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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In her historical novel "The Old Dominion," Mary Johnston masterfully weaves a rich tapestry that captures the essence of Virginia's early history and its complex societal dynamics. Set during the 17th century, the narrative intricately explores themes of loyalty, conflict, and the quest for identity against the backdrop of colonial expansion. Johnston's lyrical prose immerses readers in the lush landscapes and turbulent events that shaped the Old Dominion, employing a balance of vivid description and character-driven storytelling that highlights the interplay between personal and political struggles. This novel not only reflects the historical intrigues of the time but also serves as a commentary on the human condition in the face of adversity and change. Mary Johnston was an influential American author and a prominent figure in early 20th-century literature, known for her dedication to portraying historical subjects with depth and authenticity. Her background in writing, combined with her keen interest in American history, especially in relation to women's roles and contributions, prompted her to embark on the ambitious journey of "The Old Dominion." Johnston's experiences and observations of her Southern heritage undoubtedly fueled her desire to capture the spirit and trials of those who forged the foundation of Virginia. For readers interested in historical fiction that combines literary elegance with historical richness, "The Old Dominion" is an essential addition to their collection. Johnston's insightful exploration of the interpersonal and societal conflicts of early colonial life provides a profound understanding of a formative period in American history, making it a compelling read for both history lovers and literary aficionados. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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The Old Dominion
Table of Contents
Introduction
A young province becomes a testing ground where memory, ambition, and allegiance wrestle for the shape of a common life. In The Old Dominion, Mary Johnston turns toward Virginia as an idea as much as a place, tracing how land, law, and custom press upon the people who call it home. The title signals a sustained engagement with origins and continuities—what endures, what changes, and what must be reckoned with. Rather than offering a museum piece, Johnston crafts a living canvas, attentive to tides of history and the everyday textures through which large designs become human experience.
The book is best approached as a historically grounded narrative centered on Virginia—long known as the Old Dominion—by the American author Mary Johnston. Published around the turn of the twentieth century, it belongs to a moment when readers sought vigorous reimaginings of colonial beginnings and regional identity. Johnston, widely associated with historical subjects, situates her work in the landscapes and legacies of the Chesapeake world. The genre emphasis is on history-inflected storytelling: a blend of atmosphere, movement, and reflection rather than documentary chronicle. The setting ranges across tidewater and interior, drawing meaning from geography as much as from public events.
The premise invites readers to accompany a community in formation, watching as scattered outposts cohere into a society shaped by waterways, trade, governance, and custom. Without fastening on a single episode, the narrative gathers scenes and currents that illuminate how a province develops its sense of order and belonging. The experience is one of immersion: you feel the pull of rivers and the press of forests, hear the challenges of distance and dependence, and witness the gradual weaving of institutions. It offers a steady, resonant pace—action when needed, contemplation when earned, and a continuous attention to how place molds character.
A principal theme is the negotiation between inherited authority and new-world circumstance. The Old Dominion asks how laws travel, how they are altered by necessity, and how allegiance is tested at the edge of empire. It also probes the costs of settlement—the bargains struck with uncertainty, the labor demanded by land, the frictions among classes and interests. Throughout, Johnston foregrounds the doubleness of beginnings: hope intertwined with hazard, enterprise with restraint. The narrative suggests that community is not merely declared but built, and that the forces of environment, economy, and aspiration continually reshape the pattern of life.
Readers today may find the book’s questions unexpectedly contemporary. How do nations frame origin stories, and where does myth blur with memory? What responsibilities arise when celebrating a storied past, and how can admiration coexist with scrutiny? Johnston’s treatment does not reduce the Old Dominion to romance; it attends to complexity without forfeiting narrative lift. The book encourages a reflective reading practice—one that notices the river beneath the surface of events. By exploring the making of a place, it gestures toward the making of identity, inviting consideration of what we inherit, what we discard, and what we choose to renew.
Stylistically, Johnston writes with amplitude and clarity, preferring lucid cadence over ornament while remaining alert to sensory detail—light on water, the lay of fields, the structure of a courthouse square. Her scenes often open outward, linking private endeavor to public consequence, and her transitions carry a quiet authority. The mood moves from brisk to meditative, from the immediacy of tasks to the long view of time. Readers who enjoy historically atmospheric storytelling—anchored in landscape, concerned with custom, and attentive to the slow growth of institutions—will find in this book a measured, engrossing companion.
Approached in this spirit, The Old Dominion becomes not only a window onto Virginia’s formative character but also a mirror in which to consider how communities everywhere are made. Johnston’s work offers breadth without abstraction and warmth without sentimentality, encouraging patience with process and sympathy for imperfect builders. It welcomes both first-time explorers of regional history and seasoned admirers of historical narrative. Entering its pages, expect steady guidance rather than spectacle, an emphasis on continuity rather than surprise, and an abiding faith that the past, closely observed, can still widen the present reader’s sense of possibility.
Synopsis
Mary Johnston’s The Old Dominion presents a broad historical narrative of early Virginia, following the colony from its precarious beginnings to a confident, if contested, society. Opening on the tidal rivers where English newcomers stake their hopes, the story traces the hazards of hunger, disease, and uncertain alliances. A central figure—an ambitious but unestablished settler—arrives with scant resources and a desire for footing in the New World. The landscape, both generous and unforgiving, sets the rhythm of survival. Early leaders balance necessity with authority, while the settlers learn the disciplines of planting, building, and bargaining. The colony’s character takes shape as individuals confront risk, scarcity, and opportunity in equal measure.
