JoAnn Wendt (26 page)

Aware of this and alarmed, Governor Dinwiddie had sent a warning to the French commander who’d seized the English fort on the forks. He demanded withdrawal. The ultimatum was carried into the wilderness by a twenty-one-year old volunteer, a Mr. George Washington.

Alone except for one white companion and a few Indian scouts, both Washington and the ultimatum he carried were treated with contempt by the French. Washington was sent packing. Slogging through the freezing wilderness in hard winter, the young man survived treacherous ambush by his own Indians, as well as near drowning in an icy, rushing river. Tattered, disheveled, tail tucked between his legs, the governor’s valiant young emissary made his ignominious escape. The news was relayed to London. Virginia tensed, waiting for Parliament to deal with the New France issue.

Despite the seriousness of the Muster, American enthusiasm for mixing business with pleasure refused to be dampened. It was only ten o’clock, and already Williamsburg was a pot on the boil. Livestock mooed, brayed, baahed and whinnied as it was driven toward Francis Street and Market Square. Avoiding the pungent droppings, McNeil skirted the animals and cut across a field behind the Capitol. In the field, Negro slaves tended wicker cages of fighting cocks. Wearing leather gloves and aprons, the blacks carefully groomed their masters’ roosters for the afternoon contests. Wagers would fly fast and furiously. Gentry would use tobacco vouchers for currency. Poorer folk would bet buckskins.

Nicholson Street was crowded. Men shouldering muskets ambled toward their units. Scarlet-coated officers were already abroad, riding in landaus with their ladies and sneering benignly at the provincials.

“Maple sugar sweetmeat, sir?” a young vendor shouted.

A second vendor shouted louder, drowning out the first. “Purchase a new English steel scalping knife, sir? Get ready for the French and their hairdressers, good sir. Only ten buckskins, sir. Only ten bucks, good sir!”

McNeil pushed past. A crowd milled at the jail. Prisoners were being exercised, and onlookers taunted them, yelling opinions as to what they might get after they faced the general court that afternoon. McNeil slowed his pace and studied the prisoners as he passed. Occasionally a promising seaman might be found among the riffraff. Jenkins had come into his employ that way, and Garth had never regretted paying the man’s fine.

He scanned the group, instantly rejecting the lot. The only person who stood out as someone with spine was a woman. McNeil scowled. Thin as a scarecrow, she was scarcely as attractive as one. A runaway bondwoman, no doubt. And one who had compounded her crime with theft.

She would go to the whipping post for sure. McNeil scowled again. It went against the grain to see a woman’s back bend to the lash. It set his teeth on edge. Not that this stringy-haired trollop was likely to wilt under the whip! Judas, no. She had a strong, pridey look to her. There was an insolent set to her mouth. He didn’t doubt that if she chose to do so, she could open that mouth and flail her taunters to jelly with her tongue.

He pushed on. But the brave look of the chit lingered. It occurred to him that she might make an excellent nursemaid for Trent. She’d not be soft like cook, letting Trent get away with mayhem, letting the child eat himself sick on sugared flan simply because he demanded it. But the woman had not struck him as harsh, either. The eyes flashed rebellion, not cruelty.

He would consider it. If time permitted, he’d break from militia drill and interview the jailer. If she was a runaway, her master would probably be glad to be rid of her at a cheap price.

Ragged drum rolls sounded. He broke into an easy trot down Nicholson Street, cut across the bowling green near Chowning’s Tavern and hurried down Duke of Gloucester Street. The smell of baking bread filled the air around Chowning’s. Yeasty, mouthwatering smells drifted out of the tavern toward Nassau Street, as though drawn along by the drumming. The heavier richer smell of oyster stew drifted along, too. On Militia Day the stew was cooked outside in Chowning’s enormous iron pots, to accommodate the ravenous men who would clamor for it.

He was just leaving the bootmaker’s shop in his dust when frantic hallooing from within the shop broke his stride. It was Raven. One foot bestockinged and one foot in half-fitted leather, Raven crashed down the steps.

“Garth! Wait, Garth.”

He did so, but with ill grace. How typical of Raven to start out for Muster and end up at a tailor or bootmaker!

“Damn it, Raven,” he said when his brother caught up, “you belong at Muster.”

Raven laughed.

“So do you.”

Garth flared, then checked his temper. Raven had the knack of hitting a nail square on the head. This quality, combined with a deceptive air of flightiness, was responsible for much of the growth of McNeil & McNeil Company. Few shipping clients realized they were dealing with a shrewd businessman until long after Raven had them signed, sealed and delivered.

