From Sea to Shining Sea (6 page)

Billy’s compass gleamed in the candlelight, and he rubbed it and looked at it.

“Mama,” he said, “tell me a story about Jo jee.”

“Oh, my. There are so many stories about Georgie,” she said in a voice she hoped was soft enough not to awaken the other boys. “Say, darlin’, I’ll make you a trade deal. A favor o’ mine for one o’ yours. I could tell you a story of ’im every night, if you can promise me I’ll see smiles on your old glummy face next day.”

“I can pwomise.” He showed her how he could smile. It was a wistful, forced little grimace.

“Fair enough, then. Well, let’s us see, now. What story should I tell ye first about that brother Georgie o’ yours? Like I said, he’s been just one yarn after another. Well, there’s the story about Georgie and your Grandpapa Rogers out surveyin’ on the Mattapony. Then there’s a story about George and Grandmama Rogers and the whippoorwill call. Or, about when Mister Lawrence’s Indian boy made Georgie a bow and arrows. Or, there’s
the story about when Georgie won
all
the medals at Dr. Mason’s school, one medal for foot runnin’, and one for wrestling, and one for horse racing. Only boy who ever won all three. Or, the story about when Georgie was, oh, just about your age, and went a-walkin’ all by himself through the woods down to Mister Jefferson’s mill with a bag o’ corn to grind. Or, about the first time he ever went up to the top o’ the Blue Ridge and looked at the western mountains.” Billy was squirming, these all sounded so good. “But,” she said, “instead, why don’t I just start at the beginning, and tell about the day Georgie was born, for that was a day I still shiver to remember, as there were Indians that day.”

“Indians when ’e was
bo’n
?”

“Yes. Like omens, they came.”

“Ooo!”

“And lightning. Lightning struck that day.”

“Oooooh!” Already he was seeing pictures and she hadn’t even begun.

“Then here’s the tale, darlin’. It’s seventeen years before you were born, in a place y’ve not yet seen, that this story began. But first:

“Can ye remember how big my belly was just before Frances was born? Well, that was the way I was that day, too, because I had Georgie in me then. So you have to remember I was like that the day these things happened, all right now? All righty. Now, y’know we lived out west in Albemarle County then, that was where the frontier was in those days. We were right by Blue Ridge. And on past the Blue Ridge didn’t
anybody
live, ’cept wolves and bears and Indians, and a few hunters. Y’ve heard us talk of Albemarle County.”

“Uh-huh.”

“November nineteenth was the date of it, in 1752. Your Papa wasn’t home that day, he was out a-huntin’ deer on the mountain. That day, Billy, was raw and cold and gray as bullet lead. Been spittin’ sleet all through the morning, it had. Your brother Jonathan, he was two then, was snug down in our big bed to nap so he’d stay warm, just like you are now, ’cause that day the cold wind just blew in through one wall o’ that cabin and out th’ other without pause for a how-d’ye-do or a fare-thee-well. Even with a big cookfire in the hearth, it was cold inside, and the wind was moanin’ and whistlin’ round the house like demons.” She glanced at him and saw him pull up the coverlet against cold, and knew that her storytelling was effective.

“Well, son, just then there came a ruckus from the henyard, out back o’ the cabin. There was an old scoundrel fox had already
kilt two o’ my hens that month, and I was sure he was in there. So you know what I did? I took your Papa’s spare gun, that old musket that’s over the mantel in the kitchen house is the very one, and I loaded it. I looked to be sure little Jonathan was asleep, and then I eased open the door and stepped out into the wind. I figured I had a good chance to surprise that old thievin’ fox, as the henyard was out round back from the door, and I was downwind to boot. Can’t y’ just see me, with a big belly and a long gun, a-tippy-toein’ round the corner of the cabin? He, he!”

“Yeah! He, he!”

“Thunder was a-crackin’ over the Blue Ridge as I went creepin’ round that house, gun muzzle first, aimin’ to bring that bad fox to justice for his crimes.

“Well, Billy lad, listen now: If that
had
been the fox there, I couldn’t have surprised him a half as much as the surprise I got just then! What I saw there in place of a fox made such a flash o’ fear go through me, I couldn’t ha’ been hit harder by lightning! My heart like to stopped, and my guts clamped down so hard, I swear it started me having my baby. For you know what I saw in that henyard instead of a fox?”

“A nindin?” he whispered.

“Not just one Indian but two. The one inside was just handing a hen across the fence pickets to the one outside. And, Billy, just then the one inside looked and
saw me
!”

“Oh, nooo!” he breathed.

“And then th’ other one saw me too!”

Billy groaned.

“Fancy it, Son, the stew I was in! Me with one ball in my gun, and two full-grown braves in my henyard. And
just then
, I heard a voice off my side, and there was
another
Indian man there, and two squaws, and they were all lookin’ at me too! And I was a startin’ to hurt so bad in my belly I could scarce stand still, ’cause Georgie was ready to come out!

