Becoming Americans (30 page)

      Anne was silent as her husband prepared for the trip. She was terrified and angry that her husband was endangering himself and—more importantly—their children, on a scheme that was important only to the Quakers and to the residents of a colony of thieves, runaways and pirates. Most of Albemarle rightly belonged to Virginia anyway, according to its original charter. When, and if, the line between the colonies was surveyed, many of that rabble in Albemarle would be landless, as their patents weren't from the Crown, but from the Proprietors. Sarah had told Anne that the fear of just such a happening was a big part of the problem in what was, really, Old Virginia. Anne would be glad to see the day, she'd told Sarah. Being the nearest neighbor to such rabble was bad for Lower Norfolk. Carolina's problems were spilling over, and Lower Norfolk had enough problems of its own.

      She held her tongue before Richard nowadays, so she tried to concentrate on packing the provisions and clothing for her husband and the boys. They would get wet, certainly, so they'd need dry things.

      Anne would never repeat the open defiance of her husband that she'd shown during Bacon's Rebellion, as they were now calling the uprising. Her marriage was still weakened from the humiliation Richard had suffered. He'd held to her and to their marriage, but his pride still suffered from what he viewed as humiliation. Anne vowed to herself to never again step beyond a wife's bounds, but she often struggled with her will to not repeat the sin.

      Anne had worked hard these last three years to repair the damage. She'd spoken to her father, and John Biggs had made great efforts to heal the family wounds. He'd written to Richard's uncle, John Williams, to console him with shared opinions of Nathaniel Bacon's treason and his sympathy for Mister Williams' loss of his estate. He wrote again the next year to express his sympathy and offer his prayers for the latest tragedy of the old man. Thomas Williams, Richard's cousin, had fallen in a horse race, resulting in paralysis from the waist down. It was said that the young man had been mightily drunk and had refused to become sober since that day. John Williams replied at great length to the kind expressions, and an invitation to young John had resulted from the on-going correspondence. Richard allowed that visit and had, himself, made some effort at reconciliation by sending, as a present, a barrel of his tar to Uncle John.

      The ox and the cart were loaded on Richard's flat boat as the light began to fade. They'd pole the boat to the Great Bridge tonight and be ready for the trip to Dean's Landing in the morning. It was a very long few miles from Great Bridge to Dean's Landing.

      The moon was nearly full and a light breeze was blowing. The boys were skilled at poling the light boat, and they hugged the marshy shoreline of the Southern Branch as they flowed up-river with the rising tide. Long before midnight they reached the bridge and tied the boat to a tree on Tom Sayer's southern side of the river, very narrow here, as it neared the source. After getting the ox and the cart on shore and tied up, they were all tired.

      "Get your sleep, boys. You've a busy day tomorrow," Richard told his sons.

      The three of them lay in the flatboat, open to the gentle breeze that fanned away the flies and mosquitoes that the ox helped attract. Richard listened to the easy, even breathing of his sons and knew they were asleep. He wondered if he'd done the right thing in bringing them along. He knew that Anne was opposed to it.

      So, why didn't her sainted father or his Quaker friends take care of Miller? Why didn't John Biggs take
his
boys down to Albemarle and rescue their hero? Because such work was beneath him, that's why, Richard thought. John Biggs had kept his wealth—had increased it, even, after '67 and '76—and like so many of the settlers who had arrived before and during the time of Richard's servitude, Biggs was beginning, somehow, to place himself above the rank of smaller planters. And it wasn't just that this group had more money—sometimes they didn't—they were acting more and more as if they really were gentlemen. Especially the landed children who were born in Virginia. He could see the envy of them in his son John's eyes. In church, at court, on militia days—even at the fairs and market days—certain of these families seemed to be separating themselves from the rest. They were beginning to act like the nobility, Richard thought.

      John Biggs was a good man—Richard could never repay the man's several kindnesses to him, even by doing such special favors for him as this mission to Albemarle. Still, John Biggs was the Quaker, not he. The Carolina business was none of his, though this trip would be profitable. In fact, if he lived in Carolina— and at times he'd even thought of selling his plantation and re-establishing on the rich land he'd seen in Albemarle—if he lived in Carolina, he'd be opposing Miller and the Proprietary government.

      But he didn't and he wasn't, so he let those thoughts alone and went to sleep.

      He arose before the early dawn and shook the boys. They ate turkey legs and drank from a cask of ale, then lashed the ox to the cart and began their journey.

      This was familiar country to the boys. They'd rowed to the Great Bridge before. They'd ridden horses over it from down the old Indian path that had grown into a narrow road for carts and carriages. The road ran from Nansemond County above Deep Creek, skirting the heads of other creeks that entered from the western side of the river, before it reached the long, wooden bridge that spanned the marsh and islands at the narrow Southern Branch headwaters. But now, they were traveling slowly south, skirting the depths of the swamp that had always been off-limits to them.

      August had been dry this year, though the spring and early summer had been rainy. The path was mostly dry, though it was deeply rutted from the traffic of carts and horses and herds of swine that trafficked between the colonies. Huge cedars that were cut and dragged down the path by the many sawyers in the area had deepened the ruts.

      For the first hour of their journey the land was much as at Deep Creek, though open fields that had been cleared for farming were soon left behind. Ever present in the distance was a solid mass of vegetation that stood tall, some cypress trees reaching above the density to show their tops. Stretching from the distance to the path was a tangle of briars and vines that was impassable except to the deer and bear and snakes and swarms of gnats, flies, fleas, and mosquitoes. By the time the sun was up at the Great Bridge, Richard and his boys were into the darkness of the Great Swamp.

