by Chet Hagan
Charles shook his head to dispel the vision.
These Continental soldiers wouldn’t know he was a deserter. Nor were they likely to care, if they did.
Having reached that conclusion, Charles called to the officer, as the men came abreast of him: “Good morning, sir!”
“Good morning,” the officer—a lieutenant—replied. He stopped the column. “A rare fine day, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is.” Charles smiled.
“Where are you bound, sir?”
“Westward.” Dewey had no better answer. “I’m just mustered out of the French navy. At Yorktown.”
The lieutenant sighed. “We had hoped to get finished with this damned job”—he gestured toward the Negroes—“in time to get to see the surrender. But—”
“It was a magnificent sight!” A safe lie.
“I’ll bet it was.” Another sigh. “Well, we must be getting on.”
Dewey’s curiosity got the better of him. “Who are these men?” Meaning the Negroes.
“Runaway slaves,” the officer told him. “They’ve been working for Cornwallis.” He laughed. “The general’s people told them they weren’t slaves anymore.”
Charles stared at the sad-faced black men. One of them was a boy of no more than twelve, terror written in his eyes.
“See that buck over there?” the American went on, pointing to a muscular young giant. “He belongs to General Washington. Ran away from Mount Vernon, if you can believe that.” The officer obviously found such an act incomprehensible.
“What happens to them now?”
“They go back to their owners. If we can’t find the owners, I guess they’ll be sold again.”
The company moved off. Charles watched them go, his emotions disquieted. He had never seen slaves before. He didn’t like what he had just witnessed.
Hunger pangs assailed him, causing him to quicken his pace. Still westward.
III
THE broad main thoroughfare of the town surprised Charles. It was almost Paris-like in his eyes. Yet, what he saw wasn’t really a city, but a substantial village with a great bustle of activity on the wide principal street. He was impressed by the number of fine brick buildings. Public buildings, he thought.
It was nearly noon, and he had walked some distance since he left the barn armed with his new name. He guessed that he had come the better part of eight or nine miles. He was somewhat light-headed from hunger; he had not eaten since he broke his fast aboard ship a day earlier.
The young Frenchman stood in front of a large steepled church, watching as a two-wheeled farm cart, drawn by a team of oxen, lumbered slowly along the boulevard. Two fine carriages, moving much faster, wheeled around the cart, making their way toward a handsome palace-like building, its entrance framed by ornate wrought-iron gates.
From the church came an elderly man, finely dressed in velvet coat and knee breeches, his powdered wig topped by a velvet tricorne. The gentleman nodded slightly to Charles as he started to pass him.
“My pardon, sir,” Charles said boldly, “but what town is this?”
“What town…?” The man laughed. “This, young sir, is Williamsburg.”
“Williamsburg?”
“It is, sir. The capital of Virginia until just recently.”
“I see. Is there a place where I might seek some honest work?”
The gentleman studied Dewey. “French?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ve come from Yorktown, where I was mustered out of the French navy after an enlistment as an aide to the Comte de Grasse, Admiral of the Fleet.”
He watched the man’s face carefully, trying to gauge the reaction to his explanation. He was pleased that he saw no doubt registered there.
“The French have certainly been our dear and loyal friends. Papa Rochambeau spent some time here in Williamsburg, at Mr. Wythe’s home, prior to the Yorktown engagement. A charming man. I understand he’s expected to return soon. Are you acquainted with General Rochambeau?”
Charles decided that he had lied enough. “No, sir. I’m aware of his reputation, of course.”
“The word is that he’ll be wintering here with some of his troops.”
The young man just nodded.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I seem to have forgotten my manners. I’m George Milton.” He offered his hand.
Charles shook it. “Dewey,” he said, “Charles Dewey.” It sounded so correct!
“Well, Mr. Dewey,” the gentleman said in a kindly manner, “how may I be of service to you?”
“If there is some work I could do, perhaps just for meals…” There was a sense of urgency in the words. He added a phrase: “And lodging.”
