The Promise Page 27

  “I see. Did you also see Sir William’s son?” John asked, taking the cup of tea Caleb handed him.

  “Possibly. I recall a sad little boy with brown eyes who gawked at me, but I did not ask his name. The house was so dark and smelly, I could not wait to leave.”

  John set his tea down, lifted the dog, crossed his legs and then sat Sparky back in his lap. “But how could—”

  “My boy, do not tire yourself,” Caleb interrupted, pouring himself a cup of tea. “It is clear Thomas Rodes hopes to provoke us so we will return to England and lead him to the jewels.” Caleb set the teapot down and stood up. “He also entices us with this.” He dug in his pocket and handed his brother a small black stone.

  Uriah curiously turned the rock over until he finally recognized it. “I don’t believe it!”

  “What, Papa?”

  “Caleb, this is yours. Father said all little boys needed a particular rock of their own, so he gave you this one. He scratched a cross on it, see?” Uriah handed the stone back.

  “I do see. Oh, brother, if only I could remember our father.”

  “Caleb, you miss the point. It has been nearly forty years, Thomas Rodes was not yet born and his father could not speak. How could anyone know about this stone?”

  “I cannot imagine,” Caleb mumbled.

  “Nor can I,” John said. “I say we sail to England and ask him.”

  Caleb rolled his eyes. “And I say we are too old.”

  “Too old?” Uriah asked.

  “Aye, it would take more than a mere rock to make me sail that ocean at my age. My stomach churns at the thought. Send John, the man will not expect that.”

  “Send him alone with neither of us to guide him to the jewels? He could search for miles without finding them.”

  “Draw the boy a map, then,” Caleb put the stone back in his pocket and sat down.

  “Draw...no, we will not. I’ll accompany him myself.”

  “Brother, are you certain you remember the way? And do you also remember that it is five down and ten across?”

  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 M
iss 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.

  (End of sample chapter)

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