Patriots dream, p.21
Patriot's Dream, page 21
Walforth’s hand did not relax its grip on his weapon. The feel of it seemed to give him courage; when he spoke again there was a wheedling note in his voice.
“All I’m asking you to do is consider your own advantage. The King will win, Jon; how can he fail, against this rabble? You’ll be on the winning side. If Charles survives, he’ll be outlawed, imprisoned, his property forfeited…. Should you serve us faithfully you can end up as the wealthy, prosperous owner of Patriot’s Dream. Of course you’ll have to change the name.” He laughed.
Jonathan bowed his head. As usual he was hatless, and agitated emotion had loosened his hair from the ill-tied ribbon. A thick brown lock fell across his cheek, veiling his face from Walforth, who had the sense to remain silent instead of trying to reinforce his argument by further speech.
As the two men sat motionless, a bird burst into song. A flash of blue crossed the field, flying low, and settled on a tree branch nearby. Jonathan looked up.
“Courting time,” he said in an abstracted voice. “They will be nesting soon…. I think these Virginia bluebirds are among nature’s loveliest creations, don’t you?”
“I haven’t given the matter much attention,” Walforth said. “Well?”
“Well what?” Jonathan looked surprised.
“What about my proposition? I prefer to call it that; threat is such an ugly word, don’t you think?”
“Oh, that.” Jonathan patted his horse’s neck. “Yes, I’ll do it.”
For a moment Walforth’s face was a ludicrous mask of astonishment.
“You have better sense than I expected,” he said. “Meet me here tomorrow at the same time, then. With the information.”
“Make it three days from now,” Jonathan said. “I can’t very well walk up to Charles and say, ‘Welcome home, what are Washington’s plans?’”
“You have a natural aptitude for the profession,” Walforth said, with an unpleasant smile. “Very well. But no later. I plan to go south within five days. And, Cousin—don’t try to trick me. It won’t do you a particle of good to denounce me. It would be your word against mine. And if you have any illegal ideas, forget them. I carry a pistol as well as a sword, and I don’t go out alone at night.”
Jonathan listened with interest.
“What a mind you have,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of either of those possibilities.”
“Don’t play the hypocrite with me,” Walforth snarled. “I understand you now. In fact, I believe I have underestimated you. No wonder you have been so assiduous in your attentions to the Wildes. Only one son, and you with half a dozen brothers and sisters to share that overgrown farm in the Piedmont. Well, Cousin, stick with me and you’ll get what you want. If you are a good boy, I’ll see if I can’t clear the way for you. Nothing easier than to shoot a man during a scrimmage, when so many bullets are flying….”
“No,” Jonathan said slowly. “I’ll take care of that myself. Perhaps later, if he survives the war….”
Walforth shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have more important matters on my mind. But don’t expect me to leave him for your attentions if we should happen to meet on the field. I have a grudge to settle with him too. As for our old grudge—why, in truth, Cousin, I find myself growing quite fond of you. To think we have been at odds all these years, when we have so much in common.”
But he did not sheathe his sword or approach Jonathan more closely. The latter sat quietly, his eyes fixed steadily on Walforth’s face, his own face showing no emotion. After a time Walforth spoke again.
“You’ll have to make arrangements to travel south from time to time. I can’t very well take leave to ride to Virginia when I want to meet you. Can you resurrect that fictitious business position of yours?”
“Leave it to me,” Jonathan said.
“Very well. We’ll make plans when next we meet. In three days. And, Cousin—I am inclined to believe in your change of heart because your motives make good sense. But don’t try to trick me, you haven’t the skill. If you betray me you’ll live just long enough to regret it.”
He yanked at the reins; the horse set off at a gallop as Walforth drove his spurs home. Jonathan winced.
“What a theatrical swine he is,” he muttered. “Every movement calculated…. But he’s dangerous. What am I going to do, Jenny?”
