“It starts with a secret,” she said, smiling impishly.
“Hardly a secret now!” called Annie from the other side of the fire.
“I’m with child.” Sibby grinned.
“Huzzah!” I cried, embracing her. “What magnificent news! Scipio must be overjoyed!”
“You’d think he invented the condition,” she said. “And now he thinks I’ve suddenly become much too fragile for army living.”
That led to hoots and laughter around the fire.
“He doesn’t want his child born in an army camp,” she continued. “When we head north, I’ll go to my mother’s house, outside Kingston.”
“’Tis a sound idea,” I said.
“Care to join me?” Her face lit with glee. “You and Ruth both. My father died last year, and Mama could use the help. The two of you know farming, and the three of us get along fine.”
“But . . .” I couldn’t believe what she was saying, the generosity of her offer.
She rushed on. “I figger the babe will arrive near April. If the war is still going on by then, you can stay with us or return to the army afore they start their marching again. If not, Curzon will know where to find you–safe and secure–when he’s discharged. He and Scipio can travel back together.”
There was a third possibility, though Sibby did not know of it, of course. If Curzon and I were not destined for life together, then time working and living with Sibby’s family would help Ruth and me get our feet under us.
“What do ye say, gal?” Annie asked. “She’s offering you a life of luxury–a bed to sleep in and a roof over ye head!”
“I hardly know what to say.” I forced a smile. “Other than to thank you for the fantastical offer.” I surprised myself by laughing. “Truth be told, it’s mighty tempting!”
“Talk over the matter with yer man,” Annie suggested. “But you decide for you.”
* * *
The next evening Ruth insisted that we join the small group of folks who watched as the captured British were marched out of Yorktown, under the guard of thousands of Virginia militiamen. ’Twas the beginning of their journey north to the prisoner-of-war camps awaiting them in Maryland and Pennsylvania. There were no officers among them, of course. Cornwallis and the other men of rank were allowed to stay in comfort on their ships in the river. They’d soon be sailing to New York, and from there, home to England in exchange for American prisoners being held by the British.
Ruth was certain that we’d see Aberdeen among the redcoat troops marching north. The truth of the matter was that he was likely dead, but I could not bring myself to tell her so.
Together we watched the bedraggled and defeated army trudge past. I filled my apron with acorns as my thoughts bounced from the fate of the prisoners to the questions of our own future. Ought we take up Sibby’s kind offer and enjoy a secure winter in a home with kind people? What of Curzon? Had our declarations of romantical sentiments been the product of the closeness of death? Did he regret his words to me? I did not regret mine, but it stung terribly to think that we were no longer of the same mind. Was he avoiding me because he was ashamed to admit this?
I shook my head. For years I’d dreamed of the time when our lives would not be in constant peril, when I’d have the luxury of choosing the course to take. Turned out that having choices could be nearly as prickly and upsetting as having none.
Ruth stood fixed in place, silent and steady as a wooden dame carved upon the prow of a ship. She studied every single face until the last person crested the hill to the north and disappeared.
The drums rattled from the center of camp, calling for the evening’s chores to begin.
“We need to go back for supper,” I said quietly. “The lads will be hungry.”
Ruth acted as if she’d not heard me. She tilted her head to watch the arrow-shaped flocks of geese flying above.
“Why they going south?” she asked.
“The geese?” The question surprised me almost as much as the fact that she’d spoken. She had been slipping back into her silent ways since the surrender. “Winter’s on the way,” I explained. “They fly south to keep warm.”
“Geese fly north in spring. Walter told me.”
“He’s right,” I agreed. “In the years when you and me were apart, I used to watch the geese go south, to where you lived. And then in the spring, when it got hot in Carolina, you’d watch the geese fly north.”
“They flew north to you?”
“Indeed. We likely saw the same geese. Do you understand?”
“Aye. But we can’t fly. ’Tain’t safe. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I watched her close, worried that any moment might bring an explosion of grief or rage. She picked up a stick, and to my surprise, she used it to draw two letters in the dirt, an A and a lopsided R.
