Ashes

  “They don’t fight for us,” I insisted. “Neither army does.”

  “Now you’re just talking foolishness,” he said. “You and Ruth need to join me, you do. When we win, we gonna sail to Scotland. Gonna find the city what’s got the same name as me, like in that newspaper you showed me.”

  His eyes were filled with dreams of glory, an affliction common to boys who had never been soldiers.

  “They promise you that?” I stood and shook out my skirts, too upset to stay at the side of such a fool. “Did they promise that they had jobs for me, for someone like Ruth?”

  “You need to listen–” he started.

  “Army promises are only useful in the privy, when you need to wipe your backside.”

  “Sit yourself down.” He nodded his head slow, as if I were a child and he were a wise, old granddad. “You’re just sore on account of being so tired.”

  I wanted to pitch him in the river. “Come, Ruth,” I called. “We must go.”

  Aberdeen stood up and spoke quickly. “You did me a good turn, helping me come this far. So listen: First chance you get, head to Yorktown. Half day of walking and you come across rice fields. Once past them, cut through the woods on the left side. Go through the woods to the river, walk downstream to the town.”

  “We’re not going to Yorktown.”

  “Tell the guards that you and Ruth can sew and cook. Talk fancy-parlor good. I know you can.”

  “I don’t trust the British,” I said.

  “So you staying here?”

  “Now, Ruth!” I called. “Don’t want to make the widow angry at us.”

  Aberdeen leaned forward. “You’ll stay here and support the rebels?”

  “I don’t trust the Patriots, either,” I said. “The winner of this ridiculous war matters not to me.”

  “The battle’s coming, Isabel,” he insisted. “You must choose a side.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Thursday, September 27, 1781

  IT IS POSSIBLE THE SLAVE MAY HAVE FALLEN INTO YOUR HANDS, THO’ HE HAS PRACTICED EVERY STRATAGEM TO CONCEAL HIMSELF BY DENYING HIS MASTER’S NAME, & CHANGING HIS OWN & HIS DIALECT; BUT THE MARKS ON HIS SHOULDERS CANNOT BE REMOVED.

  –LETTER FROM JUDGE EDMUND PENDLETON TO VIRGINIA CONGRESSMAN JAMES MADISON, WHO LATER BECAME THE FOURTH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  THE CHURCH BELL WAS TOLLING eleven of the night as I closed the back door of the tavern. I wove my way past the maze of damp laundry in the courtyard. The final day of the army’s presence in Williamsburg had brought more work than anyone had counted on. I was tired of being tired, and I was cold to the bone. All I wanted to do was to sleep without worrying about my sister or Aberdeen or any soldiers at all. I picked up a few sticks of wood for the fire, already thinking about how lovely it would feel to lie down.

  As I entered the laundry, something crunched under my foot. I knelt and squinted in the half-light. Muddy boot prints dirtied the floor. Man size. Kate or Elspeth had allowed one of their soldiers to visit and had been too lazy to clean up after him.

  I’d wash the floor in the morning.

  Ruth snored loudly. I cleared the ashes from the hearth and set them in a tin bucket, another task left undone by the lazy girls. There were a few scraps of unburnt paper in the ashes, which was odd. Mayhaps Elspeth had had her lad start the fire. The buffoon must have used newspaper instead of hot coals.

  I stacked kindling, then added smoldering coals from the wash kettle fire to set them ablaze. I sat on the stool in front of the fire and took off my shoes and stockings. The loud crackling and popping of the wood made Ruth stir in her sleep, but she did not wake. Few could best her when it came to sleeping.

  As the flames rose, I looked about the laundry. The dried boot prints tracked across the floor several times, then retreated to the door. ’Twas a pity these girls did not seek the affection of fellows accustomed to scraping their boots before they entered a place.

  Then my eye caught the glint of something stuck between the floorboards: a small button carved from shell. I did not remember seeing one like it on any of the washing we’d cared for. It most resembled the few that Missus Serafina had given Ruth in her haversack. Ruth cherished those buttons, as she did all things given to her by the old couple. She would never have treated them with such neglect.