The narrative emphasizes fragile coexistence with neighboring Indigenous communities, charting trade, misunderstandings, and intermittent conflict. Johnston portrays council meetings, stockade nights, and wary exchanges across riverbanks, keeping the focus on pragmatism over romance. As the settlers adapt, the skills that sustain life—clearing fields, curing meats, navigating tides—are presented matter-of-factly. Tobacco, first a tentative experiment, emerges as a lifeline, altering priorities and settlement patterns. The protagonist learns the colony’s unwritten codes and the costs of missteps, surviving through observation and restraint. Personal fortunes remain volatile, dependent on weather, credit, and the shifting mood of distant authorities. The colony endures not through grand gestures but through persistent, incremental hard work.
With tobacco’s success, land and labor become central concerns. Johnston outlines headrights, land patents, and the spread of plantations up the waterways. Families arrive, stabilizing the once-transient encampments; churches, courts, and fairs lend rhythm to communal life. The protagonist gains a modest foothold—either as a trusted manager or a small proprietor—while navigating debts to factors and obligations to patrons. Social hierarchies harden, yet aspirations remain fluid enough to reward diligence and luck. The practicalities of planting seasons, shipping schedules, and warehouse inspections provide structure. Within this maturing order, tensions around labor practices, including the growing reliance on bound and enslaved workers, become increasingly prominent and consequential.
Expansion into the interior intensifies competition for land and trade. Johnston depicts petty rivalries and large disputes alike—survey lines crossing, traders contesting routes, and magistrates weighing claims. A seasoned mentor counsels prudence; an ambitious rival tests limits; the governor’s officers enforce policies that safeguard revenue and order. Taxes, trade monopolies, and export restrictions stir discontent, even as prosperity expands. Public life widens: assembly days, petitions, and the first stirrings of rhetoric about rights and obligations. The protagonist, now invested in land and reputation, must balance local interests with loyalty to colonial administration. Choices made in this period set the stage for rifts that will later widen.
Rural grievances and frontier alarms converge into a sharp crisis that tests institutions and loyalties. The book presents musters on the green, hurried fortifications, and tense council sessions while avoiding sensational detail. Neighbors divide along lines of caution and boldness; leaders maneuver to quell unrest without destroying legitimacy. The protagonist, implicated by friendship and position, confronts a decision that could imperil standing or conscience. The conflict subsides with visible scars—burned clearings, altered alliances, and stricter oversight. In its aftermath, communities reckon with losses and lessons, and the colony resumes its routines under watchful authority, sobered but not broken by the ordeal.
A renewed order emerges with a more formal capital, courts, and a college shaping manners and ambitions. Johnston shows the colony’s cultural rise—assemblies, lectures, and a measured elegance in houses and dress—alongside the practical commerce of warehouses and wharves. The next generation pursues law, trade, and surveying, extending networks into town and backcountry. Enslaved labor becomes codified and pervasive, anchoring wealth while deepening moral and social divisions. The protagonist’s household evolves through marriages and partnerships that consolidate or overextend fortunes. Public service, from parish vestry to the assembly, becomes a pathway to influence, and local policy debates foreshadow broader constitutional questions.
Prosperity brings cycles of debt and recovery as planters rely on distant markets and credit. Johnston balances scenes of refinement—music, books, and gardens—with the rigors of hurricanes, fires, and lean harvests. A journey westward reveals new valleys and contested boundaries, underscoring the colony’s scale and diversity. Legal disputes, elections, and an occasional duel illustrate an honor-bound society learning to submit private passions to public order. Bonds with London remain strong yet increasingly transactional. The protagonist’s family navigates these crosscurrents, seeking stability in an economy prone to swings. Step by step, the colony’s political culture matures, more articulate and self-aware than in its improvisational youth.
Imperial wars and fiscal measures tighten the ties—and frictions—between colony and Crown. Nonimportation agreements, resolutions in the assembly, and sermons on liberty bring abstract principles into daily life. Johnston presents these developments through scenes of debate, committee work, and town meetings, emphasizing procedure and persuasion over spectacle. Businessmen reckon with disrupted trade; planters weigh duty against autonomy; lawyers argue precedents. Families divide in outlook, though community ties endure. The protagonist, mindful of past unrest, approaches change deliberately, recognizing the risks of haste and the costs of acquiescence. A distinctly Virginian identity coalesces, grounded in land, law, and a shared memory of trials endured.
The book closes at a poised moment, with public sentiment shifting and private commitments tested, yet without leaping into the decisive events that lie ahead. Johnston’s narrative affirms the colony’s resilience: a society shaped by rivers and seasons, bound by habit and aspiration, and tempered by conflict and compromise. The Old Dominion is portrayed as a place where ambition is disciplined by responsibility, and where local experience refines inherited traditions. The final cadence underscores continuity as much as change, suggesting that the people who built this world are prepared—by long practice—to confront larger questions, while leaving the resolution of those questions beyond the confines of the story.
Historical Context
Mary Johnston’s The Old Dominion is rooted in the landscapes and social formations of Virginia, the colony and later commonwealth whose nickname titles the work. The temporal canvas centers principally on the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when tidewater plantations along the James, York, and Rappahannock Rivers consolidated wealth and power, and when Williamsburg served as the capital (1699–1780). The book’s settings evoke coastal marshes, pine barrens, and the Piedmont’s advancing frontier, placing characters within Atlantic trade circuits that connected London, the Caribbean, and West Africa. Johnston’s Virginia is a polity built from charters and assemblies, but also from contested ground—an arena where imperial policy, indigenous resistance, and planter ambition collide.
The colony’s founding under the Virginia Company of London (charter 1606) and the settlement at Jamestown (1607) supply essential background. Three ships—the Susan Constant, Godspeed, and Discovery—landed at the James River under Christopher Newport, while John Smith emerged as a key leader. Crisis defined the first decade: the “Starving Time” of 1609–1610 decimated the population, and martial regimes such as Sir Thomas Dale’s Laws Divine, Moral and Martial imposed discipline. In 1619, the General Assembly (later the House of Burgesses) convened, offering a precedent for representative governance in English America. The book’s scenes echo these crucibles, using early councils, forts, and fields to illustrate how precarious survival seeded political institutions.
