Free Reads

TWO
Virginia, 1748

Mercy Wakefield stared across the table at her round-cheeked neighbor and let her fork clatter to her plate.

“Surely, Mr. Murphy, you jest?” Lord, let him be jesting. Marriage?

“Why, no, Lass,” Hiram Murphy said. “I am quite serious. I know ye have not had enough time to mourn your father…God rest his soul, but there is a church down the way with a proper minister in residence. It could be spring before we come this way again, and no telling how long before we get another minister. Seems the right thing, Lass, is to make it all legal while we can.”

She lowered her gaze to her plate and dug deep for calm. But the congealing grease surrounding her breakfast of hashed potatoes made her gorge rise instead. Under no circumstances would she become this man’s wife. Yet, how to refuse him without offending him? Arrogant he may be, but it was because of him that she had been able to bring her wares down out of the mountains to trade for the supplies needed for the coming winter. If she angered him, no telling what would happen.

“Mr. Murphy, I am certain your judgment is sound. However, as you are aware, marriage is a sacred institution, and if I decide to enter into it, I want plenty of time for contemplation and prayer before doing so.” Not that she would choose to enter into it again, but the less he knew about her past, the better.

“Aye, of course, Lassie, ye are right,” he nodded, crunching down on a huge mouthful of bacon without bothering to close his mouth. “I would not have asked in such a crude manner if we weren’t so close to winter and ye weren’t in great need of a man at your place.”

Mercy wanted to tell him she did not need a man, but, for once, he was right. A husband, on the other hand, she did not need. A slave would be perfect; someone who would do as he was told, someone who would not try to flatter her in order to gain her farm or her heart. It was a shame she was against slavery, having been subjected to its cruelty once before. The best she could do was offer to pay folks for the help she needed. Surely, apple puddings and cakes, woolen blankets, shawls and rugs, perhaps even some furs come next spring might be good enough payment for the work she needed done.

“Are ye well, Lass? Ye have not eaten much of your breakfast.”

“Yes, Mr. Murphy. It is just that I am ready to be on my way home. I believe I shall go make sure my things are packed for the journey.”

“Ye can run, Lass, but ye know ye will have to make a decision. A woman can’t manage that farm all by herself.”

His words followed her as she left the dining room, but she did not turn back. Up the stairs she went, swallowing back bile all the way. She would not marry him, but would her offer to pay someone work out? What would she do if she could not find anyone willing? Her father would not have wanted her to spend the winter alone with no one to help with the chores, the gathering in of the rest of the crops, the hauling, splitting and chopping of wood, the hunting, the preparing of hides to sell next spring, the cooking and cleaning, the weaving and the never ending spinning so they would have wool for stockings, mittens and scarves. It had been all she and her parents and sister could do just to make it.

“What would you tell me to do, Papa?” With a rueful laugh, she topped the last step. She knew what her father would say. “Pray, daughter. Seek the Lord’s will. He will never let you down.”

The Lord would not let her down. She had let Him down, though.

“Pardon me, Missus, but Massa wanting to know if you want him to come haul anything down?”

Pausing by a window, she shifted her attention to the little slave girl bouncing from foot to foot. “Is Mr. Murphy ready so soon, Pansy?”

“No, Missus, he still eating. But he say he want to get on the road as soon as he done.”

“The only thing that needs carried down is my trunk.”

“I tell my pappy, and he come and bring it down.”

“That will be fine, Pansy. Thank you.”

“Yes, Missus.”

Turning back to the window, she caught sight of the river down below and allowed a sigh.

“Missus,” Pansy hesitated, “is there something wrong?”

“No, Pansy. I just realized how pretty the river is.”

“Prettier when the sun is shining.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I like to watch the men come and go on that ship.”

Following the young girl’s pointing finger, she spied the crowd of men. The ship was not a large one, but it was a sea fairing vessel.

“I reckon they are selling them men,” Pansy said, her voice small. “Looks like a few of them is in chains.”

Ignoring the sudden pang in her chest, she stepped away from the scene below. “Best get on back downstairs, Pansy.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she went into her room and closed the door. Rather a shame she did not agree with owning folks; one of those strong backs would be just what she needed. And, further her heathenish reputation to boot. If she were looking to ruin herself even more, she would go down there, use her money from her honey and wool and purchase one of them. Indentures, from the look of them, not a one of them dark skinned, a man looking to pay off his passage to the New World who would be glad for the chance to earn some land of his own. She could set him to do the hauling and chopping and hunting this winter, and she would even make him do a fair share of the spinning.

At that thought, a grown man bending to turn the spinning wheel round and round, she grinned. Then, she shook her head and called herself every kind of fool. Sweeping her gaze around the room to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything behind, she told herself to get it together. She was mad for sure, and she could hear her father’s voice now. “If you want folks to believe you have changed, then act like it.”

