Washington and Caesar

I

Wanderers in the Wilderness

Slaves, obey in all things your masters according to the flesh, not with eyeservice, as menpleasers, but in singleness of heart, fearing God. And whatsoever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men; knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance, for ye serve the Lord Jesus Christ. But he that doeth wrong shall receive for the wrong which he hath done, and there is no respect of persons.

Masters, give unto your slaves that which is just and equal; knowing that you also have a Master in heaven.

COLOSSIANS 3:22-25

1

Great Kanawaha, Ohio country, October 26, 1770

The tall man’s horse started at the distant shot, and he curbed it firmly, his attention on the woods around him. The sun, far overhead, pierced the canopy of trees with beams that played in shifting patterns on the autumn mold of the forest floor. For a moment his thoughts were in another forest, and the sound of other shots rang in his ears. His horse’s uneasiness communicated itself to the rest of the horses in the party.

Hunter? The other white man stood in his stirrups, as if a few inches of height would improve his view of the woods.

The tall man’s attention returned to the horses.

Pompey, if you can’t control that animal I’ll have you walk.

The black man so addressed wheeled his horse in a tight circle, murmuring all the while. His horse stopped fidgeting. The whole party grew still.

The second shot was farther away, the low thump of a musket.

Crogan said we’d find a hunting camp. The tall man ran his eyes over the rest of his party and touched his heels to his horse’s flanks, moving off at a trot. He already seemed focused on a distant goal, but the other men, black and white, cast their eyes nervously on the woods around them as they moved off on the narrow track. He slowed his horse to a comfortable walk and flowed in next to the other white man.

No point in hurry, Doctor. We’ll need Nicholson to talk to them.

The doctor seemed oppressed by the shots, but if the tall man noticed it, he gave it no heed.

You were speaking of the price of tobacco, Colonel.

So I was, Doctor. Probably dwelling on it more than is healthy. But if the price continues to fall, we’ll all have to find another crop or see our sons debtors.

You’ve planted wheat, sir? Dr. Craik was always a little diffident with Washington, who was not just his friend but frequently his patron.

Indeed. I don’t grow tobacco except to cover expenses, but my tenants are old-fashioned men and need to see a thing done many times before they’ll consider it. I am confident that the soil will support it. And the price is better, whether I sell it in the Indies or grind it myself.

It could make a difference, sure enough.

I doubt it. The Virginia gentry are too used to easy money from tobacco to settle for a hard living on wheat.

Perhaps the price will rise in time, sir.

Oh, it may. But there are bills due now. I’ve had two bills refused in London, on very worthy men, at that. Gentlemen. They write bills to cover the cost of my smith and the like, you know. And those bills were refused. Very alarming.

Ho’se behin’ us, suh.

Thank you, Pompey. Good ears, as usual. That would be Nicholson, he said. And I sold Tom. Did I tell you that?

The two black men looked at each other, just for a moment, but neither white man remarked it.

You said he was a problem.

That he was. Ironical, if you can believe it. And he tried to run. I wouldn’t have it, so I sold him in the Indies. I asked Captain Gibson to get me another, good with animals. We’ll see what he brings. The tall man stopped his horse and turned, one hand on its rump. A white man on a small horse was trotting up the trail, a rifle across his arm and the cape of his greatcoat turned up around his face against the chill.

Are you sober, Nicholson?

Aye, Colonel. Sober as a judge.

Hear the shots?

Aye. That’d be the Shawnee that Crogan was on about.

Let’s go find them, then.

Nicholson glared a moment, his narrow eyes stabbing from under heavy brows. Then he shook his head, touched his mount with his heels, and passed to the front.

Whatever his state of sobriety, Nicholson found the Shawnee camp so quickly that the conversation never seemed to rise again, beyond muttered comments about the beauty of the country. The party moved on at a trot until the hard-packed trail opened into a small clearing with several brush wigwams around its periphery. There was a strong smell of butchered meat and rot, overlaid with wood smoke. Two native women were scraping a hide. An old man sat smoking. None showed any sign of alarm when the party rode in. The tall man dismounted and threw his reins to one of his blacks.

Ask them if we can stay the night. He inclined his head civilly to the two women, who laughed and smiled.

Nicholson didn’t dismount. He nudged his horse forward, raised his right hand toward the old man, and spoke a long, musical sentence. The man drew on his pipe, blew a smoke ring, and nodded. Another shot sounded, quite close. The old man batted at a fly with a horsetail whisk and waved at the tall man, then spoke for a moment.

Nicholson turned to the tall man. Says he knows you, Colonel Washington. Says you’re welcome here.

Excellent. Dr. Craik, this is our inn for the night. Please dismount. I’ll have Pompey and Jacka set up a tent.

Pompey made coffee at one of the small native fires while Dr. Craik admired the skill of the women in cleaning the deer hides, a thoroughness his assistant back in Williamsburg would have done well to emulate.

They learn as girls, said Washington in a level tone.

Use makes master, I suppose. Handsome wenches, too.

Oh, as to that… He looked off into the middle distance and took a cup of coffee from Pompey without glancing at the man. Beautiful country. Look at this clearing. Trees that big come out of the best soil.

And the savages have little idea what to do with it.

They grow corn well enough. Better than some of my tenants, if the truth were known.

I had no idea.

Not so savage, when it comes to farming. Of course, the women do it. Men mostly hunt and fight. He sipped his coffee appreciatively. The old man was still smoking, looking at him from time to time but otherwise off in his own thoughts. Washington couldn’t place him, although he had a good memory for men he had known during the wars.

Between one thought and the next, the clearing began to fill with native men, all younger and most carrying guns. Others carried deer carcasses on poles or dragged them by the legs. Nicholson, his back against a tree and a bottle in his hand, called a greeting, and two men walked over to him. One took a drink from his bottle when it was offered, and they had a short exchange. The old man merely waved the flywhisk several times and the deer began to be sorted out.