Anglo-Powhatan relations shaped the colony’s first half-century. The Powhatan paramount chiefdom initially pursued cautious diplomacy; the 1614 marriage of Pocahontas and John Rolfe momentarily eased tensions. Opechancanough’s coordinated assaults in 1622 killed roughly a quarter of English settlers, and renewed attacks in 1644 ended with his capture and death in 1646. The Treaty of 1646 and, later, the Treaty of Middle Plantation (1677) confined tributary nations and formalized English dominance. Johnston’s narrative mirrors these cycles of negotiation, reprisal, and treaty, situating plantation clearings and new roads against displaced villages and guarded frontiers, and revealing how violence, trade, and diplomacy jointly authored the map of the Old Dominion.
Tobacco, perfected for export by John Rolfe by 1612 and shipped in volume by 1617, anchored Virginia’s economy. The headright system (1618) rewarded immigration and fueled land accumulation. Labor demand first drew on indentured Europeans and, from 1619, enslaved Africans brought by the White Lion. Across the late seventeenth century, law hardened bondage’s racialization: a 1662 statute made condition follow the mother; comprehensive slave codes in 1705 entrenched chattel slavery. Demography reflects the transformation: Virginia’s enslaved population grew to about 10,000 by 1700, 120,000 by mid-century, and roughly 292,627 by 1790. The book’s plantations, warehouses, and countinghouses render tobacco’s profits—and the coerced labor, surveillance, and family rupture that produced them.
Bacon’s Rebellion (1676) dramatized fracturing colonial society. Sparked by frontier violence with Susquehannock and allied groups (1675) and Governor William Berkeley’s restraint, Nathaniel Bacon rallied planters, servants, and freeholders, issuing the “Declaration in the Name of the People.” Militia actions, factional terror, and the burning of Jamestown (September 1676) followed. Bacon died of dysentery in October; reprisals restored Berkeley’s control, though London later recalled him. Elite leaders subsequently expanded racial slavery and tightened surveillance, a strategy to divide potential multiracial coalitions. Johnston uses such turmoil to frame clashes between backcountry grievance and tidewater oligarchy, portraying how frontier insecurity, patronage politics, and export capitalism collided in Virginia’s crucible.
After the capital moved to Williamsburg in 1699, gentry culture matured around the Capitol, Governor’s Palace, and the College of William & Mary (chartered 1693). Anglican establishment shaped civil life, while county courts and vestries governed locally. The Great Awakening reached Virginia in the 1740s; Presbyterian minister Samuel Davies (active in Hanover County, 1747–1759) preached to both free and enslaved hearers, widening religious discourse and challenging establishment norms. Entail and inheritance practices sustained planter dynasties until late eighteenth-century reforms. In the book, parish processions, court days, and assemblies provide texture to a society stratified by rank and race, yet periodically unsettled by evangelical critique and the ambitions of middling planters.
Imperial crisis and revolution form the colony’s culminating upheaval. Patrick Henry’s Virginia Resolves (1765) challenged the Stamp Act; nonimportation compacts (from 1769) and the creation of extralegal conventions followed parliamentary dissolutions. Lord Dunmore’s Proclamation (November 1775) promised freedom to enslaved people who joined British forces, raising the war’s stakes; the Battle of Great Bridge (December 1775) expelled royal troops from Norfolk. The capital shifted to Richmond in 1780 as British raids intensified; the Yorktown campaign ended in Cornwallis’s surrender (19 October 1781). Postwar, Virginia enacted the 1782 manumission law and Jefferson’s Statute for Religious Freedom (1786). Johnston’s scenes of militias, conventions, and contested loyalties portray a province becoming a state.
As social and political critique, The Old Dominion exposes the moral economy of a society built on bound labor, landed privilege, and dispossession. By staging courts, vestries, and assemblies alongside auction blocks and patrols, the book underscores how law naturalized inequality while claiming liberty. It interrogates planter oligarchy, the precarity of smallholders, and the violence pressed upon indigenous polities and enslaved families. Set against revolution’s rhetoric, its attention to Dunmore’s Proclamation, wartime confiscations, and postwar reforms reveals freedom’s uneven distribution. Through historically grounded incident and setting, Johnston compels readers to weigh order against justice, prosperity against coercion, and tradition against the claims of conscience and equal rights.
The Old Dominion
CHAPTER I
A SLOOP COMES IN
"She will reach the wharf in half an hour."
The speaker shaded her eyes with a great fan of carved ivory and painted silk. They were beautiful eyes; large, brown, perfect in shape and expression, and set in a lovely, imperious, laughing face. The divinity to whom they belonged was clad in a gown of green dimity, flowered with pink roses, and trimmed about the neck and half sleeves with a fall of yellow lace. The gown was made according to the latest Paris mode, as described in a year-old letter from the court of Charles the Second[1], and its wearer gazed from under her fan towards the waters of the great bay of Chesapeake, in his Majesty's most loyal and well beloved dominion of Virginia.
The object of her attention was a large sloop[2] that had left the bay and was sailing up a wide inlet or creek that pierced the land, cork-screw fashion, until it vanished from sight amidst innumerable green marshes. The channel, indicated by a deeper blue in the midst of an expanse of shoal water, was narrow, and wound like a gleaming snake in and out among the interminable succession of marsh islets. The vessel, following its curves, tacked continually its great sail, intensely white against the blue of inlet, bay and sky, and the shadeless green of the marshes, zigzagging from side to side with provoking leisureliness. The girl who had spoken watched it eagerly, a color in her cheeks, and one little foot in its square-toed, rosetted shoe tapping impatiently upon the floor of the wide porch in which she stood.
