JoAnn Wendt Page 10

  “I know the law,” she said. “Insolence must be proved before the judge will condemn a bondservant to the post.”

  Mistress Byng’s sallow complexion darkened, and instantly Flavia regretted her boldness. Oh, why had she risen to the baiting? Now the heartless woman would revenge herself where it tortured Flavia most. She would vent her anger on Neddy.

  Before Flavia could offer an ingratiating apology, the kitchen door banged open. Neddy came tramping in, his bare feet caked with barn soil. He was a gangling boy, all wrists, elbows and feet. Sudden growth had rendered his breeches short.

  As he entered, his eyes flew to Flavia in unabashed adoration. His slack mouth achieved a clumsy smile. Clumping across the clean pine planking, he toted a bucket of fresh cow milk.

  “Uh, uh, Jane—uh, uh—Neddy ‘member. Uh, uh, uh—Neddy—uh, uh—milk Daisy.”

  Flavia threw him an encouraging smile.

  “Good boy, Neddy.”

  She rushed to rescue the bucket lest the boy spill, earning himself a scolding or worse. Mouth slack, Neddy stood basking in the warmth of her praise. Like an eager puppy, his eyes begged for a pat on the head. She gave it and Neddy glowed. Excited, he gestured toward the door.

  “Uh, uh—Neddy—uh, uh—go milk Daisy, uh, uh.”

  Flavia shook her head.

  “No, dear. You just milked Daisy, remember? You may milk her tonight. After supper.”

  Neddy’s eyes brightened with a new thought.

  “Supper—uh, uh—Neddy eat—uh, uh.”

  Concerned to get the child out of the house when the mistress was in one of her foul moods, Flavia whispered, “Hush, Neddy. Good boy. Run and take Daisy to pasture. Do it for Jane?”

  But her ploy didn’t work. Loath to leave her, Neddy dawdled, and Mistress Byng was across the kitchen in a trice. Lips pursed, she peered into Neddy’s bucket.

  “Why, there’s dirt in the milk!”

  She swung round at the boy. “You drooling fool. Jane,” she commanded, “fetch the switch.”

  Neddy’s glee died. Confusion filled his eyes, then fear. He began to blubber. He was almost the size of a man, but he plucked at Flavia’s skirts, trying to hide behind them.

  “It’s only a speck,” Flavia said. “I’ll strain it, ma’am. The milk will come good as new.”

  But Mistress Byng didn’t want solutions. She wanted revenge. Striding to the stone wall that housed the fireplace, she seized a willow switch from where it hung among iron skillets. She swooped back upon the howling terrified boy.

  Aghast, Flavia threw her arms around the child. “Please! Don’t beat him, ma’am. He doesn’t understand.”

  But the switch reared upward, knocking into a bunch of dried herbs that hung from the beam along with smoked hams and bacon. A shower of aromatic bits floated down, increasing the woman’s vexation.

  “‘Understand’?” She smote the boy on his bare, defenseless legs. “There’s only one way to train a fool. Understanding must be beaten into him.”

  Neddy screamed as the switch reared up again. Flavia shut her eyes. Before the blow could land, a door opened and the Reverend Josiah Byng emerged from his study. The clergyman’s face was red with irritation. Tearing off his reading spectacles, he gave the proceedings an ill-tempered glance.

  “Neddy again! How many times shall he interrupt my morning prayers? Wife, give me the rod. I shall take him to the woodshed and chastise him proper.”

  “No! Oh, no, sir—” Flavia cried out, but Josiah Byng silenced her with a baleful look.

  “God bless you, Mr. Byng,” Mrs. Byng simpered. “It quite puts my arm out of joint, disciplining the lad.”

  To Flavia’s despair, Neddy was wrenched from her arms and was dragged, howling, across the kitchen and out the door.

  “Spare the rod,” Josiah Byng intoned loudly as the beating commenced, “and spoil the child.”

  With tears for Neddy welling up, Flavia blindly turned to her chores. Through the boy’s screams, she could hear the whistle of the switch and the splat when it found its target. Her hands shook as she rushed to slice the bacon, layered it in a long-handled black skillet and settled it upon a trivet in the fire. Flicking tears from her eyes, she cracked eggs into the cornmeal, added leaven, wheat flour and milk, and stirred furiously. As Neddy’s howls of pain and terror came, tears spilled down her cheeks and into the batter.

  Mistress Byng was satisfied.