That fellow is a black! Dr. Craik was pointing at a tall man in red wool leggings.

Yes, Doctor. So he is. Probably started as a captive. Washington nodded civilly at the warrior so indicated, who inclined his head a dignified fraction in return.

We didn’t see blacks among the Shawnee during the wars.

Washington’s thoughts were elsewhere, and he didn’t reply.

The deer were being butchered. Hearts and livers were set on bark trenchers, intestines set aside, and haunches separated even as they watched. The older women moved from carcass to carcass providing advice while the younger women did all the work and got coated in the blood and ordure. The whole process seemed to take no time at all, Dr. Craik had never seen the like and watched, fascinated. The other two white men seemed oblivious to the spectacle, the tall one standing with his coffee, the small one sitting by him with his rum. Some of the native men were sitting with Nicholson; the older men had gathered in a knot around the smoker, who was now passing his pipe. None showed any curiosity about the strangers.

Pompey walked up behind his master and took the empty horn cup.

Dat be trouble, suh. He inclined his head, the slightest gesture toward their tent.

One of the younger women had a white ruffled shirt on. It was clean and probably out of their equipment. Other women were laughing at her. They were also stealing glances at Dr. Craik. Craik remained oblivious for a moment, and then his thin face grew mottled with red.

Doctor. The tall man put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

That woman has my shirt on!

Pay her no attention, Doctor.

I’ll have my shirt back.

You may take one of mine. We are in their country, and they are testing us. Think of it as the price of dinner. Resent the next theft, but not the first.

Nicholson nodded curtly and called something across the camp. One of the older women roared. The others looked uneasy.

None of the men had stirred, but their attention seemed to focus on the whites for the first time. It made Dr. Craik feel uneasy. There was menace to it, an alien scrutiny from beyond his world of manner and custom.

She looks a damn sight better in that shirt than you, Doctor. Nicholson settled himself back against his tree and set to getting a spark on to some charcloth for his pipe.

Craik took a deep breath and made himself smile. She does, the vixen. Even with shirts at six shillings apiece and not to be bought in this country.

Nicholson was busy pulling at his pipe, clay turned black with use. He had laid his tiny scrap of lit char atop the bowl and was drawing the coal down into the tobacco. He was so fast with his flint and steel that Craik had missed the spark. When it was alight, he puffed for a moment, looking hard at Craik from under his unkempt eyebrows.

Look at yon, Doctor. The men don’t show what they think, and nor should you. Angry or happy, keep your thoughts to yourself. Now, when they’re in drink, mind, then it’s the strongest to the fore and de’il take the hindmost.

He seems easy with them.

Oh, aye. Well, he doesna give much away, our colonel. And he stands tall. But mostly he’s a name to them. The chief there, he marked him soon as we rode in, an’ that counts for something.

It’s like another country.

"It is another country, Doctor. This is the wilderness. He knows, and I know. Even Pompey knows. You were here in the war?"

With the Provincials.

Well, now you’re with the savages. Best learn to please ’em. The man laughed.

Craik wanted to resent his tone, but the advice was kindly given, even from a low Scots Borderer with rum on his breath and an old plum greatcoat, and the tension seeped out of his shoulders.

That’s right, Doctor. Dinna fash yersel. Dram?

Before night fell, the camp took on new life and new smells as the best of the deer went on to the fires. The men made a circle on the grass, some on blankets or robes, some already sprawled from the effects of Nicholson’s rum. The women cooked and moved about, a separate community from the men, still at work while the men took their ease. Craik was handed a large mound of meat on a bark platter by the girl wearing his shirt, and he smiled at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. He wondered for a moment what he looked like to her, or to any of them. Handsome? Ugly? The shirt already had a line of black across one shoulder, and a red handprint on the back.

He took out his traveling case and unfolded his fork before cutting the meat. One of Washington’s blacks handed round a horn with salt and pepper. The savages just sat and ate, men with men, women off to one side.

Washington spoke into the stillness and the sound of many jaws working.

Ask him from where he knows me, Mr. Nicholson.

Nicholson spoke without slowing his meal. The old man put his pipe down on his robe and leaned forward a little, his whole attention on Washington.

He says he nearly took you at the Monongahela.

Tell him I was too young to know one warrior from another.

He says you were guarded from his gun, and hopes you have a great future.

Ask him to tell it.

The old man spoke for a moment, his right hand moving as if pointing at invisible things. Washington, too, looked at the invisible things. For the second time in a day, he thought of that bitter hour. All around them, the younger warriors stirred and settled themselves, even the drunk ones craning their heads to listen. The old man started, a sing-song quality to his narration, as if the beginning had been related many times, which it had. Nicholson picked it up almost immediately, listening and speaking with conviction, mere words behind his host. It was quite a feat, only the occasional occurrence of Scots Border brogue interrupting the impression that the old man was speaking the English himself.

I was with the French captain at the first discharge, and he fell. We fired back at the high-hats and killed many, and they broke. Then we spread to the woods on either side of the trail. I killed four men in as many shots. Then I moved again, farther off the trail. Many warriors followed me. We fired and ran, fired and ran, trying to circle to the back. For many minutes, I didn’t know who was taking the worst of it.

Washington held up his hand for a moment. Did you go to the left of the trail, or the right?

Nicholson cocked his head to listen to the old man, then nodded.

We went up the hill, he says. He thinks that answers you. Washington nodded.

After some time we found a little hill with thick trees and we stayed there, firing into the men below us. That was the first time I shot at you. You were on a fine horse. I shot at you and hit the horse.