  I searched and found a second shell button in the corner, along with a scattering of dried seeds. Such was the power of my fatigue that I sat dumbfounded in the firelight, staring at the tiny objects in my hand for several moments before the truth of their origin crashed upon me like thunder.

  I leapt to my feet, dashed the length of the building, and scrambled up the small ladder to the loft in the north end of the room. I felt my way in the gloom past the crocks of soap, vinegar, and lye, taking care not to overturn or break anything, searching for our haversacks. They were not where I had carefully stored them on a high shelf, but shoved into a nest of tattered wicker baskets.

  I slung the haversacks over my shoulder, quickly made my way back to the firelight, and dumped out the contents. Ruth’s sack contained a gourd, buttons, pins, and the embroidered handkerchief that Miss Serafina had given her, along with the stockings that no longer fit, wrapped around the cloth doll.

  My haversack was a complete jumble. My hatchet and knife were both there but had been thrown in carelessly. More upsetting was the state of my collection of seeds; I’d collected and protected them so carefully over the years, carrying them for thousands of miles safe in the dampproof pockets I’d fashioned out of oilcloth. Less than half were safe in their covering. The rest were heaped together at the bottom of the sack.

  Ruth rolled onto her back. Her hand opened, showing another shell button in her palm. She must have done all of this, but why? Was she going to be mad at me forever?

  Then I realized what was missing. Our free papers.

  Gone!

  In defiance of Widow Hallahan’s rules I lit a candle and carried it back to the loft, heart in my throat. I picked through the pile of broken baskets, moved aside the dusty spinning wheel, and peered into the soap crocks. I unrolled moldy, ancient rugs. I emptied a crate of old rags and balls of twine.

  All I found were mouse droppings and a few tiny bones.

  I returned to the hearth. It couldn’t have been Ruth. Could it? She knew our position here was perilous. She knew those papers were our only security. That is to say, I thought that she knew it. Had she tucked them under her pallet? Hidden them in her pocket? Had I, in my own fog of fatigue, moved them and forgotten it?

  A gust of wind crept in under the door. The fire sputtered. I absently used the tongs to rearrange the wood so that it would burn better.

  Paper. Paper!

  I overturned the tin bucket of ashes and spread them on the hearthstones, then plucked out the singed bits of paper. Two were smudged with the marks of dirty fingers. The third showed the careful script of my handwriting. I’d written clared to be fr.

  “Wake up!” I shook Ruth roughly. “Did you do this?”

  She blinked, sleep-muddled, and sat up on her pallet.

  “Did you use the paper in my haversack to start the fire?”

  She gazed out the window. “’Tis not morning.”

  “Morning or night, it matters not!” I picked up the shell button that had fallen from her hand. “You took down the sacks and you played with the buttons.”

  She nodded.

  “Did you play with your doll?”

  She nodded again.

  “And my seeds?”

  She hesitated, then gave a little nod.

  “What about the papers? In my sack?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t holler.”

  “Did you use them to build up the fire, mayhaps? It’s a cold night.”

  She looked at the hearth, then shook her head again.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Mister Walter doesn’t like lies. You’re mean. You’re mean and ugly.”

  “This is
more important than if I’m mean! Did you burn the papers?”

  She yawned. “Mister burned the papers.”

  “No, he didn’t, he’s not here! Why are you so foolish!” I yelled. “You did it, didn’t you? You’ve ruined everything! Again!”

  The brokenhearted look on her face stopped me like a pitcherful of cold water had been thrown at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m tired. You didn’t understand, it’s just–”

  Two tears traced a salty path down Ruth’s cheeks. She lay back down on her pallet and pulled her blanket over her head.

  CHAPTER XXV

  Friday, September 28, 1781

  VIRGINIANS ARE QUITE CRUEL TO THEIR SLAVES.

  –JEAN-FRANÇOIS-LOUIS, COMTE DE CLERMONT-CREVECOEUR, FIRST LIEUTENANT IN THE AUXONNE REGIMENT OF THE FRENCH ARMY AT YORKTOWN

  I DID NOT SLEEP WELL, chased by shadows until finally woken by a strange noise. Sweat-soaked and bewildered, I sat up. What was that sound? Something I’d not heard before, of that I was certain.