  * * * *

  Forgetful of the morning whipping, Neddy trudged along at her side in the May spring sunshine, his eyes wide with childish delight. It was Market Day, and he was happy. For a few hours he was free of the Byngs, and he was in the company of his beloved “Jane.” When he tramped through a mud puddle, joyously splashing and setting his sack of trussed hens to cackling in fright, Flavia didn’t scold him for it. Let him have his fun, she thought.

  Her spirits always lifted on Market Day, too. Although she must sell Mrs. Byng’s wares and account for every penny, the day afforded a measure of freedom. There were friends to talk with, news to glean. She’d made friends among Chestertown’s indentured. One or two were well-bred like herself. It wasn’t an uncommon practice among English gentry to discipline an incorrigible son or daughter by sending him or her to the colonies under indenture.

  Above all, Market Day always brought news of Chesapeake Bay shippers. Sometimes she heard tidbits about McNeil & McNeil. Already she’d learned that Garth and his brother owned two ships, that Garth had houses in Williamsburg and in Hampton, Virginia. News! Her pulse raced in anticipation. Shifting the heavy egg basket to her other arm, she quickened her step and hurried Neddy along with his load of cheeses and chickens.

  The wagon road twisting down into Chestertown teemed with market-goers and smelled of the baaing, bleating, mooing livestock that was being driven to market. Chester-town’s dogs loped along the road, assaulting everything that moved with wild, hoarse barks, and farm boys hallooed at one another above the chaos or shouted jibes as they prodded a cow or a sheep toward Chestertown.

  Steering Neddy along, Flavia absorbed all the sights and sounds. An itinerant fiddler shuffled along, practicing his notes as he went. With the deftness of a dancer, he avoided fresh piles of steaming manure without missing a note.

  Two girls with long sticks drove a flock of geese. The geese waddled along, rearing up and hissing whenever a barking dog ventured too close. One of the town’s ne’er-do-wells came cantering down the center of the dirt road on his big bay, scattering livestock and people alike.

  “Neddy!” Flavia grabbed the boy’s sleeve, pulling him out of the way. The rider on the bay was Jimmy Barlow. Thundering through the flock of frantically honking geese, he laughed uproariously as the goosegirls flew to round up their scattered charges. Jimmy Barlow turned in his saddle, laughing even harder at the stick the saucy goose-herder jabbed meaningfully in his direction.

  “The back o’ me skirt to ye, Jimmy Barlow!” she shrieked. “The back o’ me skirt!”

  Flavia hurried Neddy on. The boy had a tendency to stop and gawk at everything. If she missed getting a prime selling spot under the huge oak tree by the jail, Mistress Byng would be in a sour temper for a week. If the wares weren’t mostly sold by noon when the Reverend and Mrs. Byng rode stylishly into town to watch the public punishments, Flavia would earn their wrath.

  And they’d not be late this Market Day, she reflected bitterly. The punishments were much too titillating for the Byngs to miss. There was to be a hanging, two runaway indentured youths were to be whipped, and Mary Wooster, a gentle fifteen-year-old bond-servant, was to be punished at the whipping post for the crime of bastardy.

  Flavia shuddered.

  She urged Neddy onward. Hurrying, she made her way down Water Street, wistfully admiring the three-story red brick mansions that sat proudly overlooking a waterfront dotted with sailing ships. She hurried toward Market Square. She got the last spot under the oak tree and spread the small tarpaulin, arranging Mrs. Byng’s wares as
invitingly as possible. Taking the trussed hens from Neddy’s sack, she smoothed their jostled feathers as best she could without getting her fingers viciously pecked.

  Both business and gossip commenced briskly in the gay, festive atmosphere of Market Day. Flavia sold eggs to the owner of the new White Swan Inn and a chicken to a well-dressed woman who dispatched it by Negro slave to her house on Water Street. She sold a cheese to a man who irritated her by pinching her cheek and whispering that she was to have a shilling if she’d meet him at the Rose and Crown. She turned her back on him.

  “Jane! Jane! Have you heard? The Hamilton-St. James players are in Annapolis! And straight from Drury Lane.”

  Flavia whirled around with a smile. It was Elizabeth Simm, another indentured girl. Long before she’d met Elizabeth, she’d heard her story from wicked tongues that delighted in telling it. Betsy Simm was the wild youngest daughter of a Yorkshire earl. Given to bedding down with handsome stableboys, Betsy had been packed off to America in punishment. Unrepentant and undaunted, Betsy continued to scandalize Chestertown just as she’d scandalized Yorkshire.