“Well? Are we to have the pleasure of your company at the eight-pounders, Raven? Or have you the tailor and the barber yet to visit?”

Raven laughed, impervious to sarcasm.

“I’ll be there.” He kicked the foot encased in leather. The leather flapped foolishly. “I can’t go a-marrying Maryann Tate in old boots, can I?” He frowned, his quick mind leaping to a new subject. “Garth, I must talk to you. About a woman I fancy —”

“Not now.”

Garth swung around as the ragged rat-a-tat-tats of unpracticed farm boy drummers came from Nassau Street. The patchy drumming contrasted with the smooth professional drum rolls of the redcoats who were assembling a quarter of a mile away, on the Palace Green. Down Nassau Street, he caught sight of Jenkins. Jenkins was supervising cannon placement. The cannon mules were behaving like mules—stubbornly. He started to go, but Raven caught his sleeve.

“Garth, you must listen. I need your help. I intend to take a mistress and—”

Downfield, Jenkins looked up and waved. Impatiently Garth waved back, signaling he’d come soon. He swung back to Raven.

“Goddamn it. Raven, you’ve only a month to wait to bed Maryann. If you can’t wait, take yourself to the doxy house in Yorktown. Or slip round to Mrs. Daws.”

Raven shrugged impatiently.

“No, no, God, no. You don’t understand. I’m in
love.
She’s a bondslave and—”

Garth snorted his opinion.

Raven reddened. “I
love
Jane Brown,” he argued angrily. “I w
ill
make her my mistress.”

Garth shrugged.

“Suit yourself. But do it
without
my help.”

He looked downfield. Jenkins waved urgently, and he set off at a trot, his boots kicking up dust.

“Damn it, Garth, I need your help,” Raven called plaintively,

McNeil glanced over his shoulder as he ran.

“It’s not help you want, but a
keeper,”
he yelled. “Nobody but a lunatic would ask for the misery of both bride and mistress.”

He reached the field, and it wasn’t until he was thoroughly immersed in the day, squatting and going over each cannon with his hand to find firing flaws before allowing eager sixteen-year-olds to learn to fire them, that the irony of his own words sank into his brain like acid.

“Nobody but a lunatic,” he muttered, “would ask for the misery of both Eunice and Annette.”

At two o’clock he lunched on Cornish pasties with Trent at the Palace Green. The child had been overjoyed to see him.

“Cap Mac!” he shouted. He broke from cook’s firm grasp and threw himself into Garth’s arms. Trent’s kiss was sugary and sticky, testimony that he’d not walked past a sweetmeat vendor without putting up a fuss.

They ate sitting on the grass at the edge of the redcoats’ drill field. If he’d expected the child to be awed by the pageantry—the low thunder of marching boots, drum rattles, the flash of officers’ swords in the bright sunlight—he’d been mistaken. Trent’s attention went elsewhere. A fat puppy, drawn by the smell of their food, trotted up to Trent and played the beggar. Laughing delightedly, Trent fed the puppy his lunch. Every scrap of it. The pup gorged himself, then staggered away.

Garth made a mental note:
Get dog for Trent.

When lunch was done, cook gathered the basket on one hip, the boy on the other hip.

Jiggling him, she urged, “Be saying good-bye to Captain McNeil. Captain McNeil is your benefactor, Trent. It’s a fortunate lad you are, to be found by Mr. Harrington and given shelter by Captain McNeil.”

Trent eyed him soberly, his expressive eyes showing he understood nothing of the cook’s lecture except that he should offer a farewell.

“Good-bye,” he murmured, shrinking shyly against cook.

McNeil fought the urge to take Trent in his arms and give him a whiskery tickle, as any natural father might do. Instead, he let his hands fall empty to his side. He wanted no one to suspect their real relationship.

“Good-bye, Trent,” he said. “Cook? Thank you.”

Without allowing himself the luxury of a backward look, he loped off to rejoin his unit.

In his absence, Raven had been left in command. After shepherding the men to Chowning’s for oyster stew and beer, Raven had returned in high spirits. He’d taken it into his head to lengthen the firing field and increase the charge. Jenkins had tried to dissuade Raven. Harrington, too. The town’s cows, usually pastured in common on the fields used today for militia, were hobbled a few hundred yards beyond, out of cannon and musket range. But Raven had pooh-poohed the danger, and by the time Garth reached the unit, the worst had already happened. A milk cow that had broken her hobble and wandered back toward familiar pasture, had been hit square on the head by a cannon ball and knocked dead. It hadn’t been just any cow. It had been Governor Dinwiddie’s cow.