The horse made no suggestion. Jonathan sat still, his hands folded on the pommel, and watched his enemy until he was out of sight.
II
It was as well for the conspirators that they had allowed three days for Jonathan to gather the information he needed. Charles did not come that day, and Jonathan grew more and more anxious as the following day passed without word. Late in the afternoon he rode down to the college, where the Jamestown road branched off, in the hope of finding some traveler who might have word of his friend. He had been there for several hours when he saw a rider approaching and recognized Charles. A few years earlier he would have galloped off to meet him. His hands gathered up the reins; but then he thought better of it and waited till the other rider came close enough to recognize him.
The two men greeted one another with a new restraint. Jonathan, who had his own reasons for feeling awkward, studied his friend out of the corner of his eye and realized that Charles was in a state of exhaustion—physical or mental, he could not tell which.
“What is it?” he asked. “Your mother?”
“No.” Charles shook his head, and the movement seemed to rouse him. “It’s good to see you, Jon. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you, or for word of you. I went to the house this morning, and Bob told me your parents weren’t coming to town. So I thought—”
“That I might have gone to Patriot’s Dream? You were correct. I’ve just come from there. I would have gone on, but I thought you might be here; and I wanted to see you.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’m stiff as a ramrod,” Charles said, stretching. “Let’s walk.”
Both men dismounted. It was a bleak day. The sun still shone feebly, but the masses of dark clouds building up in the west were a portent of a stormy night. Gusts of chill wind rattled the branches of the elms that, in another month, would shade the grassy grounds of the college.
Charles glanced at the buildings as they passed, leading their horses. The red brick structure that was supposed to have been designed by the great Christopher Wren himself looked deserted.
“It seems like a million years ago that we were students, doesn’t it?”
Jonathan was in no mood for nostalgia or the melancholy contrasts it suggested.
“How are your parents?”
“As usual. Mother recumbent and sighing, Father even more—perpendicular. He is as rigid and unbending as a sword blade.”
Jonathan cleared his throat but could think of nothing to say. Charles went on in the same hard voice.
“He refuses to come to Williamsburg. Last year’s raid put him into a panic. He is afraid that if he leaves the plantation the British will swoop down again. He has already lost a number of slaves.”
“He might be safer here,” Jonathan said. “The plantations are too accessible from the river.”
“He is calling it ‘The Folly’ again,” Charles said.
“Well, but he may be right to stay,” Jonathan said, deciding he had better overlook the last comment. “Williamsburg is also exposed to invasion; and heaven knows we’ve little to defend it with. Jefferson is moving the capital to Richmond, you know.”
“You ought to hear Father on our new governor,” Charles said, with a smile that held no amusement. “He says Jefferson is an incompetent executive and a radical. The bills he and Mr. Wythe submitted to revise the state constitution have Father in a rage. Is it true that they prepared a statute providing for emancipation?”
“I did hear rumors to that effect,” Jonathan said cautiously. “But they decided this was not the time to propose it. The statute on religious freedom had the house in an uproar for days.”
“Naturally.”
There was little traffic on the street. The threat of rain had sent most of the townspeople indoors. The sky was darkening. Lightning crossed the rolling clouds like a bright spear and thunder muttered, still distant but coming closer.
They were opposite the Wilde house and Jonathan turned toward it. Charles caught his sleeve.
“No. Let’s go on.”
The house did not have a welcoming air. No lights showed in the windows. The white paint and black shutters had a queer dead look in the dismal light. Charles walked on without a second glance.
“What is it, Charles?” Jonathan asked. “Something has happened.”
“You, of all people, ought to know.”
Jonathan sighed. “I had hoped your feelings had changed.”
“You’re an unromantic fellow, Jon,” Charles said fliply. “Don’t you know true love never changes?”
“Don’t.”
Charles’s shoulders sagged.
“I can’t help it. If I start taking myself seriously I’ll rant and rave like some jackass in a play. It’s disconcerting, isn’t it, that when one tries to express a profound emotion the words come out sounding like bad prose?”