  “Jane, Mrs. Eustacia Hamilton-St. James is touring in Flora; or a Hob in the Well. And think of it! She’s to perform several nights in Chestertown before the company journeys on to Williamsburg.”

  Betsy’s dark eyes danced. “Oh, I should like to be an actress, Jane. Do say you’ll come into town when Mrs. Hamilton-St. James performs. Come with me.”

  Flavia laughed. “I haven’t a penny, let alone three shillings for a ticket, Betsy.”

  The girl made a face. “That’s the trouble with you, Jane. You think to catch flies with vinegar. I, my dear, catch flies with sugar.” She popped her hands on her shapely hips, pushing out her breasts and raising one arched eyebrow. “A bit of sugar sprinkled on one’s master’s nose can have its rewards, Jane.”

  Flavia was taken aback. “Hush, Betsy,” she sputtered. “Someone will hear.”

  Betsy snorted, running a hand through thick black hair that was bereft of a proper servant’s mobcap.

  “Lud, what do I care? I haven’t a reputation worth guarding.” She turned, laughing and surveying the growing crowd to find promising-looking young men. She whirled back to Flavia.

  “Sugar!” she advised with a wink, adding, “I’ve seen how the pompous Josiah Byng looks at you, Jane, when you are unaware. Mark my words: clergymen are the worst. They love to sin, so’s to give the Almighty the pleasure of forgiving them.”

  “Betsy!” Flavia hissed in dismay. But the girl’s wild spirit had already leaped far afield from the subject.

  “Oh! There’s Jimmy Barlow!” Betsy cried out, half dancing, half skipping into the crowd, pursuing her quarry.

  Flavia felt shaky. The thought of Mr. Byng daring to kiss her, daring to touch her, was an appalling one. It made her sick. She was furious with Betsy, more furious than Betsy’s casual teasing warranted. Was it because Betsy confirmed the suspicion that Flavia already harbored about Mr. Byng? What would happen to her? What did this hopeless future hold?

  When the gentle young indentured schoolmaster approached her, hoping for conversation, her thoughts were still on Mr. Byng, and she cut the young man short. He left with his spirits dragging, and instantly Flavia regretted her rudeness. Dennis Finny was a good man. He was also her source of news. He’d leaped upon her supposed keen interest in ships, and he always brought Chesapeake Bay news to share with her on Market Day. Twice he’d mentioned the Caribbean sailings of the Caroline.

  The day grew noisy, and warm. Liquid refreshment flowed at the White Swan, and outside that public house the rough class was already engaged in “Indian wrestling” and betting on the matches. Drawn by today’s hanging and the crowd that such a spectacle would attract, a soul driver had come to town. The soul driver herded a pack of bondslaves to auction. The people looked to be Germans, and no doubt the man had bought them at a lot price from some ship in Baltimore.

  Flavia felt a rush of sympathy for the forlorn new arrivals. Pinch-faced and gaunt from the voyage, the bondslaves stared about them, bewildered. Flavia knew what it was like to be bought by a soul driver, to be driven like sheep from town to town until sold. While Mab Collins had been sold immediately to a woman who kept an inn in Williamsburg, Flavia had struck buyers as being too delicate for hard work. She’d not been sold until Chestertown, some one-hundred-twenty miles north of Williamsburg.

  She’d been sold to the Byngs and had thought herself lucky at first. Wasn’t Mr. Byng a clergyman? But as it turned out, Mr. Byng was not the ranking clergyman in Chestertown. While he aspired to the church of St. Paul’s in the parish, he was forced to make do with a simple chapel-of-ease. This grated on both the Byngs, and they lived in daily hope that the elderly rector of St. Paul’s would pass on to his heavenly reward, clearing the way for Mr. Byng.

  Noon came. The Byngs arrived. As usual, Flavia found herself enduring humiliation.

  “Hawk your wares, girl!” Mrs. Byng advised loudly. “You’ve lungs, Jane. Use them. Cheeses will not speak up and sell themselves, you ignorant chit.”

  Flavia bit back a tart reply and angrily kept her silence.

  “Mind you, I shall require a strict accounting of the money. Get rid of any notion you may have, Jane, of foxing me out of my due.”

  “I am not a thief. You’ve no right to say that I am!”

  “Saucy chit! Speak back to me, will you? Well, I shall see about that when you return home, girl.”

