Ashes (11 page)

“What say you, Pearce?” the officer asked the soldier with the torn sleeve.

“More trouble than it's worth, sir,” the man answered, scowling at Thomas Boon. “If we hurry, we'll make Williamsburg by dark.”

“Williamsburg, sir?” Curzon asked. “I thought the army was encamped at Richmond.”

“Cornwallis has holed up at Yorktown, a day's march from Williamsburg,” the man said. “The French army is already there, waiting for the rest of us.” He put on his hat. “Best of luck with this beast.”

Pearce yelled, “Rouse yourselves! Time to march!”

We waited until they were well ahead of us, then resumed our journey. A few miles later we paused outside a ramshackle tavern that sat at the crossroads; Richmond to the northwest, Williamsburg to the southeast.

Curzon, with his gift of the gab, went inside on a scouting mission. He returned with the facts geographical and military that we needed. American troops and their French allies were indeed camped near Williamsburg, and the British at Yorktown. Both towns lay on a finger of land that jutted into the Chesapeake Bay, and were separated by miles of farms and marshes.

The news discomfited me.

“We'll be trapped,” I said after he'd finished. “Surrounded by water on three sides, with not just two but three armies, counting the French? We'll be like partridges driven into a net.”

Curzon held up his hand and counted off the advantages of Williamsburg on his fingers. “One: Where there is an army, there is work. Two: We're far enough north to not fear the Locktons. Three: With so many folks of all sorts there–black, white, Indian, slaves, free people, indentured folk–we'll be able to fold ourselves into crowds with ease. Four: It's harvesttime, so there will be food. Five: We're worn down. Injured. Broke. A month in one place would do much to restore our strength and spirits.”

I opened my mouth to argue but closed it without saying a word. He was right. We were hungry and weak. We had no money, nor prospects to earn any in the open countryside. The road to Williamsburg was safer, if only by one small peppercorn. It felt like we were marching ourselves straight into trouble, but I could not think of a better course.

I
AM NOT SORRY THAT THE LINE OF CONDUCT SEEMS NOW CHALKED OUT, . . . BLOWS MUST DECIDE WHETHER THEY ARE TO BE SUBJECT TO THIS COUNTRY OR INDEPENDENT.

–K
ING
G
EORGE
III,
WRITING TO HIS PRIME MINISTER
, L
ORD
N
ORTH
, N
OVEMBER, 1774

T
HE ROAD SWELLED LIKE A
springtime river as we neared Williamsburg. Countless muddy boot prints and deep ruts carved by the wheels of heavily loaded wagons overflowed into the fields on both sides, cutting down the corn and wheat nearing harvest. We found ourselves in the company of more travelers than we'd seen in all the weeks since we fled Riverbend: sutlers with wares to sell, drovers leading herds of cattle, highborn gentlemen riding fine horses, farmers with wagonloads of hay, common folk on their way to work for the army or to enlist. Ruth watched all with wide-eyed fascination. Curzon took the measure of every man he met, conversating with some and keeping a distance from the rest.

After years of keeping to the shadows, it unnerved me to walk in the sunlight, surrounded by so many strangers. I stayed close to the cart and gave myself a strict talking-to, on the inside, where no one else could hear:
Chin up, walk proud. Chin up, walk proud
. Free people didn't dart their eyes fearfully, as if waiting for a blow or accusation. We had as much business on that road as anyone else; more, mayhaps, for we were honest people, seeking only work and safety.

Chin up.

Midway through the hot afternoon we crested a long hill and stopped, agog at the sight below. Thousands of dusty white tents were pitched in arrow-straight rows on both sides of the road, an encampment that stretched a mile or so from the base of the hill to the houses of Williamsburg.

“What regiments are those?” I asked.

“I do believe we're looking at the army of the French king Louis number sixteen,” Curzon said.

“Lord save us,” I murmured.

“Seems the French have come to take care of that.” Curzon grinned. “Pardon the blasphemy, Country.”

I smiled despite myself. He had not used my old nickname for a very long time. It cheered me to hear it again, and to see his face alight with excitement.

As we progressed, the road filled with French fellows laughing, talking, and shouting, all of it in their curious tongue. The French uniforms were vastly superior to the rags that the Americans had worn at Valley Forge. The men around us wore white breeches and shirts, with white jackets trimmed in blue. Nothing was ever truly white in an army encampment, of course. Mud and blood and the sundry stains of daily life put paid to that. But the high-spirited fellows around us nonetheless looked fresh, strong, and ready for a fight.

The sound of French spoken by so many recalled to me the months we spent at Valley Forge, a bleak and sorrowful time. I'd been forced back into slavery by an odious lickspittle named Bellingham, a rich man trying to become richer by befriending the Continental army. He made me work at Moore Hall that winter, where General Greene conducted business and kept company with friends and his wife, Caty. The dashing young French general, the Marquis de Lafayette, dined there often and spoke French with Missus Caty, who flirted more than was seemly for a married woman. The marquis was always kind to serving folk, be they paid servant or enslaved. He took the time to thank me for ordinary tasks like pouring wine or removing stains from his waistcoat, and he was never rude nor frightening, the way some men could be. His gentle politeness made me rather fond of the sound of French words on the air.

