by Jodi Daynard
“Excellent!” Peter cried. At once the whole event seemed in the distant past. “But look—I’ve just had a letter from Papa. Winter break is but two weeks away, and he says I might bring you home with me.”
“Bring me with you?”
“It would be jolly fun! You will absolutely love Moorcock.”
Johnny said, “Surely you won’t be fool enough to attempt the roads at this time of year? You’ll waste your entire holiday in travel—if you get there at all.”
“Nonsense,” said Peter. “I’ve made the trip twice before. It takes a week.”
“You have a magic carpet, then.”
“A floating carpet, actually. It’s a tidy little packet, owned by a friend of Papa’s. He’s a fur trader who comes to Boston nearly every month. From Yorktown, we can board a smaller vessel. Papa has made inquiries, and the ship is set to leave Boston on December fourth. The winds are good this time of year, and Papa shall send a coach and four to meet us in Fredericksburg.”
“You make it sound so simple,” Johnny said skeptically. He had been looking forward to seeing his mother, Lizzie, and the children in Quincy. Six more weeks with Peter, two of them on a cramped vessel, was hardly recompense. And yet the idea of seeing Virginia and its inhabitants tempted him.
“Oh, but Mama shall be devastated,” Johnny said. “And besides, I imagine the expense is prohibitive.”
“Never mind the expense—I am in your debt. Doubly so, now that you’ve forgiven me.” Peter grinned. “As for your mother, tell her you are very like to meet our good friend Thomas Jefferson.”
The thought of meeting the great idol of his youth tipped the scales for Johnny.
Eliza Boylston, however, was far less pleased. It was the next day, and she was sitting upon his one chair, having arrived for a visit. She looked fretful.
“But Johnny, I—we—have so been looking forward to your return to Quincy. I’ve not been too overbearing, have I? Why, I’ve hardly even written. Twice a week at most.”
“Nay, calm yourself, Mama. He has made me an offer I think wise to accept. I shall see a wholly different way of life from our beloved little Quincy.”
“Different, yes.”
Johnny cocked his head, puzzled. “That is hardly all! I shall see a grand plantation and meet Virginia society. Peter said I might even be so fortunate as to meet Mr. Jefferson. He’s an old family friend.”
Eliza continued to look quite vexed. She finally said, “I worry about the roads. They can be dangerous this time of year.”
“We sail directly to Yorktown and thence to Fredericksburg, where a fine coach and four shall be waiting.”
“But if there should be a storm at sea—”
Johnny wrapped an arm about his mother’s narrow shoulders. “We shan’t be ‘at sea,’ Mama. We hug the coast. If there’s a storm, we’ll put in somewhere.”
Johnny thought he had worn down all her objections, and he expected her to acquiesce with one of her long-suffering sighs. But Eliza shook her head, to which Johnny replied wearily, “If you fear that I shall witness some nasty business, I say I’ve seen it all in Barbados already. How could things be worse?”
It was true: Nearly everyone in Barbados owned slaves, including the free Negroes. Johnny had grown up among them. He had witnessed their scars, seen them drop dead in the fields as if struck by invisible lightning. He had heard them bear the assault of violent words, humiliating words, in humble silence. What more could there be that he did not already know?
But Eliza continued warmly, “No, Johnny. It’s not safe. There is an excellent trade in black men just now. The scoundrels kidnap free men and sell them into slavery. You’re young and strong. You would fetch a pretty penny. And there are other things I daren’t speak of.”
Johnny had no wish to fight with his dear mama, whose opinion he always respected. But in this, he felt certain she was in the wrong.
“I’m a white boy, remember, Mama? Is this not why we’ve come to America? So that I could get an education and rise to my rightful station in life?”
“Yes, I believe it’s your whiteness I fear most,” she whispered mysteriously. She then placed a hand upon her heart.
But Johnny was determined. “I’m going, Mama. Whether you fear it or no.”
12
THE WIND BLEW FIERCELY FROM THE NORTH when, at last, carrying just one small trunk apiece, Johnny and Peter found themselves on Long Wharf waiting to board the Columbia. Peter’s father had written of its estimated arrival in Boston, but twice they’d traveled to the wharf only to find no ship waiting for them. The wind had been unobliging, and it was not until December 7 that they finally set off.
