Noticing all this, Charles said, “The leather work is good.”
“Every town has at least one tannery. Competition between the people. The English want to be the best with bridles, tanned leather. The Germans think they are, and in those areas where there are Italians, I must say their work is good—light, though. Better for boots, I think.”
A light rap on the door. “Captain.”
“Come in.”
The slight young man carried a heavy rope that probably weighed as much as he did. “Where shall I put this, Sir?”
“Oh, right here and”—he didn’t know the fellow’s name—“come to me if you need anything.”
Captain John Schuyler really was learning. He would help the young fellow, but the unspoken command was “Keep your mouth shut.”
“Thank you, Sir.” The boy shut the door, made of planks in a Z shape to hold the wood together.
Charles eagerly picked up the rope.
“It has been some time since we’ve been at Ewing Garth’s. The road, still rough, is an improvement, but there’s much to do. I hope we will get there before spring but—” A troubled expression crossed his features. “There’s much uncertainty. I asked to return to my old regiment and was refused. I was told that I’m here in Virginia and I will be sent to a Virginia unit in time. Meanwhile, I guard you.” He smiled.
“You do, Sir. You do.” Charles smiled back.
“I did hear that Colonel Harvey is up at the congress. He’s offering us more land to house prisoners. The additional acres are between where we now stand and Peter Ashcombe’s land.”
Charles threw the heavy rope over his shoulder. “How is it I haven’t heard that name before? Ashcombe?”
“Loyalist.”
“Did you burn him out?”
Surprised, John answered, “When this broke out I was home in western Massachusetts, but I don’t think Virginians burnt him out. The Loyalists seemed to have gotten away. Peter Ashcombe fled to Philadelphia, pledged himself to General Howe as a civilian quartermaster.”
“Confusing. When we win he will be richly rewarded. And should we not, will he hang?” asked Charles.
“Ah, Lieutenant,” John replied, a broad smile on his face. “That is the first time you have admitted the Crown may lose. Will lose.” Then he added, “The Ashcombe tract is an original land grant. It goes back over one hundred years, and Ewing Garth’s father bought part of it. It’s good land.”
“Even if we win, I wonder, will Ashcombe return? He will find himself in difficulty.” Charles imagined the fellow’s reception despite his wealth.
“And if we win”—John’s voice rose a bit—“I say the land is privately owned. It will not revert to the Crown. So Ashcombe can wait until passions cool. He has retainers working the land now. Men who favor us.”
“The lawyers will be busy for decades.”
“Lieutenant, I suspect you are right.”
As they left the tack room, Captain Schuyler paused. “One moment.”
He returned to the tack room, came out to hand Charles a heavy cloth. “For your boots.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
“If I can.”
“I have read and reread every one of Aesop’s Fables. As we won’t be going to the Garth farm for some time, I would like to thank Miss Ewing and tell her which ones I enjoyed.”
“No.”
This surprised the tall, dark man. “Why?”
“A gentleman would not write to a lady, especially a lady of marriageable age, without her father’s permission. Of course, love being what it is, it happens more frequently than not. But if you are to show you are a gentleman, you must write her father.”
“Blast! What can I say to him?”
“Simple, and I will write it in good hand. You tell him that you and Corporal Ix have been considering his bridge and you’d like to suggest more improvements. Tell him the road will be truly finished come spring but there may be ways to improve the bridge and the traffic thereon. Remember, Captain, he’s a man who believes in profit. Then you mention, as a courtesy, that you will be heartened to see him again, and you hope that he and his daughters get through this bitter winter without incident.”
A large sigh escaped, then John nodded slightly. “You are very clever.”
“I was raised as a gentleman. I don’t know how clever I am.” A pause, then Charles took the rag and said, “But I rather like thinking of myself as clever.” He almost reached out to touch Schuyler on the shoulder but thought better of it. “Thank you for the rope.”
May 1, 2015
Resting across from Lee Park, the main library in downtown Charlottesville was in the old post office at 201 East Market Street. Like all those post offices built from the late nineteenth century through the 1930s, the building was imposing, restrained, and well made. Its white pillars lent the massive shape a bit of lightness. Having been converted to a library, the once lovely interior had been violated to serve a different kind of public. The décor is what passed for efficiency at the time (in the late 1970s and early 1980s) and did indeed serve the reading public well. Ugly though the interior was, the fantastic people who worked there more than made up for it.
Deputy Cooper sat at a computer screen in a cubicle off the center area. Those nearby and reading glanced up from time to time, keeping an eye on the blonde in uniform. A few vagrants walked in, spotted an officer, and walked out. Others, library patrons, searching for information, walked by, frankly stared, but kept walking.
After hearing Harry’s latest intelligence from Snoop, Cooper asked the head librarian if she could see what Frank had been reading. The Patriot Act allows law enforcement officials to pry into ordinary citizens’ reading habits, thinking they might not be ordinary citizens, but terrorists posing as same. Coop, a county officer, claimed no such privilege, but after speaking to one of the librarians who in fact recognized Frank, she was allowed to scan his records. Fallen though Frank was, a bit of that old masculine magic remained. All the women working in the library knew him, nodded to him, and were recognized in turn.
Now and then, Cooper took a break from the screen, which hurt her eyes. She looked over her notes. Frank preferred nineteenth-century literature, most of it out of fashion now. He’d checked out again and again all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels, including the non–Sherlock Holmes books. He read the memoirs of any secretary of state who had written of foreign affairs of his or her time in office. He’d twice checked out the books of George Shultz and Madeleine Albright. He read everything Henry Kissinger ever wrote, along with masses of books on the American Revolution, some written from the British point of view. She scribbled down a few of these, scrolled down the screen more. When she saw Fifty Shades of Grey, she laughed out loud.
Frank did not incline toward fiction, but she found, after that initial shock, more soft-core books written for women. Poor Frank, late to the game.
—
She finished up and asked if she might interview a few of the staff who worked the floor. A young lady, perhaps in her mid-twenties, came into the small conference room, closing the door behind her.
“Emma Quayle?”
“Yes, Ma’am, Officer.”
“This won’t take long. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Frank Cresey. Your boss mentioned that you probably saw him more than anyone, as you often are in charge of the front desk.”
“I am.”
“How did he behave?”
She blinked, thought for a moment, then replied, “He was quiet, always polite.”
“Was he clean?”
“Yes. His clothes were torn and I worried about him in the winter. His jeans were thin, holes in them, and he wore old sweaters. The staff and I found a parka that would fit him and we gave it to him for Christmas.”