Her voice softened. “Grayson is not his father.”
Elisha closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “I know.”
“I must do this,” she insisted. “I would rather die than know that I might have rescued him but did not dare try.”
Zadock shook his head, as if he wasn’t certain he believed her. “Porter is one lucky man.”
“I have loved him since I was but a girl.”
Zadock stirred the fire. “And he loved you as well.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring his words. Her eyes were wet with tears when she opened them again. “Then you must understand.”
“But he might not even be there,” Nathan said. “Or he might not be—”
“He is alive.” She shook her head vigorously. “Now, what must I do when I find him?”
Elisha spoke first. “I can help you with that.”
Hope stirred in her. “What will you do?”
Elisha pulled the blackened meat off the fire. “We can cause some sort of diversion,” he said. “As Gideon did against the Midianites.”
She well remembered the story from the book of Judges. Gideon and his small band of men broke pottery jars and sounded trumpets, and their enemy ran in fear. She looked around their simple camp. They had neither jars nor trumpets. “How will you divert them?”
“I have an idea,” Nathan said.
Lydia’s knees ached as she scrubbed the floor of the great hall. How had the officers managed to leave behind such a disaster? Each time they visited, it seemed, they had less regard for her family’s home. And each time, her mother had less regard for them.
The officers finally went to join Cornwallis, but they left behind a trail of dented furniture, torn upholstery, and broken doors. And mud—it was as if they’d released a passel of hogs to roll around on the floor.
“They took no care,” Mother said, shaking her head as she scrubbed beside Lydia.
“Indeed they did not.”
Mother leaned back against the wall, sweat dripping down her slender face as she surveyed the chaos left behind in the room. “How is it possible for them to do all of this damage?’
“They did not mean for us to do this work,” Hannah said. “They were expecting our servants to clean it.”
Lydia shook her head. “They knew our Negroes had fled.”
“Some have remained.”
“A dozen is not enough to work the fields and the house.”
Hannah looked up, her eyes blazing in defense. “They do not know how many slaves it takes to run a plantation.”
“They have servants in England,” Lydia retorted.
“When this is finished, Dalton will rescue us.”
“You will call him Major Reed,” Mother said.
“But he told me to call him—”
“I do not care what he said, Hannah. He is an officer in the British army, and you will address him as such.”
“Major Reed,” Hannah said, emphasizing his name, “will procure us more slaves.”
Lydia wasn’t so certain. Most of the house servants were already working in the fields. If they didn’t harvest everything in the next week, Father had said that Lydia and Hannah might have to join them.
On Monday she’d worked with Deborah in the washhouse. After enduring the stifling heat, Lydia didn’t think she would mind so much, laboring in the fields. At least there might be a breeze from the river.
She doubted Mother would allow them to work the fields, though. Not because the work was beneath them—there was no work beneath any of them these days—but because she needed their help in the house. Mother had been well-bred in household management but had never been taught how to clean a house on her own. Even if she didn’t revere Caswell Hall as Father did, Mother endured to care for their family’s home, and Lydia loved her for it. It would have been easier for them to leave the work behind and board a ship back to England.
Mother longed for England, and her family would welcome them there, but as long as there was a hope for a British win, Father wouldn’t leave Caswell Hall. And Mother probably wouldn’t leave anyway, not until they found out what had happened to Grayson.
It was useless to try to fix all the damage in the house until after the war, but Mother wanted the house clean, even if the officers returned soon. Or perhaps because of it. Even though the officers had no regard for the Caswell home or possessions, Mother still contended with her silent pride. They were British gentlemen, and even if they had caused the damage, she would not entertain a gentleman or gentlewoman in such a state.
Lydia brushed her sleeve across the sweat on her forehead.
How did their maids do this work every day without complaint? Or perhaps they had complained every day and she had never heard.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that they were hosting balls here at Caswell Hall, wearing their finest gowns imported from France and England. She’d hardly noticed the men and women who worked tirelessly to organize the balls. Her family’s role was to host, and Lydia had proudly considered her work to be just as difficult as that of their servants. Only their attire was different.
How haughty she had been to think her work just as difficult.
In those days, she’d concerned herself mainly with preparations to become Seth Hammond’s wife. There were the endless lessons about etiquette and dancing and music at her finishing school—things that had little use now.
They were all muddling through this transition.
Lydia scooted several feet toward the open window before dipping her rag into the soapy bucket again and washing another layer of crusted dirt off the wood. Who knew where the mud came from? The men seemed to be storming all through the backwaters of Virginia as if they’d already declared themselves the victors of the entire colony.
At church on Sunday, she’d heard that Cornwallis had taken all his men to rest for the winter on the Chesapeake Bay. She put the information in a letter, behind the brick, but as far as she knew, Nathan hadn’t returned.
She wished there was something more she could tell Nathan if he returned—when he returned. Some way for her to help stop this madness and return Virginia to a state of peace.
