Caxton (11 page)

T
he household staff of Meum Hall, fearing their new master and anxious for
their futures, contrived to be as unobtrusive as shadows in his presence. Hugh,
absorbed for the first few weeks of his residence in familiarizing himself with
the property, was aware of his staff only as a series of bodies hastening at
his beck, call, and command. He was a fascinated prisoner of the engrossing
greed of ownership, and did not notice much else around him.

Rupert Beecroft, the business agent who doubled as steward, was the most worried.
He and most of the household were holdovers from Covington Brougham’s days.
Under Amos Swart’s dilatory, slovenly, and often abusive management, Beecroft
and his colleagues had grown accustomed to taking what they thought was their
due from an unjust master. Their larceny and studied pilferage was motivated
partly by necessity, and partly from a vengeful loyalty to the memory of Covington
Brougham. Beecroft, to protect himself and the staff, became adept at juggling
Brougham Hall’s account books, able to hide actual income, costs, and inventory
from an employer who was rarely alert to the discrepancies in the plantation’s
balances, debits, and credits.

William Settle, the overlooker who also acted as steward, was responsible for
the physical maintenance of the property and for seeing that tasks were accomplished
on time. Under Beecroft’s blind eye, he had managed to siphon off about ten
percent of the value of Swart’s annual crop, which value went into the purchase
of land in York County.

The housekeeper, Ann Vere, originally came to Brougham Hall as an indentured
servant, and helped to raise Feli´se, Covington’s daughter, from an infant.
She had come to treat the girl as her own daughter. She had never forgiven Swart
for the girl’s death years ago. It was she who had secretly suggested to Sheriff
Tippet that Feli´se Swart was smothered that tragic night with a pillow, and
that Swart, in a calculated ruse to establish his innocence, slept at the side
of his dead wife until a servant failed to wake her the next morning.

Fiona Chance, the cook, another former indenture, regularly sold meat and vegetables
from Brougham Hall’s stocks and gardens to Caxton’s ordinaries, taverns, and
shipmasters, and pocketed the proceeds.

Radulphus Spears was brought to Brougham Hall as an indentured tutor for hire
to other planters’ families. Swart had demoted him to servant and valet. Spears
became deft in channeling chest loads of plate, cutlery, and bric-a-brac into
the markets and shops of nearby towns.

Spears performed another service in memory of the Brougham family. Once there
had been over five hundred volumes in Covington Brougham’s library; only three
hundred and fifty remained. Some fifty of the missing volumes were used over
the years as kindling by Swart. The other missing hundred had found their way,
thanks to their steady removal by Spears, onto the shelves of gentlemen’s libraries
in a dozen Virginia counties. Spears, a learned man, respected books; they paid
him better and more often than did his master.

Amos Swart, as a rule unshaven, bellicose, cruel, and half-sober, did not miss
the things he either placed no value on, or had no knowledge of. Beecroft and
his charges maintained a united front of implicit deference and efficiency.
Proportionately, however, they gained more from contemptuous dishonesty in the
furtive liquidation of the estate than had their master. Swart’s staff was the
commendable envy of many planters. Other planters suspected why so many worthy
people continued in the employ of such an unworthy man. But neither the envious
nor the suspicious among them ever communicated their thoughts to Amos Swart.

The staff’s wariness of Hugh Kenrick was based, initially, on fear of his unknown
character, coupled with the knowledge of his elite pedigree. This fear diminished,
after a time, once they realized that their young master was not callous, arbitrary,
whimsical, or given to drink or brutality. A new fear quickened their movements:
that their larceny would be found out. Hugh Kenrick, they discovered, was a
just man, as liberal with his compliments as with his criticisms and condemnations.

“Mr. Beecroft,” he said one evening to the business agent after spending half
a day examining the account books, “henceforth you will keep neater and more
legible ledgers. For example, I could not, at first, distinguish your ‘ones’
from your ‘sevens,’ until I had recalculated some of your sums. And, many important
entries were smudged and unreadable. Please refrain from touching new entries
until they have dried. I noticed also that too many of those entries were inked
over the ghosts of pencil entries. That untidy habit will cease.”

