Becoming Americans (73 page)

      On the afternoon of the next Saturday, the dock and stables at Deep Creek were crowded. Several members of the Biggs family came to get details of Tom's death and to learn of the condition of Tom's wife. Two Manning men and their boys, uncles and cousins of Mary's, showed up. Biggs cousins, Tuckers, Cherrys, and Etheridges arrived for a day and night of food and talk and dancing. A fiddle player strolled about the grounds and, as the afternoon wore on, separate groups formed squares on the lawn, or danced hearty jigs on the crushed oyster shells. Robert Creekmore, a brother to Margaret, came alone, and Junior stole his time inquiring after the woman Junior had decided to marry.

      Stephen and Nancy Williams absented themselves when the dancing and swearing began, surprised and disappointed that their son would be a part of such earthly revelry.

      James's sons treated Junior like the country cousin that he was, making light of his experiences, and of Carolina.

      Junior's Aunt Ann Harbut sat for most of the day and night with the maiden aunt they called Sister Mary. Both were older than Junior's father, and seemed very old. His Aunt Ann sat sternly and pursed-lipped the whole time, watching over Sister Mary, whom she treated as a child.

      Junior struck up a quick friendship with his Cousin Tom Harbut, from whom he learned the family gossip. Tom's mother had refused to remarry after the death of Dick Harbut, and the two old women were tended by Sister Mary's servant, Pompey, whom she'd inherited from her father. One of James's servants, Cush, had come from their father, also, and a third brother of Cush and Pompey was Tony, who'd run away from Junior's father. That crime had made Ann Harbut furious, an anger which had not lessened. Tony was to have gone to her upon the death of Stephen! That was one of the many angers that his mother harbored, Tom said.

      Twin sisters of Junior's father, Edy and Sarah, had married wealthy twins, themselves, in a costly occasion held in the handsome Elizabeth River parish church in Norfolk. Then they'd moved to Charles Town with their husbands, leaving Uncle James several pounds poorer, expressing no gratitude for the family sacrifice.

      Grandmother Mary was remarried, to a Cherry, and had sent word that she was ill. Junior could remember how frightened of her he'd been, and was glad that she'd not come.

      Tom Harbut was less interested in recounting the news of Norfolk County, though, than he was in asking about Edgecombe County. He'd decided to move there, he said, but was hesitant to tell his mother.

      Uncle James was a gracious and elegant host, and introduced his nephew to local friends and to acquaintances come down from Norfolk Town. None of them were Baptist and, with Stephen absenting himself from the festivities, they felt free to express their opinion of the sect. Junior made no attempt to discourage them and, drinking from the punch bowl as readily as they, no one suspected his former affiliation. The old men attacked Baptists as "zealots with no knowledge." They made "much sound but no sense;" they "feel the truth but are unable to defend it." Junior mentioned that the Baptist answer was that proof of God was not in "some damn book of stories," as some of them called the Bible, but in the transformation of their own lives. This encouraged another young man nearby to heap abuse and curses at the old men's Holy Book. That strained the tolerance of the old Episcopalians, and the discussion group broke up and they returned to dancing.

      Most of the party went to church the next morning, although some feigned illness, and some simply defied the Sunday law. Stephen accompanied his Uncle James and Aunt Elizabeth. He wore a waistcoat and a coat of his cousin Joseph's over his soiled shirt, but was suitably presentable for his uncle. The sermon was a long and tedious affair during which there was no mention of heaven or hell, much to Junior's delight and relief. The Anglican sermon was much as he'd been taught to expect, except for the colorful and beautiful women he carefully studied throughout the two hours of merciless boredom.

      Junior's father and mother had remained at home, closeted in prayers with the handful of Brethren in the neighborhood. Only on fifth Sundays did they travel to Isle of Wight County to hear preaching of their Particular faith.

