Broken Pledge Page 2

  Uriah puffed his cheeks, “Of course I remember, it was my idea.”

  “Excellent! When do we sail?” John asked.

  “Not now,” Uriah answered. “We will wait until he is not expecting us. Besides, with the war just ended, I doubt Americans are welcomed on British soil.”

  “Americans? I thought you vowed to remain British no matter who wins the war,” said John.

  “Indeed I did, but if we sail under an American flag, they will mistake me for an American.”

  John grinned. “I believe you might be right.”

  “Then you’ll stay for the wedding?” Caleb asked.

  John’s eyes lit up. “What wedding?”

  “In a month’s time, Maralee is to wed Mister Dulane Ashfield of Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “But she’s too young to marry,” John said, putting Sparky down.

  The dog rounded the table to Uriah, sat up on her hind legs and barked. Uriah smiled, broke off a piece of honey bread and gave it to her.

  “Maralee is all of nineteen and the same precise age as Rose, who only last month married your best friend.”

  “Truly? Rose and Adam have married? They’ve hated each other since we were children,” John said.

  Caleb shrugged. “Unthinkable what can happen right under a man’s nose. Adam has secured a fine position in the Virginia Assembly. Naturally, it pays scandalously little, so they yet reside with us.”

  “I cannot wait to see them.”

  “Nor can I,” Uriah agreed. “Where is everyone?”

  “Richmond,” Caleb answered. “Just yesterday, word came of goods arriving from Sweden. The Swedes claim they were forced to outrun the British warships to get here, and they bring delights we have not seen since the war began. I’ve no doubt every man, woman, and child from fifty miles around is this day in Richmond.”

  “Uncle, have they said...is the war truly over?” John asked.

  “Everyone believes it is. The British asked for concessions and Jefferson sailed away to see the king about a treaty. The South has completely rid itself of redcoats, and Washington keeps those in the North under careful regulation while they await evacuation.”

  Uriah slowly shook his head. “Then America has truly won. Who would have believed it? The British had every advantage.”

  “Well, not every advantage. They did not have MacGreagor, the world’s greatest smuggler,” Caleb teased, lifting his chin proudly.

  “Is he well, have you seen him?” John asked.

  “He is quite well, and of course I’ve seen him. I own his ship and another as well, before the British burned it. I bought them from Matthew Henderson.”

  “When?” Uriah asked.

  “Just before the war.”

  “Before...and you never mentioned it to me?” Uriah asked.

  “Brother, would you have approved of our involvement in smuggling?”

  “Certainly not,” Uriah admitted.

  Caleb shooed a fly away with the back of his hand and winked at his nephew. “I thought not. In that case, I don’t imagine you’d care to hear about the East India rum.”

  “Rum you say? I’ve not seen a drop of good rum since 1778.”

  “And you’ve not seen as much as this in all your life. While John was off fighting the British, MacGreagor was on the high seas stealing everything in sight. You might say the British have handsomely repaid us for the three hundred head of horses they commandeered.”

  John scooted forward in his chair and helped himself to a second slice of honey bread. “Everything?”

  “Indeed. We have shoes of nearly every size, brass buttons, breeches, leggings and nightshirts. MacGreagor threw the redcoats overboard, and that was the take from only one ship. Most of the goods he traded to aid our navy, but there is a fair amount still, and someday we will make a fine profit on it.”

  “Brother, if you’ve kept ships from me, what else have you neglected to mention? Have you a mistress or two without my knowing?”

  “With a wife and six daughters, who would gladly impale me? I’d sooner face a thousand redcoats. Besides, I’ve my hands full keeping Elizabeth from finding the rum.”

  “Where is MacGreagor?” John asked.

  “He set sail for England. Your father is right, the British sent a warning, so MacGreagor intends to be the first American to dock.”

  John laughed. “Just to say they couldn’t keep him out?”

  “Precisely. Now tell me, will you build a home in the Kentucky Territory?”

  “Aye,” John answered. “Uncle, the grass is blue.”

  “Blue?”

  “The Indians call it the ‘Great Meadow,’ and in spring, the grass blooms tiny blue flowers.”