I remember that. Washington looked into the fire. The battle was not yet a disaster. The grenadiers of the Forty-fourth, the only veterans in the regiment, had formed at the base of that deadly little hill. They kept up a hot fire, and Washington’s Virginians had started to gather on their flanks, staying behind trees but shooting steadily. Some of the raw battalion men of the Forty-fourth had begun to rally from their initial panic. Washington had just asked the grenadier captain to take the hill when his horse went down.

Nicholson paused in his translation to drink, but Washington was still there, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and sliding over the crupper, his boot pulls caught in the buckles of his saddlebag. By the time he was on his feet, the young captain had his jaw shot away, a third of the grenadiers were down, and they were past saving, the recruits and the Virginians with them.

It marked the bitterest moment of his life. The moment in which he knew that they were beaten, that the whole expedition, the empire, the army, the foundations of the world were undone.

Nicholson wiped his mouth and went on.

You disappeared when the high-hats ran. I followed you. There was nothing to stop us—most of the English had stopped shooting. The next time I saw you, you were with the big general. He was struggling with his horse. I think it was hit. I tried for you again. Perhaps I hit the general. It is possible. He fell. You caught him. You and others carried him off and I couldn’t follow in the press.

Washington nodded.

I thought I’d lost you. Then, right at the end, there you were, all alone, sitting on another tall horse.

Washington looked back into the fire. It was not a moment he liked to dwell on. He had ridden back into the rout and perhaps he had hoped to be killed. He couldn’t remember that part with any clarity, but it came to him some nights, when there were bills due in England or a crop failed.

"My musket was empty, and I started loading it. You yelled at some men running by, but you didn’t move. That is when it came to me that you had a spirit and it was not your day to die, and I thought I will take him for my own, and his spirit will join my clans. Others fired at you. I saw you pull a long pistol and shoot it somewhere else, and I was just ramming my ball home. I pulled the rammer clear and threw it down to get a faster shot, and I began to run toward you. You just sat. You never saw me. When I was almost close enough to touch you, as close as I am now, a boy came at me out of the brush. He spooked your horse. And I hit him with my club, but you were moving away. Indeed, I took him. Since I already had my captive, I thought I would kill you. I looked down the barrel and pulled the trigger, and the pan flashed, and no shot came, and still you rode. Then I looked down at the lock, as one does…you know?"

Washington nodded, a brother in the fraternity of men frustrated by the vagaries of flintlocks.

When I had the priming back in, you were gone.

The old man was done before Nicholson, and he looked at Washington and smiled. He pointed to a young man in an old French coat.

It happens often to Gray Coat here when he hunts deer, but not to me.

Most of the warriors laughed, although the one man looked sour.

I should have ignored the boy, although he made a good slave, for a while. My mother adopted him, and he was with us until the Pennsylvania men made us send him away.

Washington smiled, but he had rather the look of Gray Coat the moment before. The old man raised his hand, and smiled a feral smile.

I should have killed him and taken you. I still wonder what kind of a slave you would have made.

Mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, November 6, 1773

You clap on to that line and haul, laddie. That’s it. Handsomely now, you lot. Pull. Pull, you black bastards. Belay there, King. Right. High overhead the newly fished spar rose into the dawn light and was seated home against the mast. The black men on the deck hauled and sweated, but the sailors sweated just as hard.

The squall had hit them inside the capes, laying the vessel on her beam-ends, stripping off every scrap of sail and cracking the fore-topsail yard. The sailor called King, a free black, had cut the broken yard away from the rigging it threatened to shred, standing on the canted deck with the ropes’ ends pounding him like a dozen fiendish whips.

The ship’s master, Gibson, had shipped a small cargo of West Indies blacks to augment the rum and molasses in the hold. They were skilled men: two bricklayers, a carpenter, a huntsman, and a gunsmith, all likely to fetch first-rate prices among the Virginia gentry. In the meantime, they could haul ropes in an emergency.

High above them, King waved at the captain and leaned out, grabbing a stay and sliding for the deck. Something King saw at the last moment of his slide halted him, and he ran his eyes over the group standing in the waist of the ship, still holding the line that had raised the yard. One young man had scars over his eyes, hard ridges that told a story, if the watcher knew what to read. King wandered over, acknowledging the praise of his shipmates and some good-natured abuse. He turned to the man with the scars, a wave of homesickness hitting his breast and slowing his breath.

Hello, cousin.

The man’s eyes widened for a moment, then his white teeth flashed in an enormous smile.

Greetings, older cousin.

The man looked young, young to have left home with the scars of a warrior and already have a skill worth selling in America. His face was not yet hard or closed as the slaves’ too often were.

I honor your courage in the storm, older cousin. Nicely phrased. King smiled himself, but turned away, headed for his hammock. It didn’t do to associate too much with slaves, at least where white men could see you. It gave them ideas.

King returned topside at the changing of the watch, to see the familiar low Virginia shore clear to the southwest. The Chesapeake had become confused in his memories with Africa, where great rivers ran deep into the woods, and he thought of Virginia as home, the place where he had a wife and a family. He stood by the heads watching the shore for a moment, and then moved into the waist. The sails were set and, barring a disaster, wouldn’t need to be touched until the turn of the tide. Until a crisis came, sailoring was an easy life, and King liked a crisis here and there. They made good stories.

The young one with scars was watching him from the group of slaves at the base of the mainmast. It was a polite regard: the youth didn’t stare, but simply glanced his way from time to time, as if inviting him to speak. King settled into the shade of the sail with the other crew on deck and accepted a draw from another man’s pipe. There were sailors who wouldn’t smoke with a black man, but not many around King. Gibson preferred English sailors to Americans. King had noticed that Englishmen seemed easier with blacks. It didn’t stand to reason.

You gonna jabber some more o’ that black cant, King? asked Jones, the mate.

I might, then. King looked at Jones, who was smaller but loved to fight.

