Bon Marche (4 page)

An American?
How? With what skills? It was necessary, he reasoned, to assess his qualifications.

He had some education.

Admiral de Grasse had seen to it that he was tutored by Monsieur René Boulange, the ship's surgeon, who had been schooled in England. The doctor had been a somewhat uneven teacher, but Charles could cipher some; he could read and write, both in French and English. Those were advantages, certainly.

He could speak English.

Well enough, he was sure, to make his way. But his accent would tell everyone he was French. Would that matter? He thought not. The Marquis de Lafayette was a Frenchman, but perhaps more of a true American than some of those native to the land.

And what else?

He had his wit. His ambition. His determination. His
spirit.
In sum, all of those counted for something.

Charles lay in the hay, contemplating his first move as an American. His name, he thought, was
too
French for continuing use. He'd have to change it. There was no reason to keep the name Dupree; he wasn't even certain it was his name.

Charles
was all right, though. He had always liked the sound of that; it was comfortably familiar. So—Charles what? He said “Charles Dupree” aloud, stretching it out, listening to the full sound of it for perhaps the first time. Again: “Charles Dupree.”

He experimented with it, shortening it. “Charles Du…” Once more: “Charles Du…” He was onto something. “Charles Du … Charles Du … ee.”
That was it!

Again and again he pronounced it, louder and louder, until finally he was shouting it. “Charles Du … ee! Charles Du-ee!”

He couldn't just say it; he'd have to write it, too. More contemplation, trying to visualize how it would look on paper.

He brushed aside some hay, exposing the dirt floor of the barn. With his forefinger he laboriously traced out the letters: C-H-A-R-L-E-S D-U-
No! Not that way.
He erased the “U” in the dust, beginning again. Carefully and deliberately he spelled out his new name: D-E-W-E-Y. He didn't know why he did it that way; it was as if someone was guiding him. But, he liked it. D-E-W-E-Y. He grinned in satisfaction.

Pushing himself to his feet, Charles bowed formally, announcing: “Good afternoon, sir. My name is Charles Dewey.”

He laughed heartily.

The new American swung open the door of the barn, to be instantly warmed by the bright sun of the October morning. He was glad for that. His thin uniform gave him little protection from the cold.

Once more he walked westward.

II

A
HEAD
of him he could see an approaching squad of Continental soldiers. An officer was mounted, but the others were afoot, pushing in front of them a group of Negroes, roped together.

Charles Dewey felt a sudden fear. For the first time it came clear to him that he was a
deserter!
If he was caught now and sent back to the French navy, Admiral de Grasse would have no choice but to hang him.

He saw himself, in a momentary mental flash, with the cruel rope knotted about his neck, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his face a ghastly purple. And hanging on his chest a crudely lettered sign:
Déserteur!

Charles shook his head to dispel the vision.

These Continental soldiers wouldn't know he was a deserter. Nor were they likely to care, if they did.

Having reached that conclusion, Charles called to the officer, as the men came abreast of him: “Good morning, sir!”

“Good morning,” the officer—a lieutenant—replied. He stopped the column. “A rare fine day, isn't it?”

“Indeed it is.” Charles smiled.

“Where are you bound, sir?”

“Westward.” Dewey had no better answer. “I'm just mustered out of the French navy. At Yorktown.”

The lieutenant sighed. “We had hoped to get finished with this damned job”—he gestured toward the Negroes—“in time to get to see the surrender. But—”

“It was a magnificent sight!” A safe lie.

“I'll bet it was.” Another sigh. “Well, we must be getting on.”

Dewey's curiosity got the better of him. “Who are these men?” Meaning the Negroes.

“Runaway slaves,” the officer told him. “They've been working for Cornwallis.” He laughed. “The general's people told them they weren't slaves anymore.”

Charles stared at the sad-faced black men. One of them was a boy of no more than twelve, terror written in his eyes.

“See that buck over there?” the American went on, pointing to a muscular young giant. “He belongs to General Washington. Ran away from Mount Vernon, if you can believe that.” The officer obviously found such an act incomprehensible.

