Рита Браун - Tall Tail

Smiling as he rose to shake hands, Peter agreed. “Indeed, good sir, indeed. Please send my greetings to your excellent wife.”

“Mary will be pleased.”

After Peter left, Bartholomew put the envelope from West in his pocket. His mind went back to the Revolutionary War for a moment.

Separated from his unit, thanks to a ferocious barrage at Saratoga and a thrashing infantry charge, Bartholomew Graves wound up being captured by a large, handsome, decent man, John Schuyler. He also marched all the way to Virginia with another prisoner of war, the young Captain Charles West. It was Bartholomew, held at the camp in Charlottesville, who counseled Charles near war’s end to escape and paid him to forge discharge papers. The future was here in America.

By war’s end, Bartholomew was working his way up the Wilderness Trail, finally reaching the Mason-Dixon Line.

He remained in Hagerstown, Maryland, until war’s end, where he worked for a lawyer who needed a man who was good with numbers. All artillery officers are good with numbers. But once the war was over, Bartholomew headed for York, not all that far. He’d heard this town just west of the Susquehanna River boasted good land, plenty of work, and a great deal of construction. Also, while predominantly Lutheran, they were not inhospitable to Catholics. He was not terribly religious, but he was Catholic.

Doing odd jobs to get by, he heard a vacancy had opened at the Academy affiliated with St. John’s Episcopal School. Having been buffeted by the anti-Catholic laws in England and the king’s service, he hesitated to apply. Allowing people to worship as they pleased was not the same as hiring them. But Mary, the young woman whom he was courting, told him, “Barth, just go. No one is asking you to renounce your faith.” Mary giggled. “What little there is of it.”

Baited, he did go, and the Rev. John Andrews hired him on the spot. So Bartholomew Graves became a mathematics teacher, and shortly thereafter, a husband to Mary.

—

It was a perfect early September day in York County, absolutely delightful. Walking through the streets, he passed gardens filled with chrysanthemums. There was color everywhere. His step quickened. He swung his gentleman’s walking stick with vigor to match his step.

Opening a low wooden gate, he stopped to admire the small brick dwelling. There were flowers in front, a vegetable garden in the back. The door, painted blue, sported a brass pineapple knocker, a gift to his wife.

Chickens cackled out back. Opening the door, Bartholomew was greeted by a beagle. He knelt down to pet the dog.

“Barth?”

“Yes, my dear.” He went into the kitchen, herbs hanging by the window, cabinets wiped clean, the floor clean, strewn with fresh rushes. Mary would brush them out, put them in the garden. She swore the bit of blood from her lamb chops or beef brisket that fell on the straw was the reason her garden flourished.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked over to him, put her hands on his cheeks, and gave him a welcoming kiss. “And did you thrash the little hellions?”

“Not today, my love, but I had a most interesting visit from Peter Studebaker.”

“The wagonmaker?”

“Yes. He would like me to help him. He feels I can, as I had to move heavy cannon over bad roads, onto fields. Said I would.”

“Now, don’t you go giving away the store, Bartholomew.” Mary used his full Christian name. “You are too generous. Too generous by far.”

He waved his hand. “He will pay, dear.”

“What you are worth, I hope. I can’t run a house on a pittance. We could use some help, and, my dear, you need a horse. Such would help on the burden of this house.”

Smiling, for he heard this refrain often, he said, “A house. You deserve a castle. You deserve servants in livery and a coach-in-four with matched horses and jewels.” He ran his fingers down her cleavage, as she wore a lower-cut dress, given the weather. “Jewels that will rest on your natural jewels.”

Mary took his finger and lightly bit it. “You are no good, Bartholomew. I knew it the minute I looked at you. I said to myself, ‘There is a no-good man, but, oh, there’s something about him.’ And here I am. Married to the same.” She laughed, then turned to tend her oven.

All the windows and doors were open to let the heat escape. Unlike Virginia, these Pennsylvania homes did not have summer kitchens. While the heat came up in the summer, it didn’t last as it did in Virginia, and fall skidded in earlier, a perfect fall with robin’s-egg-blue skies, Canada geese flying overhead, fields waiting to be harvested. York County was rich in soil and water, and was stirring with industrious people. Walking through town, one could hear the hammer of blacksmiths, the rumbling of wagons, the shops making all manner of goods.

“What’s for supper, love?”

“Shepherd’s pie. Oh, I know it’s a bit early for shepherd’s pie, but I just felt like it. Won’t be long.” She brushed back a stray hazel tendril.

He took the letter from his pocket. “From Captain West. Peter Studebaker was given it by a drover when Peter was in Littlestown.”

The two men kept up a leisurely correspondence, both being former officers in the Crown’s army and choosing to live in the former colonies. The colonials rarely used the post except for business. First, it was slow. Second, it was expensive. Two sheets of paper might cost twenty-five cents, and the recipient had to pay. So letters were often passed along hand to hand. But West and Graves, Europeans, used letters to catch up with each other. Each man observed these “new” people with interest. Unlike the “new” people, they did not consider personal mail a luxury. They considered it civilized.

Bartholomew sat down to read. He didn’t need spectacles, quite unusual. “Mary, he says all is well. Ewing Garth bought more land west of his current estate. The orchard is thriving. The hard winter seems to have helped this. He doesn’t know why. He has accepted a commission to design a Lutheran church, to be called St. Luke’s—”

Mary interrupted. “Are there many Germans there?”

He nodded. “Not as many as here. A few Swedes and Italians. Like here, my dear, so many Italians who fought for King George escaped from the prisoner-of-war camp.”

“Truthfully, the guards at Camp Security here looked the other way,” Mary said. “My father said we needed men to work since so many were in the army. I hope never to see such times again.”

“God willing, you won’t, my dear.” Bartholomew looked up from his letter and smiled. “He also writes that John and Catherine are well. His Rachel is radiant. No children yet, and Ewing is becoming fretful.” Bartholomew laughed loudly. “Such things take time and skill.”

“I’m going to pray for you,” Mary teased.

“No, dear, pray for them.” He laughed uproariously again, then returned to the letter. “Charles writes that there has been some exceptional brutality on a nearby estate regarding slaves. He says the longer he sees this institution the more he feels it is wrong, even though the Bible condones it.” Bartholomew looked up at Mary. “I don’t know what’s worse, being a slave or being an indentured servant.” He sighed. “I rather think this will resolve itself. Hellam Township has seven slaves and more indentured servants. I have no idea how many such people work in York County, but, Mary, the day will come when we visit Virginia. It’s different.”

“Because of slavery?”

“Different in many ways. A few very rich planters control the state.”

“Well, let us not forget those very rich merchants in Philadelphia.”

He smiled at her. “Quite. I think it will always be a few at the top, some in the middle, and the rest below, but I see this home you have brought to life. I see glass in the windows, a hearth with a good draw, fancy, a feather bed. I think we live quite well.”