Now then, King, boyo, don’t you glare at me. I’m all for your talkin’ any lingo you like. It’s just funny to hear from you, that’s all I’m saying. Jones was from a part of Britain called Wales, where they seemed to sing instead of talk. King was on the edge of a retort about Jones and talk, but he smiled to himself and let it pass. Instead he motioned to the scarred youngster, who rose from his squatting position against the mast in one fluid, athletic movement and walked across the deck to the sailors.

Speak the King’s English, boy?

Little, ya.

"The better you speak it, the better you will be treated. You have a name, then?"

"Cese. Cese Mwakale. My father commands a thousand warriors—"

"Not here, he doesn’t. What were you called in Jamaica?"

Caesar.

King nodded. He knew a dozen Caesars in Williamsburg. How long ago were you taken?

Four years, older cousin. You?

Twenty-five years, young one. But I was a fool, and walked to their landings to see the world. Who was king when you left?

King of Benin, sir? Or of my province?

Benin will do.

Callinauw was king when I last heard, sir.

And where do you hail from?

Eboe, in Esaka. My father commanded the regiment there.

King nodded, curtly. It took him back to hear the words, to know that a man he had hated once was lording it in Benin, but it all sounded very far away. He smiled at the young man and held out the other sailor’s pipe.

Smoke, Cese?

The lad seized the pipe greedily and sucked a great draught into his lungs. Jones watched in amazement as the inward breath went on and on. Cese held the breath for a moment and returned the pipe with more gravity than he had taken it.

Jones looked into the bottom of the pipe bowl and mimed using a glass. Tobacco is cheap in Virginny, but not that cheap, Blackie.

Call him Cese. King smiled at the boy.

How were you taken?

My father’s regiment was away in the north. You know of the Northern War?

I had heard. It was a small trouble in my youth.

It is a great war now. So many young men are away that kidnappers, criminals, can steal children and young people from their homes; larger towns have militias of old men and women.

And the king tolerates this?

The king fears Muslims more than he cares for us. Listen, then. I was at the camp with the youngest men, those unblooded, just training. We were drilling with spears when the shots were fired, and our officers led us straight out after the raiders. The old men and women turned out with swords and shields, but the raiders shot them down with muskets.

Where were your own muskets? We had hundreds in my youth.

All our muskets were away with the regiment. Nor had we ever fought against men armed as our men were. So we charged them, like fools. In moments they were all around us, in the brush on our flanks. Some of us were shot, and some stopped charging and ran. When I saw that, I knew we were done. I determined to die, and charged on. My spear bit deep into one, and then I was clubbed down. When I awoke, I was a slave.

You killed one. That’s good.

I paid. Perhaps I’m still paying. Some of the men who were taken were ransomed later, but I was not. I think my father took another wife. I do not know. He crossed his arms to indicate that this was not a topic he wished to discuss. "Now I am here. Tell me about Virginny."

What yo’ skill, Caesar?

Be a huntah, suh.

"Hunter. Was your father of the Embrenake?"

Yes, sir.

"And weren’t such men distinguished by their speech? So it is here. Say hunter."

Hunt-ar. The other slaves had edged closer. As the foreign speech was replaced by English, they gathered courage to join in.

You goin’ to Jamaica again, then, Mista’ King? asked one, a bricklayer.

Yaas. I go twice a year, weather allowing. Mostly I sail wi’ Mr. Gibson.

You carry a message to my woman?

If’n you give me a good idea where to find her. I don’ go too close to some plantations. I been a slave twice an’ I don’ mean to go that way ‘gain. Won’ sail again till spring.

Others asked for messages carried, or verbal messages, which King refused. He told them where to find a Quaker clerk in Williamsburg who would write out short messages for slaves, if asked nicely. Cese watched him eagerly, his head cocked a little to one side like a smart puppy awaiting instruction. King began to pass along whatever came to his mind, but they had questions of their own.

Mista’ King, you know who we go be wo’kin’ fo?

I expect you be wo’kin’ fo Mr. Washington, if’n you be on his boat.

What he like?

They betta, an’ they worse. He be fair, and that somethin’.

He fair? Do he let us’ns buy freedom?

How ‘bout marriage? Do he abide black folks as marry?

Is it true that Christian folk can’t be slaves in Virginny?

They were clamoring now, and their different accents were hard for him to understand. He shook his head at them. West Indian slaves were the most ignorant; they were kept in pens and didn’t get to hear much news.

No. Many Christian folk is slaves.

Is you free if you gets to England?

So I hear. I been there, and I ain’t seen no slaves. It was common knowledge that a man was free if he could reach England. Sometimes a man could get free by enlisting in the Royal Navy, too. King had bought his freedom the first time, saving pennies from his fishing to buy his way free. The second time, he’d taken one beating too many and run, joined a navy ship hungry for men, thin on the decks from the yellow jack in the Indies and with a hard first officer not liable to ask a man questions.

He looked back at the boy.

You wan’ be free, Cese?

"I will be free, Mista King."

You take care, now. Mr. Washington, he sell black boys wha’ try to run.

Cese nodded. He looked out at the shore for a moment.

Maybe I go England.

"Go to England, Cese. Maybe so. You know who Somerset was?"

No, suh.

He was a black man like you. He run from his master in England. Got caught, got beat, got a white man to take him to court. He won. No slavery in England now.

Cese had heard a little of the story, but not so plain, always told elliptically so that an overseer wouldn’t understand. He thought it remarkable that a black man had got into a court at all, much less that his case should be heard. In the Indies, a slave couldn’t even give evidence, a fact of life that every slave knew all too well.

Maybe I go to England, he repeated.

You take care, boy.

King nodded to Jones and they stood, Jones carefully wrapping twine around his pipe and putting it into a fitted tin. Before the mate could call them aloft, they were standing at the base of the mainmast, ready for the last tack into the bay, the boy and the other slaves forgotten.