Touching a hand to her head, she tucked a stray strand of hair back beneath her kerchief, hoisted her bag upon her shoulder and opened the bedroom door. “That advice might have worked if you had not left me here alone with no choices, Papa.”

“Why, Miss Mercy, how you know I was coming?” Big Jim, Mr. Murphy’s head slave topped the last stair and grinned down at her.

“Just good timing,” she shrugged, moving out of his way. Then, at a shout from outside, she cocked her head and listened.

“That just Massa Hiram,” Big Jim told her, hoisting her trunk onto his back. “He in a temper on account of the livery man ain’t finished putting shoes on his favorite mount. The livery man say Massa say he come fetch him tomorrow, but Massa say he told that swindler he want him ready this morning.”

Falling in behind, she followed him down into the front room of the inn. As they neared the door, she heard the livery man’s raised voice. “I got orders coming out my ears, Murphy! You want me to do the job right now, it is going to cost you!”

Emerging out into the overcast morning, she was in time to see Hiram Murphy hand over a leather pouch that clinked when the aproned livery man shoved it into an inner pocket.

“Is there trouble, Mr. Murphy?”

“Nothing a few more minutes won’t take care of, Lass. Why don’t ye go ask that nice Mrs. Baldwin for a cup of tea while ye wait?”

“There isn’t anything holding me up. I shall just go on ahead.”

“Now, Lass, it ain’t right for a lone woman to be traveling by herself, and ye know it. The livery man won’t be long, I am sure.”

Biting her tongue, she swallowed her sigh of impatience and nodded. He was right, yet again. However, she had no intention of having tea with Mrs. Baldwin any time soon. The woman enjoyed hair-raising tales…rumors, mostly about Indian raids and supposed scalpings and kidnappings. What would the owner of the inn do, if she knew just how friendly her latest customer had been with said Indians?

“Mr. Murphy, may I take one of your boys with me as an escort to have a walk around the village?”

“Certainly, Lass! Big Jim,” he said to that man, “tell your boy Boaz and his sister Pansy to go with Miss Mercy and keep her safe. Now, be sure and come back shortly, Lassie.”

“Yes, Sir. I will, and thank you.”

“Which way you want to go, Miss Mercy?” Pansy asked at her elbow.

“It look rough down there by the dock,” Boaz said from her other side. He was tall and strong like his father and shuffled his feet in the dirt when she turned that way.

“We will just walk part way to the river. I heard there is a woman down there selling late season fruits.”

Boaz shook his head and rolled his eyes, but Pansy perked right up. Nothing wrong in looking at fruit, and it would give her a better view of the ship. Not that she was really going to buy one of the indentures, but there was little else to do while she waited.

Apples, pears, pumpkins, squashes, and gourds of every size, shape and color were on display. Pansy’s grin was infectious, and even Boaz left off looking bored and joined her at the table of gourds. They knew better than to touch them, but she was glad to see them enjoying themselves. Window shopping, her mother would have called it, even though there were no shops with windows around.

Remembering Mama hurt, so she stepped away from the displays of autumn treats, leaned a shoulder against the post that held up the awning over the fruit seller and allowed her eyes to scan the deck of the ship. A fight had broken out, and for a few minutes all she saw were arms and legs flailing every which way. Then, a short, rotund man put his fingers in his mouth and let go a shrill whistle. In seconds, the men separated into several groups; sailors, indentures in chains, and roughly dressed frontiersmen.

As she watched, order returned with men signing papers and walking off with one or two indentures. The only one who stood still among those on deck was a tall man fastened to the mainmast, his blonde hair streaming out in the sudden breeze that picked up.

She could not see his eyes from this distance, but unlike the others, he stood still and silent, back straight and chin lifted. There were lengths of iron around his neck and wrists. From his stillness, his feet must be in irons, as well. What horrible thing had the man done to warrant such restraint?

“Heard the captain is selling them mighty cheap. Mayhap, it is worth a look see, what with the long winter nights coming.”

She gasped and turned to stare at the old woman who, upon catching her eye, nodded toward the tall man on the ship. “I was not…”

“’Course not, Missus. I am just saying.”

Cheeks burning, she glanced back toward the ship. The crowd was thinning, but the man still stood chained to the mainmast.

“A man came by here a few minutes ago,” the fruit seller went on in her cracked voice. “Said a lot of those men had been seasick and not well cared for. I wish I had a need for one of them. Know what it is like being carted across the sea against my wishes, I do. Mayhap, your husband needs an extra pair of hands ’round the farm?”