Her companion, lounging upon the wooden steps, with his back to a pillar, looked up with an amused light in his blue eyes.
"Why are you so eager, cousin?" he drawled. "You cannot be pining for your father when 't is scarce five days since he went to Jamestown[3]. Do the Virginia ladies watch for the arrival of a new batch of slaves with such impatience?"
"The slaves! No, indeed! But, sir, in that boat there are three cases from England."
"Ah, that accounts for it! And what may these wonderful cases contain?"
"One contains the dress in which I shall dance with you at the party at Green Spring which the governor is to give in your honor—if you ask me, sir. Oh, I take it for granted that you will, so spare us your protestations. 'T is to have a petticoat of blue tabby and an overdress of white satin trimmed with yards and yards of Venice point. The stockings are blue silk, and come from the French house in Covent Garden, as doth the scarf of striped gauze, and the shoes, gallooned with silver. Then there are my combs, gloves, a laced waistcoat, a red satin bodice, a scarlet taffetas mantle, a plumed hat, a pair of clasped garters, a riding mask, a string of pearls, and the latest romances."
"A pretty list! Is that all?"
"There are things for aunt Lettice, petticoats and ribbons, a gilt stomacher and a China monster, and for my father, lace ruffles and bands, a pair of French laced boots, a periwig, a new scabbard for his rapier, and so on."
The young man laughed. "'T is a curious life you Virginians lead," he said. "The embroidered suits and ruffles, the cosmetics and perfumes of Whitehall in the midst of oyster beds and tobacco fields, savage Indians and negro slaves."
The girl put on a charming look of mock offense. "We are a little bit of England set down here in the wilderness. Why should we not clothe ourselves like gentlefolk as well as our kindred and friends at home? And sure both England and Virginia have had enough of sad colored raiment. Better go like a peacock than like a horrid Roundhead."
Her companion laughed musically and sang a stave of a cavalier[4] love song. He was a slender, well-made man, dressed in the extreme of the mode of the year of grace, sixteen hundred and sixty-three, in a richly laced suit of camlet with points of blue ribbon, and the great scented periwig then newly come into fashion. The close curled rings of hair descending far over his cravat of finest Holland framed a handsome, lazily insolent face, with large steel-blue eyes and beautifully cut, mocking lips. A rapier with a jeweled hilt hung at his side, and one white hand, half buried in snowy ruffles, held a beribboned cane with which, as he talked, he ruthlessly decapitated the pink and white morning-glories with which the porch was trellised.
The house to which the porch belonged was long and low, built of wood, with many small windows, and at either end a great brick chimney. From the porch to the water, a hundred yards away, stretched a walk of crushed shells bisecting an expanse of green turf dotted with noble trees—the cedar and the cypress predominating. Diverging from this central walk were two narrower paths which, winding in and out in eccentric figures, led, on the one hand, to a rustic summer-house overgrown with honeysuckle and trumpet-vine, and on the other to a tiny grotto constructed of shells and set in a tangle of periwinkle. Along one side of the house, and protected by a stout locust paling overrun with grape-vines, lay the garden, where flowers and vegetables flourished contentedly side by side, the hollyhocks and tall white lilies, the hundred-leaved roses and scarlet poppies showing like gilded officers amidst the rank and file of sober essuculents. Behind the house were clustered various offices, then came an orchard where the June apples and the great red cherries were ripening in the hot sunshine, then on the shore of a second and narrower creek rose the quarters for the plantation servants, white and black—a long double row of cabins, dominated by the overseer's house and shaded by ragged yellow pines. Along one shore of this inlet was planted the Indian corn prescribed by law, and from the other gleamed the soft yellow of ripening wheat, but beyond the water and away to the westward stretched acre after acre of tobacco, a sea of vivid green, broken only by an occasional shed or drying house, and merging at last into the darker hue of the forest. Over all the fair scene, the flashing water, the velvet marshes, the smiling fields, the fringe of dark and mysterious woodland, hung a Virginia heaven, a cloudless blue, soft, pure, intense. The air was full of subdued sound—the distant hum of voices from the fields of maize and tobacco, the faint clink of iron from the smithy, the wash and lap of the water, the drone of bees from the hives beneath the eaves of the house. Great bronze butterflies fluttered in the sunshine, brilliant humming-birds, plunged deep into the long trumpet-flowers; from the topmost bough of a locust, heavy with bloom, came the liquid trill of a mock bird.
It was a fair domain, and a wealthy. The Englishman thought of certain appalling sums lost to Sedley and Roscommon, and there flitted through his brain a swift little calculation as to the number of hogsheads of Orenoko or sweet-scented it would take to wipe off the score. And the girl beside him was beautiful enough to take Whitehall by storm, to be berhymed by Waller, and to give to Lely a subject above all flattery. He set his lips with the air of a man who has made up his mind, and turned to his companion, who was absorbed in watching the white sail grow slowly larger.
"How long, now, cousin?"
"But a few minutes unless the wind should fail."
"And then you will have your treasures. But, madam, when you have assumed all the panoply your sex relies on to increase its charms 't will be but to 'gild refined gold or paint the lily.' The Aphrodite of this western ocean needs no adornment."
The girl looked at him with laughter in her eyes. "You make me too many pretty speeches, cousin," she said demurely. "We know the value of the fine things you court gallants are perpetually saying."
"Upon my soul, madam, I swear"—
"Do you know the amount of the fine for swearing, Sir Charles? See how large the sail has grown! When the boat rounds the long marsh she will come more quickly. We will soon be able to see my father wave his handkerchief."