Besides the retreat to York, she didn’t know what the British were planning. Any strategy they discussed here must have occurred behind closed doors, because she hadn’t been privy to it. With their frequent comings and goings, it seemed as if the officers were waiting to see what the Patriots would do next. Perhaps they were simply confident in overtaking the colony, as if they regarded their enemy with the same disdain they’d had for this house.
Every night she continued to walk out to the gazebo, hoping that Nathan would find her there, but it had been more than a month since she had seen him last. If only she knew he was safe. Then at least her heart would find a place of peace.
How was it that she was thinking more about Nathan than she had ever thought about Seth?
A breeze flowed through the window, and she closed her eyes, facing the wind. She was so glad the two women working beside her couldn’t read her thoughts. She’d once proclaimed her faithfulness to Seth Hammond, and yet she hadn’t been faithful at all. Her heart had declared itself for another man, and she couldn’t seem to stop it.
Still, she must try. Seth might have left on bitter terms, but what if he continued to hold their commitment with esteem? It was only honorable for her to tell him about the change in her heart before she allowed her thoughts to dwell on another man. Not that Nathan had any intent toward her.
She sighed. Even if Nathan cared for her, Father would never consider any sort of alliance between them.
The door to the servants’ staircase opened, and Prudence stepped into the room, the handles of a basket looped over her arm. After the disappearance of their cook a fortnight ago, Prudence had been attempting to care for the kitchen as well.
“Would you like me to carry food to Master Caswell?” Prudence asked.
Hannah stood
up, wiping her hands on her soiled petticoat. “I will go.”
Mother shook her head. “’Tis Lydia’s turn.”
Lydia dipped her dirty rag into the water and wrung it out before she stood. Prudence held out the basket, and Lydia accepted it with gratitude. She would welcome a bit of a retreat.
She took a wide-brimmed hat from the wardrobe. It felt strange to be wearing ribbons and lace after sweating over a dirty floor, but it was a reminder to her of what had been and the beauty of what still might be.
The sun was hot when she stepped through the back door, but the breeze cooled her skin. Standing under a tree, she set down the basket and tied the ribbons of her hat under her chin. If their Negroes had tasted freedom, she could understand why they would have run away.
She picked up the basket again and retrieved the one horse in the stable that the British had left behind for their use, a bay thoroughbred named Restless.
How was it that her father remained loyal to the King’s Men when they had no respect for his personal property? Father might believe he was master of Caswell Hall, but if the British won this war, all Father owned would belong to King George. The king might very well disdain all the colonists whether or not they had remained loyal.
But Father didn’t see it. He was certain the king would triumph, so he aligned himself with the victor.
Her eyes on the stalks of corn, Lydia wondered if Nathan was nearby.
Shaking her head, she continued to ride through the fields, searching for Father. She must stop herself from thinking of Nathan. It was likely that she would never see him again. She had given him the information he needed, and now that the British officers were gone, there was no reason for him to return.
Her heart ached. It seemed the last four years were nothing but loss after loss. Everything must be held loosely—her home, her family, her friends, and her heart. Would she ever be able to love deeply again?
She leaned back, allowing a whisper of sunshine to settle on her face. No one but Mother cared any longer if her skin turned brown.
She saw Joshua and the field slaves working alongside her father, and in her father’s face she saw desperation. Like Mother, he was struggling to keep all they had worked for.
She admired the optimism that drove him forward but wished she could convince him that freedom was the only way for him to embrace the future. But it was difficult to dream about freedom when his security was placed with the king.
She slid off the horse and walked toward Father with the basket. Opening the lid, she took out the jar of lemonade, cooled with the ice that remained in their icehouse. Sweat beaded on the glass, and she held it up to her neck for a moment to cool her skin. Then she gave it and another jar to her father so he could share with those who worked in the fields alongside him.
As she looked over the green fields of tobacco, her heart ached at all her father was about to lose. Then she thought of Hannah helping Mother in the hall.
Her father thanked her for the refreshment, but before he could walk away, she stopped him. “Would you like me to help?”
He shook his head. “It is hard work.”
“I have no aversion to hard work.”
He studied her for a moment. “Are you certain?”
When she nodded, he eyed her a moment longer as if she might change her mind. Then he handed her a knife and showed her how to slit off the leaf of the tobacco plant and set it carefully on the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Grayson felt like the dark walls of his tomb were closing in upon him. One of his men sang a hymn, while another muttered to himself. He had known the consequences of what would happen if the British found him, but he had become arrogant. Careless.
Now the British had stolen their remaining cargo and locked them up in the bay.
He had lingered much too long on that shore, not wanting to leave until every last box had been delivered. His risk—his pride—would cost them their lives. If only their captors would have mercy and kill them quickly instead of torturing them to death.