“What happens to them now?”

“They go back to their owners. If we can't find the owners, I guess they'll be sold again.”

The company moved off. Charles watched them go, his emotions disquieted. He had never seen slaves before. He didn't like what he had just witnessed.

Hunger pangs assailed him, causing him to quicken his pace. Still westward.

III

T
HE
broad main thoroughfare of the town surprised Charles. It was almost Paris-like in his eyes. Yet, what he saw wasn't really a city, but a substantial village with a great bustle of activity on the wide principal street. He was impressed by the number of fine brick buildings. Public buildings, he thought.

It was nearly noon, and he had walked some distance since he left the barn armed with his new name. He guessed that he had come the better part of eight or nine miles. He was somewhat light-headed from hunger; he had not eaten since he broke his fast aboard ship a day earlier.

The young Frenchman stood in front of a large steepled church, watching as a two-wheeled farm cart, drawn by a team of oxen, lumbered slowly along the boulevard. Two fine carriages, moving much faster, wheeled around the cart, making their way toward a handsome palace-like building, its entrance framed by ornate wrought-iron gates.

From the church came an elderly man, finely dressed in velvet coat and knee breeches, his powdered wig topped by a velvet tricorne. The gentleman nodded slightly to Charles as he started to pass him.

“My pardon, sir,” Charles said boldly, “but what town is this?”

“What town…?” The man laughed. “This, young sir, is Williamsburg.”

“Williamsburg?”

“It is, sir. The capital of Virginia until just recently.”

“I see. Is there a place where I might seek some honest work?”

The gentleman studied Dewey. “French?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I've come from Yorktown, where I was mustered out of the French navy after an enlistment as an aide to the Comte de Grasse, Admiral of the Fleet.”

He watched the man's face carefully, trying to gauge the reaction to his explanation. He was pleased that he saw no doubt registered there.

“The French have certainly been our dear and loyal friends. Papa Rochambeau spent some time here in Williamsburg, at Mr. Wythe's home, prior to the Yorktown engagement. A charming man. I understand he's expected to return soon. Are you acquainted with General Rochambeau?”

Charles decided that he had lied enough. “No, sir. I'm aware of his reputation, of course.”

“The word is that he'll be wintering here with some of his troops.”

The young man just nodded.

“Oh, I'm sorry—I seem to have forgotten my manners. I'm George Milton.” He offered his hand.

Charles shook it. “Dewey,” he said, “Charles Dewey.” It sounded so correct!

“Well, Mr. Dewey,” the gentleman said in a kindly manner, “how may I be of service to you?”

“If there is some work I could do, perhaps just for meals…” There was a sense of urgency in the words. He added a phrase: “And lodging.”

“What kind of work do you seek?”

“I'm afraid I have few skills,” Charles admitted with a grimace. “I've been a sailor, and —”

“And hungry, I'll wager.” Milton spread his hands apologetically. “I've been standing here chattering away when it's obvious that you've a great desire to eat something.”

“Yes, sir.” He saw no need to deny his hunger.

“Come. We'll test the victuals at the Raleigh.”

Putting his arm around the shoulders of the younger man, the gentleman guided him to the tavern. Inside, it was crowded, warm, comfortable. Milton found them a table. As they sat down, the wonderful smells of the place stirred the juices in Dewey's empty stomach, bringing on small, pinching pains.

What happened next astounded him. A large slab of roasted beef was put on the table, and a smoked sausage of some kind, apparently fried in its preparation, and a whole fowl, along with cheeses and a variety of steaming vegetables. A tureen of melted butter came forth, and another filled with dark gravy, nodules of fat floating on top. And there were pickles. And jams. And a plump, round loaf of freshly baked bread. And rich black coffee, already heavily sweetened. He scarcely knew where to start.

Charles ate carefully, trying not to wolf the food, but consuming a great deal.