The young man bit his lip. "You are pleased to be cruel to-day, madam, but I am your slave and I obey. We will look together for Colonel Verney's handkerchief. How many black slaves does he bring you?"
She laughed. "But half a dozen blacks, but there will be several redemptioners if you prefer to be numbered with them."
"Redemptioners! Ah, yes! the English servants who are sold for their passage money. I thank you, madam, but my servitude is for life."
"The men my father will bring may not be the ordinary servants who come here to better their condition. He may have obtained them from a batch of felons from Newgate who have been kept in gaol in Jamestown until word could be got to the planters around. I am sure I wish the ship captains and the traders would stop bringing in the wretches. It is different with the negroes: we can make allowance for the poor silly things that are scarce more than animals, and they grow attached to us and we to them, and the simple indented servants are well enough too. There are among them many honest and intelligent men. But these gaol birds are dreadful. It sickens me to look at them. Thieves and murderers every one!"
"I should not think the colony served by their importation."
"It is not indeed, and we have hopes that it will cease. I beg my father not to buy them, but he says that one man cannot stop an abuse—that as long as his fellow-planters use them he might as well do so too."
Sir Charles Carew delicately smothered a yawn. "The ship that brought me over a fortnight ago," he said lazily, "had a consignment of such rascals. It was amusing to watch their antics, crowded together as they were in the hold. There were two wild Irishmen whom we used to have on deck to dance for us. Gad! what figures they cut! The captain and I had a standing wager of five of the new guineas as to which of the rascals could hold out longest, promising a measure of rum to the victorious votary of Terpsichore. When I had lost a score of guineas I found that the captain was in the habit of priming his man before he came upon deck. Naturally, being filled with Dutch courage, he won."
"Poor Sir Charles! What did you do?"
"Sent the captain a cartel and fought him on his own deck. There was one man in the villainous company whom, I protest, I almost pitied, though of course the rogue had but his deserts."
"What was he?"
"A man of about thirty. A fellow with a handsome face and a lithe well-made figure which he managed with some grace. He had the air of one who had seen better days. I remember, one day when the captain was bestowing upon him some especially choice oaths, seeing him clap his hand to his side as though he expected to touch a rapier hilt. He was cleanly too; kept his rags of clothing as decent as circumstances allowed, and looked less like a wild beast in a litter of foul straw than did his fellows. But he was an ill-conditioned dog. We had some passages together, he and I. He took it upon himself to defend what he was pleased to call the honor of one of his precious company. It was vastly amusing.... After that I fell into the habit of watching him through the open hatches. A little thing provides entertainment at sea, Mistress Patricia. He would sit or stand for hours looking past me with a perfectly still face. The other wretches were quick to crowd up, whining to me to pitch them half pence or tobacco, but try as I would, I could not get word or look from him. Sink me! if he did n't have the impudence to resent my being there!"
"It was cruel to stare at misery."
"Lard, madam! such vermin are used to being stared at. In London, Newgate, and Bridewell are theatres as well as the Cockpit or the King's House, and the world of mode flock to the one spectacle as often as to the other. But see! the sloop has passed the marsh and has a clean sweep of water between her and the wharf."
"Yes, she is coming fast now."
"What is coming?" asked a voice from the doorway.
"The Flying Patty, Aunt Lettice," the girl answered over her shoulder. "Get your hood and come with us to the wharf."
Mistress Lettice Verney emerged from the hall, two red spots burning in her withered cheeks, and her tall thin figure quivering with excitement.
"I am all ready, child," she quavered. "But, mark my words, Patricia, there will be something wrong with my paduasoy petticoat, or Charette will not have sent the proper tale of green stockings or Holland smocks. Did you not hear the screech owl last night?"
"No, Aunt Lettice."
"It remained beneath my window the entire night. I did not sleep a wink. And this morning Chloe upset the salt cellar, and the salt fell towards me." Mistress Lettice rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed lugubriously. Patricia laughed.
"I dreamed of flowers last night, Aunt Lettice; miles and miles of them, waxen and cold and sweet, like those they strew over the dead."
Mistress Lettice groaned. "'T is a dreadful sign. Captain Norton's wife (she that was Polly Wilson) dreamed of flowers the night before the massacre of 'forty-four. The only thing the poor soul said when the warwhoop wakened them in the dead of the night and the door came crashing in, was, 'I told you so.' They were her last words. Then Martha Westall dreamed of flowers, and two days later her son James stepped on a stingray over at Dale's Gift. And I myself dreamed of roses the week before those horrid Roundhead commissioners with the rebel Claiborne at their head and a whole fleet at their back, compelled us to surrender to their odious Commonwealth."
"At least that evil is past," said the girl with a gay laugh. "And ill fortune will never come to me aboard the Flying Patty, so I shall go down to the wharf to see her in. Darkeih! my scarf!"
A negress appeared in the doorway with a veil of tissue in her hand. Sir Charles took it from her and flung it over Patricia's golden head, then offered his arm to Mistress Lettice.
The wharf was but a stone's throw from the wooden gates, and they were soon treading the long stretch of gray, weather-beaten boards. Others were before them, for the news that the sloop was coming in had drawn a small crowd to the wharf to welcome the master.
The dozen or so of boatmen, white and black, who had been tinkering about in the various barges, shallops and canoes tied to the mossy piles, left their employments and scrambled up upon the platform, and a trio of youthful darkies, fishing for crabs with a string and a piece of salt pork, allowed their lines to fall slack and their intended victims to walk coolly off with the meat, so intense was their interest in the oncoming sail. A knot of negro women had left the great house kitchen and stood, hands on hips, chatting volubly with a contingent from the quarters, their red and yellow turbans nodding up and down like grotesque Dutch tulips. The company was made up by an overseer with a broadleafed palmetto hat pulled down over his eyes and a clay pipe stuck between his teeth, a pale young man who acted as secretary to the master of the plantation, and by three or four small land-owners and tenants for whom Colonel Verney had graciously undertaken various commissions in Jamestown, and who were on hand to make their acknowledgments to the great man.