In the open air, away from books, taverns, and bells calling him to prayer, Peter was playful as a child. He kept jumping upon his friend and riding his back. Laughing, Johnny did the same to him. It kept them warm as they waited.
Peter said, “I don’t believe anything on earth is more lovely than Moorcock. I shall never leave it, not even in death.” He smiled wistfully, then suddenly asked, “Why’d your family leave America, anyway? They weren’t Tories, were they? My family managed to avoid declaring themselves one way or another, but that was in Virginia. One could not fence-sit in these parts, I’m sure. Though you would know better than I.”
“No, my parents weren’t Tories, though my grandpapa and Uncle Robert certainly were.”
“Uncle Robert? Who’s that?”
“My mother’s—”
Johnny bit his tongue. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot and blew upon his hands, affecting cold, though he was still warm from their rough play.
“Barbados is beautiful, too,” he said abruptly. “But I grew up feeling more American than British. Those I hold in highest esteem are Americans. And I hold the American Constitution to be one of the greatest documents ever created. I always dreamed of coming here.”
“So, why’d they leave, then?” Peter persisted. “You haven’t really answered the question.”
“Grandpapa left his estate in Bridgetown to my mother, and as they had no money, I suppose it seemed best.”
“Curious,” Peter concluded. “Come to think of it, we have excellent friends in Bridgetown. Papa can tell you their names.”
Johnny felt a shiver of fear run through him. This was too close. Any family in Bridgetown could have told you to whom Eliza Boylston was married, even though in Barbados she was known as Elizabeth Watkins. Everyone knew the odd couple, though it took many years before they were accepted, and even then never by the highest echelons of society.
Thankfully, Peter was distracted just then by the sudden appearance in the outer harbor of the Columbia. The packet soon arrived, and they boarded it.
The ship was cramped and dirty. Johnny attempted to read in his berth, but it was impossible. The water was too rough, the air too close, and the smells too rank. The room in its entirety measured, he estimated, twelve feet by fourteen feet. Whenever possible, he strolled the poop deck and watched the constant industry of the seamen, which reminded him of home. Seamen were forever doing something: mending rope, adjusting the sails, or swabbing the decks with their bare red hands.
The captain was a plump, pink-cheeked man of perhaps forty-five. A grizzled beard hid his mouth, as did the tankard of beer from which he drank all day. But his eyes were clear, and he deftly managed his men.
The voyage took six nights and days. Johnny watched for whales and seabirds. He noticed how sometimes the water looked like slate—at other times, like veined marble. At night, as on their voyage from Barbados, the waves sparkled in the moonlight.
On the morning of the seventh day, having set sail once more and traveled up the narrow inlets of the Rappahannock, Johnny watched Fredericksburg grow ever more distinct, until he could make out the taverns and warehouses upon the wharf. How temperate the air was here, even in December! They finally anchored, and as they descended onto the dock, Johnny espied an elegant carriage waiting for them. A Negro coach
man rode postilion on one of four fine white coursers, their tails flowing. Peter had not exaggerated the fineness of his carriage.
Once installed, they set off up the hill to the main road. Peter pointed off to the right and said, “That’s Washington’s childhood home, you know.” Johnny peered out at the farm, which looked sadly abandoned. But the land was still fertile, the streams still flowing through verdant banks toward the river.
Peter had already told Johnny about his older brother, Frederick, and younger sister, Charlotte. Fred had gone to William & Mary for a year until some event in his sophomore year had sent him packing. The suspension was to be for six months, but Fred never returned.
Peter said, “Oh, and one more thing, Johnny. Whatever you do, don’t bring up the treaty with Britain. I’d steer clear of anything along those lines.”
“It would not occur to me to do so, but thanks for the warning.”
“Papa is still quite angry that he has not been paid what he is owed.”
“Paid for what?”
“Two dozen slaves. Bloody British took ’em and paid not a penny. Never will, now, thanks to Mr. Jay.”
