Beloved Enemy (64 page)

Ginny
looked up the short track that led through cultivated plots to the stockade of
the fort. Outside the stockade there were buildings, but from this angle it was
difficult to judge the layout accurately, or to decide how much of the
settlement existed outside the fort. "Why do you not hire one of those
children to stand guard over our belongings, husband, and we will go up into
the town? Your cousin Harrington must be well enough known in these parts for
us to be able to gather some information as to how we might contact him."

It was
another suggestion with which he could not argue, and Giles was in the process
of negotiating a price with a would-be guard of his possessions when a
red-haired, pink-cheeked man in fustian britches and calico shirt came hurrying
down the path. "Esquire Courtney?" he called over the throng.

"Over
here!" Ginny called back in ringing accents, waving her kerchief to
attract his attention.

"Ah,
mistress, right glad I am to have found you," the man puffed, reaching
them. "Tom Brigham at your service, bondsman to Esquire Harrington."

"Bondsman?"
Ginny inquired, eyebrows raised.

"Debtor's
prison, mistress," Tom Brigham informed her succinctly. "Three more
years, and I’ll be a freedman, God willing. Tis a grand land then. Got my eye
on some three-hundred acres up Wolstenholme way."

"What's
that to do with us, man?" Giles asked testily. "Let us remove our
belongings from this public place before we
all melt in this damned
heat." He wiped the back of his hand over his brow, and Ginny noted with a
pang of guilt her husband's waxen, sweat-beaded complexion. He was still far
from recovered from the depredations of the voyage, and irascible arguments in
the heat were not going to improve his health or his temper.

"Indeed,
Master Brigham," she said swiftly, "if you can direct us to some shade,
we shall be right glad of it."

"I
can do better than that, mistress," Tom Brigham said cheerfully,
shouldering one of the bundles. "There's a chamber bespoke for you at the
inn, and we go down the river at dawn to Harrington Hundred. No, leave those,
sir," he gestured to Giles who was struggling with a chest. "There's
lads aplenty glad of the work, and they’re honest enough." He chuckled.
"Place is too small for theft to pass unnoticed, and they'll not risk
three days in the stocks—not in this heat."

Giles
was obliged to be satisfied with this assurance, and they followed the bondsman
up the track toward the stockade. The dark muzzles of cannon poked through
embrasures in the bulwarks, but they were the only signs that one was treading
a potentially hostile ground. Around the fort, a sizable community had sprung
up of brick and frame houses and shops set on cleared ground among the trees
that provided much-needed shade from the pitiless afternoon sun. Everywhere,
there was tobacco; it grew beside the streets in the market square, and in
every cottage garden.

"Here
we are, then." Tom Brigham stopped outside a fairly substantial brick
building. "The King James will see you comfortable for the night."

Accommodations,
however, were cramped and far from comfortable by London standards. Ginny found
herself allotted bed space in a crowded chamber above the wash house, while her
husband shared equally cramped quarters above the stables. The arrival of the
ships, the need to accommodate those passengers who were not immediately
transported to their final destinations, and also those colonists who had come
to town to collect goods and mail from the vessels left the inn bursting at the
seams.

Tom
Brigham having undertaken to retrieve all their possessions and have them loaded
onto the boats that were to convey them to Harrington Hundred the following
morning, Giles eventually succumbed to his wife's gentle persuasion and took to
his bed until dinnertime. Ginny, fastening a kerchief about her head against
the sun, set out to explore the town.

It was
a bustling, thriving place where the sound of hammer on anvil rang out from the
forge, horses tethered outside, patiently awaiting the blacksmith's attention.
Dogs roamed the streets freely, apparently sufficiently domesticated to leave
alone the chickens and ducks pecking in the gardens of row houses and cottages,
and to ignore the pigs and goats that wandered around with them. By far the
largest building was the church, and, as Ginny discovered when she entered into
conversation with a young woman tending her garden, it was also the most
important one. Services were held twice daily, and only the bedridden and dying
were excused an attendance enforced by the stocks and whipping post in the
marketplace.

When
the bell chimed, summoning the townsfolk to evening service, Ginny, as a result
of her conversation, was prepared. Giles, on the other hand, ranted against
canting Puritans all the way down the street. "Hush," Ginny said,
looking uneasily at the closed faces of those around them. "You must not
talk thus of their customs. We are newcomers and have no say as yet."

"I
do not need
you,
woman, to tell me what I may and may not do,"
Giles declared. "Sundays, high days, and holidays are sufficient for
church going, without this trekking back and forth to the pulpit every morning
and evening."

"Perhaps
it is a little less strict out of town," Ginny offered, hoping to placate
him sufficiently to ensure his silence on the subject. As his wife, she would
be tarred with the same brush, whatever her own views on the matter, or however
circumspectly she behaved, and she had no desire to fall foul of the Church
elders this early on. The thought of Giles in the stocks was one that could, on
occasion, afford her a certain grim pleasure, but it was not an experience she
wished to bring upon herself.

Fortunately,
her husband lapsed into silence and endured the lengthy service, in the company
of every man, woman, and child residing in Jamestown, with little more than an
irritable grunt and some fidgets.

Hare
pie in a rich claret sauce with quartered onions and thick lardons of bacon
provided some compensation at suppertime, and Giles was introduced to a fiery
spirit known as whiskey that the innkeeper said with well-deserved pride was
now more highly favored in these parts than English ale.

"Excellent!"
Giles agreed heartily, settling into the ingle-nook, accepting a clay pipe from
a fellow drinker. "As good as brandy, I declare."

"Cheaper,
too," someone chuckled. "Made right here, some ten miles up river out
of Indian corn."