“Well, I don’t know how long we stood there like so many posts. Chickens were squawkin’ and runnin’ all over each other as only those stupid creatures can do so well. I don’t know how I looked to the Indians, but I could see they had the chicken-stealin’ emotion writ all over their faces! They looked guilty as foxes!”

“You bettuh shoot ’em, Mama!”

“Well, before I could or couldn’t, a lightning bolt cracked down, blinding white, and fired up a tree-top down by the spring, so close by I swear it budged me an inch in my shoes, and Lordy, I felt a real squeeze in my belly, and what I wanted
most was to get indoors and get laid down, because y’ll never know, Billy, praise be, how much it hurts when a baby starts a-comin’!

“But those Indians were standin’ there thinkin’ what to do, and I didn’t have a plan myself, so there I stood with that cocked gun, pointin’ it first at the two Indians, then the other bunch, dependin’ on which way I was a-wobblin’ at the moment. Son, I didn’t have any idea whether I could shoot one and then run lock myself in the house with Jonathan ’fore the others could shoot an arrow in me. And if I did get in, why, I feared they could burn down the house with me and Jonathan in it! Y’ still awake, son?”

The top of his head, all that was visible of him now, nodded rapidly.

“Thought y’ were. Well, Billy my son, I’ll never surely know why those Indians did what they did then, but I reckon they just got ashamed, like any ordinary people do. One older man said something, and the one put down the chicken, inside the fence, where it splayed out all feathers and cackles and finally ran under another hen. The Indian sprang over the fence then, and I nigh pulled th’ trigger to shoot ’im in midair, as I feared he was comin’ for me. But instead, they all herded together, still lookin’ wary at me, and dignified as they could act, bein’ chicken thieves, I mean, they all strolled away down past the spring into the woods, toward the river, there where that blasted tree-top still stood a-smokin’ from the lightning. And it took all the guts I had, but I stood there lookin’ after ’em with that cocked gun till they were out o’ sight. There was more lightning, and I could hear Jonathan screamin’ inside the house. I went in finally, all but carryin’ my belly in my arms and draggin’ that gun after me. I barred the door and laid out ball and powder on the table, shooshin’ Jonathan till he piped down. Rest o’ that afternoon I hulked and groaned round in that little room like a sick cow, peerin’ out through chinks for a sight o’ Indians, sittin’ down on a stool now and then when the pain passed over. I wanted to yell for your Papa or scream prayers, but I knew if I scared Jonathan thataway, then he’d howl and scare me worse than I already was.”

“Hurry up, Mama,” said a voice out of the darkness, Edmund’s voice, “what happened, anyway?”

She clapped a hand over her startled heart and swallowed. She turned and saw in the candlelight three pairs of eyes. Johnny, Edmund, and Dickie all were sitting up listening to her story. Billy had jerked bolt upright, eyes bugging.

“In Heaven’s name,” she gasped finally, “don’t you ever give me a start like that again! I’ve scared myself half to death recallin’ this tale as it is!”

“I’m sorry. But what happened?”

“What happened was that I set my jaw and decided I’d have to have that baby without any help whatsoever, and hope no Indians came to set th’ house afire while I was busy. So I laid me down on the bed and commenced.

“Thank th’ Lord, though, as it happened, that newborn just sort o’ took over it all himself. It was just all
over
with, I don’t remember much about it, though I did all the things I knew to do. But it was just as if his mother’s womb was just ‘where he’d been,’ like, and he’d decided right then to move out on his own. He’s always been like that, ever since, as ye know.

“So when your Pa came home next morning with a deer, he found me with a red-haired, blue-eyed baby, and little Jonathan sittin’ there in bed beside us lookin’ utterly hornswoggled. And we named that newborn after my brother, who’s your dear Uncle George Rogers.”

“Jo jee got bo’ned!” Billy cried suddenly, clapping his hands and bouncing in bed. “Jo jee got bo’ned! Wif wightning, an’ Indians! Oooooo!”

“Just so!” she chuckled. “And with a start like that, why, he’s a one to be watched, wouldn’t ye say, boys?”

“Tell me how I was born,” said Dickie’s voice.

“No, me,” Edmund and Johnny said at once.

“Some other time,” she sighed. “One at a time’s enough, enough!”

