now, my love, listen to me, we must make plans.’
As patiently as he could, he jollied her along, until she had blown her nose and wiped her face and straightened her hair, and was attending to him.
‘We have very little time, and we must not waste it. We must make a selection of what to take with us - clothes and household things, for us and for the children. And food, whatever we can take. We have to pack it all into the boat. We must find out which of the servants will come with us, and make sure they pack for themselves.'
‘But Charles - where can we go?’
It seemed to Charles at that moment almost an irrelevance. He shrugged.
‘I don't know. I suppose to Canada - there doesn't seem to be much choice. Or maybe to England? No, the boat wouldn't take us across the ocean. They say New York remained loyal - perhaps we can find out there whether there is any plan to compensate people like us.' She was staring at him like someone who has been hit fairly hard on the head, and he could see that it was beyond her to think about such things. All she wanted from him now was reassurance, and he gave it, feeling something growing inside him for her, a kind of warmth stemming from pity, for she, who had always been so complete and remote and untouched, needed him now. He would take care of her - he would take care of her.
‘It will be all right, Eugenie. Everything will be all right. But we must not waste any time. I have a plan—'
‘A plan?' Hope sprang to her eye.
‘Not to save us - it will not help us. But it will confound them - our enemies.'
‘Ah.' He saw her pull herself together with an immense effort. 'Tell me what to do,' she said, with the nearest approach he had ever seen her make to briskness. He lifted her hand and kissed it, in grateful admiration.
‘Yes,' he said. 'This is what we must do.’
*
All that day they scurried about, choosing and discarding and packing. Clothes, blankets, tools, cooking equipment, food and water - these were the essentials. They had room for so little, and there was so much they wanted, but Charles knew that if they took anything of real value they would be more likely to be pursued.
‘We must take these,' Eugenie said at one time, coming to him with the crucifix from the altar in the chapel, and the other altar furnishings. He hesitated no more than a moment, and then packed them, hiding them as well as he could. Eugenie's jewels, too, they hid, dispersing them about the trunks so that if one was opened, others might escape.
The house slaves were grief-stricken, and many of them offered to come with them, and Charles was touched to the heart to find how loyal they were, and in particular how they loved the missus and the children.
‘We can take only one or two of you,' he explained to Sam. 'There will be little
enough room in the boat as it is - and we will be very poor after this, almost beggars. We will have to work like servants for our bread. It will mean hardship for anyone who comes with us.'
‘I don't care, master,' Sam said, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘I want to come all de same. You need me, master - I can sail de boat, and I'm strong, I can work, dig and plant, when you gets some mo' land. Let me come, master - I can't leave missus, not now.’
Charles accepted the offer gratefully, and with Sam's advice chose also Mary, who was good with the children, and Cloud, a half-Indian woman, and her husband Jacob, as being the strongest and hardiest of those who most wanted to come. When it was done, Charles dismissed all the other slaves and sent them over to the slave quarters with orders to stay there until their new master came to fetch them. He said goodbye to them all individually, thanking them for their loyalty, and they went away, many of them weeping, while Charles was already thinking about the next thing to be done.
‘Thank God that traitor Benskin isn't here,' he said. ‘He was probably shamed to show his face. Now, Sam, you and I had better see to the last part of the plan, while the other servants get the missus and children onto the boat.’
It was all done by an hour after sundown, and Charles sent the exhausted Eugenie and the servants and children to settle themselves in the boat.
‘Have her ready to shove off at once, the moment Sam and I come back,' he told Jacob. Eugenie stretched out a hand to him.
‘Please, Charles, be careful,' she said. He looked-at her for a moment with compassion.
‘You agree to this? I need your sanction. It is, after all, your home.'
‘Yes,' she said steadily, holding his gaze. 'I agree. Better this way - better than letting—' Her voice failed her, and she swallowed and went on. 'Papa would have done the same. Do it, Charles, and let us be gone.’
The Flood-Tide Page 31