Mr. Beecroft nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Hugh rose from the business agent’s desk and went to the door. He paused long
enough to turn and add, “And, Mr. Beecroft, please tell the others this, and
mark it well: It will stop, or I shall find replacements, and you and they shall
find themselves in Mr. Tippet’s jail.” He held the agent’s glance for a moment
to convey the unmistakable meaning of his words. The agent pursed his lips,
blinked once, and said, “Yes, sir.” Hugh opened the door and left.
“Mrs. Vere, you will dust the books in the study once a month. With the exception
of the ones I brought with me, their tops are thick with dust, and teeming with
insects, alive and dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I found a plant growing in the mud that has accumulated in the corner of one
of the bed chambers. And enough dirt has collected beneath the wainscoting in
the central hall that it could spawn a row of beets. It must all be removed.
Find a small rug in Mr. Rittles’s shop in town, or in Mr. McRae’s, and place
it outside the main door. Instruct everyone who comes to that door to wipe their
shoes on it before they enter. The floors must be swept and kept clean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Spears, you will help Mrs. Vere remove the mattress from my bed chamber,
then have it burned. Not all of Mr. Swart’s small companions departed with him.
Replace it with one from one of the other chambers. If I fail to rise at five
in the morning, you will see that I do, unless otherwise instructed. I take
coffee in the mornings, and tea at dinner. I dress myself. You will simply see
that my public garb is regularly laundered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The inventory of books in the library is useless. You will draw up a new one,
and maintain it, for I expect to add more volumes in future.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miss Chance, you will henceforth wash all meat, vegetables, and fruit in a
tub of boiled water, making sure that the water is then only tepid, before preparing
anything for consumption at my table. Yesterday at supper Iencountered some
foreign matter on my plate. I could not identify it. The tub water in turn must
not be consumed or reused, but taken out to freshen the gardens. Here is a list
of my likes and dislikes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Settle, you will have constructed a shed in which to deposit manure and
other compost a suitable distance from any habitation. The collection of this
fertilizer, I have observed, is irregular and haphazard, and thus a waste of
time. I want it collected every other day. You will also have collected all
the quahog shells that litter the place, and have them ground to dust and added
to the compost, for plowing into the soil when necessary. I have read that these
shells are good nourishment for the soil.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hugh and the overlooker rode together around the plantation. It was a crisp,
late November afternoon. They stopped to watch the slaves uproot and gather
the bare tobacco stalks into piles. “Mr. Settle, what is the most worrisome
concern for any planter?”
“Watering the fields, sir,” answered the overlooker. “Rain, or lack of it.”
“Yes. And that problem will be solved. This property will not depend for its
sustenance on the whims of the weather. The solution to it lies somewhere here.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Settle. “The prizing of the hogsheads is nearly done, sir.
There are six ’heads of nearly nine hundred fifty pounds each, and one of a
thousand. Shall I have your mark put on them, or Mr. Swart’s?” Each planter
branded his tobacco hogsheads with his own unique mark, which was sometimes
a figure, but more often his initials.
“Mr. Swart’s,” said Hugh. “I am not responsible for their contents. Next year’s
crop will bear my initials. The capital letters ‘H’ and ‘K,’ with the ‘K’ formed
on the right down stroke of the ‘H.’” After a moment, he added, more as an afterthought
to himself, “My initials, perhaps set in the silhouette of an ascending sparrowhawk.”
He urged his mount forward, and Mr. Settle followed. Hugh said, “These stalks,
Mr. Settle: have them chopped into lengths of one inch or so, and add them to
the compost. There are nutrients in them that are otherwise wasted.”
The overlooker frowned. “We usually burn the stalks, sir, and plough in the
ashes.”
“No more. We will experiment with unburned stalks for a few seasons. I believe
they will make a difference.” Hugh asked, “Has this place ever sold produce
to the town?”
“Not since Mr. Brougham’s time, sir,” the overlooker said too quickly, trying
to keep knowledge of Fiona Chance’s secret trade with Caxton’s taverns from
his words.
“I see,” remarked Hugh. He stopped his mount to survey a cleared field. The