Cese watched the shore and thought about the raid and his last moments as a free man. He thought about it often, but now he tried to think about what England must be like, a land where men became free just by touching the ground, or so he had been told. He tried to imagine how to get to England, but he couldn’t see it. What he could see in his mind’s eye was the musket butt coming under his shield, into his hip and groin, the point of his spear going into the other man’s innards, his hand turning the blade as he had been taught. One kill. It didn’t seem like much of a tally against a life of servitude, and sometimes he wondered if he should just have died when he went down. And he thought about his father, a war captain of renown. He had probably taken another wife and forgotten Cese. Cese shook his head to send the memories away. He seldom thought of his father.

He looked at the coastline, nearer now, and decided to do the very best he could. Other slaves said Virginny was different from the Indies, the whites better, the living easier, and fewer folk died. Perhaps he could win his freedom.

Hunt-ar. He savored the word. Eng-land.

Williamsburg, Virginia, March 4, 1773

She meant trouble, that was plain. Martha’s eyes sparkled as they always did when she had mischief on her mind, but her voice seemed serious when she asked him to explain the day’s events. Of the men in the room, only Washington understood his wife’s message: they had already talked politics enough. Young Henry Lee, just graduated from Princeton, did not hear the irony in her voice or catch her meaning, and he leapt to explain with a simplicity that damned him as a patronizing animal to every woman present.

It is not a complicated matter, ma’am. Wiser heads turned to watch the man charge to his doom; his implication that she might be unequal to a more complicated matter lost him the support of the crowd.

I’m sure you’ll make it all plain to me, Mr. Lee.

Indeed, ma’am. We have settled on choosing a committee of eleven men to obtain the most early and authentic intelligence of all such acts and resolutions of the British Parliament, or proceedings of administrations, as may relate to, or affect the British Colonies in America…

So you intend to form a Committee of Correspondence, as Massachusetts has? Martha smiled at the younger man. She was quite short, but her immense dignity and the memory of her beauty, as well as her reputation, gave her a presence that only a few of the men could match, and Lee was not one of them.

…to keep up and maintain a correspondence and communication with our sister colonies.

Mr. Lee, I believe you are repeating a speech that most of my guests have already heard. Martha Washington said Mistah with the man’s name, and the drawl lengthened a bit each time she said it. "It certainly sounds like you have chosen a Committee of Correspondence."

Lee looked at her as if he had just perceived that she was mocking him.

I was endeavoring to explain, ma’am.

I think you were making a speech, sir. And what I wish to understand is, why? Why must we join a league with the good wives of New England? Why have you censured our governor for bringing to justice a counterfeiter whose work threatened every person of account in this colony? Why this incessant attack on Parliament?

Surely, ma’am, your husband has explained… He looked about him with the assurance of a man of twenty, expecting allies against the assault of one small middle-aged woman, but he saw only stony stares, and this stung him. His opinion of women was not very high, but his standard of rhetoric had much to recommend it, and he felt sure he could defeat her, if only he chose the right arguments.

That the counterfeiter needed to be brought to book no one here contends, ma’am. But the governor used methods that the House of Burgesses cannot condone without it impugning our stand on a larger issue, to wit, whether Americans can be taken out of our continent to England to be tried. This counterfeiter was in Pittsylvania County. The court there was competent to execute justice on him, but our governor chose to send a special sheriff and bring him to Williamsburg to justice.

And now he can no longer pass counterfeit five-pound notes that cause my steward to suspend business. Martha smiled at him again, a happy smile that made it difficult for him to believe that he was being led to slaughter.

But the legality places us awkwardly, ma’am. If the governor can write a warrant to take a man from his county to Williamsburg for trial, then the Admiralty in London can write a warrant for a smuggler to be taken from Boston to London for trial.

What of it? Are we not all English? Or is it your meaning that Americans will give their own a ‘fairer’ trial? Perhaps the smuggler will never be found guilty in Boston, Mr. Lee? Because if that’s your meaning, I can’t help but think that my steward is happier that this counterfeiter did not get a ‘fairer’ trial among his friends in Pittsylvania.

Lee looked like a man who had just discovered a deep pit yawning at his feet. Arguments against the tyranny of the Crown were so popular in Virginia that he was not really ready to argue cases; he generally expected approbation in reply to any reasonable assault on the Government. Martha Washington, however, was of far too much consequence to ignore, and it struck him, then, that he could forfeit his standing either by offending her, as one of the richest landowners in the colony, or by losing the debate, which would not increase his stature with the House of Burgesses, to which her husband belonged, and to which he aspired.

Lee felt doubly ambushed in that Washington himself rarely spoke in the House, and was firmly a friend of liberty. It seemed astonishing that he should allow his wife to make such statements. He turned and looked at the tall colonel, who nodded gravely at him. He was actually expected to debate with her. Very well, then.

"Are you familiar, ma’am, with the Gaspee incident?"

Perhaps you will help me understand it, Mr. Lee.

If he heard the warning in her voice, he ignored it.

In June of last year, a British armed cutter of that name, engaged in the suppression of the smuggling trade, ran herself aground in Narragansett Bay. A group of men boarded the cutter and burned her. An Admiralty court of inquiry was given jurisdiction over the case, and is understood to believe it has the right to send Americans to England for trial.

And this would be harmful because… She drawled the last word as she had drawled his name, a deliberate provocation.

They would never receive a fair trial in England! And an attack on the rights and privileges of any one colony are an attack on them all! His voice was powerful, and declaimed well. The words were Jefferson’s, but he said them with complete conviction.

But… She smiled again, that happy smile that seemed to deny any possibility of open conflict. "But Mr. Lee, those men actually did burn that ship, did they not?"

The laughter was pained. Lee had the sympathy of the entire audience, many of whom had also labored under delusions about Martha’s native intelligence at one time or another. Washington simply looked absent, as if he refused to be a witness at another execution.