  Caleb smiled. “Is the mountain crossing as troublesome as we have heard?”

  “Indeed it is,” said Uriah.

  “Not at all,” John corrected, rolling his eyes. “There are a few mountains—”

  Uriah puffed his cheeks. “A few do you call it? They are not so very high, I confess, but they go on forever!”

  “Papa, a man must merely find the proper passage. He must cross one range, then go north or south to pass through the next.”

  “Well, I found it maddening,” Uriah said.

  “So you said, and often. Nevertheless, the glorious land of Kentucky is worth the effort.”

  Uriah narrowed his eyes. “So it is the land you found glorious, is it? Are you quite certain it was not Polly Lewis?”

  “Papa,” John quickly swallowed his last bite of honey bread, “Polly is not yet sixteen and hates the very sight of me.”

  “Only because you threatened to spank her.”

  “What choice did I have? We’d only just rescued her from Indians and she refused to get on my horse!”

  Caleb scooted closer to the edge of his seat. “You fought Indians?”

  Uriah ignored his brother’s question, “Say what you will, but Miss Polly Lewis will make you a good wife.”

  “Wife? Papa, she bites.”

  “She did not mean to bite you,” Uriah said, calmly setting his teacup down.

  “She opened her mouth and bit. I find it hard to mistake her meaning.”

  “Only because you forced her on your horse, then quickly mounted, which prevented her from jumping off. You rendered the poor girl quite helpless.”

  “Not helpless enough. Admit it, Papa, she is an intolerable child who is unfit for marriage.”

  “I doubt La Rue shares your opinion.”

  “Who is La Rue?” Caleb asked.

  “He’s a Frenchman who wears uncivil clothing, traps beaver and hates the British,” Uriah answered, carefully watching his son’s reaction.

  John’s irritation was becoming obvious. “Polly hates him more than me. Besides, Polly is a Quaker.”

  “Being Quaker is not a disease, you know.”

  “Indeed not, but Polly’s father hopes for a Quaker son-in-law.”

  “La Rue is not Quaker and he is not put off.”

  John got up and headed for the door. “Polly would never marry La Rue.”

  “Fortunately for you,” Uriah taunted.

  “Papa, you are a hopeless case.” With that, John opened the door and went inside.

  At last, Uriah turned his full attention to Caleb. “I promised his mother I would find him a good wife.”

  “I remember. But brother...”

  “You’ll see, the Quaker, Polly Lewis, will marry my son and give me twenty grandsons.”

  NOT FAR FROM A MODEST plantation house in South Carolina, the African Gideon Ross crouched behind two tall tobacco plants and watched. Only a few feet away, a white overseer stripped a slave of his shirt. More slaves were huddled in front of a windowless shack, their clothing meager and their eyes filled with dread. In a huge kettle, hot oil simmered over an open fire.

  “Y’all are slaves, slaves, do ya hear?” Overseer Bonner shouted, binding the hands of the shirtless African. He tossed the rope over a tree limb and
then pulled until the man’s hands were high over his head. “That means you do as I say.”

  “Yez, Massah,” the slaves answered, their eyes held to the ground.

  “I’ll not tolerate laziness. You are to work,” Bonner secured the rope then bent down to pick up his whip. “You work, then you sleep. And you sleep at night, not in the fields you are supposed to be work’n in. Do ya hear?”

  “Yez, Massah.”

  “If’n you’re sleep’n, you’re not tend’n the plants. And if them plants die, I don’t get paid. Even a slave can understand that.”

  “Yez, Massah,” the slaves muttered.

  “And what is the punishment for sleep’n? It’s six lashes – just six. Could be more, but I’m feel’n generous today,” Bonner began to draw back the whip but suddenly stopped. “What’s that?” He asked, turning toward the tobacco fields. “Do I hear whistl’n?”

  Gideon quickly stood up. His unbuttoned white silk shirt was loosely tucked in his black breeches, aptly hiding the bulky pistol inside. Keeping his tune cheerful, his grin wide and his eyes non-threatening, he took giant strides until his enormous six-foot, five-inch frame towered over Bonner.