Imagining what her former husband’s reaction would be to what she was considering, she coughed. “Mayhap, you are right, Madam.” Turning to Pansy and Boaz, she said, “Stay here and wait on me. I shall only be a few minutes. Madam, when I return, I would like a bag of those apples, if it is no trouble.”

The older woman named her price, she paid, then stepped away from the tent.

She was mad, truly mad. But there was no other recourse. Clenching her jaw, she forced her eyes not to look down at the choppy Potomac river and marched up the gangplank toward the captain of the ship.

****

Gabriel’s stomach was growling…not that anyone could hear it over the din…and the sharp corner of the mainmast was biting into the stripes on his back. It was not as if he could step away, though; the irons saw to that. There was one good thing about the collar and shackles; they kept him upright. Left to his own strength, he would have gladly settled into a heap on the deck.

Clenching his jaw, he dragged in a breath and shifted so that he had more of a clear view of the gangplank. A bookish man was waving a piece of paper and motioning toward Roberts. Would Gabriel be as fortunate as he, sold to a bespeckled city dweller, one who might not be able to give chase if he should run?

Lord, let it be so.

He would have liked to say a proper goodbye. He owed the man a great deal. Staying by him during the worst of times, Roberts would have made a good minister, better than himself could ever be.

Catching his friend’s eye as he walked away with the man who had purchased his indenture, he forced a smile. “God’s speed, brother,” he mouthed.

Roberts nodded then stepped passed a tight-lipped woman marching toward Captain Harty.

Out of place in the crowd of rough men, she wore a blue and white checked kerchief over her hair, but dark red wisps had escaped and were feathering at her ears in the stiff, rain scented breeze. The breeze had also grabbed hold of her skirts and was whirling them around her feet. Fisting them down at her sides, she raised her chin and squared her shoulders. Was she here alone to conduct business on her husband’s behalf?

“I am here to buy a man.”

At her pronouncement, the men milling about the ship laughed. Her face went red as an apple, and if possible, her back stiffened further. A storm would soon erupt, if she was anything like his sisters.

“Well, Lassie,” Captain Harty drawled, pulling his pipe from between his teeth, “ye can save your coin. I am willing for free.”

“Th-that is… I mean, I am interested in obtaining an indentured servant.”

“Ah, what a shame, Lassie. Well, have a look ’round. I ain’t got many left, but they’re all hearty men, great editions to your staff. When you are ready to make an offer, send your man to see me.”

The woman turned her face first this way then that, but when she faced Gabriel, she met his gaze head on. Her eyes were green with gold flecks and filled with such desperation that he caught his breath and made to reach out to her. She was afraid and fiercely determined to hide it. When the irons about his wrists clinked together, preventing him from further movement, he dropped his hands and looked away. He had not been able to help Katrina, either. What made him think he could do anything for this stranger? Bound as he was, he couldn’t even help himself.

“Unless your husband’s bigger than he is, that one’s not a good choice, Lass,” Harty shouted, as the woman stepped closer to him. “He’s a runner. Liable to leave you as soon as you get them irons off him.”

“Why are you holding him so fast? What has he done?”

“Attempted to kill himself,” Harty spat. “Knocked out one of my men’s teeth, when he tried to stop him. Almost drowned by the time we pulled him out of the water. Mouthy, too. No, Lassie, if you are looking for an obedient servant, best look over here at these two. They’re brothers and come from a farm back in England.”

The woman turned her head and studied the Ramsey brothers. Under her perusal, they straightened and tried to look lively, but the woman soon turned back and cocked an eyebrow at him. “What was this one’s trade?”

“Rich boy,” Harty scoffed. “Blamed landlubber is all I know. If he wasn’t chucking up his daily portion, he was praying for Jesus to save him.”

He bit back the urge to defend himself and waited. Now was not the time. Wait. With so much land and forest beyond the river, no matter who bought him, he would have plenty of time and space to run.

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied him from head to foot. When she stepped behind him, she lifted a handful of his hair then dropped it again.

“It appears,” she began, moving to stand before him once more, “that he has been injured at some point. I saw a trace of dried blood on the back of his shirt.”

“Ah, nothing time with the captain’s daughter didn’t cure, Lassie.”

Her eyes went round and her mouth formed a silent “oh.”

“Harty, you are in the presence of a lady. Show some courtesy. He means I was flogged with the cat-o-nine tails, Ma’am.”

Harty backhanded him across the face, making his head bang against the wooden mast. “You watch your mouth, choir boy, or I’ll have you keelhauled.”

“Captain, please,” the woman said. “I am sure there is no need for such violence.”

“Your pardon, Lass,” Harty smirked.

“How much does this man owe for his passage?” the woman asked.