Milton watched him with a satisfied smile, examining him. He was a strongly built lad, broad-shouldered, slim at the waist. In spite of Dewey's youth, the Virginian thought he carried himself maturely. In a manly manner. He had light blond hair; his eyes were of a startlingly intense hazel. It couldn't be said that his face was classically handsome; it was too squarely cut, perhaps, with angles a sculptor wouldn't have chosen. But there was character in it. Strength in it. Self-assurance in it. Even, Milton concluded, a hint of arrogance in it.

“I trust our American repast is to your liking,” the host said finally.

“Oh, yes, sir!”

“Plainer, perhaps, than French cuisine.”

Charles struggled to keep himself from laughing.
French cuisine?
He thought of the garbage he had eaten in Paris alleys just to sustain life. And of the often inadequate fare of the French navy, the meat frequently alive with maggots.

“This is the finest meal I've ever had, sir.” He was telling the truth.

“Perhaps on this important natal day as an American,” Milton said, “we should offer a toast.”

He ordered a bottle of Madeira. When the wine was brought, he poured for both of them, raising his glass.

“To Liberty!”

“To Liberty!” Charles repeated, draining the glass.

By the time they had finished the bottle, Dewey had told the older man of his dreams. He had even told him of the orders from his guardian spirit: to seek his fortune in the new country. He didn't tell him, quite naturally, that he had become a deserter to follow those spectral orders.

“This nation, for so it shall be now,” Milton said, “offers great opportunities for young men such as yourself. I dearly wish that I could be thirty years younger.”

In the course of their conversation, Charles learned that his effusive benefactor was an exporting agent for Virginia tobacco growers. He surmised, also, that the man had a number of other special interests. Clearly an important individual.

“Well, young sir,” the Virginian said after a while, his words slurred by the wine, “perhaps we ought to take a stroll to clear our heads, eh?”

Charles followed him out of the tavern into the late-afternoon sunshine, walking somewhat unsteadily. As they moved along, Milton pointed out the numerous public buildings of the town.

Finally: “That's where we met, Mr. Dewey. The Bruton Parish Church.”

“Yes, sir.” He had the sinking feeling that his newfound friend was about to bid him farewell.

Milton turned into the walkway leading to a neat brick home across the street from the church. It was a small house, but well built. Charles hesitated.

“Come, come,” Milton ordered.

Charles went with him to the house, and before the gentleman could turn the knob, the door was opened by a large black man in livery. “Good afternoon, Mr. Milton, sir,” the Negro said with a trace of an English accent.

“We have a guest, Albert. Please make welcome Mr. Charles Dewey.”

“Mr. Dewey, sir,” the black man responded, bowing deeply.

Charles returned the bow. There was a startled look in the Negro's eyes. Evidently the young man had done the wrong thing.

Milton chuckled. “Mr. Dewey is new to America,” he said by way of explanation. He handed his hat and his wig to the servant. He rubbed his nearly bald pate with a great deal of satisfaction.

“We'll have a bottle of Madeira, Albert.”

“Yes, sir.”

Milton led the way into a cozy sitting room where a fire had been set against the chill of the October afternoon. “Albert's a unique man. I picked him up in London—oh, some ten years ago. I have reason to believe he was the son of a tribal chieftain in Africa. That comes out in him every once in a while in a bit of arrogance. But I swear to you, I can't imagine being without him.”

“Excuse me, sir … uh, is he a slave?”

“A slave?” Milton's eyebrows rose. “Yes, I suppose he is.” It was as if he had never thought about the black man in that light before.

Albert returned with a bottle of wine and two superb crystal glasses on a silver tray. He filled the glasses, then backed off, standing in the shadows of the room.

There was no toast this time. They simply drank, chatting like old friends. Milton confided that he was a bachelor. “I never married,” he laughed, “because I could never find a woman who deserved me.” Charles's giggle made him realize that both he and his host were getting quite drunk. For him it was a marvelous feeling, one of complete well-being.

For more than an hour they sat that way in front of the fire. Suddenly Milton clapped his hands together and Albert was instantly at his side.

“Our young friend, Albert, will stay the night. Make a bed ready for him.”