This was what he fought against, this inhumanity. The men who killed his grandfather had been inflamed at the tyranny that oppressed them. Although what they did was wrong, Grayson at least understood their passion against tyranny.
The British soldiers were more calculating in their cruelty. They had no love of freedom, no hope for the future. They just wanted to stop those who did.
He moved the shackle an inch up his leg to relieve the pain where it had rubbed mercilessly against his ankle. His lips and tongue were parched; his stomach no longer craved food. In the time they had been here—he had no idea how long it was—the guards had brought a bucket of water but twice, ladling a few meager drops into each prisoner’s mouth and then pulling it away before the man’s thirst was quenched. It seemed almost a sport to them, prolonging the death of their prisoners.
Grayson thought of the wide river that flowed behind his house. He had taken it for granted, the drink it offered and the current it delivered to be able to sail away. The irony struck him now; he was on his boat but unable to sail anywhere.
If only he had stirring words to offer his men, to encourage them to fight. But they all longed for death, their greatest hope now resting in the life after this one.
He closed his eyes and thought again of Sarah. He had said he would return for her, but there would be no return from this prison. Why hadn’t he told her he loved her?
He would never forget the day almost fifteen years ago, when he realized how much he loved Sarah Hammond. She had been visiting his sister when she found him alone, crying in the smokehouse. He was only thirteen when he had been forced to whip Elisha—the man who was only a decade his senior, the man who had been more of a father to him than the lord of Caswell Hall. After ten lashes, he had not been able to finish the beating. Lord Caswell was enraged, demanding that he do ten more, and Grayson’s heart had twisted in shame for disappointing his father. And for beating the man he admired.
Even in her youth, Sarah hadn’t condemned his weakness or his tears. Instead, she had said that the Savior would forgive him even if he wasn’t able to forgive himself.
Days later he discovered the reason for the beating. One of their slaves had run away, fracturing his horse’s leg as he tore across the field. Elisha recovered the horse but not the slave, so Father punished him. Looking back, Grayson wondered whether the punishment was for much more than Elisha’s inability to recover the man. It was almost as if his father was trying to destroy the friendship between his son and his slave.
Grayson had been too ashamed to speak with Elisha again, and for years, he had been too embarrassed to speak with Sarah as well. He and Sarah rekindled their friendship in the months before the war began, but he had loved her from the moment in the smokehouse when he saw love instead of blame in her eyes.
He couldn’t understand how a woman as wise and kind as Sarah could align herself with his captors. Or how his family could support the king as well. They must not understand what tyranny meant.
Perhaps this separation was for the best. Grayson’s heart longed for Sarah, but she was loyal to his enemy. If he returned to Philadelphia, his desire for her would be like this shackle around his ankle.
“I am sorry,” he whispered again to the men near him, his remaining crew and the soldier they called Benjamin.
Silence was the response.
Had they already passed on?
Perhaps God in His mercy would take him soon as well.
Sarah smeared a pinch of dirt on her face and dress. Instead of securing her hair with pins, she left it long under her cap. Hopefully none of the soldiers would notice that her skin wasn’t as brown as that of the women who had been following the army for months.
She purchased a loaf of bread from one of the camp followers and drank a cupful of water before she tucked the bread beside the canteen in her tattered basket. Then she moved easily among the hundreds of women and children who followed
close behind this regiment. Some of the women, Nathan had told her, were loyal colonists, while others had traveled with their husbands from England.
No one questioned why she was wandering through the camp. Perhaps the other women supposed she was a wife or mistress of one of the officers. She didn’t particularly care whether they thought she was a woman of propriety. As long as no one stopped her, she would be fine.
She reached the perimeter of where the camp followers lived. Instead of stopping, she continued her walk into the British encampment. There were three schooners docked on the other side of the field, but only one had two masts.
She prayed Grayson and his crew would be onboard.
A guard stepped in front of her, eyeing her for a moment, as if he were trying to determine whether he knew her. “How can I help you, miss?”
She forced a smile on her face. “I am here to see my husband.”
He studied the dirt on her face and then her clothing. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. She held up her basket, trying to ignore his insinuation. “He asked me to bake him a bit of bread.”
The soldier sniffed the basket. “Perhaps I shall take a bit of the bread before you find your husband.”
He drew out the last word in such a way that she wanted to clobber him over the head with her basket, but she breathed deeply instead. Self-moderation and ingenuity were the only things that would help her rescue Grayson.
“He is my husband—” she insisted. “Or at least he will be soon.”
“So you’re not married, are you?”
“Not yet.”
“I supposed as much.” He towered over her. “Did you ask him whether he has a wife across the Atlantic as well?”
She swallowed hard, shifting the basket between her hands. She hoped he thought it was his questioning that made her nervous. “I did not think to ask.”
“A hundred to one, he is already married.” He laughed. “Why don’t you just marry me instead?”
The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries) Page 21
