Whiskers In The Dark

38

October 29, 1787

Monday

The sprinkling of sand over wet ink, allowing it to dry, then tipping the fine-grade paper into a wastebasket focused Ewing’s attention. The sound of the sand, tiny granules, moving across the paper always made him feel that he was properly working, not wasting time.

His quill, goose, of course, was perched in its stand. The ink bottle had been carefully closed. The odor from the fire infused the room. With two days remaining in October, late fall nudged toward winter. Outside a cold mist enveloped Cloverfields.

Bettina and Serena sang in the kitchen. Every now and then he could hear a pot tapped with a spoon. Even on the coldest winter day, those two women kept warm in the kitchen. Catherine and Rachel were in there, too. They wanted to talk to Bettina. Also, Rachel was determined to see how Bettina tenderized a large loin of pork. Small pottery bowls, filled with herbs, sat in a row like little culinary soldiers.

Ewing knew his girls were in there, but he didn’t know what they were doing. For the most part he believed in the gender division of labor, with particular gifts being accounted for such as Catherine’s gift with horses, Rachel’s with people. But men did not belong in the kitchen and he kept his distance.

The letter, concisely expressed in his quite good penmanship, concerned Bettina’s manumission. He could have simply written a document in his own hand freeing his cook, but Ewing did not trust to lawyers but so much now and he had no idea what they would be like in the future. As to those men who had gathered in Philadelphia, members of Congress, he’d heard enough over time, starting with the prosecution of the war, to fear them all with the exception of Washington. He began to entertain good thoughts of Hamilton. However, wherever men gathered to discuss affairs, to make laws, a citizen should be cautious. Then again, no matter how well educated, how well meaning, no one, not one single human being, can see into the future. We can feel things, Isabelle surely did, and those things can be prescient, but to behold the whole picture and the temper of men, no.

Here he was in his late forties, he didn’t care to be too precise about the date; he had observed a great deal and the trip to Europe when he was young gave him valuable insights, at least he thought it did. Exciting, new as the United States was, in many ways it had much in common with England or those nations on the Continent that he had visited.

He held up the paper again, ink dry, knowing he was doing what his wife would have wanted ultimately but wondering was he truly doing Bettina any favors? What was freedom anyway? Was it the opposite of bondage, of physical slavery? That question, hazy at first, sharpened over his lifetime. As a young man in France the money, the manners, even the way the royals walked, the nobility spoke, dazzled him. But they weren’t totally free. Each one of those people had to preserve and advance the family’s fortunes through the King. No one could be honest with the King and Queen or with one another. Perhaps at night before the fire with family members after yet another ghastly, expensive soiree, they could tell the truth. Still it was better than physical bondage.

Each country he visited flourished in its own way, its habits, its arts, but all endured what he felt were inhospitable governments. And what if one were the King? One needed intelligent advisers, never a certainty. One needed to pander to and be pandered to by those of great wealth, the old noble families.

Here? Well, he had believed himself a good and productive subject of George, King George III, even if he was a Hanoverian, not truly English. England had done all right but he believed that was because England had a Parliament, a real argumentative, discursive body whether King George liked it or not. In its way, that body represented the people, maybe not those on the bottom, but the ever-growing middle classes had a voice now. He thought that good.

But then King George levied more and more burdens on this colony. Not all the burdens were financial, although those were the worst. Finally, like many men of his generation, educated, of means, he believed a break with England politically necessary.

“We won,” he said to himself. “We created the Articles of Confederation, frightened of nurturing a despot. They were a disaster. I pray this Constitution will hold.”

He again read the paper to his lawyer concerning proper manumission papers for Bettina and that she should be registered as a free black in court records. Since representation, the crux on which the Constitutional Convention had nearly hung itself, was so important he believed it was important that every citizen and Bettina, though not a full citizen, would be counted in some fashion if this Constitution was ratified by all the states in the time frame. He was keenly aware that the word “slave” was not in the Constitution, only the word “persons.” Slave that she was, Bettina, legally, was a person. His daughters, all the women, free or slave, must be protected by their men. Every woman’s status should be clear. Ewing knew that men usually only protected women that were theirs: mother, relatives, wife, daughters. It didn’t trouble him that things were otherwise any more than slavery troubled him. It was the way of the world. Still, he wanted to make certain that this excellent woman who had tended and loved his wife would never be challenged. Bettina would be free.

No point in telling her until all the paperwork was done and recorded.

He turned his chair, with effort, toward the fire. His mind wandered back to representation. A true census had to be accomplished. He wondered how easily those numbers could be corrupted. According to the new document, seats in the lower chamber relied on such numbers.

Looking outside the windows, his mind felt like that cold mist. He could see the outlines. No more. Maybe that was just life. Then again, he valued clarity, logic, reliability. For a flash, he wondered if this new world was passing him by. Were younger men up to the sacrifices?

