—
Some men rode in the wagon, but most walked, the movement keeping them warmer. Captain Schuyler rode up next to Charles West. “You take your gloves off when you draw. I doubt I could hold a quill, a piece of charcoal, or anything in heat or cold. I can hold a sword or an ax handle, but nothing so narrow.”
“I have to work fast. Then I go back to add more details. As to the road to the bridge, I keep reviewing with Corporal Ix. I am not sure of the proper grades.”
“Can’t be that far off.”
Charles half smiled. “I hope not. And as to gloves.” He pulled his gloves from his breeches’ pocket, many of the fingers were now missing. “You know, Captain, I had hoped to add to my slender purse with some bounty from victories, but as you see…” He held up his open palm.
“No bounty for you, and I have your fine pistol.” Schuyler touched the handsome flintlock gun.
“Indeed.” Charles glanced down at Piglet, happily trotting beside him. He scooped up the dog, carrying him for a while.
Captain Schuyler nodded and rode forward.
Once back at the camp, his horse untacked, brushed out, a light blanket over him, fresh water in his bucket, John Schuyler opened the wrapped book. It was Aesop’s Fables, with illustrations. An inscription in French was written in a flowing, artistic hand.
Slipping it back into his tunic, he saved the paper and raffia, for he wanted everything her hand had touched. He briskly walked to Charles’s barracks, twilight enhancing even those rude structures. Opening the door, he felt a bit of warmth from the fire. The men stood up as he entered.
“Lieutenant West, would you step outside for a moment?”
Grabbing his outer coat, Piglet at his heels, Charles followed John Schuyler outside.
“Will you read this for me? I cannot read French.”
Charles gingerly took the book. “Ah, I remember this.”
He opened the cover, looked at the beautiful hand, did not comment, and translated, “ ‘How true these are. Catherine.’ ” He handed the book back.
“Thank you.”
“I quite like ‘The Fox and the Grapes.’ ” He waited for a moment. “A gentleman would read this, then write back a thank-you, perhaps with something witty or amusing regarding one of the fables.”
“I can write, but it’s a scrawl.” His face registered disappointment.
“My hand is good.”
“She doesn’t want her father to know she gave me this.” Captain Schuyler slipped the book back into his coat.
“Ah, well, that changes things.” Before the Continental soldier took his leave, Charles inhaled the cold air. “Let me think on this, and”—he inclined his head slightly—“if you can learn anything of our fates, that would be most kind.”
As they parted, Charles returning to his makeshift cot, he thought that while he was a captive, he was not nearly so much a captive as John Schuyler. Odd? Fate? He had no idea. Piglet jumped up, in answer, snuggled next to him, and they fell asleep fatigued by the long day’s work.
April 28, 2015
Harry spent the morning in Ginger’s office. Trudy was delighted to have her there, as both Olivia and Rennie had returned home: Olivia to New Orleans, and Rennie to Virginia Beach. They chatted a little, but Trudy was busy, doing her best to set things in order and send thank-you notes regarding the service at UVA for her husband. Having been given permission by Sheriff Shaw, once in Ginger’s office, Harry read everything on his desk.
Ginger had maps in a neat pile, in an editor’s cabinet, maps from Revolutionary times, maps drawn twenty years after the conflict ended, and current maps. He’d marked some large estates, but Harry wasn’t certain why. One or two of the properties remained in family hands throughout the centuries. Most were broken up, divided among children or sold for profit by some—especially once the magnets of the great, growing cities beckoned, and along with them, riches, if one was shrewd. Men like Thomas Fortune Ryan, who left central Virginia to become one of the five richest men in America in the early twentieth century. But even before that man’s phenomenal rise due to equally phenomenal intelligence, men and women left Albemarle County for the cities or for the West. Many who had prospered during the Revolutionary War shrank into self-satisfaction. The energy moved away from the state that created a nation, the state on which Europeans managed finally to live in 1607. Lulled by good living, glutted with blood snobbery, the old Virginia names had little to really brag about now other than their old names.
Sitting at Ginger’s desk and looking at the changes on the maps made her think. It was only now, in the early twenty-first century, that Virginia was again open to and rewarding of new thinkers, innovation in business and science. These days the flood of new people irritated many, but they were a bright hope in saving this gorgeous state from becoming a museum.
Back home, looking out at those mountains, her touchstone, Harry could almost see the past, present, and future. She wasn’t one of the bright ones, the entrepreneurs, the scientists. She was the product of an old line, but she was open to new ideas. In her own way, she could feel the excitement, and wondered what it had been like back in the eighteenth century. Once we’d kicked out the British, anything was possible.
At the desk she pulled a piece of paper from underneath Pewter, a born paperweight. “Pewter, a little decorum, please.” Harry rubbed the gray cat’s ears. The other two grumbled but moved closer to Pewter for a rub.
Harry copied a rough drawing from 1789 of The Albemarle Barracks, by then empty of prisoners. All those log barracks, each with a log chimney, made her realize how much activity flourished at the prison camp. Outbuildings, horses, crop patches were visible on this drawing, and not one palisade. Clearly no one was much worried about escapes…or maybe the guards welcomed them.
She’d read in Ginger’s papers about how the farmers and blacksmiths, coopers, et cetera, used the free labor, much of it highly skilled. The Barracks was a gold mine. Needing to see for herself, she hopped in her truck, animals in tow, and headed toward The Barracks. Her farm lay eight miles west of the turnoff to The Barracks.
From the entrance to Barracks Stud, a driveway forked to the left. The drive down to the stables and indoor riding arena gently curved right. Harry peered at the lay of the land.
In the distance on this early Tuesday afternoon, the Blue Ridge Mountains stood to the west as a line of defense. In the early days, that defense held against western tribes, today it continues to somewhat defang high winds from Canada and the West. The mountains couldn’t protect anyone against the winter of 2014, when storm after undiminished snowstorm soared over the mountains, covering all below.
Closer to the mountains, Harry’s farm afforded her a more dramatic view, but The Barracks Stud view was longer, and today the mountains dazzled, almost royal blue against a robin’s-egg-blue sky. She climbed back in the truck, where her three friends patiently waited. Well, two patiently waited.
Pewter had much on her mind. “If she lets us out, we can run into the indoor arena. Sometimes there are birds in there.” Her lips parted slightly.
Barracks Stud and The Barracks were owned and run by Tom and Claiborne Bishop. The Stud, a small breeding operation, blended nicely with what was now called The Barracks, referring to a large indoor arena, stalls next to same.