They all made deferential way for the two ladies and Sir Charles Carew. Mistress Lettice commenced a condescending conversation with one of the tenants, Darkeih added a white tulip to the red and yellow ones, and Patricia, followed by Sir Charles, walked to the edge of the wharf, and leaning upon the rude railing looked down the glassy reaches of the water to the approaching boat.
The wind had sunk into a fitful breeze and the white sail moved very slowly. The tide was in, and the water lapped with a cooling sound against the dark green piles. In the distance the blue of the bay melted into the blue of the sky, while the nearer waters mirrored every passing gull, the masts of the fishing boats, the tall marsh grass, the dead twigs marking oyster beds—each object had its double. On a point of marshy ground stood a line of cranes, motionless as soldiers on parade, until, taking fright as the great sail glided past, they whirred off, uttering discordant cries and with their legs sticking out like tail feathers. Slowly, and keeping to the middle of the channel, the boat came on. Upon the long low deck men were preparing to lower the sail, and a portly gentleman standing in the bow was vigorously waving his handkerchief. The sail came down with a rush, the anchor swung overboard, and half a dozen canoes and dugouts shot from under the shadow of the wharf and across the strip of water between it and the sloop. The gentleman with the handkerchief, followed by a man plainly dressed in brown, sprang into the foremost; the others waited for their lading of merchandise.
Before the boat had touched the steps the master of the plantation began to call out greetings to his expectant family.
"Patricia, my darling, are you in health? Charles, I am happy to see you again! Sister Lettice, Mr. Frederick Jones sends you his humble services."
"La, brother! and how is the dear man?" screamed Mistress Lettice.
"As well as't is in nature to be, with his heart at Verney Manor and his body at Flowerdieu Hundred."
The boat jarred against the piles and the planter stepped out, grasping Sir Charles's extended hand.
"Again, I am happy to see you, Charles," he cried in a round and jovial voice. "I have been telling my up-river good friends that I have the most topping fellow in all London for my guest, and you will have company enough anon."
Sir Charles smiled and bowed. "I hope, sir, that you were successful in the business that took you to Jamestown?"
"Fairly so, fairly so. Haines here," with a wave of the hand towards the man in brown, "had a lot picked out for me to choose from. I have six negroes and three of those blackguards from Newgate—mighty poor policy to shoulder ourselves with such gaol sweepings. I doubt we 'll repent it some day. The blacks come by way of Boston, which means that they will have to be cockered up considerably before they are fit for work. Is that you, Woodson? How have things gone on?"
The overseer took his pipe from between his teeth and made an awkward bow.
"Glad to see your Honor back," he said deferentially. "Everything 's all right, sir. The last rain helped the corn amazingly, and the tobacco 's prime. The lightning struck a shed, but we got the flames out before they reached the hogsheads. The Nancy got caught in a squall; lost both masts and ran aground on Gull Marsh. The tide will take her off at the full of the moon. Sambo 's been playing 'possum again. Said he 'd cut his foot with his hoe so badly that he could n't stand upon it. Said I could see that by the blood on the rag that tied it up. I made him take off the rag and wash the foot, and there wa'n't no cut there. The blood was puccoon. If he 'd waited a bit he could 'a' had all he wanted to paint with, for I gave him the rope's end lively, until Mistress Patricia heard him yelling and made me stop."
"All right, Woodson. I reckon the plantation knows by this time that what Mistress Patricia says is law. Here come the boats with the boxes. Tell the men to be careful how they handle them."
After a hearty word or two to tenants and land owners the worthy Colonel joined his daughter and sister; and together with Sir Charles Carew they watched the precious boxes conveyed up the slippery steps, the overseer shouting directions, plentifully sprinkled with selected, unfinable oaths to the panting boatmen. When all were safely piled upon the wharf ready to be wheeled to the great house, the empty boats swung off to make room for others, laden with the colonel's Jamestown purchases.
One by one the articles climbed the stairs, each as it reached the level being claimed by the overseer and told off into a lengthening line. Six were negroes, gaunt and hollow-eyed, but smiling widely. They gazed around them, at the heap of clams and oysters piled upon the wharf, at the marshes, alive with wild fowl, at the distant green of waving corn, the flower-embowered great house, the white quarters from which arose many little spirals of savory smoke, and a bland and child-like content took possession of their souls. With eager and obsequious "Yes Mas'rs" they obeyed the overseer's objurgatory indications as to their disposition.
There next arose above the landing the head of a white man—a countenance of sullen ferocity, with a great scar running across it, and framed in elf locks of staring red. The body belonging to this prepossessing face was swollen and unshapely, and its owner moved with a limp and a muttered curse towards the place assigned him. He was followed by a sallow-faced, long-nosed man, with black oily hair and an affected smirk which twitched the corners of his thin lips. Singling out his master's family with a furtive glance from a pair of sinister greenish eyes, he made a low bow and stepped jauntily into line.
The third man rose above the landing. Sir Charles, standing by Patricia, laughed.
"This world is a place of fantastic meetings, cousin," he said, airily. "Now who would suppose that I would ever again see that chipping from a London gaol I told you of—my shipmate of cleanly habit and unsocial nature. Yet there he is."