  I rose and checked the door. The latch was undisturbed. I took a flatiron from a shelf and stood by the open window. A thunder-loud roll of drums beat in the distance. It startled me so much that I almost dropped the iron. The sound of shrilling fifes cut through the dark, and then I understood.

  The army was on the move.

  I unlatched the door and stepped outside. The hot air was thick with damp, like wet wool lifted from a boiling kettle. The entire town seemed awake in the darkness. Cattle bellowed, townspeople and soldiers hurried through the streets, horses pulled wagons, tossing their heads and whinnying.

  I closed the door again.

  How many more days would the Hallahans keep us on? Without the armies, they’d have no need of our help. Where would we go? How could we go anywhere in safety? I needed paper–costly paper–and a pen and ink to forge new free papers for us. I had neither money nor friends. Curzon had chosen his own path, and that pained my heart more than I thought possible. ’Twas unlikely we’d see Aberdeen again; the army he needed to spy upon was on the road.

  I watched my sister sleep. As soon as she woke, her scowl would return, or maybe a look of hurt. On account of my temper the state of our sisterhood had again sunk into a dank bog of misery. I seemed incapable of doing anything right when it came to her. ’Twas no wonder she couldn’t abide me. More and more, I could hardly abide myself.

  I lay back down and stared at the darkness overhead. There’d be no more sleep for me. I rolled up my pallet and set to work.

  By the time the steam was rising off the wash kettles, Widow Hallahan had not yet appeared. Neither had Kate nor Elspeth, which was curious. I peeked across the courtyard but saw no signs of life. Ruth woke, washed her face and hands in the basin, and tied a dark blue kerchief over her hair. She said nothing to me.

  “Aberdeen stopped by whilst you slept,” I lied so as to spare her feelings. “He can’t escort you to the hospital, on account of the army moving out. I shall take his place.”

  She nodded, then went out to the courtyard. Thomas Boon nickered a greeting, and she spoke to him quiet enough that I could not hear her words. I swept the laundry, taking care to remove all the dried mud, carried in more firewood, and, finally, crossed the courtyard to the tavern, puzzled by the change in our routine.

  The back door of the tavern stood open to the breeze. Widow Hallahan and Miss Marrow were sitting at the kitchen table, their breakfast of porridge, apples, and cheese in front of them. A newspaper was on the table too, folded in a most untidy manner.

  I rapped lightly on the doorframe. Both women looked up, startled by my appearance.

  “Didn’t John come by to fetch you?” Widow Hallahan asked.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, confused. “Am I to work at the tavern today?”

  The women exchanged a glance.

  “Nay,” the old lady said. “He, uh, he said you need to drive a wagon for him today.”

  “Drive a wagon?”

  “Not ascared of horses, are you?” she asked.

  “Not at all, ma’am. Does the hospital have extra washing?”

  Again they shared a look of mystery.

  “Might could be he wants you to drive the hams out to the French regiment.” Widow Hallahan cut a slice of cheese. “They believe in a proper midday meal, even when marching. Indeed, he said something to that effect.”

  That sounded like a falsehood. The French army had their own wagons. They would have sent it to fetch the hams in the night. But Mister Hallahan’s need to lie to his mother was not my concern.

  “Kate and Elspeth have not turned up,” I said. “The kettles are ready to boil.”

  “Gave them girls the day off.” She began peeling the apple with the thin blade of the knife. “Figgered they’d be caterwauling and boohooing and the noise would grind my patience to dust.”

  The fire in the hearth crackled. The tavern felt hollow without the raucous noise and bustle of guests.

  “Should we fetch the laundry from the hospital while waiting for the mister to return?” I asked.

  “No need,” Widow Hallahan said.

  I blinked. “Pardon me, ma’am, but there’s still plenty of puking and bleeding going on. They’ve more than three hundred sick fellas.”

  Miss Marrow rose from the table, took the boiling pot of water from the fire, and poured it into the basin on the sideboard.

  “Ruth and me can get to the hospital and back in a flash.”

  I held my breath, praying first that she wouldn’t complain about me walking with Ruth, and second that she wouldn’t dismiss us on the spot, seeing as there was little need for us in the absence of the army.