“A is for ‘Aberdeen,’” she explained. “He showed me how.”
“That was a kindness,” I said gently.
She pointed to the R. “That’s my mark, next to his.”
I nodded, unsure where this course of her pondering would take us.
She squatted down and studied the two letters long and hard. The north wind blew cold, but I waited, for the moment seemed a precious one for her.
“Aberdeen, he’ll see our geese,” Ruth said after a good long while. “No fretting.”
I could not follow her thinking. “You won’t worry about him?”
“No fretting.” She rocked back and forth the tiniest bit. “Deen’s safe. He’ll watch Nancy Chicken and Thomas Boon and Serafina and Walter. They’re all safe.”
I opened my mouth to explain that she wasn’t making sense, that the chicken was long dead, the donkey likely stolen, and Aberdeen . . .
I closed my gob just in time. Ruth was building a story that would let her keep loving all those critters and people. If she held tight to it, she might be able to survive their loss.
“That’s very sensible, poppet,” I said. “Sensible and true.”
Ruth leaned forward and put one hand on the A and the other on the R.
“All safe in my heart,” she whispered.
CHAPTER XLV
Sunday, November 4–Monday, November 5, 1781
WE FEEL THAT WE HAVE NOT FOUGHT IN VAIN. . . . I KNOW NOW THAT I HAVE BEEN AN ACTOR IN EVENTS WHICH THE WORLD AND HISTORY WILL NEVER FORGET.
–FRENCH SOLDIER GASTON DE LA BASTIE WRITING TO HIS MOTHER AFTER THE YORKTOWN VICTORY
EVERY TIME I ACCUSTOMED MYSELF to the rhythms of a place or of a circumstance, it altered. Changeability was the only constant, and that distressed me deeply. I longed for a stretch of time, even a few months, during which I would live in the same place, tend to the same tasks, and endure only the ordinary difficulties of life, such as a cow that kicked the milk bucket or rows of bean plants that needed weeding.
I gave myself a pinch. Wishing was for loobies and fools. I had only a few hours left and days of work to accomplish in them.
I spread the ragged blanket on the ground next to the company cook fire so that the light shone upon it. The night was cold, but dry for a change, and that suited me fine. I had a dish of corn bread baking in the coals and pork roasting over the flames. The men of our company had all retired to their tents to sleep for a few hours. Ruth slept too, back at our brush hut. I could finally steal some time to sort through my seed collection, which I had put off doing overlong.
I dumped my haversack out onto the blanket and picked up the seeds one at a time, examining each for signs of mold or a doomed attempt at sprouting. Seeds kept dry will wait for years to be planted. Sadly, a goodly portion of mine had fallen damp. They needed to be removed lest they ruined the others.
My hands thus employed, my mind wandered, still frustrated at the latest turn of events. At first the officers had told us that we’d be leaving in three days’ time. I had planned accordingly. The first day I would again walk past the armorer’s camp and greet Curzon with a casual smile. Mayhaps engage the
forge workers in a light confab about the weather. The second day I’d bake an apple pie for all of them and deliver it, but again would not tarry, pleading the number of tasks awaiting me. The third day, that was when I’d make my move. I’d beg leave of the armorer to speak in privacy with my “husband.” I’d bake a second pie, if necessary.
I gave myself another pinch. Getting trapped in old dreams was as foolish as wishing.
The officers had changed their minds, of course. The army was to leave at first light, beginning our long march to the Hudson River in New York. The fellows had spent the day loading wagons, burying slaughter-yard offal, and filling in the foul privy trenches. They had worked in high spirits and good cheer. As soon as their bellies were full, they’d trooped off to snore like fat bears in their tents.
I sighed. The pile of seeds gone bad was already bigger than the good.
A shadow fell over me. Alarmed, I looked up.
“Hello, Country.” Curzon leaned heavily on a crutch.