That past year, President Washington had sent John Jay, first chief justice of the United States, to Britain to negotiate a treaty. One of the American demands was for the British to reimburse slave owners for slaves seized during the Revolution. But the British had been intractable on this point.
Johnny was silent, as he’d been sternly instructed; perhaps he nodded his understanding.
Moorcock Manor was but five miles away from the harbor. Johnny looked out the carriage window at the gently rolling farmland. Although it was now winter, honeysuckle vines clung to the old stone walls, eagles flew overhead, and horses galloped through fields in the distance. He passed by creeks all flowing down gently to the Rappahannock, and thought, This does not look at all like Barbados! It was more fertile, more lyrical.
Suddenly, Peter touched his friend’s shoulder. “You know, Johnny, they’ll have begun the Christmas festivities already.”
“So early?” His own family never made much ado about Christmas. Cassie always made them a good dinner, and then they sang a few songs, little more. Gifts were exchanged six days later, on New Year’s Eve.
“Why, this isn’t early. Our festivities go on for weeks. Nothing like you parsimonious Puritans. I’m sure there’ll be a ball and a foxhunt or two as well. The locals are vastly fond of them. And, oh—have you ever attended a cockfight?”
“A cockfight?”
“So exciting. The cocks wear steel spurs. They positively tear each other to shreds.”
Johnny made a face. That was not his idea of entertainment.
“Oh, but look—Moorcock!” Peter cried. “Let the fun begin!”
Johnny saw before them a long road flanked by massive oak trees wrapped in vines, which, bending, formed an archway overhead. The carriage turned in and proceeded down the private road. Along the way, they passed several outbuildings. In one, Negro men worked at a manufactory of some kind. They were very black, and their eyes shone as they glanced up from their work. Johnny looked away, toward the tobacco fields beyond, now fallow after their harvest.
The great house itself soon came into view. It was composed entirely of red brick. Johnny counted eight chimneys: four in the main house and two in each of the one-story wings. A semicircular double staircase and wrought-iron railing led up to a double portico. Sandstone columns flanked a broad red door. As a backdrop to this magnificent edifice, rolling hills gradually ascended to a bluish ridge of mountains.
The coachman pulled the carriage up to the base of the steps and stopped. Peter descended, raced up the steps, rang the bell, and shouted, “Mama! Papa! The prodigal returns!”
Impatient, Peter opened the door himself, and Johnny was able to see into a hall adorned with finely carved furniture covered in gold damask. Yards and yards of this same rich fabric festooned the windows.
Peter turned to his roommate and bowed. “Welcome to Moorcock Manor, Mr. Boylston!”
“Thank you, sir.” Johnny bowed in return.
Peter’s father soon arrived to greet them. He was a sandy-haired, affable man of about forty. “Welcome! Welcome!” he cried, leading them into the hall. There, Johnny had a better view of the room, which was at least eight hundred square feet in size. It had six windows, two skylights, and a pair of fine mahogany staircases leading up to a balcony.
After several minutes, neither the butler nor Mrs. Fray had materialized, so Mr. Fray, with some embarrassment, led Johnny to his chamber.
It was a large corner room, facing Fredericksburg and the river. As Johnny peered out at the view, he heard a flustered, feminine voice behind him:
“But why did no one tell me they had arrived? How awkward to greet the boy already in his chamber!”
Johnny turned to find a woman standing in his open doorway, in a splendid blue silk gown. She was comely and dark-haired, perhaps thirty-five years of age. A light-skinned Negro girl stood just behind her, head bowed and tied with a linen rag. Mrs. Fray curtsied and then offered Johnny a smile. Her pale, shrewd eyes looked him over carefully. But she seemed satisfied with what she saw and said, “You must be Mr. Boylston, Peter’s roommate. I hope your journey wasn’t too tedious.”
“Oh, no. Nothing to compare with the journey from Barbados, anyway.”
“That’s right. Peter told us you’re from Bridgetown. You must know many of our friends. My husband goes once a year on business there.”
Mrs. Fray had the same beautiful lilt as her son. But the words themselves sent a chill through Johnny. He merely nodded.