J
OHN
C
LARK HAD HIS OWN NOTIONS ABOUT HOW TO GET
Billy’s mind off of George. “There’s two ways to chirk up a little’un when ’e’s got all downcast,” he said. “Give ’im something, or teach ’im something. I aim to do both.” And so at breakfast, he whispered aside to Rose the cook, and a few minutes later he got up from the table and went out to the pantry. When he came back in he was carrying a fat little black boy, purple-black as a plum, three years old, who was dressed in clean gray homespun pants and a patched but spotless shirt of indigo flannel. The chunky little fellow was looking around the room and half-smiling with wonderment at being brought into the dining room of the big house by the great master himself. John Clark stood at the head of the table while all the family looked at the child and smiled. One could not look at him without smiling; there was a
droll, sly look about him that foretold the character of some great and funny rascal.

“Here we have Little York,” John Clark said. They had all seen him around. He was the son of Nancy, one of the cooks, and his father was thought to be a field hand named Big York, who steadfastly denied that it was so. “York,” said John Clark, “you know which one of these folks is my son Billy?” York licked his lips lavishly and rolled his gaze around the table, then grinned and pointed to him. Billy sat half-smiling, looking up in blue-eyed bemusement.

“That’s right,” said John Clark. “That’s Master Billy. Now tell me, York, how would you like to be Master Billy’s own particular man?” The child nodded vigorously and licked his red lips again, even though it was unlikely he had any notion what the words implied. It was plain that he liked the look of the little redheaded boy, and they had played together a few times in the summer, and so the words sounded good. “Well, then, you’re Master Billy’s man, from now on, York.” The family laughed and exclaimed their approval. “You two get to know each other, and be good friends to each other, and someday when ye learn how to do a few things useful, why, y’ll do ’em for Master Billy, eh? And does that sound all right to you, Son?”

Billy nodded, and said, “Thank ’ee, Papa.” None of the other boys had ever had his own particular bodyservant, but they understood. When they had been Billy’s age, the family had not yet become prosperous; there had been only one cook, and the few male slaves, except Cupid, had been field workers. Cupid had served as bodyservant for all the males of the family, and Cupid’s wife Venus had administered to all the girls.

“Good enough,” John Clark said, and lowered the black child to the floor. “Ooof,” he said, “what a chunk of it you are! Now, York, you go round there and say hello to Master Billy.” York waddled around behind the chairs and went to greet Billy in the only way he knew how: with a hug. Billy beamed and hugged him back, a little confused by what this gift meant, but very pleased. He liked the way Little York smiled and smelled. “Come get your boy, Nancy,” John Clark said. “’Cause Master Billy’s got some work to help me do, if I’m to get this daughter o’ mine married and off my hands, isn’t that so, family?”

“O
UR
F
ATHER, HAVE MERCY ON THIS POOR BEAST AND MAKE
his pain be brief, as it is Thy supreme order of things to feed the dumb creatures to the smart ones,” said John Clark, and, grunting
the word “Amen,” he swung the maul with force and precision at the hog’s face.
Chewk!
Bone crunched between the eyes. Dick and Johnny got the legs and yanked the animal aloft before he could fall. And while Billy was shuddering with the shock of what he had seen his father do, they hauled a rope that raised the stunned animal up to hang head down from an oak spar over the slaughter pen. Nearby was a hewn-log butcher table, and a large kettle of water steamed over a wood fire.

John Clark was the only man his sons had ever heard of who prayed as he slaughtered. This prayer was of his own wording, as were all his prayers; John Clark was a man whose prayers were not ritual, but talks with his God.

“Now put the catchment under ’im,” he commanded, picking up the long butcher knife, old gray steel shiny only on the newly ground edge. “Come round here, Billy. Time ye learnt this.” Edmund slid a trough under the hanging hog as Billy crept reluctantly closer, his head reeling, heart pounding, afraid, for the first time, of his father. “Stand right here now and watch this.”

Holding the hog by a foreleg to keep it from swinging, John Clark thrust the blade into the animal’s throat, clear up to the handle. “Right in that spot,” he told Billy. “Then, ye move the blade thisaway to cut the big art’ry from ’is heart, y’ see? There! There it comes now.” A deluge of bright red blood gushed steaming into the trough in the chilly October morning air and Billy watched, terrified but spellbound. “Thing is, be quick,” his father was saying. “Want t’ get ’im bled ere his heart stops, y’ see? Some folk hang their pig up awake and squealin’ and stick ’im, but I never could do that. Besides, excitement taints the meat.” The blood gushed and spurted and Billy watched, feeling faint. Then it slowed to a stream, then a trickle. Billy was aghast that his father could stand to keep the knife in there and let the horrible blood bathe his hand. “Now while th’ knife’s still in, I cut the gullet,” John Clark explained, beginning to work the handle hard as if through something tough. “We’re goin’ to leave his head on, to put an apple in ’is mouth. There.” He pulled the dripping knife out. “Reach in there, and ye’ll feel what I’ve done. Come on, Billy my boy, don’t be delicate!” He grabbed Billy’s wrist and forced his little hand into the hot, wet, bloody opening.