“Oh!” The frogs in my belly awoke with a start and commenced to flopping and leaping up my throat. “Why are you here? Are you to travel with the company tomorrow? Surely, you’ll be allowed to ride in a wagon.”
He limped to the far side of the fire and sat on a log, wincing. The crutch was nothing more than a shovel handle with a pad of rags fastened to the top end. His shirt was filthy and his coat had small burn holes in it, as well as a rip at the shoulder.
“That knee wants supporting.” I rolled a log over and upended it. “Hand me your stick.”
He did so without a word. I propped it so that it provided a bridge of sorts, then helped him move his leg until his foot rested on the log, and the weight of the limb rested on the crutch.
“That’s better,” he said with a sigh. “Thank you.”
I gently felt the swollen knee through the fabric of his breeches. “Did you twist it again?”
“Been walking overmuch,” he muttered.
I looked up at him. His face bore new injuries too: dried blood from a fresh cut on his lip, and a pouch of swelling like a small egg under his left eye. “Did you walk into a wall or someone’s fist?”
His face went rigid with rage as he stared into the fire.
“Three fists,” he finally muttered.
I waited, but he gave no more details. I could not tell his reason for coming, not by looking at him, but I was unsure how to proceed with conversating. I stood and resumed my cooking tasks, using the metal hooks to lift the pan of corn bread from the coals and set it on the dirt to cool.
“How’s Ruth?” he asked at last.
“She suffers from melancholy,” I said. “Mourning Aberdeen. We watched the prisoners march out, but he was not with them.”
“I looked for him too.” His shoulders drooped. “Went to the garrison to see if he was with the fugitives.”
“What garrison?”
He coughed, then spat in the fire. “Have you not heard how the army’s treating the fugitive sons and daughters of Africa?”
I’d never heard such bitterness in his voice. “What are you talking about?”
He stared into the fire. “They say that in Virginia tens of thousands freed themselves and ran to the British.”
“Aye.” I nodded. “Many died of smallpox. Others starved. But surely, thousands more have found safety and are living free.”
“Not all of them. Hundreds were found in Yorktown. Others have been captured on their way north or west.”
In his face I saw the hopeful boy he’d once been and the righteous man he was trying to be, both clouded by the deepest sorrow I’d ever seen. He turned away, glared at the flames, and started to explain.
The self-liberated people captured by the American army–our army–had been locked away under guard in the garrison. Curzon and others of our regiment had complained most vigorously to the officers, asking that the captured fugitives be considered as Loyalists, for they’d chosen the British side. Thus, they ought be sent to the prisoner-of-war camps with the rest of the British forces. But the officers did not listen. General Washington himself signed the order that created the garrison. ’Twas rumored that Washington had found some of his own slaves among the fugitives, and some belonging to Thomas Jefferson as well. Newspapers were advertising for plantation owners to come and reclaim their runaways. Anyone who was not claimed would become the property of the state of Virginia and sent to work in the lead mines.
Our army that was fighting for freedom was delivering people into slavery.
Curzon had gone to the garrison himself to see the conditions there and look for Aberdeen. He got into a fight with the guards, who then attempted to lock him up, and would have succeeded had not Ebenezer accompanied Curzon. He was grateful to have a friend at his side, but angrier still that the guards paid heed to Eben on account of his complexion matching theirs. And there was no sign of Aberdeen.
He talked at length about the injustice of the circumstances, the horrible hypocrisy of it all. As he spoke, I made more corn bread and roasted the mutton. I offered him a cup of water, which he drank, and meat and bread, which he did not eat.
At the end of his tale he stood and leaned on the crutch. “I had faith in them, Isabel. Even when they handed me back to Bellingham, I convinced myself that things would change; they just needed to see our dedication, how smart and hardworking and patriotic we were.”
“You’ve always believed in the Revolution,” I said carefully. “You had a mountain of faith in it.”