“What kind of work do you seek?”
“I’m afraid I have few skills,” Charles admitted with a grimace. “I’ve been a sailor, and —”
“And hungry, I’ll wager.” Milton spread his hands apologetically. “I’ve been standing here chattering away when it’s obvious that you’ve a great desire to eat something.”
“Yes, sir.” He saw no need to deny his hunger.
“Come. We’ll test the victuals at the Raleigh.”
Putting his arm around the shoulders of the younger man, the gentleman guided him to the tavern. Inside, it was crowded, warm, comfortable. Milton found them a table. As they sat down, the wonderful smells of the place stirred the juices in Dewey’s empty stomach, bringing on small, pinching pains.
What happened next astounded him. A large slab of roasted beef was put on the table, and a smoked sausage of some kind, apparently fried in its preparation, and a whole fowl, along with cheeses and a variety of steaming vegetables. A tureen of melted butter came forth, and another filled with dark gravy, nodules of fat floating on top. And there were pickles. And jams. And a plump, round loaf of freshly baked bread. And rich black coffee, already heavily sweetened. He scarcely knew where to start.
Charles ate carefully, trying not to wolf the food, but consuming a great deal.
Milton watched him with a satisfied smile, examining him. He was a strongly built lad, broad-shouldered, slim at the waist. In spite of Dewey’s youth, the Virginian thought he carried himself maturely. In a manly manner. He had light blond hair; his eyes were of a startlingly intense hazel. It couldn’t be said that his face was classically handsome; it was too squarely cut, perhaps, with angles a sculptor wouldn’t have chosen. But there was character in it. Strength in it. Self-assurance in it. Even, Milton concluded, a hint of arrogance in it.
“I trust our American repast is to your liking,” the host said finally.
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“Plainer, perhaps, than French cuisine.”
Charles struggled to keep himself from laughing. French cuisine? He thought of the garbage he had eaten in Paris alleys just to sustain life. And of the often inadequate fare of the French navy, the meat frequently alive with maggots.
“This is the finest meal I’ve ever had, sir.” He was telling the truth.
“Perhaps on this important natal day as an American,” Milton said, “we should offer a toast.”
He ordered a bottle of Madeira. When the wine was brought, he poured for both of them, raising his glass.
“To Liberty!”
“To Liberty!” Charles repeated, draining the glass.
By the time they had finished the bottle, Dewey had told the older man of his dreams. He had even told him of the orders from his guardian spirit: to seek his fortune in the new country. He didn’t tell him, quite naturally, that he had become a deserter to follow those spectral orders.
“This nation, for so it shall be now,” Milton said, “offers great opportunities for young men such as yourself. I dearly wish that I could be thirty years younger.”
In the course of their conversation, Charles learned that his effusive benefactor was an exporting agent for Virginia tobacco growers. He surmised, also, that the man had a number of other special interests. Clearly an important individual.
�
�Well, young sir,” the Virginian said after a while, his words slurred by the wine, “perhaps we ought to take a stroll to clear our heads, eh?”
Charles followed him out of the tavern into the late-afternoon sunshine, walking somewhat unsteadily. As they moved along, Milton pointed out the numerous public buildings of the town.
Finally: “That’s where we met, Mr. Dewey. The Bruton Parish Church.”
“Yes, sir.” He had the sinking feeling that his newfound friend was about to bid him farewell.
Milton turned into the walkway leading to a neat brick home across the street from the church. It was a small house, but well built. Charles hesitated.
“Come, come,” Milton ordered.
Charles went with him to the house, and before the gentleman could turn the knob, the door was opened by a large black man in livery. “Good afternoon, Mr. Milton, sir,” the Negro said with a trace of an English accent.
“We have a guest, Albert. Please make welcome Mr. Charles Dewey.”
“Mr. Dewey, sir,” the black man responded, bowing deeply.
Charles returned the bow. There was a startled look in the Negro’s eyes. Evidently the young man had done the wrong thing.