As Ewing asked himself questions, his daughters absorbed Bettina’s teaching. Catherine tried. Some of it got through because she did like to delight her husband, and John, a muscular, tall man, liked to eat. He never complained about her cooking but Bettina sneaked him tidbits, for Catherine’s shortcomings as well as her virtues were known to all.

“Maybe it will be an early winter.” Serena, too, looked out the window.

“That’s why I want that pea soup thick,” Bettina told her. “You keep stirring. I’m running down to Bumbee’s with the girls.” She always called the daughters “the girls.”

“Yes, Bettina.” Since all Serena had to do was stir, she was relieved, plus she would enjoy some time alone.

The three women, wrapped in shawls, left the house, but they hurried to Rachel’s. Bettina didn’t want Serena to feel anything important was being kept from her, hence the little fib about Bumbee and the weaving room. If Serena inadvertently mentioned something to Bumbee, Bettina could always say she got sidetracked, somewhat true.

Once inside, Rachel arranged chairs in front of the fire. The three, shawls hanging on pegs by the door, sat down.

“Father visited Maureen Selisse. He gave her the happy news.” Catherine started the discussion. “She pretended to think all was well but, as you might imagine, she dug her heels in concerning DoRe. Right now she has put such a price on him, she knows this will delay things.”

“I knew it.” Bettina folded her arms across her ample bosom.

“All is not lost.” Catherine looked to Rachel, better at these things.

“In fact, Bettina, Father made her an offer that will nibble away at her. He offered to put in an orchard, provide the trees, manage it for three years until the first good apple crop, and he will train a man to manage the orchard in his stead. There’s a lot to it.”

“Trade my man for an apple.” Bettina guffawed. “Look what happened to Eve.”

They all smiled, then Rachel continued. “She hid behind Jeffrey. Said she would have to talk to him but she couldn’t part with such a valuable man. This will drag on, lots of back-and-forth, but in time, especially if DoRe finds a man to train there, she’ll swap apples and some money for your soon-to-be husband.”

“I see.” Bettina tried not to get her hopes up.

After all, she had seen and hidden Moses and Ailee. She had a good idea of Maureen’s character.

Rachel hopped in again. “Bettina, if you could impress DoRe with finding and training a good driving man, a man to run the stables, this will move faster.”

“The carriages, remember the carriages. If he finds a handsome young fellow who will look good on one of Jeffrey’s carriages, this will be easier. For Maureen, it comes down to money, money and her personal power over others,” Catherine added to her sister’s idea.

“I will talk to him. He’s a thinking man. I’m sure this has crossed his mind.”

“I’m sure it has, too, but you have the facts, for DoRe doesn’t know what Father’s offer was.” Catherine reminded her again of Maureen’s outlook.

“What price did she set on my man?” Bettina’s eyes widened a bit.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” Catherine forthrightly told her.

Bettina rocked back a bit in the chair. “He’s priceless.”

They all laughed, knowing this would take the rest of fall, most of the winter, and early spring, but Ewing, with Jeffrey’s help, could make it happen.

“Now to the wedding.” Rachel reached for Bettina’s hand. “Spring? Or early summer? Here at Cloverfields if you wish, but then again, if you’d rather all be quiet, we understand.” Rachel knew full well Bettina would want a “do.”

“Before the bugs get bad.” The cook laughed.

“May?” Rachel offered.

Bettina nodded her consent and Catherine beamed. “May.”

While the three women at Cloverfields were thinking that 1788 would be a big year, Ralston wasn’t thinking at all. He had managed to insert his member into a woman, his dream finally coming true. The pleasure exploded with such intensity, he knew he could never live without this. The desperate problem was that he had been inside Sulli.

Neither of them planned this, but William had been batting her around. Ralston, finishing his chores early, walked in the mist, as bad in Maryland as it currently was in Virginia, down to the large pond. He wanted to plan how to reduce William in Ard’s eyes, as William was doing that to him. William never missed an opportunity to point out something to Ard that he thought Ralston did wrong or didn’t do at all. So far Ard hadn’t paid much attention to him, but William did get the good rides and Ralston did not.

Standing at the calm pond, he heard footsteps, then turned to see Sulli. Tears ran down her face. He asked what was the matter and she poured out her misery concerning William, who hit her, didn’t love her anymore, criticized everything she did. He listened, put his arm around her, offering comfort. She turned to him, holding him around the waist, resting her head on his shoulder while she cried more.

He kissed her. She kissed him back. Comfort turned to something far more exciting and they slipped through the mist to one of the empty cabins. There were many. A pallet rested on the floor. They didn’t dare start a fire. They warmed up in the time-honored fashion.

She kissed him, said she had to go. He swore he couldn’t live without her. She promised he would not have to do so but she needed time.

Ralston waited a bit, then he, too, left the cabin, walking back to the bunkhouse, head full of new thoughts. They would find a way.

He, too, was planning for 1788.

Overhead, the migrating Canada geese honked to one another, a marvelous sound amplified by the mist. Sounds always seem louder when one can’t see. Those beautiful geese had no sense of the future. They just knew it was time to fly. The humans below lacked such sense.