“I was wrong.” He spat in the fire again. “I should have listened to you and Aberdeen. We could have fled to Spanish Florida or the mountains to the west.” He took a deep breath. “Or even joined the British.”
I added wood to the fire. “So we could be imprisoned in the garrison right now, headed to a life in the lead mines? No, thank you.”
“Five weeks of camp life and suddenly you’re a Patriot?” he asked. “You’ve been arguing against the war for years. You always said the Patriots talk a good game of freedom, but the proof is in their actions, not their words. What was that Scripture you quoted till I wanted to scream?”
“Ye shall know them by their fruits,” I murmured.
“That’s the one,” he said. “Well, the fruits of this revolution will be given only to white hands.”
He limped a few steps, turned, and limped back. His crutch snagged on something in the dirt, and he pitched forward, off balance. I grabbed at him and he held on to my arms. We swayed for a moment.
“You should sit yourself down,” I said.
He nodded and let me help him hop back to the log by the fire. Once he was seated, I sat by his side. It was a comfort to be so close to him again.
“What’s that mess you’ve made on the blanket over there?” he asked.
“Sorting my seeds. They’re all ajumble, and I’ve lost three quarters of them.”
“Why bother? You won’t know what you’re planting.”
“Not until they sprout, I won’t,” I admitted. “But I’ve got to start with something. Once they grow and bloom, I’ll know what to call them, and eventually the garden will be orderly.”
“A fool-headed way to farm,” he grumbled.
“’Tis a fool-headed way to grow a country, too, but that’s what we’re doing.”
“Now you’ve gone barmy, Isabel,” he said sourly.
I walked over to the blanket, gathered the small handful of the good seeds, and sat back down next to him.
“Seems to me this is the seed time for America.” I took his hand and poured the seeds into it, as he had poured dirt into mine weeks earlier. “War’s nearly over. Now we’ve got to grow a proper nation. That will require stouthearted folks who understand the true meaning of freedom. People like us.”
“They won’t let us.”
“They won’t have a choice,” I said firmly. “This is our mother country too. Ponder this–the Revolution won’t end on account of Cornwallis being captured. The real revol
ution is the black and Indian men of the Rhode Island regiment. It’s you and Isaac and Tall Will fighting alongside Hamilton and Lafayette in the redoubt. It’s Ruth and Sibby and me and all the other black women of the army doing our share and being accorded the same respect and earning wages, just like Annie and Cristena. It’s Ebenezer, who was ignorant when he met you, but who became your friend and opened his heart to people who didn’t look like him and his.”
“That’s not enough.” He turned his head away from me.
“Of course it’s not, fool. It’s not enough and it’s not right and it’s not fair. But it’s what we have. Think on Serafina and Walter. They couldn’t run, but they made sure a whole passel of people could. Think on the fellows in our company. Imagine if we all settled close to one another after the war. Imagine a town of veteran soldiers and their wives and children, all folks who understand the struggle and believe in the same kind of freedom.”
“I try not to think about what happens after the war,” he grumbled. “All I think about is freedom.”
“Freedom never gets handed to anyone. You told me that, over and over.” I reached out and gently turned his chin so that he faced me. “We have to fight for it, my friend, no matter how long it takes. We must claim it for ourselves and our brothers and sisters.”
The fierce anger in his face softened a bit.
“You’re dreaming, Country,” he said quietly.
“I’m ready to dream,” I admitted. “It’s taken a long time, but I know my aim in life. I know my purpose.”
I hesitated, suddenly nervous. The fire crackled and popped, and sparks shot into the air.
“Does your purpose include me?” he asked.
I leaned forward and cupped my hand along his jaw. In his eyes I found the home and comfort my heart had long been seeking. “Indeed it does, you muzzy-headed blatherskite.”
“Does that mean . . .” His voice tightened, and he paused to clear his throat. “Are you saying . . .”
“I’m saying we should marry, aye.” My heart was pounding louder than wild horses. “I want you for my husband. What say you, Private Smith?”