  Flavia sighed in relief when Mrs. Byng lost interest in baiting her and sauntered off to find Mr. Byng and lunch at the White Swan. Neddy rambled back and Flavia fed him leftover corn cake for his noon meal. He begged for cheese. She said no, fearing the risk. But then, still smarting from Mrs. Byng’s insults, she took a cheese and boldly sliced off a large wedge. Let the switch fall where it may. Neddy was a growing boy. He would have his nourishment.

  As she sat nibbling corn cake with Neddy in the dappled shade of the oak tree, Betsy Simm danced up again. Betsy’s cheeks wore the telltale flush of too much ale.

  “Jane, there’s a man in the White Swan asking after you. A German. He’s been eyeing you all morning. A lover, Jane?”

  Flavia’s heart stopped. Her fingers turned to ice as her blood drained away. She dropped her tidbit of corn cake, and a sparrow swooped down from a tree branch and snatched it.

  “Wh—where?”

  “He’s right over—” Betsy swung round, pointing. “Lud, he’s gone.” She twitched her hips in vexation, then giggled. “Good riddance, I say. The German was young, but he’d a mean look to him. Lud knows what he’d ask of you in bed, Jane.” Whirling away, Betsy blew her a giggly kiss and skipped off through the crowd toward the White Swan.

  A chill passed through Flavia. Beginning to shake, she crossed her arms on her chest and hugged herself for warmth. Her heart banged. She scarcely heard Neddy’s plea for more food.

  A German. was he an agent sent by the duke? Or simply a passing traveler who spots a pretty girl and asks about her? She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. German settlers abounded in the colonies. She couldn’t fear each one. Yet the incident left her shaken. If the man was sent by the duke, then she was being spied upon. Her heart flew in fear to the baby and to Garth. She must watch her step. She must never put Garth or her baby son in jeopardy.

  Market Day had suddenly taken on another dimension, another tone. Trying to shuck off the anxiety, she gave Neddy her attention and threw herself into lighthearted conversation with every customer who stopped to buy. But the sense of threat made her smiles tremble.

  Be Jane Brown and you live; attempt to be Flavia Rochambeau and you die.

  * * * *

  Public punishments began at two o’clock. The crowd gathered noisily outside the jail. Schoolboys hooted in excitement and jostled one another. The riffraff were already drunk, and the rosy cheeks of the female gentry said they too had taken a rum toddy to calm themselves for the exciting sight of a man swinging by hi
s neck from the gallows.

  Flavia’s heart pounded in dread. She wished she could take Neddy and leave. But the Byngs would have her skin. Mr. Byng maintained that a soul received cleansing when it witnessed “justice.”

  A youth of seventeen was first. Fortified with rum supplied by his friends, the youth swaggered to the whipping post with an insolent grin. He doffed a red-and-white-striped sailor’s cap and bowed mockingly toward the jailer. The riffraff in the crowd hooted in glee and applauded.

  The jailer, who also held the paid position of public whipper, stepped forward. He was a brutish, dirty-looking man with a big belly and greasy unclipped hair. He stripped the young man of his shirt. He grabbed the youth’s right wrist and roped it to an iron ring in the crossbar of the post. He dealt similarly with the left wrist.

  Across the street at the White Swan, the court secretary emerged from dining, using a silver pick to clean his dinner from his teeth. The silver pick glinted in the sun. The man walked casually to the jail, mounted the steps and took his place. From his breast coat pocket he drew out papers and began to read.

  “Let it hereby be known that one Peregrine Jones hath been found guilty of offending the goodly citizens of Maryland by deserting his master and running away from his indenture, being caught in the port of Annapolis preparing to flee to the West Indies.”

  The crowd murmured and the man read on, loudly. “Let it hereby be known that one Peregrine Jones is sentenced to serve one additional week for each day he hath stolen from his master. Let him receive twenty lashes, goodly applied, to his bare back.”

  The secretary looked up, hid a burp of indigestion in his fist and said, “Proceed.”

  Flavia swallowed in dread as the lad planted his bare feet on either side of the post. He gripped the iron rings. With a tipsy shout to his friends, he bowed his head.

  The lash snaked out, cracking.

  “One!” shouted the crowd.

  The boy flinched, but threw up his head laughing. Egged on by the crowd, the boy laughed through five cracks of the lash. Then his laughter hollowed off and died. He drew a rasping breath. He gritted his teeth.