      By Monday evening, the guests and family had gone, except Ann Harbut and Sister Mary. Only William, of James's sons, lived with the father, and he was working into the night—the tides had no respect for dinner-time. After the evening meal, James, Stephen, and Junior walked to the dock, where Cush brought benches for them to sit on and talk about the gathering. Torchlight from the mill reflected in the mud and low water of the draining creek, and the groaning grist wheel and gentle splashing of the overshot wheel were soothing.

      "Life has a fair prospect from here, Uncle."

      James smiled but remained thoughtful.

      "The rewards of hard work and an enlightened monarch," he finally said. "God save the King."

      He raised his tankard, and was joined by the other two men in his toast, and then all were silent, enjoying full stomachs and a starry night.

      A small sloop sat heavy in the water downstream in the center of the creek. Junior asked who's ship it was, and where it was bound.

      "It's the
Morning
Star,"
James said. "Bound for Boston. One of the Williams ships out of Bristol."

      "Williams? Have we wealthy kinfolk in the shipping business?" Junior joked.

      James twisted his mouth before he spoke.

      "Apparently not," he said, thinking of the low price that he'd been forced to take for his lumber. Family blood had grown thin across the water.

      "We all remain brothers in God's eyes," Stephen said.

      Junior took the confusion of answers to mean, "no," but he recollected hearing that they'd had some kin in England at one time. He heard the soft flapping of a woman's skirts, and turned his head to see his mother.

      A candle wasn't needed in the bright moonlight, but Nancy Williams carried one ahead of her. Junior hadn't noticed before, but the close candlelight highlighted the hard lines between her eyes and around her mouth. Her eyes were lidded, but were bright and intense.

      "Take my seat, Sister. I'm headed back inside," James said. "I'll be asleep before the girl puts out the lamps."

      The lamps still shone brightly in the house that Junior's parents shared with Ann Harbut and Sister Mary. Dick Harbut had built this roomy and solid house on James's land and Ann had no intention of losing it. Few second husbands in the neighborhood could offer her one as good. Junior saw his aunts inside, Sister Mary asleep by the fire and Ann Harbut beside her, stitching on a torn dress. His mother's sewing had been left on her stool.

      "We fear for your soul, Son," his mother said. "We fear for your soul and those of our precious grandchildren.

      "Kneel with us, Son," his father said. "Let us pray with you until the Holy Spirit comes. Pray God reveal that you are among His chosen."

      Junior had known this was coming. He'd been saved in Carolina, and even though he'd backslid about some things, he wasn't worried about his soul.

Men's voices competed for attention at the Deep Creek mill. The mill was loud, whether sawing or grinding, and commands and curses had to rise above the din. James had three sons: John, twenty-nine, Joseph, twenty-six, and William, twenty. James concerned himself with every aspect of the operation and his voice had to be the loudest. Only Bess, his twenty-two-year old daughter, and Elizabeth, her mother, spoke in tones that softened the atmosphere.

      Stephen Williams only raised his voice in prayer, or in excited sermons to hired workers, or to other groups he might assemble for their religious instruction. He preached to them in language they understood—not like their parish minister—and appealed to them with disdain for that superior culture and hierarchy of distinction based on money, fancy clothes, and education. By saying "no" to these things, he told his listeners, they rejected the authority of that distinction. Those things that denoted society's respectability were improper in the eyes of God, he said. There was a new hierarchy: the saved and the unsaved.

      On those days when Stephen was "taken with the Holy Spirit" and preaching more than he was working, James sent him into the woods to spot specific timbers for the cutters. Stephen's years in the woods had made him invaluable for this work, and he was always ready and willing to trek into the swamp again. Once, devils walked with him in the swamp, now it was God who walked with Stephen. He'd not been threatened by savage or by serpent—a sure sign of Satan—since he'd met God. James had lost one man and almost a second to snake bites in these woods, but Stephen didn't see snakes anymore, a sure sign of God's presence.