Milton chuckled. “Mr. Dewey is new to America,” he said by way of explanation. He handed his hat and his wig to the servant. He rubbed his nearly bald pate with a great deal of satisfaction.
“We’ll have a bottle of Madeira, Albert.”
“Yes, sir.”
Milton led the way into a cozy sitting room where a fire had been set against the chill of the October afternoon. “Albert’s a unique man. I picked him up in London—oh, some ten years ago. I have reason to believe he was the son of a tribal chieftain in Africa. That comes out in him every once in a while in a bit of arrogance. But I swear to you, I can’t imagine being without him.”
“Excuse me, sir … uh, is he a slave?”
“A slave?” Milton’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, I suppose he is.” It was as if he had never thought about the black man in that light before.
Albert returned with a bottle of wine and two superb crystal glasses on a silver tray. He filled the glasses, then backed off, standing in the shadows of the room.
There was no toast this time. They simply drank, chatting like old friends. Milton confided that he was a bachelor. “I never married,” he laughed, “because I could never find a woman who deserved me.” Charles’s giggle made him realize that both he and his host were getting quite drunk. For him it was a marvelous feeling, one of complete well-being.
For more than an hour they sat that way in front of the fire. Suddenly Milton clapped his hands together and Albert was instantly at his side.
“Our young friend, Albert, will stay the night. Make a bed ready for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles thought that he ought to protest the continuing gracious hospitality. He didn’t, however. He was perfectly willing to accept the largess of the outgoing gentleman. And he was too drunk, he knew, to venture out.
Within a few minutes Albert was back. Without further orders, he hoisted Charles to his feet and guided him up a narrow flight of stairs to a bedroom. He helped him undress and manhandled him into the bed, gently but firmly.
The coolness of the fine linen sheets shocked Charles. So, too, the softness of the goose-down mattress. He had never known such luxury. Indeed, he had never slept in a real bed before.
Never.
IV
A muscular hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him with authority, spoiling a marvelous dream of silk-clad ladies and heroic gentlemen. The beautiful music that had accompanied the idyllic visions ended in discordant notes as Charles came awake.
“Mr. Milton requests your presence at breakfast, sir,” Albert was saying to him. “He has instructed me to help you dress.”
The words of the black man were proper enough, but the tone of them reflected Albert’s annoyance at having Charles as an interloper in his house.
“Good morning, Albert,” the young Frenchman said with a smile. He made no effort to rise.
“Mr. Milton is waiting, sir.”
“Yes, of course.” But when Charles sat up in the bed, his head throbbed from too much wine. He couldn’t suppress an audible groan.
“You’re ill, sir?” Albert asked with some sarcasm.
“No, no, I’m just fine.” He swung his legs out of the bed and stood naked on the chilly floor. “Just fine.” He thought it best not to show any sign of weakness in the presence of the no-nonsense Negro servant.
Albert had brought a basin of steaming hot water. He pointed to some clothes he had hung over the back of a chair. “After you’ve washed, sir, you are to dress in those clothes. Mr. Milton feels they will be more appropriate.”
On the chair were a pair of buff-colored heavy-cord breeches, a plain white shirt, a substantial buff wool waistcoat, a coat of blue broadcloth, a serviceable broad-brimmed wool hat, and a dark green cape, also of wool. Charles guessed that the cape would reach his knees. By the chair stood a pair of sturdy black knee-high boots.
“Those are for me?” Charles asked in surprise.
“Quite,” Albert replied stiffly in his British manner.
“But my own clothes—?”
“Your underclothes have been washed and ironed, sir, and your other clothes have been put away in a saddlebag, ready for your trip.”
“My trip?”
“Mr. Milton will explain, sir,” Albert snapped. “Will you require my further assistance?”
“No, no. Thank you, Albert.”
The Negro backed his way to the door, bowing slightly. Before he left the room he gave his final order: “Mr. Milton is anxious that you be prompt, sir.”