The burning of the ship is not the issue, he began, but she closed her fan with a snap that distracted him, and she stepped up close for the final assault.

No, sir, it is not the issue, and you do the friends of liberty no service to pretend it is. The issue is that we smuggle because Great Britain chokes our own trade and won’t let us carry our own cargoes. That is the issue. And that they try to tax us beyond our ability to bear in prosperity, to pay her debts and ours from the Great War. That too is the issue. These are the issues, in trade, that will drive us to separate—that and the arrogance of our motherland, whose representative said at my own table that we are a race of cowards who could not stop five hundred of them from marching across our whole continent. That is the other issue. It is on these—trade, taxation, and the force of arms—that our arguments will rest. But not on the actions of law, or Dunmore’s taking of a counterfeiter.

There was, quite spontaneously, a small round of applause, and Lee’s training as a gentleman triumphed over his adolescence. He not only avoided showing resentment, but smiled and bowed deeply.

I hope you are always as passionately devoted to our cause as you are now, ma’am. You would be a devilish opponent in the House, and we’re lucky your husband does not speak more often, if he has trained you to this pitch of argument.

Washington laughed aloud, a single bark that was completely different from his usual closed-mouthed laugh.

Trained her? Trained her? He barked again. Perhaps, Mr. Lee, you now have a taste of why I’m so often silent.

2

Mount Vernon, Virginia, November 1773

Queeny watched the new men come ashore from the plantation’s brig; West Indians didn’t hold much interest for her. They were usually so cowed by the comparative brutalities of Jamaica that Virginia seemed like paradise, and the Master bought only skilled men, tradesmen who were too old for her tastes. His field hands came only from America, as they were less apt to run.

She patted the sides of her cap of crisp white linen that she had made from one of Mistress’s cast-off shifts. The breeze was hard on caps, and Queeny was too vain to wear a straw bonnet like a field worker. She was tall and strong, but she had always been pretty enough to draw white eyes and clever enough to satisfy white mistresses. She had never done field work.

One of the new men was clearly young; he seemed to bounce with anticipation as the longboat came up to the plantation dock. He leapt from the thwart and helped moor the craft with a lithe agility that made her smile. The other blacks shuffled ashore, one kneeling to kiss the ground, one staring around him at the alien vegetation and neat brick buildings as if he had been delivered to another planet. The youngster looked left and right like a bird, his glance never stopping.

You stick by me, Queeny, and we’ll have this lot sorted in no time.

As y’ say, Mista Bailey.

A senior tenant farmer for the Washington and Custis farms, Bailey was in charge of the plantations while the Master was away in Williamsburg on business. Bailey was not a hard man, and had never offered her the least trouble, unlike the other senior tenant, whose hands never stopped. She often translated for Mr. Bailey.

Queeny was American born, but she had grown up on a plantation where most of the slaves spoke only African tongues. Her father and mother were upcountry Ebo, and she spoke almost all the coastal languages. It was a skill that made her valuable, and like her looks and easy manner, it kept her from the fields. Queeny followed him down the gravel path to the dock, a demure three paces behind.

Captain Gibson.

Mr. Bailey.

A prosperous voyage?

Well enough, sir, well enough. I lost a spar in the roads of the Chesapeake, and the new customs officer in Jamaica led me a merry dance on our bills of lading, but all told, why, here we are.

I’m sure the colonel will be pleased. I see you got the slaves he asked for.

That I did. Jones here can tell you their trades, although this one, Red Scarf, is a gunsmith. He touched up the flints on my pistols, took the locks apart and put them together neat as neat. I wanted to try him.

An’ he put right the cock o’ King’s barker what he bent, put in a sailor.

So he did. And they all worked with a will to get a new spar up for me, so I’ve given them a penny a piece and two for the smith.

Colonel likes his people to have a little cash. No harm in it, nor do I think. What do you have for me besides a smith? Did Colonel Washington order a smith?

I don’t think that he did, sir, at that. But the whole lot were going off an estate sold for debt, all skilled men, an’ we took the lot.

Fair enough.

This one’s a bricklayer, answers to Jemmy. The man nodded obsequiously.

Bailey didn’t like the look of the man, but the good lord knew they needed bricklayers. Welcome to Mount Vernon, Jemmy.

Jemmy bowed his head and smiled at the tone. Queeny fixed him with a stare. He was second or third generation, she could tell, and like as not had some white in him. She couldn’t see his tribe in anything obvious. Nothing for her to do here—he understood Bailey, was already seeking his approval.

Smith, answers to Tom.

I hope he’s an improvement over the last Tom, eh, Queeny? She shook her head and smiled. The last Tom had been a man. He was gone, sold to the Indies, and she missed him in her bed and in her thoughts.

Welcome to Mount Vernon, Tom.

Yes, suh. Tom was short and swarthy, with a red flush on top of pale brown skin, and curly, lank hair. He was eyeing Queeny appreciatively. She gave him no encouragement.

Huntsman, answers to Caesar. The young one. He, too, was looking at her and he smiled, a young man’s smile.

Huntsman? We asked for a man good with animals.

Yessir. That’s your man. He got the boat’s pigs and goats here in fine fettle. They say he’s good with dogs.

Bailey looked at Caesar, as this was the slave the colonel had ordered himself and the dogs boy would be close to the colonel many days in the field.

Can you run, boy?

He looked blank. It was an intelligent blankness; he didn’t squirm or babble.

What is your name, boy? she asked in the lingua franca of the Ivory Coast. He looked at her, concentrating hard, squinting his eyes slightly, then smiled.

Cese, madam.

The honorific expressed age and successful child rearing, and if it was meant to flatter her, it failed completely. Old indeed.

Cese, the white man wants to know if you can run.