“Bad luck,” Raven offered cheerfully by way of explanation when Garth lit into him.

“‘Luck’!”

Raven shrugged uncomfortably. “Don’t worry. I’ll mollycoddle the governor at the Militia Day ball tonight. These things, er, well, they
happen,
Garth.”

 Garth sighed in disgust.

 “Only to you, Raven. Only to you.”

* * * *

By four o’clock the air on Nassau Street was a haze of musket smoke and cannon residue. McNeil’s eyes burned. He was sweaty with grime. The work was over for the day, and marksmanship contests had begun. The contests were nearly always won by keen-eyed, sixteen-year-old farm boys. Next would come the well-earned revelry: taverning, carousing, wrestling matches, impromptu horse races, cock fight wagers. As the sun went down, the militia would gradually break up, dividing into social classes. The gentry would gravitate toward home or inn and would clean up for an evening of theater or public balls. The lower class would head for cheap taverns, drinking ale until money ran out.

As McNeil stood watching the young sharpshooters, a flash of amber silk caught the corner of his eye. He turned. Down Nassau Street he caught sight of Annette. She was approaching on the arm of a fat flashily dressed dandy. He watched her trip daintily along. As she drew closer, McNeil could see mischief dancing in her eyes, and he realized she had waited until he looked his goddamn dirtiest to introduce him to her Lord Dunwood.

For surely this was Dunwood. The description fit. Short and chunky. So flashily dressed that he looked like a pregnant parrot. A yellow silk waistcoat swathed his rotund chest, and green silk breeches dropped to the knee where ribboned knee garters fastened to yellow silk stockings. His jacket was blue brocade, and his hat sported an ostrich plume so long that it looked like a parrot’s tailfeather.

McNeil frowned in irritation.

In contrast, Annette was understated elegance. Her chaste high-necked dress was a spill of amber silk. Her hat and short cape matched the dress. Dark curls bobbed against her silken shoulder as she tripped along.

“Captain McNeil, isn’t it?” she called out demurely, uncertainly.

McNeil scowled. Forced to fall in with her game, he strolled to the couple.

“Yes. Garth McNeil at your service, Lady Annette.”

She smiled her dazzling smile and tightened her hold on Dunwood’s arm.

“Lord Dunwood, may I present Captain Garth McNeil of McNeil and McNeil Shipping Company.”

With a quick black look at Annette, Garth offered his grimy hand. Lord Dunwood was forced to take it. Garth pumped the hand, pumping the grime into the man’s palm. Annette’s dark eyes flashed with irritation, then with humor. She coughed delicately into her kid glove, perhaps hiding a giggle.

The three of them exchanged amenities, and Garth confirmed what he’d already suspected. Dunwood was a bore. But a rich, amiable bore. If Annette wed him, she’d have no trouble. Dunwood seemed easily persuaded to any side of any issue, as if taking a stand on an issue required too damned much work. If they wed, Annette would rule’ Dunwood; and Dunwood would adore her for it. The thought annoyed Garth beyond belief.

Amenities drifted into the evening’s entertainments, the governor’s ball. Annoyed, Garth took a stab at shaking Annette’s composure.

“Perhaps, Lady Annette, you will grant me the honor of a dance at tonight’s ball?” Garth said.

She smiled archly.

“Perhaps. However, Lord Dunwood tells me he intends to claim every dance. I am quite his servant in the matter.”

Lord Dunwood laughed proudly, muttering an abashed, “My dear!” Then, to Garth, “A pleasure to have met you, sir.” Garth smiled grimly and again stuck out his dirty hand. Dunwood was forced to take it.

“A pleasure, sir,” Garth agreed, stabbing Annette with a look. “An
exceedingly
great pleasure.”

* * * *

It was five o’clock before he remembered the bondwoman at the jail. His inclination was to forget it and head for home with Harrington. He was filthy and dog-tired. He wanted the hot bath that waited in his bedchamber at the close of Militia Day. But as he swung down Francis Street, the memory of the chit’s fierce, proud eyes kept intruding.

“Harrington,” he directed irritably, jerking his thumb toward Blair Street. They turned and strode north toward the jail and the noisy throng that had gathered for public punishments. He told Harrington of his intention to purchase a bondslave.