  “Nay, best you stay close by,” Widow Hallahan said. “All is amuddle, what with the soldiers heading into war. What a world!”

  The cook darted her eyes at me strangely, then started scrubbing at a crusted pie plate with a rag.

  “If I may, ma’am . . . ,” I swallowed hard. “How long do you figger that you’ll need Ruth and me to work for you?”

  “Well, that’s the thing you need to talk to John about.” She cut the long, dangling apple peel and it dropped to the plate like a ribbon. “He’ll be here in a flash. Went off before he finished reading the paper.”

  I felt sure that meant our time at the laundry was finished. What should I do now? Ask at the hospital for work? But there was all sorts of sickness there. We needed work that would pay us enough for food and a roof to sleep under, but not if the place would be the death of us.

  “What of my wages?” I asked boldly. “Mister Hallahan said I’d be paid cash for my time working in the tavern.”

  “Another topic to discuss with himself.”

  Something was amiss. Widow Hallahan had the head for figures in her family. I’d seen her counting out their earnings at the kitchen table at night. She dealt with the sellers at the marketplace and decided on the prices for food and drink in the tavern. I’d heard her complain about how her grown son had the head of a child when it came to numbers.

  Unease fluttered in my belly like a butterfly trapped under a jar.

  “Do we have any mutton pie left, Jane?” Widow Hallahan asked.

  “A whole pie, big enough for two fellows,” Miss Marrow answered.

  “Given the unusual circumstances of the day,” Widow Hallahan said, spearing an apple slice with the tip of her knife, “the army hullabaloo and all, what say you to a proper breakfast, Isabel, mutton pie and cider?”

  “That would be fine, ma’am,” I said. “Much obliged.”

  “You want I should fetch the cider?” Miss Marrow asked.

  “First check the street,” Widow Hallahan said. “Look for the mister and his friend there who promised to bring the wagon. The way he runs hither and thither is just like his father, Lord bless the old goat’s soul.”

  The cook left the room, still clutching the scrubbing rag and dirty pie plate in her hands, which made no sense to me. None of this made sense. Th
e two women were acting unnatural, as if they were reciting lines from a book, which was a foolish notion, for neither woman could read.

  I glanced at the newspaper on the table, my eyes hungry as ever for words on paper. Mister Hallahan did spend long hours reading, seeking information that might help him turn a bargain. Though he never did any real labor in his tavern, his hands were forever stained with ink.

  The cook came back in. “No wagon, ma’am.”

  Widow Hallahan grunted and took another bite of apple. She chewed a moment, then pointed the knife at me. “Would your sister like some peach cobbler?”

  “Indeed she would,” I answered, careful to keep my tone polite.

  Standing behind the widow, the cook stared at me with wide eyes, blue as the summer sky. She held the crusted plate and rag so tight, her red fingers blanched to the color of bone. The intensity of her gaze and her strange manner gave me pause.

  My remembery stirred to the night in ’76 when Madam Lockton had tricked us with sweets, playacting with kindness to hide her evil intent. The night she stole Ruth.

  I saw in my mind the muddy boot prints in the laundry, the disarray of our haversacks, our free papers torn up and burned by dirty hands. Not dirty; held with ink-stained fingers.

  The heat in the room threatened to choke me. The truth of our peril rang so loud, I was sure the entire town could hear it. Widow Hallahan was not acting out of kindness; she was seeking to detain us. The man with the wagon was coming for us. To kidnap us. Steal us. Sell us.

  I forced myself to draw a long, slow breath and resist the urge to run out the door. I could not let her know I understood her evil plan. To play a fool in front of a devil is often the wisest course of action.

  I gave a shy smile and a false nod of gratitude. “Ruth does love peach cobbler, ma’am, and cider, too. That is most generous of you.”

  Widow Hallahan smiled, preening, ever proud of herself.

  “May I fetch her?” I asked, pretending that I would not move without her permission. “It’ll only take a moment to clean her up. She’s been shoveling donkey dung.” I stretched an alligator smile on my face. “I’ll wash her hands and scrape the filth off her boots too. Wouldn’t do to track that nastiness in here.”