“Ten pounds.”

For a moment she just looked stunned. Then, she shook her head and laughed. “He is liable to run, he is injured from a flogging, he could not keep down his daily portion of food, he is a fighter and suicidal. That is what you just told me. Is it not, Sir? Ten pounds? I think not.”

“Well, Lassie,” Harty growled, “what would ye be offering for the man, then?”

The woman appeared to be thinking about it, but there was a gleam in her eyes. She had a plan before ever coming on board; she was only playing the captain. He admired a woman with pluck and smiled. Serve the old pirate right, if he were beaten at his own game.

“Have you a sweet tooth, Captain? How does a quart of pure, fresh, Virginia honey straight from my beehives sound? And, what about those cold nights at sea? Woolen blankets would be just the cure, no?”

“Now, Lass, I hafta make a living just like the next man! What kind of man do you take me for?”

“A smart one, Captain.”

“The honey, the blankets, and five pounds.”

“The honey, the blankets, and two pounds,” the woman countered.

“Ye are trying to rob me blind, Lassie! This man is big and strong. Worth more than two pounds, blankets, and honey.”

“The blankets, the honey, and two pounds…two pounds in gold,” she finished, lowering her voice.

“Let me see.”

“I will have them delivered to you within the hour, Sir.”

“And, if I don’t receive them within the hour?”

“Then the man will remain in your possession. Now, I assume there are papers to sign?”

Captured by pirates, held in chains, and now sold to a woman for two pounds in gold, a couple of blankets and a jar of honey. At least it would be easier to make his escape. That is, if she saw fit to have his chains removed. Closing his eyes, he sent up a silent plea. One thing was certain: he would never take his freedom for granted, not ever again.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and at a cold drop of rain on his forehead, he opened his eyes. Lightning streaked across the sky, the wind picked up, and thunder boomed even closer. Was God trying to tell him something?

“I will guide your hand so you can make your mark. Here, take the quill.”

At the low voice, he glanced down to where the woman stood, quill and paper in her hand. “I can write my own name.”

She said nothing; just assisted him when the manacles impaired the movement of his hand.

“May I read this? I would like to know what I am agreeing to.”

“Later,” she said, blowing on the ink to dry it. “For now, we have to hurry back to the inn before that storm hits. Captain! Come release this man.”

He had become accustomed to the pitch and roll of the ship’s deck beneath him after weeks at sea. The moment his bare feet touched solid ground, he stumbled to his knees.

“What you going to do with him now, Lassie?” Harty boomed over the laughter erupting around them.

Could this get any worse? Pushing aside the hand the woman reached down to him, he braced a palm against the pebbled ground and tried to get his feet beneath him. Manacled as his ankles were though…Harty had only removed the thick chain about his waist…he was helpless to rise on his own.

“Here, allow me,” the woman said.

Yes, it most certainly could get worse. Without giving him a choice, the woman who had bought him slid her hands under his arms and hauled him to his feet. Squeezing his eyes shut, he dragged in lungfuls of air in spite of the tightness in his chest.

“How long since you have had anything to eat, Gabriel?”

Blinking open his eyes, he stared down into her concerned face. There was such kindness in her voice as she spoke his name, that he had to swallow back the lump gathering in his throat before answering.

“Your name is Gabriel, is it not?”

“Aye, My Lady. Gabriel Mackenzie. Your servant, Ma’am.”

The bow he attempted fell far from perfect, as she was still holding him steady, but it eased the worry in her expression and helped him center himself once more.

“Well, Gabriel, I am Mercy Wakefield, and I will see that you have something to eat as soon as possible. First things first though, we will stop and collect Boaz and Pansy, and then I shall take you to the blacksmith’s to get those irons removed. Come now,” she finished, wrapping an arm around his waist, “one step at a time.”

The going was slow due to the short length of chain between his ankles, but she did not hurry him. When they reached a woman selling fruit, she paused and called out to a couple of black children standing about. “Boaz, Pansy, bring the apples I bought and come. We must get back to the inn.”

Seeing him, the youths stared bug-eyed, but the fruit seller gave his mistress a wink, slapped her knee and guffawed. “Heehee! Winter won’t be so long now, will it, Missus?”

With the boy, Boaz, on one side and his mistress on the other, he struggled forward and fought to keep from passing out. The storm grew closer, and the crowd around them thinned, but it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. When they reached a blacksmith’s shed, they guided him onto a bench and handed him an apple.

“Here is something to tide you over. Wait here with Boaz and Pansy while I make some arrangements.”

He gripped the apple with both hands and, mouthwatering, bit into its crisp tartness. Juice splattered his face, but he didn’t care; it was heaven after weeks of pasty gruel and weavely hardtack.