  “See here, boy,” Bonner started.

  It was too late. Gideon grabbed both of his wrists and twisted the man’s arms outward. For a moment, the overseer only stared at the smiling eyes turned ice cold. Then pain wracked his shoulders, horror crossed his face, and the whip slid from his hand.

  “And they cried,” Gideon seethed, his eyes boring into the overseer’s, “...and their cry came up unto God by reason of their bondage. And God looked upon the children and had respect unto them.”

  “You’re hurting...”

  “Free my people!” Gideon demanded, his hot breath in Bonner’s face.

  “I...I cannot,” the overseer whined, his face turning red with agony.

  “Of course you cannot. Who would you have to tend your plants or to whip when you’re feeling generous? Shall I break your arms?”

  “Nooo...please,” Beads of sweat began to form on Bonner’s brow.

  As quickly as he had grabbed them, Gideon released the overseer’s wrists, pulled a long-barreled pistol out of his open shirt and stepped back. “In there,” he said, nodding toward the slave hut.

  “In there? But...”

  Gideon impatiently put the gun against Bonner’s chest and shoved. “Make haste, man,” he said, forcing him through the door. As soon as the slave driver stepped in, Gideon closed and bolted the door on the outside.

  “Boils ‘em in oil,” a slave woman whispered, her skin leathery from the hot sun and her eyes dull from lack of proper nutrition.

  Gideon paused just long enough to lovingly touch the side of her face, and then started across the yard toward the modest plantation house. He walked through the gate, yanked open the front door and stepped into the empty foyer. Hearing voices, he shoved the dining room door open and burst in, stopping just short of the end of a long oak table filled with an abundance of food.

  “Woman,” he said in perfect English, his deep voice thundering as he pointed his pistol at the stunned white mistress, “do you not know where your husband goes at night? Do you not see his resemblance in the faces of children born into slavery?”

  “Who are you?” the husband demanded, a fork still in his hand as he started to rise.

  With all his strength, Gideon slammed his fist on the table. “Sit down!” Dishes rattled, glasses fell, and the wife caught her breath.

  “Please, do as he says,” the wife pleaded, tears welling up in her eyes. “Can you not see the scar around his neck? He’s the one they call ‘Banutu.’”

  With his teeth and fists clenched, the husband glared at Gideon for nearly a minute before he hesitantly retook his seat. “I’ll see you hang for this.”

  “Hang me if you can,” Gideon hissed. “But I am only one man. If you do not free the children of Africa, someday we will be thousands. We will live in your fine houses, whip your men, rape your women, and sell your children.”

  As boldly as he had come, Gideon turned and left the house. His movements were quick as he shoved the gun back in his pants, buttoned his shirt and tied a white scarf around his neck. Then seconds later, he entered the tobacco field and disappeared.

  Behind him, the slave shack holding Bonner hostage suddenly erupted into flames.

  CHAPTER 2

  A barge brought the chattering Carson women upriver from Richmond and landed them on the dock. Happy to be home, Elizabeth led the way up the path to the house, followed by the eldest set of twins, Roselee and Maralee; the middle set, Rachel and Suzanne; and the babies, Effie and Abby. Roselee’s husband, Adam, walked behind the babies, and following him was a completely disenchanted Dulane Ashfield.

  Mahala’s enormous assembly room, where the Carson men stood waiting to surprise them, was once the grandest ballroom in all of Virginia. Six years of war shortages left the walls in need of paint and the furniture in need of fresh upholstery. Even so, it held half a dozen expensive davenports with matching chairs and various-shaped tables. Next to a grand staircase stood the twelve-foot headless statue of an English Baron, long since forgotten. The staircase led to balconies on either side of the second floor with doors opening into bedchambers, while doors on the first level led to large and small sitting rooms, a study, a library, a music room, a long dining area, and a kitchen.

  As soon as Clifton opened the door and the women spotted John and Uriah, the room erupted with excitement. Quickly shedding their colorful cloaks and bonnets, and piling them on Clifton’s waiting arms, the babies ran to greet their only cousin.

  “And just look at the two of you,” John said, throwing his arms around them and lifting both off the floor. “The babies are all grown up.”