I speak Benin. Please, ma’am, I do not understand this talk you make. The last phrase rolled off his tongue smoothly, the product of frequent repetition.

My Benin not good.

I understand you.

White man ask you. Can run?

Like the wind in the desert. Like an antelope with the lion behind.

Queeny rolled her eyes at the difficult words, the poetic suggestion.

Mista Bailey, this boy say he run plenty fast. He from Africa, though. Masta don’t like African boys, Mista Bailey.

Right. Well, tell him he’s welcome to Mount Vernon.

You from Benin, then?

Yes. Obikoke. I am Yoruba!

White man says you welcome here.

The boy looked surprised. Why is he talking to us at all?

They like to be polite, boy. It don’t mean you aren’t a slave.

Bailey looked interested. What’s he saying?

He jus’ on about how he run.

The others seem to speak well enough, Queeny. You take the boy and teach him some English, and make sure he knows the rules before the colonel comes home.

Yes, Mista Bailey.

You others, come with me and I’ll show you your quarters. Captain Gibson, perhaps you could join me in a quarter hour for a glass.

I’d be that pleased, Mr. Bailey. I’ll just see that this lot get the unloading started.

The two white men bowed slightly, and parted.

Cese followed the Ebo woman up the long gravel path from the dock toward her hut. The slave quarters were like nothing he had ever seen: a long elegant brick building on one side, with dormitories for the unmarried house slaves, and a neat row of cabins on the other, larger and more open than he expected, set farther apart, the whole having more the air of a village than a prison. In Jamaica, his quarters, the barracoon, had been fenced and locked every night. At Mount Vernon, there wasn’t even a wall.

Some of the blacks smiled when they saw him and his escort. None were chained. Most of the men had shirts and trousers, most of the women had a shift and petticoats, and several, like Queeny, sported jackets or gowns. She had a jacket of India cotton, far better than anything he had seen on a Negro in the Indies, but she was probably the queen, mistress to the master. She was old to be a queen, he thought, but her shape was fine and her face good.

The woman neither looked at him nor spoke to him, but simply walked along, nodding to other slaves, and once dropping a curtsy to a white woman, who smiled at her as they passed.

Queeny, dear. Is this a new boy?

Yeas, Miz Bailey.

The white woman examined Cese with a careful eye. She noted the narrow rows of scars over his eyes.

He looks African, Queeny.

I says the same to yo husban, Miz Bailey.

The colonel may not like it. Still, the boy’s pretty enough. Run over to the well and back, boy.

Cese was aware that he had been addressed, but the words were too fast, the accent too different. He smiled to show willing, and looked at Queeny.

You run. Go to the well and come back.

He set his bundle down and took a deep breath before hurling himself forward. The two women watched as his long legs flashed faster, as he leaned his weight into a curve around the well and pulled himself straight with the grace of a cat. Then he dashed past them, slowed, and came back, making a small bow to Mrs. Bailey as he did so. When he took up his bundle, there was a faint line of sweat on his upper lip, but his breathing was deep and even.

Mrs. Bailey laughed aloud.

He is splendid, is he not? He runs like a god. Oh Queeny, teach him quickly. The Colonel will make a fortune on those legs.

Yes’m.

Queeny curtsied again and moved off toward her hut. Her position allowed her half of a hut that typically housed a family of six, or up to eight men. She shared it with another woman, the house seamstress, Nelly. Nelly would be up at the big house at this hour, sewing her tiny meticulous stitches under the eyes of the colonel’s wife and treating her disorders.

You the master’s queen? Is that why you are called Queeny?

She smiled at the thought that the colonel would have a queen at all, although most plantations did. Some owners used their women as a harem; others took a preference for one woman and that made her queen, often hated by the master’s wife but powerful in her own way. The colonel didn’t seem to care for dark women.

No queen here, boy. Master don’t chase us. Mr. Bailey, neither.

Cese nodded, thoughtfully. One of the older men was sitting on the step of his hut, smoking a black pipe. Children, naked or in shifts according to their age, dashed along the central street of the slave quarter. Queeny ducked to enter the one room of her hut, but he stayed in the doorway, looking around him. None of the slaves he could see were Yoruba, like him. Most were southerners or pagan BaKongo from the interior, or mixes from different tribes. It had been the same in the Indies.

Where are the gates?

No gates.

You get locked in at night, don’t you?

No.

Why don’t you run, sister? Are you all cowardly BaKongo, too stupid to escape?

She glared at him from the darkness of her hut.

You’ll learn, African boy. Shut your mouth now, and listen to me. It is my job to teach you the talk, and I will. I’ll teach you more than that, if you let me. There are dogs, there’s militia, there’s the hunt, all out for any Negro that thinks to run. There is ways to run, hear me? But you don’ know them and you better learn. Now get in here this instant. I want to teach you to speak and to stay alive.

He ducked his head and entered, his thoughts still outside. Most of the slaves he could see were Ebo and Luo, ignorant southern BaKongo from the interior who were prey to superstition, carried inferior weapons—pliant. Luo women were notoriously loose. This one spoke to him as no woman should speak to a man, although he had grown used to it in Jamaica. She didn’t have the look of the Luo, though, and she knew more than a few words of the Benin language, which made her something. And the old sailor, King, had said to learn the language.

She was probably Ebo, it struck him. He had the urge to laugh at the irony: at home his father had kept Ebo slaves, and here, the Ebo always seemed to be above him. Of course, at home, slavery was never so permanent.

The urge to laugh never lasted. The urge to violence was always there. As he did dozens of times a day, he resisted the urge to lash out. When all his training told him to fight, or resist a blow or an insult, he would think one phrase to himself.

Today, I am a slave.

He sat on a stool, murmuring Yes, ma’am.

Blain’s Store, Virginia, November 1773

And Ben Carter has taken a schoolmaster from Princeton! Henry Lee, well dressed to the point of foppery, was holding forth.