overseer, John Ockhyser, could be seen in the distance, standing on a tree stump,
a fowling piece cradled in his arms, watching some slaves clear away corn stalks.
Hugh said, “I noted in Mr. Beecroft’s records that Mr. Ockhyser was hired after
Mr. Brougham’s passing. He is, in fact, the sole one of you who did not know
Mr. Brougham.”
“That is true, sir.”
“What is he like?”
“Able, sir. The boys heed him.”
Hugh rode on without further comment. They came to the end of the estate, near
Hove Creek, and paused in a stand of bamboo trees that covered a wide patch
of flat ground. “Who owns the other side of the creek, Mr. Settle?”
“No one, sir. No one owns either bank of the creek, from beginning to end. That
was arranged years ago, before my employ, when all these properties were being
surveyed and laid out. It’s to prevent disputes over water rights. The creek
is little used, sir. If we need extra water, we go to the river.”
“Has no one ever damned the creek, or built a mill on it?”
“No, sir. Not even Mr. Vishonn or the others. There’s not enough water or force
in it to run a mill.”
Hugh studied the creek for a while, and observed how, from his side of it, his
property gradually inclined. He sat in his saddle for a long while, thinking.
He read the records of the staff and obtained from Mr. Settle the slaves’ records.
The tenures of all the indentures had expired years ago. The slaves were second
and third generation adults, all but two born at Brougham Hall. Two field hands
were purchased by Brougham from another planter in Gloucester, for forty pounds
each. Amos Swart, he saw, had inherited forty slaves; four had died during his
residence, while six had “run away” and were never returned or brought back
for a £10 bounty, the advertisement for which Hugh found in the records, as
well.
Hugh summoned John Ockhyser to his library that evening. Ockhyser was a tall,
burly, grubby man who carried a pistol and a rolled-up whip in his belt. He
was, to Hugh’s knowledge, the only man in Caxton who sported a beard, a tangled
mat in which Hugh noticed some tiny things crawling. Hugh did not like the looks
or manner of the man, and did not bid him to sit down. He asked, “What are your
duties here, Mr. Ockhyser?”
Ockhyser blinked once in surprise. “Why, to see that the Negroes get done what
Mr. Settle says need doing.”
“How do you accomplish that?”
Ockhyser shrugged. “By being there to remind them what’ll happen if they don’t
get it done.” The overseer paused. “They need watchin’, Mr. Kenrick. All the
time.”
“I’m certain they do.” Hugh nodded to the pistol and whip. “How often do you
use your tools, Mr. Ockhyser?”
“Now and then, sir, if they earn it, and when I get permission from Mr. Swart,
or you, sir.”
“Have you any other trade?”
“I tried farming for a while, up river, after I left off sailing. Was a bosun’s
mate for years. But the farm didn’t work out. Mr. Swart put a notice in the
newspapers and I saw it and he hired me.”
“I will address these people tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Ockhyser, in their quarters,
before dinner. You will accompany me.”
Ockhyser frowned. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, sir, their day off. A preacher comes and
talks to them in their quarters, sometimes.”
“That’s as may be. Come here at one of the clock. You may leave.”
“Yes, sir.” Ockhyser scrutinized Hugh for a moment. “You’re not afeared of them,
are you, Mr. Kenrick?”
“No, Mr. Ockhyser, I am not. At least, not for the reason
you
might be.”
Hugh smiled pointedly, but the overseer did not seem to grasp the allusion.
“That is all, Mr. Ockhyser. I will meet you in front of this house at one of
the clock. Be punctual.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hugh had put off addressing the slaves until last, chiefly because he did not
know what to say to them. He felt no guilt for having bought them; they were
regarded as property and had come with the plantation, like its tools, outbuildings,
and livestock. Legally, he owned the slaves; in his mind, he did not. He felt
that he owed them something more than assurances that he would not abuse them.
That Sunday afternoon Hugh stood on a rock in front of about thirty curious,
upturned black and brown faces in the slave quarter. Beyond the group was a
long, weatherworn wooden barracks that was home for most of the unmarried men.
Another, smaller shack housed the women and the few children. In a round pit
nearby brooded a low fire, over which were suspended from an iron pole some
copper and iron pots of soups and stews.
Ockhyser stood to one side of Hugh, slightly behind him, a pipe in one hand
and his loaded fowling piece in another. He wore a wide brim felt hat that shaded
his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. Hugh turned to him and asked for his
whip. The overseer hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly took it from his
