The man rode off, and Xander turned in the direction of the indentures’ quarters, a scattering of mud-and-daub dwellings with a rutted lane betwixt them. Only a few had wives and children and required a separate house. Virginia’s woeful lack of women was an ongoing lament, as was the law that forbade these bound men to marry without his permission. Another brides’ ship was needed. But even a dozen of them wouldn’t be enough.
The sun bore down blisteringly, surely adding to the ailing men’s fevered misery. He’d lost count of the indentures overcome by disease. Though he made sure their provisions were ample, their quarters orderly and clean, they still succumbed. Wives would help remedy that. Children would give them something to live for. Many of them were homesick, longing for the familiar. They’d not had the benefit—or the scourge—of being born here.
One of the women met him as he dismounted at the end of the lane. Her worn features beneath a soiled coif bespoke little sleep and trying to do for too many men. Was she also ill?
“Are ye well, kind sir?”
“Well enough, Goodwife McTulloch. And you? Your husband?”
“I’m middlin’, but my man’s poorly. A great many men are ailin’. ’Tis a wonder ye stay standin’ in this heat.”
“When you’re born to it, it doesn’t wear on you so badly.” He removed his hat, the barest skim of breeze riffling his damp hair. “Expect a physic and more medicines from Mount Malady. And a quantity of fresh fruit from the Summer Isles on the morrow, if you and Goody Allen could distribute it.”
Her flushed face bespoke relief. “Ye look well t’ the health of yer men, ye do.” She gave him a last, searching look. “Prayers for yer own health, sir. A wee bit shilpit t’ my eye, if ye dinna mind me sayin’ so.”
Shilpit?
Though his Scots was rusty, he knew the word well enough and supposed he did look a bit haggard given the season. Bidding her good day, he started for the first building on the road—the barracks, he called it—hosting the bulk of the unmarried men. Even from a distance the stench of illness and overused chamber pots called a warning. Bracing himself, he let himself in after a loud knock.
A murmur of respectful greetings sounded from all corners. He stood in the room’s center so he could be heard by all. “It grieves me to see you suffer, some of you not even on Virginia soil a fortnight. I’ve relief coming in the form of fresh foods and medicines. A physic should arrive shortly. An itinerant preacher is also making the rounds. Bring any other needs to the attention of Hosea Sterrett, who’ll relay the matter to me. I’ll return again soon to see how you’re faring.”
He went from house to house, taking stock of anythingelse that needed addressing in addition to the ailing men. A decrepit roof. A dry well. More fence posts for gardens and livestock.
Xander was admired—and mocked—for his treatment of his indentures and his refusal to own Africans. Let a man work the land in exchange for his ship’s passage and soil of his own in a few years’ time. That he understood. But let no man be owned by another with no hope of ever being free.
Late afternoon, he’d finished his rounds and returned home another way, skirting the very boundary stones between Renick land, the Hopewells’, and now Laurent’s. How the physic had come by such prime acreage he didn’t know, but his hackles rose at the mere thought.
Not a soul was in sight—not even the Africans Laurent was said to now own—just rolling hills awaiting twilight, a few trees along a watercourse breaking up the summery landscape. Xander loosened his hold on the reins and looked toward the river. There seemed a special poignancy to the dwindling day as it took a final breath. A subtle yearning that called for Selah by his side.
He was surrounded by people who felt themselves beneath him—his indentures—and those who felt themselves above him—Virginia’s gentry. The latter despised his success, and the former held him in high regard as the standard they hoped to reach. He remained in the lonesome middle, a vacuous place where few men lived, a position that afforded few friends. He counted Selah a friend.
Once past her guardedness, he had warmed to the woman beneath. She was not shallow of soul. Not frivolous in nature.
The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her ... She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.
But did he love her? Aye, he did. ’Twas a different sort of love than the wild, reckless passion he’d felt for Mattachanna in his youth. The better question was...
Would Selah let him love her?
Till then, he had Rose-n-Vale. Mattachanna’s son. A beloved aunt. Two doting dogs. An ample table. A comfortable bed. A favorite pipe.
An almost sweetheart.
23
“Glad news, Daughter! The ship bearing Oceanus has docked.”
Selah stared at her father as she entered the warehouse with his midday meal, the welcome words no less upending because the homecoming was expected. “This very day?”
“Indeed.” Ustis adjusted his spectacles, looking more delighted than she’d seen him since Shay’s leaving. “Xander got wind of it early this morn and has gone to meet them in James Towne by shallop. Of course, his new indentures will be kept overnight there for the usual requirements on arrival, but Xander should return with Oceanus sometime this afternoon.”
Soul lifting, Selah set down her basket, hardly believing the happy news. Soon Oceanus would step ashore, into their waiting arms and hearts. Hardly the baby Mattachanna bore but a nimble boy, whether resembling more his father or his mother they would soon discover. Or perhaps a pleasing mix of them both.
“I’ll remain here with you till they come.” Selah began unpacking the basket while Watseka roamed the store, pokinga small finger at this or that, finally holding up a mustard pot in undisguised fascination. “Surely Mother and Izella won’t mind an afternoon alone.”
“I daresay they will not,” Ustis agreed, partaking of a roast chicken leg. “Miss Mischief never tires. What I would give to greet the day running like she does.”
Selah bit her lip. How keenly the old nickname brought Mattachanna’s memory back.