“I suppose that’s because the feelings have been expressed so often,” Jonathan said. “But what is wrong? I visited Patriot’s Dream last month; Leah was all right then, I talked to her.”
“Did you?” Charles turned to him, his face alight. “Then tell me about her. How does she look? What did you talk about?”
“Didn’t you see her?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Father locked her up,” Charles said. “In one of the empty cabins. There are several empty now, he’s lost so many slaves. Oh, she wasn’t mistreated, he made sure she had food, even a fire. He told me she could go back to her normal duties when I left.”
“You’re joking.”
“Yes, it’s the sort of thing I would joke about, isn’t it? The situation was rather amusing, actually. Mother knows nothing about the problem; she was quite vexed at Leah for being so inconsiderate as to take an ague. I don’t know whether her fussing was the worst, or whether it was Father’s sanctimonious air. He feels that he has acted honorably; he has kept his word about not forcing Leah into marriage, or selling her. He couldn’t see that this action deprives me of my chance to be honorable. How can he treat me like a naughty child?”
“But what does he propose to do about this?” Jonathan asked in bewilderment. “He can’t incarcerate the girl whenever you’re around. It’s ridiculous.”
“He proposed an alternative,” Charles said. “You could never guess.”
“I think I could. Marriage—for you?”
“I forgot how well you know him. Jon, he had her there—Mary Beth—”
“She has spent much time with your family since her father died last fall,” Jonathan said.
“Reverend Willis’s father didn’t die last fall. He happened to be visiting as well. Father was quite explicit. I was to agree not only to marry the girl on the spot, but to stay for a week.” Charles began to laugh helplessly. “Not too complimentary, is he? He thinks it would take me a week to beget a child—a son, of course—on that poor limp creature. If anything could put me off, it would be the knowledge that Father was standing outside the door of the bedchamber with his ear pressed to the panel.”
Laughter choked him. He stopped, leaning against the horse’s side.
They had reached the Market Square. The rising wind swept cold across the open space. The militiamen who kept a casual guard over the powder magazine were standing close against the walls for shelter. A woman hurried past, a basket over her arm, one hand clutching her hat as the wind threatened to pull it loose.
Finally Charles straightened and wiped his eyes.
“It’s all right, I’m not having a fit of the vapors. I can understand why women do, though; it must be a relief. Jon, my father hates me.”
“Now, Charles—”
“No, he does. I’ve been thinking about it all the way here, and I understand the way his mind is working. He never cared for me as a person, an individual. All he wants is an heir for the name and the property. So long as I behaved the way a proper Wilde should, he was able to love…not me, but the image he had made of me. Why do parents do that, Jon?” Charles’s face was genuinely bewildered. “The day you are born they picture you the way they want you to be—glorified reflections of themselves, but stronger and more successful. And when you turn out to be something quite different, they resent the slightest sign of nonconformity or independent thinking.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating just a little?”
“Not much, no. I can see why he’s angry. It isn’t just Leah. I’ve threatened many of his cherished beliefs. He’ll turn Tory next, Jon.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“It’s true. If a troop of dragoons comes riding up to Patriot’s Dream, they’ll find Father on the veranda waving the Union Jack. His heart was never in the war, or the ideals it stands for. It won’t be a betrayal of anything for him—and it would be eminently practical. A foot in each camp. If we win, the gallant officer Charles Wilde will save the estate. If we lose, Father still has the estate. He might even put in a good word for me—if I have not engendered another heir for him.”
Jonathan was speechless. He might have found words to soothe hurt or combat bitterness, but Charles’s cool statement left him with nothing to say.
“Anyhow,” Charles went on calmly, “Leah is out of prison now, tending on Mother’s whims. And I’m off south in the morning. Washington is sending the entire Virginia Continental line to reinforce General Lincoln. Clinton means to take Charleston, and if he does—”
“Don’t tell me this,” Jonathan exclaimed.