  “Yes, and we’d like very much not being called ‘the babies’,” Abby said, her tightly curled hair, her green smock and high-top shoes exactly matching those of her twin sister.

  Effie smugly agreed, “We’re nearly twelve, you know.”

  John kissed each on the cheek and then set them down. “I see. I’ll try desperately to remember that.”

  “Good,” Effie said, grabbing her twin sister’s hand before rushing off to greet Uriah.

  “And these are the arms I have longed to hold,” John said, drawing his Aunt Elizabeth to him. “I have missed you so.”

  Her graying blonde hair in a neat bun, and the hem of her blue dress nearly touching the floor, Elizabeth stayed in his arms for a long moment. “Not nearly as much as I have missed you.” At last, she pulled back. “You’ve grown taller. I can hardly reach your shoulders. Tell me, have you returned in the hope of new clothing?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” John hugged her again and savored the sweet smell of her honeysuckle cologne.

  “Oh you,” Elizabeth grinned, her bright blue eyes sparked. “I’ll have a word with Richmond’s finest tailor.” She paused to gently touch his cheek and smiled. Then she too rushed off to greet his father.

  Maralee was the next in line. Her pale yellow dress nearly matched her blonde hair, and her blue eyes were like her mother’s. “John, allow me to present Mister Dulane Ashfield.” She looped her arm through that of her intended. “We are to be married the fifth of November.”

  “So this is the man who steals you from me.” John nodded to the short, sandy-haired stranger with unimpressive brown eyes and a long nose. “I do hope you are prepared to build my cousin a rather large library. As I recall, Maralee loves to read and can hardly be convinced to do anything else.”

  “Oh, John,” Maralee giggled, “you’ll frighten the poor man away.”

  “Nothing frightens me.” Dulane lifted his chin and then quickly whisked Maralee away.

  John wrinkled his brow, watched them walk toward his father, and then shrugged. When he looked back, the middle twins were standing in front of him. “And who might you be?”

  “Forgotten us, have you?” Rachel narrowed her
dark eyes surrounded by ringlets of shiny dark hair and put both hands on the hips of her bright red dress.

  “Well, let me think,” said John. “As I recall, there are only four, each with golden hair the color of their mother’s. Had there been two with my same hair, I would have noticed.”

  “In that case, allow me to introduce my sister, Suzanne. She’s the one who caught you in the barn with...”

  “With whom?” Rose, the eldest of all the twins interrupted. She stood behind the middle twins with her husband, Adam.

  “A sixpence,” John whispered, quickly hugging both Rachel and Suzanne.

  “For each of us?” Suzanne asked, her smile only a little more mischievous than her twin’s.

  “Done.” John dug in his pocket, pulled out two coins and slipped them into Suzanne’s hand.

  Rose giggled as they hurried away. “They’ve not had such easy prey since you left.”

  John happily took her in his arms. “My Spring Rose, how much I have longed to see you.”

  “And I you,” Rose wore her blonde hair in stylish ringlets and preferred clothing with tiny prints in shades of blue, instead of solid colors like her mother and sisters.

  “Is it true?” John asked, letting go of Rose with one arm, and then reaching out to shake hands with Adam. “Have the two of you truly married?”

  The tall and pleasant-looking Adam Williams leaned closer. “Well, if you must know, I had no choice in the matter. Your uncle, being quite incapable of managing all these ladies alone, pleaded for my kind assistance, you see. Then when Rose confessed her unwavering love for me, I simply could not resist.”

  Rose grinned. “Do not be fooled, cousin, it took the man a month of begging before I would even go for a walk with him.”

  “I can well believe that,” John laughed.

  “My friend, allow me to warn you...” Adam started, watching Clifton open the front door. But John had already turned to look, and the enormous room abruptly became deadly quiet.

  When the woman entered, she did not look up. Dressed in all black with shiny dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, she allowed Clifton to take her cape, and then slowly removed her gloves, one finger at a time. She untied the ribbons of her bonnet, carefully lifted it off her head, handed the gloves and bonnet to Clifton, and then smoothed the skirt of her black frock.