“That’s Harriet,” Mrs. Fray continued. “I’m afraid she’s been indisposed this morning. That’s why Curtis and I—but never mind—” she broke off. “You may make free to call upon Harriet for anything you need. There is a bell, just here.” Mrs. Fray pointed to a long needlepoint pull that hung to the left of the doorframe. “She can draw you a bath now, if you like, or bring you tea.”
“Thank you.” Johnny bowed. “I should first of all like to write my mother and tell her I am safe arrived.”
“Of course.” Peter’s mother nodded briskly. “Harriet, bring Mr. Boylston some pay-puh and ink. Oh, and a pen, of course.” Mrs. Fray turned to Johnny. “One has to spell these things out, you know.” She smiled.
Johnny bowed slightly, but he could not return the smile. Harriet curtsied and left at once to fetch the items. These items duly brought and the door of his chamber closed, Johnny sighed with relief. He then took up his pen:
Dear Mama
I am just arrived at Moorcock Manor, Peter’s home. My chamber has an excellent view over the Rappahannock River and all of Fredericksburg. Though I have been here but five minutes, I can already tell that these people live very different lives from our humble Boston brethren. I shall keep a faithful diary in my mind to share with you when I return. I am glad I am come, but beg forgiveness for my ill-mannered insistence upon it.
After sealing his letter, Johnny took the proffered bath and then had a dish of tea. He lay down upon the bed, intending to rest a few moments. But it was very soft and comfortable. He fell asleep and slept dreamlessly until late afternoon. It was nearly dark when he finally rose, dressed in the blue coat he purchased for school, and descended.
In the great hall, a large gay party was in full swing. Johnny knew at once that his coat, though fine enough by Boston standards, was entirely unsuitable here. Next to the brilliant imported silk costumes all about him, he felt like a field hand in his Sunday best.
Ladies stood in groups, their large rumps touching one another. From across the room, one such group appeared to be a sort of Scylla with half a dozen heads. In New England, hoops had already been done away with, the Northern ladies preferring to look like Greek statues come to life in flowing empire-waist muslin frocks. But these Southern women clung to the European court style of yore.
At the wassail bowl, Johnny made the acquai
ntance of Peter’s little sister, Charlotte. She had pale-blonde hair and wary eyes. She ran off within moments of curtsying. Peter had already helped himself to a glass of wassail, and when he saw Johnny he grinned and patted him on the back. “I feared you’d never descend,” he said. “But look—here’s Frederick.”
A handsome burly young man approached them. He had a ready grin and very pale-blue eyes, like his brother’s. But his hair was darker than Peter’s, more brown than blond, and he was not nearly as tall. When he smiled, his jaw clenched, as if the affability cost him some effort.
Johnny bowed, and Frederick returned the bow.
“Johnny’s from Barbados, and he’s at the top of our class,” said Peter by way of introduction.
“Save one,” Johnny corrected him.
“Oh yes, one freak of no account.”
At the news that Johnny was from Barbados, Fred’s pale eyes brightened with interest.
“Then you must know our dear friends the Cumberbatches. I hear their plantation, St. Nicholas Abby, is very fine. Excellent rum, too.” Fred grinned his lockjawed grin.
“Yes,” replied Johnny. “At least, I’ve heard so.”
“Excellent. Well, we must have a long discussion about them sometime.” Then Frederick leaned in to Johnny. “I’ve heard the native wenches rival the rum for their potency.”
Johnny blushed at this comment. Thankfully, Frederick noticed a new party that had just then entered the room. “Excuse me,” he said, bowing. He moved off to greet them.
Peter, steering Johnny off in a new direction, commented, “Never mind about him. Against a pretty girl, we shall always lose.”
“Pretty girl? Who, pray?” asked Johnny, craning his neck to see above the crowd.
“Miss Burnes. Marcia Burnes. I’ll introduce you by and by. But first, let’s take a tour of the sweets.”
Set out upon a long table, small cakes of every variety—pies with lattice tops, bonbons, and fruitcakes, all flanked by two stately sugarplum pyramids—made Johnny’s mouth water.