Curzon took hold of Thomas Boon's bridle and walked with his shoulders back and head held high, as if he were again in uniform. I stayed along one side of the cart, with Aberdeen on the other, his head turning back and forth staring at the canvas city on both sides of us, his eyes as wide as Ruth's. He'd been strangely quiet since we turned southeast to Williamsburg.

Our pace slowed to a crawl, then the crowd ahead of us halted. The breeze from the east blew a terrible stench in our direction. We had an unfortunately direct view of a line of soldiers pissing into a trench dug into the ground for that purpose. Ruth stared.

“That is not for your eyes,” I said to her. “Look away.”

“I need a privy,” Ruth said. “I can go there.”

“You can't use that one, it's for soldiers,” I said, stunned that she had spoken to me direct. “We'll find a necessary in town, behind a tavern or some such. There are no bushes with suitable modesty here.” I stood on tiptoe but could not see why we'd stopped. “What is this delay?”

Curzon hopped on the back of the cart. “Cannons are blocking the road, well and truly stuck in the mud.” He jumped back to the ground.

Ruth squirmed a bit. “I can go behind a tent.”

“Patience,” I replied, ignoring the angry look she shot at me.

“Go round the west side of the crowd,” Curzon said. “Down that lane between the tents. There's a big building beyond them, has the look of being a public place, not a house. See the weather vane atop it?” He handed the donkey's lead rope to me. “I figger you'll find a privy at the back.”

“Wait.” I hesitated before I took the rope from him. “Aren't you coming with us?”

He exchanged a glance with Aberdeen. “We're going to scout around the camp and then the town.” He bit his lip, as if he was going to say something that he knew would displease me. “There'll be a market hereabouts. We'll meet up with you there.”

His words puzzled me. We were to split up in this crowd of military strangers? It went against all of our habits of safety and caution. This was not just a foolish notion, this could be dangerous.

“Meet us when the bells chime eight,” Curzon continued.

“In the dark? What if we can't find each other? What if–”

“Trust me,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd.

I was puzzled about his sudden shift of mood and confused about his intentions. “What are you scheming?”

“In search of work, nothing more,” he protested, his eyes still not meeting mine. “It'll be easier for us to move about without lasses attached.”

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd, with Aberdeen at his heels.

T
HE INCREASE OF OUR
S
ICK WITHIN THESE
F
EW DAYS PAST . . . MAKES ME ANXIOUS TO STATE TO YOUR
E
XCELLENCY OUR SITUATION WITH RESPECT TO
B
LANKETS; THE
H
OSPITAL IS ENTIRELY WITHOUT THIS
A
RTICLE . . .

–L
ETTER FROM
J
AMES
C
RAIK, CHIEF HOSPITAL PHYSICIAN OF THE
C
ONTINENTAL ARMY TO
G
EORGE
W
ASHINGTON ABOUT CONDITIONS IN THE
W
ILLIAMSBURG HOSPITAL

I
WAS SO SHOCKED BY
the sudden turn of events, I stood there like a statue as Thomas Boon pawed at the ground and bared his teeth at a soldier who brushed too close.

Did they just leave us here? In the middle of two armies?

“I have to go!” Ruth called.

The urgency in her voice recollected me to myself. We had to get away from all these uniformed fellows.

“Come, Thomas.” I dragged the reluctant beast to the right and down the rough path between two rows of tents. A number of French soldiers smiled and nodded at us. One even bowed in Ruth's direction. I paused to look at her with a stranger's eyes. Her face was both delicate and strong, and her form was that of a woman, tho' she was in many ways a child.

“Ignore those men,” I warned her. “Those are alligator smiles.”

She frowned and shifted anxiously on the seat of the cart.

“And stop that,” I said. “You'll get a splinter in your backside.”

“I need a privy,” she said. “Or a bush.”

I pulled harder on Thomas Boon's rope. The donkey seemed determined to move as slow as possible. Ruth gave a little moan and gritted her teeth. We were all three of us in misery until we made our way clear of the French encampment and reached the large brick building. As we went around the back of it, a tall woman, yellow haired and pink faced, came out a door carrying a basket overflowing with stained linens. When she caught sight of us, she set the basket on the ground.

“You certainly took your time,” she said with a frown.

Ruth bounced up and down on the seat, eyes desperate.

“Pardon me, ma'am,” I started. “It's just that my sister needs–”

“Mister Wickham contracted for a full-size wagon. Do those women not know how much washing we have here? Dozens of lads puking. Half of 'em are French and I can't understand one word. But they puke same as our boys.”

“Please, ma'am,” Ruth interjected. “Privy?”

The woman jerked a thumb at a small building just visible beyond a well-trimmed boxwood hedge. Ruth scrambled off the cart, limping toward her goal as fast as she could.

“Many apologies for her rude tone,” I said.

The privy door slammed behind Ruth, startling a flock of sparrows that had been hiding in the hedge.

The woman grunted. “We've all been in a similar state, one time or another. Ten thousand lads make these matters even more difficult than they normally are.”

From the large building came a great roar of pain, suddenly extinguished.

“Poor sod,” she muttered.

“Is this the hospital?” I asked.

She looked me over and then the donkey and the cart. “Not from here, are you?”