“Why not? It’s no secret.” Charles hesitated, glancing at his friend. There was no suspicion in his face, only the embarrassment friends feel when they touch on a topic that may hurt another friend. “I hope I didn’t offend you, Jon, when I criticized Father for his political opinions. You haven’t been exactly forthcoming about yours lately—”
“Charles, it wasn’t because—”
“It wasn’t any of my business,” Charles interrupted. He put his hand on Jonathan’s dusty brown sleeve. “I wouldn’t question any decision you made, Jon, because I know it would be based on the best of motives. Even if I didn’t agree with you I would respect your choice. It hasn’t been easy for you, has it?”
Jonathan shook his head dumbly, moved by Charles’s new understanding.
“I guess I’ve grown up this last year,” Charles went on thoughtfully. “Or else my own problems have made me more aware of the problems of others. I’ve been selfish, Jon; I haven’t tried hard enough to understand your point of view. But now I see that the path I took was the easy one—marching off to war in a handsome uniform. It’s a lot harder to stay at home and fight your conscience. Are you—I mean, are people decent to you, or is that another burden?”
“I’m not exactly popular,” Jonathan admitted. “My people have been officially exempted from military service, but Williamsburg isn’t Philadelphia, they aren’t accustomed to pacifists down here. I can’t blame people for thinking I’m a coward, or a Tory—or both. Sometimes I’m not sure myself.”
“You’re not a coward,” Charles said firmly.
“I’m not a Tory either.”
“Truly?” Charles’s eyes lit up. “Is that true, Jon? I’ve wanted to plead our case; but I didn’t want to influence you against your conscience. You’re so much wiser than I.”
“I’m not as wise as you think,” Jonathan said, trying to smile. “But you needn’t plead your case. I’ve always been sympathetic to the basic ideas. Now I’ve come to feel that the Patriot cause is the one that will serve my own ideals best. I was in Philadelphia at the beginning of the month, when the state legislature passed the emancipation bill. It’s limited, but it’s a step in the right direction. If Pennsylvania does it, other states must follow.”
“They must,” Charles said. “The only alternative to emancipation is catastrophe.”
“That’s what Jefferson believes. I have discussed the matter with him and with Mr. Wythe. I don’t agree with all their views, but they are on the right track. It will be a long, hard struggle in the South, of course—”
“But worth fighting for,” Charles said.
“Sometimes I think it’s the fight that interests you, not the victory,” Jonathan said with a smile.
“The fight is the victory,” Charles said; and they stood smiling at one another under the storm-darkened sky, their other difficulties forgotten.
“This is wonderful,” Charles said, after a moment. “It’s good to feel that we are in agreement again. I don’t know that I’ve ever told you, in so many words, what your friendship has meant. I sometimes think it’s the only relationship that has never betrayed me. Why—what’s the matter? Are you cold?”
“No,” Jonathan said, rigid with the effort to control the long shiver that had passed through him. “Someone must have walked over my grave.”
Chapter
12
Summer 1976
CAMILLA CAME INTO THE KITCHEN WHILE JAN WAS SHELLING peas.
“Good gracious, honey, you’ve got them all over the floor,” she exclaimed. “I don’t know why you insist on getting us a regular meal every day, we could eat soup and sandwiches for lunch just as well. Aren’t you having lunch with Richard? You had better run up and get dressed.”
“I am dressed,” Jan said. “We’re not dining in style at the Inn, we’re just having lunch at his place. And I am getting you a proper lunch because Frank Jordan said Uncle Henry shouldn’t eat all that canned junk, it’s bad for him. It won’t take me fifteen minutes, Aunt Cam…”
If you get out and leave me alone, she added silently.
Her aunt got the message. She retreated with a sniff. Jan got down on hands and knees and picked up stray peas. There were quite a lot of them on the floor. Peas were such vehement vegetables, popping out like bullets. Especially when your mind wasn’t on the job.