“Thank you, Albert,” Charles said again, feeling some resentment of the black man’s imperiousness. Nevertheless, he washed and dressed quickly, draping the cape over his arm and making his way to the ground floor, where he found George Milton seated at breakfast in the small dining room.
“Well, good morning, Mr. Dewey,” Milton said cheerfully.
“Good morning, sir.” He bowed. “I must admit that it has been an eventful morning. These clothes—”
“You couldn’t go traipsing around your new country in that rather flimsy French naval uniform, could you?”
“No, but—”
“Sit,” Milton said with a gesture, “and have some breakfast. I’ll explain.”
Charles hung the cape over the back of a chair and joined Milton at the table. Albert was immediately at his side with a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of freshly toasted bread, heavily buttered.
“We Americans eat a modest breakfast,” Milton told him. “I hope it’s to your taste.”
“Yes, it’s fine.” He bit into a piece of toast.
“Now, young Mr. Dewey, I want you to understand that I have my own reasons for providing the new clothes—sturdy enough, I trust, for the fall and winter.” Milton smiled at him. “I need you to do a chore for me.”
“Of course.”
“I have a decently bred mare that has to be delivered to Elkwood, some sixty miles inland along the James. I intend to have her bred there in the spring, but I find it inconvenient to make the trip myself, now or later.”
Charles nodded.
“And I’m asking you to make the delivery. Do you ride?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Milton, I have never been on a horse in my life.” Charles felt inadequate in making the admission.
“Ah! I suspected as much. But you shouldn’t have a problem with Abigail; she’s a gentle beast.” Milton saw the apprehension on the young man’s face. “We’ll have some time to give you a rudimentary lesson in reining, and you should have no trouble. I daresay you’ll probably just have to guide her.”
Dewey laughed nervously. “I hope the mare will understand that.”
“She will, she will,” Milton assured him. “But because you are new to riding, I’ve plotted out a two-day journey. You’re
to ride from Williamsburg to an ordinary.”
“An ordinary, sir?”
“An inn of sorts. We Virginians call them ordinaries because most of them are. Rather ordinary.”
He laughed loudly at his little joke.
“In any event, I’ve written a letter you’ll carry to Mr. Stannard, who owns the ordinary west of Richmond, and you’ll stay the night there. Then, tomorrow, you should comfortably make the rest of the way to Mr. Marshall Statler’s Elkwood plantation near Goochland Courthouse.”
“Will I have a chart … uh, excuse me, a map?”
“Yes, although you’ll follow the principal road west from here, having no difficulties, I’m sure. This isn’t wilderness any longer, you’ll discover, but in the current … uh … unsettled period, I suggest that you not attempt to ride at night. If you’d feel better about it, I could provide you with a pistol.”
Charles hesitated. “No, I think not. I’d rather not be armed.”
Milton nodded agreement. “Most wise. Guns have a way of inviting trouble.”
V
ABIGAIL was, as Milton had promised, a gentle animal. Dewey had little difficulty getting used to reining her under his host’s expert guidance. As they rode through the streets of Williamsburg during the brief training session, the older man spoke of the breeding he had planned for the mare.
“Statler is standing a son of Yorick,” he explained, “a very good racing stallion campaigned by John Tayloe of Mount Airy. I swear to you that if I get a colt of the quality of Yorick, I’ll be able to win some substantial wagers with him.”
“Is there a lot of horse racing in Virginia?”
“A lot of racing—?” Milton seemed taken aback by the question. “Young sir, let me tell you this: a Virginian has two important considerations in his life—his racehorse and his woman.” He grinned. “I suspect that he would place them in that order of priority.”
He held forth for some time, without interruption from Charles, about the importance of horse racing in the Dominion. About the racetracks at Williamsburg and Richmond and Alexandria.
“The war—damn it!—disrupted all that. But now, I vow, it’ll be back. Some of my associates and I are banding together to build a new track at Petersburg. We hope to interest Squire Washington in it.”