CHAPTER II
ITS CARGO
The afternoon sunshine lay hot upon the house and garden of Verney Manor—the leaves drooped motionless, the glare of the white paths hurt the eye, the flowers seemed all to be red. The odor of rose and honeysuckle was drowned in the heavy cloying sweetness of the pendant masses of locust bloom. Down in the garden the bees droned in the vines, and on the steps the flies buzzed undisturbed about the sleeping hounds. Above the long, deserted wharf and the green velvet of the marshes quivered the heated air, while to look upon the water was like gazing too closely at blue flame. From the tobacco fields floated the notes of a monotonous many-versed chant, and a soft, uninterrupted cooing came from the dove cot. Heat and fragrance and drowsy sound combined to give a pleasant somnolence to the wide sunny scene.
Deep in the cavernous shade of the porch lounged the master of the plantation, his body in one chair, his legs in another, and a silver tankard of sack standing upon a third, over the back of which had been flung his great peruke and his riding coat of green cloth, discarded because of the heat. Thin, blue clouds curled up from his long pipe, and obscured his ruddy countenance.
His shrewd gray eyes under their tufts of grizzled hair were half closed in a lazy contentment, born of the hour, the pipe, and the drink. The world went very well just then in Colonel Verney's estimation. His crop of the preceding year had been a large and profitable one: this year it bid fair to be still more satisfactory. During the past few months he had acquired a number of servants and slaves, and his head rights would add a goodly number of acres to his already enormous holdings; land, land, always more land! being the ambition and the necessity of the seventeenth century Virginia planter. Trader, planter, magistrate, member of the council of state, soldier, author on occasion, and fine gentleman all rolled into one, after the fashion of the times; Cavalier of the Cavaliers, hand in glove with Governor Berkeley, and possessed of a beautiful daughter, for whose favor one half of the young gentlemen of the counties of York and Gloucester were ready to draw rapier on the other half,—Colonel Verney's world was a fair and stirring one, and gave him plentiful food for meditation on a fine afternoon.
Opposite him sat his kinsman and guest, Sir Charles Carew. He was similarly equipped with pipe and sack, but there the resemblance to his host ended, Sir Charles Carew being a man who made it a point of honor to be clad like the lilies of the field on every possible occasion in life, from the carrying a breach to the ogling a milkmaid. The sultry afternoon had no power to affect the scrupulous elegance of his attire, or to alter the careful repose of his manner. In his hand he held a volume of "Hudibras," but his thoughts were not upon the book, wandering instead, with those of his kinsman, over the fertile fields of Verney Manor.
"You have a princely estate, sir, in this fair, new world," he said at last, in a sweetly languid voice.
The planter roused himself from considering at what point of his newly acquired land he should begin the attack upon the forest. "It 's a fair enough home for a man to end his days in," he said with complacence.
"We of the court have very erroneous ideas as to Virginia. I confess that my expectation of finding a courteous and loving kinsman," a gracious smile and inclination of the head towards the older man, "is the only one in which I have not been disappointed. I thought to see a rude wilderness, and I find, to borrow the language of our Roundhead friends, a very land of Beulah."
"Ay, ay. D' ye remember what old Drayton sings?
And a paradise it is, with mighty few drawbacks, now that the King has come to his own again, if you except these d—d canting Quakers and Anabaptists, and those yelling red devils on the frontier, and the danger of a servant insurrection, and the fact that his Majesty (God bless him!) and the Privy Council fleece us more mercilessly than did old Noll himself. I verily think they believe our tobacco plants made of gold like those they say Pizarro saw in Peru. But 'tis a sweet land! Why, look around you!" he cried, warming to his subject. "The waters swarm with fish, the marshes with wild fowl. In the winter the air rings with the cohonk! cohonk! of the wild geese. They darken the air when they come and go. There in the forest stand the deer, waiting for your bullet; badgers and foxes, bears, wolves, and catamounts are more plentiful than are hares in England. You taste pleasure indeed when you ride full tilt through the frosty moonlight, down the ringing glades of the forest, and hear the hounds in full cry, and see before you, black against the silver snow, a pack of yelling wolves. Then in summer the woods are full of singing birds and of such flowers as you in England only dream of. Strawberries make the ground red, and there are wild melons and grapes and mulberries, and more nuts than squirrels, which is saying much for the nuts. Everything grows here. 'T is the garden of the world. And what is there fairer than the green of the tobacco and the golden corn tassels? And the noble rivers, whose head waters no man has ever found, hidden by the Lord in the Blue Mountains near to the South Sea! Sir, Virginia is God's country![1q]"
"You in these lowlands have no trouble with the Indians?"
"None to speak of since 'forty-four, when Opechancanough came down upon us. The brush with the Ricahecrians seven years ago was nothing. They are utterly broken, both here and in Accomac. Further up the rivers the devil still holds his own, we hearing doleful tales of the butchery of pioneers with their wives and children; and above the falls of the far west, in the Monacan country, and towards the Blue Mountains, is his stronghold and capitol; but here in the lowlands all's safe enough. There is no fear of the savages. Would we could say as much of the servants!"
"Why, what do you fear from them?"
"It 's hard to say; but an uneasy feeling has prevailed for a year or more. It's this d—d Oliverian element among them. You see, ever since his Majesty's blessed restoration, gang after gang of rebels have been sent us—Independents, Muggletonians, Fifth Monarchy men, dour Scotch Whigamores—dangerous fanatics all! Many are Naseby or Worcester rogues, Ironsides who worship the memory of that devil's lieutenant, Oliver. All have the gift of the gab. We disperse them as much as possible, not allowing above five or six to any one plantation, we of the Council realizing that they form a dangerous leaven. Should there be trouble, which heaven forbid! they would be the instigators, restless mischief-makers and overturners of the established order of things that they are! Then there are their fellow criminals, the highwaymen, forgers, cutpurses and bullies of whom we relieve his Majesty's government. They are few in number, but each is a very plague spot, infecting honester men. The slaves, always excepting the Portuguese and Spanish mulattoes from the Indies, who are devils incarnate, have not brain enough to conspire. But in the actual event of a rising they would be fiends unchained."