belt and handed it to his employer. Hugh held it at rest in front of him, the
fingers of both hands wrapped tightly around the raw, greasy grip. Ockhyser,
noting his employer’s stance, looked hopeful and permitted himself a smile.
Hugh looked at each of the adult faces gazing up at him, and tried to imagine
that each of them was a Glorious Swain. Then he spoke. “I am Hugh Kenrick, owner
of this place. It was once called Brougham Hall. I have renamed it Meum Hall.
I own this place, but, before God and nature, I do not own any of you, although
the laws of this colony, and of England, contradict both nature and my knowledge.”
He paused for a moment. “I have as little to say to you, at this time, as you
have to me. So, I shall be brief and say what is most on my mind. You may speak
yours afterward, if you wish. I am not permitted to manumit a single one of
you without the sanction of a bill having passed the House in Williamsburg and
made law. And it is more likely that I would win a wager on which one of a dozen
raindrops would first course down a window pane, than it is that such a bill
would secure the mutual assent of the House, the Governor’s Council, and the
Governor himself. So, I must find another way of retaining your services as
freed men. Until then, you shall at least be paid like them, in coin or in kind,
according to your skills and abilities.”
Hugh held the dumbstruck faces for a moment, then raised the whip in one hand
and said, “This is not my way.” Then he tossed it disdainfully into the fire
in the pit.
The pipe dropped from Ockhyser’s mouth. The overseer took a step forward to
rescue the whip and to protest, but thought better of it and said nothing. The
slaves began to whisper among themselves. Some of their faces were incredulous,
others uncomprehending. An adolescent boy crept up to the fire and stared into
it. The whip had caught fire instantly, and was now an unraveling coil of flame.
The boy frowned and stared up at Hugh.
One of the men spoke. “You mean to free us, Master Kenrick?”
“In time,” said Hugh, “when I have found a means that penalizes neither you
nor me.”
Another man asked, “You want us to work off what you paid for us, like the white
slaves do, Master Kenrick?”
Hugh shook his head. “No. You all repaid your original owner’s cost to him ten-
or twenty-fold, long ago. If your appraised value was part of the amount I paid
to purchase this place, then that is a cost I am willing to absorb.”
One of the women stepped forward and the crowd became silent. She said, “You
are a very Christian man, Master Kenrick, to say you will free us.” There was
an unmistakable irony in her words, one that verged on scorn.
Hugh studied the woman for a moment, then asked, “What is your name, madam?”
Many of the men, and all of the women, laughed when they heard this style of
address. The laughter was directed at the woman, not at Hugh. The woman scowled
at the crowd, then turned and answered, “My name is Dilch, Master Kenrick.”
Hugh smiled, then said, “Well, Dilch, I am not certain I am very Christian.
But I do know that your free services are neither free of cost nor practical.”
He paused. “Were you in my position, and I in yours, could you ever be certain
that I rendered the value of the service you thought was due you from me?”
After a moment of thought, the woman said, “We can’t know what we would think,
Master Kenrick. Free services is just as cloudy as free words. If you don’t
need to pay for something, there ain’t nothin’ you can truly and rightly expect
it to give you back. Could be your body and soul, or twixt them, or nothin’
at all.”
The frank honesty of Dilch’s words was punctuated by the ominous silence of
the crowd of slaves. They had never heard one of their number speak in such
a manner to any slave owner, nor to any other white person. The crowd stood
braced for an angry retort from the elegant young man, who, they had heard,
came from a family of princes.
Hugh smiled again in genuine appreciation of the woman’s reply. “Ably put, Miss
Dilch,” he said. “My point exactly.”
The crowd gasped. Dilch was considered the wisest and strongest woman in the
quarter, wise in her common sense, strong in her character. Few of the men were
willing to argue with her, and none of the women. She had even corrected Ockhyser,
and had been cursed and punched by him for the impudence. Her right cheek bore
a scar from the barrel of the overseer’s pistol. Ockhyser hated her because,
even though she terrified the other slaves with her “mouth” — as he called her
talent for arguing — the others implicitly supported her whenever necessary.
She had an indomitable will that refused to submit to anything but brutality
or the threat of it. The overseer had always wanted to whip her to within a
few weary pants of death, but she had never given him an excuse to use the hide
on her. He had spent that urge on many of the others.