I don’t think that will cause the collapse of civilization, gentlemen. Washington was busy with accounts and tired of Lee’s youth.

Dr. Thompson reached across the table to take a small basket of English gunflints.

Colonel, I think Mr. Lee means to suggest that Mr. Carter is avoiding the import of English lessons as well as English goods.

Well put, sir. My meaning exactly.

Colonel Washington idly turned the rowel of a neat silver spur on his boot, his attention more under the table than above it. I dare say Princeton produces some very educated men.

This was as close to a witticism as Washington ever came, as Henry Lee had just graduated from that very academy.

I knew him there. A bit of a prig, to be sure, but he seems to know his lessons well enough. Can’t dance, though. Henry Lee was suddenly contemptuous.

Neither does Grigg, and we still pay him to carry our tobacco to England, commented Dr. Thompson, a slight man in quiet clothes.

I can’t see that it signifies much whether a man can dance a minuet, whether he’s captain of a ship or a schoolteacher, Mr. Lee, Washington said quietly.

I’d like my children to grow up to be as good as their peers in London or Jamaica. Can you imagine going out in London and not dancing? Lee seemed unaware of the internal hypocrisy of his argument. Washington decided it was too much to correct him, and let his attention wander back under the table. Alone of the seated men, he had missed education in the home country, and the slight smile that touched his mouth suggested that it was not a matter that interested him overmuch. Are you gentlemen supporting the embargo on English goods?

Dr. Thompson seemed rather caught out, as he had five carefully selected gunflints in one hand and a good hard English shilling in the other.

In the main, he said, shifting in his seat.

Tea for certain, said Lee. Otherwise it depends on circumstances. What are we to do for cloth?

I’ve seen decent wool cloth from this country. Washington looked at them. I’m raising a company of select militia, gentlemen, and I’ll see them all uniformed in good American cloth.

Select militia? asked Lee with a young man’s interest. He leaned forward attentively, then paused, aware that he was revealing too much enthusiasm for an aristocratic Lee.

To train a cadre of officers and NCOs. The kind of men we lacked so badly in the last war.

Ahh, I see, said Lee, feigning disinterest. And while we Lees wonder about boycotting English wool, will the Washingtons still be purchasing a piano?

Washington nodded to acknowledge the hit. And velvet caps for my hunt boys. I suppose that the doctor’s ‘in the main’ will have to do duty for every one of us.

Young Henry Lee had a way of pointing out men’s flaws that made him difficult company at the best of times. Washington had ordered the offending pianoforte for his stepdaughter, Patsy, well before the embargo. Now she had died untimely, but he had no intention of turning it away. Nor would he turn away the parcel of velvet hunting caps, the livery jackets, or the new silver spoons. Nor discard the hallmarked English spurs on his boots.

Mr. Blain? Washington held out a handful of gunflints to the owner of the store.

"Colonel Washington, sir. How may I be of service?’

Mr. Blain, Mr. Lee has just been kind enough to point out that no man of us has been perfect in our attention to the embargo on English goods, but I wonder, sir, if what I’ve heard of New York gunflints is true, that they are as good as English?

Why, truth to tell, Colonel, I’d never given it any thought. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them offered for sale.

Washington was examining the English flints as if they carried disease. I saw them in Albany, last war.

Lee laughed. I’ve lived in New Jersey. I have a difficult time imagining anything good coming out of New York.

I’ll look into it, Colonel.

If you manage it, Mr. Blain, I’ll see my militia buy all their flints here, and other goods besides.

Is it to be a corps of cadets, Colonel Washington? Mr. Blain was openly curious, and thus more civil than young Lee had seemed.

Something like, Mr. Blain.

You don’t suppose that this trouble with England will end in a struggle, sir?

Washington rose at the sound of his wife emerging from the back of the house. He motioned to his slave, waiting against the wall, to fetch the chaise.

I know of no one who desires a struggle, sir.

Can you honestly imagine us fighting the mother country, sir? Henry Lee swaggered.

Washington whirled on the young man. Seeking to provoke a quarrel by forcing the contrary opinion on every matter is uncivil, sir. First you seek to lesson me on boycotting English goods, and now you question whether we would fight England. Which way will you have it?

I meant no offense. But Lee was sullen.

Dr. Thompson started, worried at the sudden change in tone. He was a civil, gentlemanly man, and took his social duties as seriously as his medical. I gather that congratulations are in order, Colonel Washington?

The coldness around Washington’s eyes suggested no such thing. He looked at the men, especially the men of quality, as if measuring them for uniforms, and was deaf to Thompson’s approach. He stared at Lee and said, emphatically, "If the Government insists on making slaves of us, they will leave us little choice, sir."

With dogged social sense, Dr. Thompson pressed on.

Your son is to be married, I gather, Colonel? Allow me to present best wishes for their happiness.

Washington nodded, breathed, and nodded with a trifle more warmth. The thaw spread up from his jaw to his eyes; it did not reach them, however.

Thank you, Doctor. I will indeed tender your best wishes to the happy couple. The wedding is not for some months.

The doctor would have found that look inimical or even offensive with most men, but Washington in anger was someone to be handled gently, like a dog with a bad tooth.

Washington’s slave, Jacka, reappeared at the door, and a slight nod of the head indicated that the carriage was ready. Washington gave his wife his arm, and her slave followed them in her customary silence. An ungainly man was coming up the steps of the store, and he bowed to the lady as she passed.

Henry Lee, seeking to make amends, indicated the newcomer. Colonel Washington, this is Mr. Fithian, the Carters’ schoolmaster. Mr. Fithian is a graduate of Princeton, in far-off Jersey. Mr. Fithian, Colonel Washington, one of the heroes of the late war, and his wife.

"Your servant, sir. My