"A pleasant state of affairs!"
"Oh, it is not so serious! We who govern the Colony have to take all possibilities, however unpleasant, into consideration. I myself do not think the danger imminent, and many in the Council and among the Burgesses, and well-nigh all outside will not allow that there is danger at all. We passed more stringent servant laws last year, and we depend upon them, and upon the great body of indented servants, who are, for the most part, honest and amenable and know upon which side their bread is buttered, to repress the unruly element."
"What will you do with the convicts you brought with you this morning?"
"Use them in the tobacco fields just now when all hands are needed to weed and sucker the plants, and afterwards put them to hewing down the forest. I told Woodson to bring them around to me this afternoon when they had been decently clothed. I always give the scoundrels a piece of my mind to begin with. It saves trouble."
"Do they give you much trouble?"
"Not on this plantation. Woodson and Haines are excellent overseers."
The planter refilled his pipe, struck a light with his flint and steel, and leaning back amidst the fragrant clouds, allowed his eyelids to droop and his mind to wander over a pleasant sunshiny tract of nothing in particular.
Sir Charles tasted his sack, adjusted his ruffles, and resumed his reading. But even the delectable adventures of the Presbyterian knight, over whom all London was laughing, palled on such an afternoon, and the young gentleman, after listlessly turning a page or two, laid the book across his knee, and with closed eyes commenced the construction of an air castle of his own.
He was roused by the sound of approaching footsteps upon the shell path leading to the back of the house, and by the harsh voice of the overseer.
"Here come your hopeful purchases, sir," he said lazily.
The overseer turned the corner of the house and came forward with the three convicts at his heels. He doffed his hat to the two gentlemen, then turned to his charges. "Fall into line, you dogs, and salute his Honor!"
The first man, he of the long nose and the twitching lip, smiled sweetly, and bent so low that his fell of greasy hair well-nigh swept the steps; the second, with a brow like a thunder cloud, gave a vicious nod; the third, with as impassive a countenance as Sir Charles's own, bowed gravely, and stood with folded arms and a quietly attentive mien.
The planter gathered himself up from his chair and came forward to the top of the steps, his tall, corpulent figure towering above the men below much as his fortunes towered above theirs.
"Now, men," he said, speaking sternly and with slow emphasis. "I have just one word to say to you. Listen well to it. I am your master; you are my servants. I reckon myself a good master, it not being my way to treat those belonging to me, whether white or black, like dumb beasts. Give me obedience and the faithful work of your hands, and you shall find me kind. But if you are stubborn or rebellious, by the Lord, you will rue the day you left Newgate! Whipping-post and branding-irons are at hand, and death is something closer to a felon in Virginia than in England. Be careful! Now, Woodson, what have you put these men to?"
"They 'll go into the three-mile field to-morrow morning, your honor, unless you wish other disposition made of them."
"No, that will do. Take them away."
The overseer faced about and was marching off with the recruits for the three-mile field when his master's voice arrested him.
"Take those two in front on with you, Woodson, and send me back the brown-haired one."
The "brown-haired one" turned as his companions disappeared around a hedge of privet and came slowly back to the steps.
"You wished to speak to me, sir?" he said quietly.
"Yes. You are the man who was tolerably helpful in the squall last night?"
"I was so fortunate as to be of some small service, sir."
"You understand the handling of a boat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hum. I will tell Woodson to try you with a sloop when the press of work in the fields is past. What is your name?"
"Godfrey Landless."
"Chevalier d'Industrie and frequenter of the Newgate Ordinary," put in Sir Charles lazily. "Of the Roundhead persuasion too, if I mistake not,—from robbery in the large, descended to thievery in the small; from the murder of a King to knives and a black alley mouth. Commend me to these grave rogues for real knaves! Pray inform us to what little mishap we owe the honor of your company. Did you mercifully incline to relieve weary travelers over Hounslow Heath by disburdening them of their heavy purses? Or did you mistake your own handwriting for that of some one else? Or did you woo a mercer's wife a thought too roughly? Or perhaps—"
The man shot a fiery upward glance at the slim, elegant figure and mocking lips of his tormentor, but kept silence. Colonel Verney, who had returned to his pipe, interposed. "What is all this, Charles? What are you saying to the man?"
"Oh, nothing, sir! This gentleman and I were shipmates, and I did but ask after his health since the voyage."
"Sir Charles Carew is very good," the man said proudly. "I assure him that the object of his solicitude is well, and only desires an opportunity to repay, with interest, those little attentions shown him by his courteous fellow voyager."
The planter looked puzzled: Sir Charles laughed.
"Our liking is mutual, I see," he said coolly. "I—but what is this, Colonel Verney! Venus descending from Olympus?"
Out of the doorway fluttered a brilliant vision, all blue and white like the great butterflies hovering over the clove pinks. Behind it appeared the faded countenance of Mrs. Lettice, and a group of turbaned heads peered, grinning, from out the cool darkness of the hall.
"Papa!" cried the vision. "I want to show you my new dress! Cousin Charles, you are to tell me if it is all as it should be!"
Sir Charles bowed, with his hand upon his heart. "Alas, madam! I could as soon play critic to the choir of angels. My eyes are dazzled."
"Stand out, child," said her father gazing at her with eyes of love and pride, "and let us see your finery. D' ye know what the extravagant minx has upon her back, Charles? Just five hogsheads of prime tobacco!"
Mistress Lettice struck in: "Well, I 'm sure, brother, 't is much the prettiest use to put tobacco to, to turn it into lace and brocade and jewels,—much better, say I, than to be forever using it to accumulate filthy slaves."
