Pastures, fencing, and outbuildings completed the well-run equine operation, all of it on the former prisoner-of-war camp. The camp had been dismantled more than one hundred and fifty years ago.
The historical buildings, grave sites, and service building were long gone by the time Tom and Claiborne purchased the rolling meadows in the 1970s.
Driving down to the office attached to the stable and the indoor arena, she parked the truck, jumped out, and opened the door for her friends. Tucker, lifted down, scampered after the two cats, who shot for the arena.
“Harry.”
“Claiborne, thanks for letting me come over and poke around.”
Claiborne smiled. “Well, you’re not the first, you’re just the one I know best.”
“Before going through Ginger McConnell’s papers, I had no idea how big this place was when it was a prisoner-of-war camp.”
“Not a trace of it left, really. Ginger would come here a lot. I can’t believe he’s gone. He would point things out to me and Tom”—she mentioned her husband—“and he’d make it all come to life. Me, I look out and see a pasture that needs overseeding, yearlings that need to be brought in, potholes in the driveway.” She laughed.
“That’s why you’re the best at what you do.” Harry had known Claiborne for years, and her late mother as well, a lady of graciousness.
“If you need anything, holler,” the tall, good-looking Claiborne offered. Claiborne was one of those women confident enough that when her black hair turned gray she didn’t color it. The gray actually was stunning.
“I will. Thank you again.”
While liking history, Harry missed much, as did most people when only the highlights and battles were taught. It occurred to her even then that whoever wins a war writes the history books. But the battle at Saratoga was critical, not just for the colonists’ victory, but for lifting their spirits. The mighty British war machine, its powerful ships in our harbors, had landed its troops without issue. We’d lost New York and Philadelphia, severe blows. Again, Ginger had returned to this battle and its aftermath, a period he wrote about when he was young.
She had no idea that about four thousand prisoners shifted to Charlottesville in 1779, marching all the way from Boston. They’d been held in Cambridge since the Battle of Saratoga. Prisoners of war were not usually studied in high school, nor in college, but how those men were treated says a great deal about the capturing army. As she read, she felt sorry for the British and Hessians. The terms of their surrender, called the Terms of Convention, had fizzled. Instead of being paroled or sent back to England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, the poor fellows were stranded in America. King George would not ratify the arrangement.
When the attitude of the Crown became unpleasantly clear, the congress—sitting in York, Pennsylvania, as it was far safer there than elsewhere—revoked the terms of the Saratoga surrender, the Convention. More or less tit for tat, but, to the congressmen’s credit, they made their position as clear as the Crown’s. It was not a happy situation.
The Albemarle Barracks found itself overwhelmed even as the county’s population realized profit. She’d read personal journals; there were quite a few. The number of prisoners was so great the British had had to be divided. More than a thousand men marched up to York itself in 1781 to live in Camp Security, as a boon to the merchants in that beautiful area. Possibly congress pushed this along as a reward for York’s hosting the congress. Should the war be lost, the residents of York and York County would pay dearly for this, as would the residents of Albemarle County.
—
A fat gray cat thundered past, followed by Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Pewter made a U-turn, blew by them, and dashed into the stables again, turning left toward the arena where she had begun her race.
“Harry, if that cat gets any bigger, throw some tack on her,” Claiborne suggested.
Harry threw up her hands, laughed with her, and decided it best to follow her pet. She hurried into the stables. One of the stable girls just pointed like a traffic cop. Harry trotted in that direction. Stepping into the huge indoor arena, Harry couldn’t see the cats and dog, but she heard them thundering on the raised viewing section, the lower arena to her right.
“You’ll never catch me!” Pewter squealed.
Tucker didn’t answer, trying to catch up.
Mrs. Murphy, now next to Pewter, said, “Let’s jump over her head. Turn around.”
“Yeah!” Pewter agreed.
The two cats skidded to a halt. Tucker was now three steps behind and moving forward. They hunched down, wiggled their bottoms to fly right over the dog’s head, then raced to the other end of the building, where the doors were slightly open to allow horses inside.
The air, still cool, flowed through that opening. Harry, foot on the steps, nearly fell over as the cats shot between her legs and Tucker blew by her. Out the cats ran, now turning toward the cars parked by the arena and from there into the pasture. Once in the pasture, across from the large structure, they cut left, ran for all they were worth, crossed the driveway, and halted in another smaller southern pasture. Tucker caught up with them. The three sat there, breathing heavily, thrilled with themselves.
Harry trotted alongside the road to reach them. She didn’t climb into the pasture, didn’t want to disturb the horses who didn’t know her. Her animals laughed a bit more.
“Two legs,” Pewter simply noted.
“Makes them unbalanced,” Mrs. Murphy added.
Harry reached the black board fencing, leaned over on the top board. “You all are crazy. Luckily you didn’t scare the horses in the arena, but they could hear you. I think your screaming and hissing could be heard down to the Rotunda.” No one said anything. They stared at her, wondering if she was going to climb over the fence. She stood where the drive to the buildings curved and a little speed bump was perhaps twenty yards away. A new three-trunk river birch had been planted there in the line of long-established trees. Harry thought the tree lovely. The older dead tree had been removed, so this was truly brand-new. She wondered who had selected this type of tree, for birches didn’t grow well in Virginia. Being more of a northern species, they died off, especially the white-bark ones called paper birches by country people. But these dark river birches were different. The peeling bark created interesting color gradations. Harry stepped closer, keeping her feet on the edge of the mulch. Fingering a peeling piece of bark, she marveled at its texture.
Turning back to the three still sitting there, she said, “Come on.”
“Not yet.” Pewter sauntered in the other direction.
“Pewter. Pewter, I could wring your neck.” Harry climbed over the fence.
“Ha! You could never catch me, slowpoke.” Pewter ran a few steps, waited for Harry to get close, then ran again.
“I really will kill her!” Harry muttered as Tucker and Mrs. Murphy fell into step behind her.
“La-de-da!” Pewter continued her taunting with a few steps forward, then sat, then took a few steps running.
“Pewts, don’t get her in a bad mood,” Mrs. Murphy counseled.
“She’s already in a bad mood,” Pewter meowed. “It’s a good idea to remind her every now and then how limited she is compared to me. But then everyone is limited compared to me.”
Mrs. Murphy looked at Tucker, who returned the look with a resigned countenance. Pewter was going to milk this for all it was worth.
Harry trudged out to the middle of the pasture, stopped, and looked northward toward the refined brick house in the distance.
Speaking to Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, she said, “A couple of hundred acres, filled with prisoners of war. I bet if we were standing here at that time, 1779, 1780, there were barracks as far as the eye could see. Funny how their blood is still here. Those that stayed.” She sighed. “Well, human bloodlines aren’t as clear as animals’, I think. When I was a kid, Heron’s Plume lived in this pasture. About as perfect a conformation as you’d ever see.” She smiled, remembering the horse. “My mother would come and visit Mrs. Smith, Claiborne’s mother, and I remember Heron’s Plume because he’d come over to the fence and I could feed him apples. Oh, I must be getting old, taking a trip down Memory Lane.” She turned, walking back toward the fence.