Ginny's
eyebrows lifted. Her husband had found paradise, she thought sardonically,
gathering up dishes and taking them into the kitchen. Cheap, readily available
spirit to keep the miseries at bay! It boded ill for a life where only energy
and vigor could overcome the forces of wilderness, could succeed in
establishing the farm and plantation that was supposed to repair the Courtney
fortunes.

She
went up to the chamber above the wash house, early enough to stake claim to one
of the coveted outside edges of the bed, leaving her three bedfellows to argue
over the other. But it was a long time before she fell asleep as the mattress
seemed to move beneath her with the rhythm of the sea, and strange noises came
from outside, noises of an alien land where the wildlife was unfamiliar and
strange flying things buzzed and whined. Much later, she heard her husband's
voice from the yard below, thick and slurred as he staggered to his own bed
above the stables. She had that to be thankful for, at least. Since they had
left Southampton, she had been spared his angry, frustrated fumblings. Only the
desperate or shameless would have ventured intimacy in the crowded conditions
between decks on the
Elizabeth May,
even if he had not become sick soon
after sailing into the Channel. But she
could not expect circumstances
to continue in her favor once they were settled. They would hope to stay with
the Harringtons until they could build their own house on the five-hundred
acres granted to them. Perhaps, the Harringtons contained a large family in a
small house, and a privy chamber would not be available for their guests. On
that semioptimistic thought, Ginny fell asleep.

Dawn
brought a renewal of bustle, raised voices from the yard, the sound of horses'
hooves, the chink of bridle and bit. Ginny sprang from bed with a resurgence of
her old energy. She was here, safely landed in the New World, and a new life
awaited her. Throwing on her clothes with more than her usual speed, she
hastened down the stairs, crossed the yard, and entered the kitchen where Tom
Brigham was to be found, eating a veal collop at the table.

"Good
morrow, mistress," he greeted her cheerfully. "As soon as you've
broken your fast, we'll be on our way."

"By
all means," Ginny agreed, spreading a crust of bread generously with
slip-coat cheese. "But someone should wake my husband. He was late in his
bed last night and will be heavy-headed this morning, I'll be bound."

The
innkeeper's wife shot her a shrewd glance. "Depends on how good a head he
has for the whiskey." She poured Ginny some red-currant cordial.

Ginny
took it with a word of thanks but said no more on the subject of her husband's
head. It ill-befitted a wife to appear critical of her husband in any company,
but particularly not with servants and strangers.

Tom
Brigham went to call Giles, who eventually appeared, sullen and morose and
disinclined for talk, which suited Ginny admirably. At the landing stage, they
found canoes being loaded with supplies and the Courtney possessions. A burly
negro supervising these activities was introduced by Tom Brigham as Jonas, a
freed slave who had originally come from Africa as an indentured servant but
had been taken into perpetual bondage until Robert Harrington had freed him
last year.

Ginny
had found herself somewhat puzzled by the system of labor operating in
Virginia, and her questions in the inn of the preceding evening had seemed
lamentably naive, eliciting a degree of patient humoring and mockery with the
information. There were convicts and bondsmen like Tom, either sent out by the
government or bought by planters for their artisan skills, and indentured
servants willing to sell their craft and labor in exchange for passage and the
prospect of owning their own land once their indentures were worked out. And
then there were the negroes brought from Africa by Dutch and English traders to
be held in perpetual bondage by those who bought them to work the land.
Originally, they had come as indentured servants like their white counterparts,
but for some reason a new system had evolved, and now they were owned.

It was
very curious, Ginny thought, following Tom aboard the small sailboat that was
to carry the passengers, and somewhat distasteful. But again she reminded
herself that she was the stranger here, at the moment only a guest, and had no
right to question the customs and organizations of her hosts, not until she had
established a place for herself. The question of labor, however, was one she
and Giles were going to have to face for themselves soon enough. It was to be
hoped Cousin Harrington was willing to be free with advice and suggestions.

The
journey up river took three hours, and Ginny enjoyed every minute of them.
After half an hour, she persuaded Tom to yield up the tiller, which he did
willingly enough when he realized how skilled she was, and he settled down with
his pipe to enjoy the morning sun and the peace, as the river wound its way
between the green shores where richly colored birds dipped and soared amongst
the broad leaves of the majestic trees. Broad rippling circles on the surface
of the water indicated the presence of large fish, and gigantic dragonflies and
butterflies darted low over the bullrushes. Narrow creeks ran through the marsh
land on either side of the river, and every now and again a canoe would appear,
negotiating the creek to make its way out into the broad thoroughfare of the
river. The paddler would hail Tom and his little fleet of canoes, and there
would be an exchange of news or some pleasantry. Clearly, spread out though
they were, the tidewater planters and farmers maintained close contact, Ginny
thought. There was probably a good reason for it, too.

"Are
there Indians close by, Master Brigham?" she inquired, following through
on this thought.

"Name's
Tom, mistress," he said, puffing contentedly on the copper-bowled clay
pipe. "Aye, there'll be plenty of 'em, watching us from the forest. But
you'll not see them, unless they want to be seen."

Ginny
shivered at the thought of all those unseen eyes buried in the thick foliage
lining the shore. "Do they ever come out—I mean, into the town or the
settlements."

"Bless
you, yes." Tom chuckled, and Ginny again felt naive as she had done with
her questions about servants. "They come out to trade, and we go to them
to trade. There's been no real trouble with the Powhatan for quite some time.
Although," he added, "it's best to be ready for it. You'll find we
keep our swords and muskets handy by the door."

Harrington
Hundred stood on some eight-hundred acres of land, a square, substantial brick
house, its glazed windows and pantiles indicating prosperity, at the summit of
a broad slope facing the river. Another square building stood beside the
landing stage. "Tobacco warehouse," Tom informed Ginny.
"Shipyard's over to the left."