“God bless you, Sir. We will meet in Virginia.”
“We shall.” Charles dropped down as the Hessian, thin, as they all were now, nimbly leapt off the lieutenant’s back, grasped the top of the palisades, hoisting himself over. Charles heard him drop on the other side, then he turned back toward the cabin.
The cold air filled his lungs; he felt as though they were expanding with the cold. Piglet’s breath emitted in tiny puffs.
“We’re together, Piglet. Forever, you know.”
The sturdy fellow looked up. “Forever.”
Being the second son of a baron meant something back in England, poor or not. Charles considered his life, something that being a prisoner gave him much time to do. Was it to be a life of service in the army, promotions painfully won, if at all? Anyone with more money could move ahead of him, despite lack of training or ever having been tested in battle. With luck, Charles might be promoted to major at the end of a long career. His only hope for some financial gain would be through the spoils of war. None of that here. Or he could hope for another posting, wherein conflict promised goods that could be exchanged for cash. If he lived through this adventure, that is.
He imagined attaining some success. Who could he marry? The great heiresses would be sold off to first sons of titled men. Every now and then a love match would spice up the marriage market, but he could hope for little in that department. Perhaps a suitable wife, herself of good name, would have a bit of a dowry, but the prospects before him dimmed. Could he ever return to the formality and suffocating social demands? Suffocating to him anyway.
Ideas battled one another after the first year of his capture. The eight-hundred-mile march from Boston awakened him to the richness of this raw land. The Barracks taught him how any man with a trade, a bit of boldness, might flourish. A man with gentle manners, good breeding, and a fine education had a great advantage. Charles never thought of himself as handsome, but he was, and that confers advantage as well.
He had made up his mind to stay, to study draftsmanship and architecture. Such an idea would horrify his father, but in it Charles found excitement, a kind of fulfillment he did not find in the army, although he liked the army. Anything was better than sitting idle.
He would leave before the fevers returned.
On Christmas Day, Camp Security’s guards and prisoners relaxed as best they could. Charles and Piglet presented themselves at the sentry box. Charles carried his portable drawing box, nothing else.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the sentry asked, his vowels quite broad.
“To deliver a present to the Wolf family, Sir. Here.” He reached inside his worn, torn coat and pulled out a forged pass signed by Colonel Wood, the signature more clear than Wood’s own signature, giving Charles freedom to deliver a gift from the colonel to the Wolfs.
Charles knew the Wolfs to be a prominent York family. He also knew the sentry, any sentry, would know that. And a sentry wouldn’t wish to run afoul of their commanding officer’s desire to please the wealthy Wolfs on Christmas.
The sentry read the paper, handing it back. “You may pass.”
“Happy Christmas to you, Private.”
The private touched his forefinger to his cap.
And Charles West, formerly of Captain Alexander Fraser’s Company of British marksmen, began the long walk back to Virginia, various forged papers in his pocket, his faithful dog by his side. He had not a penny to his name, all he had was youth, strength, intelligence, hope, and, of course, Piglet.
May 14, 2015
Standing once more at the milestone near the eastern end of Continental Estates, Harry spread facsimiles of two old maps on the back end of her F-150. She’d copied the maps from Ginger’s editor’s bin, along with the old highways maps, like that for the Valley Road. Trudy happily allowed her to do so.
Harry had studied the documents at her kitchen table and now on the site of those old properties. The first hand-drawn map showed the Harvey lands, the Garth lands, and the Ashcombe lands. An east-west road, now called Garth Road, was a rude scribble. This map was dated 1774. The second map, dated 1794, showed a widened road. The black line was thicker and had more offshoots: one being the road that this milestone marked, the road into the back of The Barracks passing over lands marked GARTH. Garth had absorbed the Ashcombe lands. The back of Continental Estates rested on the old Ashcombe/Garth land.
She also noticed two smaller holdings on the other side of Garth Road. Cited as being owned by Garth in 1774 was one now owned by West and the other by Schuyler. This had to be the Charles West who designed and built St. Luke’s.
The 1794 map showed more estates than the 1774 map, but Garth remained the largest landholder.
Hammering and sawing could be heard in the background. Driving through Continental Estates, Harry saw how quickly the men worked. Of course, framing goes up fast. The interior work takes forever, but still, three new homes were being framed. She also noticed that the neighborhood square now had a cross through it of trees with a smaller cleared square, no shrubs or anything in the middle. How beautiful it would be someday.
Walking to the shallow ravine, Tucker skidded down. He was followed by Mrs. Murphy and Pewter. There were enough bushes and saplings here to entice them to hunt.
Harry figured the ravine had last been cleared maybe ten years ago. The gullies, with less growth, had been cleared by faster rushing waters sweeping everything before. They were proof of the term gulley washer.
Her cellphone rang.
“Harry, it’s Snoop.”
“How you doin’?”
“I’m doin’, but I need a break. Can you pick me up just for a ride, just so I can get out of here?” He paused. “Too much goodness.”
“Sure. I’ll be right over and you can help me.”
“Right.”
Harry then called Cooper. “Hey, Snoop needs a break. I’m going to pick him up, give him a ride and a late lunch. Will you clear it with the house mother or house father?”
“Sure.”
The house, which Harry thought of as Snoop’s holding pen, wasn’t far. Within fifteen minutes, Snoop, scrubbed, wearing a new T-shirt and jeans, sat in the truck. Pewter was on his lap, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker were between him and Harry.
“It’s good to see you looking so well,” said Harry.
“It’s good to see you. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been treated well, but…” His voice trailed off.
“This won’t take long. But I can use your eyes.”
“Yeah, sure.”
They drove through the open, huge wrought-iron gates, down the main strip of Continental Estates, as Snoop intently observed the activity. “Man, they sure done a lot of work.”
“Wait until you see the square.”
Just as she drove toward the square, Marshall drove past and waved. Paul and six other men were working in the square. Harry also waved at him. He smiled, returned the greeting.
Another five minutes, and she was back at the milestone. Hopping out, she unfolded the two maps as the animals again rushed into the ravine.
The sound of an approaching car turned their heads. Marshall pulled up in one of his company work trucks painted Continental blue. He stepped out onto a gleaming chrome step, then onto the dirt.
“What are you doing out here, Snoop? If you want work, I’ve got it. And Harry, I can hire you, too.” He grinned.
She spread out the two maps. “Look at this. Well, you may have seen this in your research.”
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