      Two days after the reunion when Stephen had seen his son dancing and drinking with sinners, he went to his own part of the swamp to sit on a log and watch the beauty and to talk with God. He often came to this section to cut trees and to mark others. It was his land. His father's will prevented his passing on this land to Junior—a bastard child, God's teaching's reminded him—but it didn't stop him from cutting it. James allowed him the use of the mill on idle days, and his own timber would soon gain him the money to buy land in Carolina that he could leave to his son. He calculated that he'd have accumulated the money in three more years.

      His son was in mortal danger, he told God. He was one of the wrongthinking General Baptists, and the weakness of that conviction was evident in the boy's actions. He had back-slid into the worldliness of his generation.

      Stephen stood in a growing pool of water, with his hands raised above his head as he prayed to God for guidance. As always, God spoke to his mind: bringing Junior to the Lord was his charge from God, both his penance and reward for ignoring his son's spiritual development as a child. Whatever sacrifice he must make, it was right that he should turn attention to his son and, by bringing the boy to Christ, atone for the sin that had created the child so long ago, when Stephen was a lost fornicator.

Two weeks in Deep Creek did not warm Junior to the place. His thoughts kept returning to his happy life with Mary. He thought of his cheery brood of children, but his memories lingered on the soft body he'd huddled with beneath the covers at night, as they tried not to disturb the soft sounds of his sleeping brood. He thought of the exhilarating and free afternoons they'd had by the Little Sapony, or in the woods. The thoughts excited his mind, and his body stirred with images of the beautiful widow, Margaret. He pulled his mind from lusty speculation about her body, to more calming thoughts of Margaret as a mother to his children. He determined to approach her within the week and to seek her hand. Yet, what could he offer her other than hard work and responsibility?

      Tom Harbut stumbled up to Junior sitting on a pile of sawn lumber, looking across the creek and over to the firelight from the cabins in the village. Tom had a glowing smile that Junior recognized and envied.

      Tom held out a tankard nearly full of rum.

      "I want to celebrate!"

      "Looks like you're well underway." Junior rose to steady his cousin.

      "I'm only now beginning," Tom said, as Junior moved to lean him against an old fence post. "I'm taking you to Great Bridge to see Mother Molly and her girls."

      Junior smiled at the prospect of a visit to the well-known brothel. He took a second drink from the tankard, a strong drink of rum with lime and molasses.

      "What are we celebrating?"

      "Mother has agreed to hand over my inheritance now, instead of waiting another year, when I come of legal age. Father left me all his tools—several pounds worth—but I've no abilities as a carpenter, and even less desire. I'll sell the tools and buy land in Carolina!"

      Junior wasn't of a mind to celebrate, but he was in great need of distraction.

      "Then we should celebrate," he said, "but I doubt Miss Molly will accept corn or lumber in payment for her charms."

      "I wager she'll take this locket I won off a Havana sailor."

      Tom held up a silver locket, hanging from a silver chain.

      "I've heard much of the Great Bridge and Miss Molly," Junior said. "I'll race you to the horses!"

Stephen watched the Great Bridge Road all morning. Pompey had told him that the young men rode that way the night before and not returned. Stephen knew where they'd gone. He'd heard of the woman, Molly, in curses, jibes, and jests since he'd returned to Deep Creek. He feared for the safety of his son in the rough settlement at Great Bridge, but the fear for his son's soul was greater, and it wasn't lessened when he saw the two young men limply astride their walking horses as the sun was nearly high.

      Joseph and Billy saw their cousins riding up, too, and began the hoots and catcalls that followed Tom and Junior to the house. Many of the men knew one or more of the girls at Miss Molly's.

      Junior worked quietly, and alone, all afternoon. After supper, Stephen asked his sheep-faced son to join him outside, to be alone.

      Junior had feared this. Since he'd awakened in that foul-smelling place he'd been afraid. The sermons of Reverend Parker, Mathias Manning, and his father echoed in his head amidst the poundings of his headache. What had been free and wonderful with Mary was quick and exciting at the moment with the whore, but in the instant that it ended had turned into a dirty and condemning act. Fornication was a grave sin, as was the drunkenness that led him to it.