      The road was more and more a mere path. Grass and briars grew solid in a line between the ruts of the wheels. Branches and vines draped from overhanging trees and scratched their faces as they plodded along with the ox. Fallen trees littered the sides of the path, some rotting beneath their cover of mushrooms and vines, others newly down and pulled out of the way. Richard pointed out the fallen trees and told his sons of the hidden danger they bespoke. The land here was mostly water and an accumulation of dead vegetation. There was nothing solid for the roots of these giant trees to cling to, so in a heavy gale they toppled, piling on one another in a pattern that told the direction of past windstorms. As they settled into the bog, the trees added to the loose base for new vegetation.

      Richard stopped the cart as he explained this to the boys, and took his knife to clear a small area away from the path. He cut and pulled away enough of the overgrowth to make himself a path ten feet from their road. As he stood at the distance of his path, he pointed to where he'd trod. Each of his footprints had filled with water. He motioned the boys to him, and told them to pay attention.

      As they stepped from the firm cart path, they felt the earth give beneath their feet.

      "It's like walking on a sponge, Pa," Joseph said.

      "It's exactly like walking on a sponge, Son, except you don't know when this sponge might break and you'll sink in over your head. That's what happened to Stephen Gibbs last year when we were hunting that wildcat that was eating everybody's chickens. We almost didn't get Gibbs out of there, so you boys be careful."

      They went on, slapping at the giant mosquitoes and studying their strange surroundings. The same, frightening wilderness lay only a few thousand feet behind their house, but it was a foreign to them as China. There was no need for God-fearing folk to venture into the Devil's wilderness. This thread of a path through its edge was a necessary compromise with good sense.

      "It has a beauty, this Devil's Swamp," Richard said, after half a mile of silence. John and Richard looked for examples. They hadn't thought of it, but they could see what might make their father say such a thing.

      The swamp was colorful, with white and yellow honeysuckle vines growing thick and hanging from the trees. Scarlet trumpet vines were everywhere. Masses of white flowers that looked like lace, golden stars of whorled loosestrife, blue bells, and countless other wildflowers lined the path and grew between the ruts. Blackberries grew thirty feet tall in an open area, and loaded grapevines dropped their ripe fruit at the boys' feet. But, moss fell like hair from trees, and mushrooms that looked like brains and dead men's fingers and other strange shapes, covered rotting stumps. The smell of rot was heavy; heavy and mixed with the strong perfumes of countless flowers and fruit.

      Strange sounds of movement came from the dense growth at times: a rustle of leaves, the cry of bobcats, the cracks and snaps of bushes being pushed aside by large animals. The thought of getting lost and spending a night in this place crossed the mind of Joseph, and he shuddered as he prayed that it would never happen. Folks said the swamp came to life at night.

      John aimed tobacco juice at a lizard resting in a spot of sun. He eyed the hogshead of "sweet-scented" on the cart and wished his father wasn't going to trade it. They should keep it all, not just the few pounds his father had taken out and replaced with their own rough-tasting leaf. John hated that his father did shady tricks like that, although he was glad they had some of the good chew for later. John hated this uncomfortable drudging through the swamp to deal with a bunch of cutthroats and thieves.

      John hated that he wasn't rich. When he visited his Uncle John, and met boys his age who were the sons of Uncle John's friends, he told them of the sevenhundred-acre plantation of his father. The boys treated him as equal, thinking that such a plantation was a most respectable beginning on which to build a fortune. John didn't tell them that the plantation was mostly marsh and useless swamp forest. Even the land they cleared and drained with ditches was only good for wheat and corn and vegetables. There'd never be a fortune made from that! So now his father was in trade; trading, now, tobacco for whale oil that he could trade for tobacco notes! It was discouraging to John, and he was determined that he'd find a better way when he grew up.

      John stopped in his tracks as he lagged a few paces behind his brother and father. A large, patterned snake rustled across the path. John spit at the reptile, then hurried on to catch up with the others.

      Progress was slower as the swamp moved closer in on them. The sky was darkened as the vegetation shrouded them, even growing in and over the ruts, apparently reclaiming cleared spots overnight. The path was hard to follow; discernible only by the long troughs of water made in filled ruts. Jabez Biggs had said that carriages were known to travel this Carolina Road; an obvious lie.

      Richard watched his boys all day, hoping that they'd find this type of journey as adventuresome as he did. It always brought back memories to him of that first long journey on foot he'd taken with Edward and Opeechcot. Those were grand days. The old savage had taught the boys a lot on that trip. Richard often wondered what had happened to the red man. He must be dead for many years. Opeechcot had been old enough to witness the massacres of '22 and '44, though the Indian had told the boys that he knew nothing of those slaughters. That part of the old days was gone, Richard knew, and he was glad that his children were growing up secure from fear of the savages. They'd never felt that threat in Lower Norfolk; even during the Indian wars of Bacon. The killing had been out west or up north, further up the rivers that flowed from the fabled mountains. There'd been trouble in Albemarle a few years earlier, but that, too, had been to the west, in the Chowan River valley on the other side of the swamp. There were very few of the savages left in these parts. In fact, Richard figured there must be more Africans here now, than Indians.

      Richard searched the faces of his boys, hoping to find the glitter in their eyes that would give him pleasure, but John's transparent face showed no expression. There wasn't much John did like that wasn't costly. Joseph's face was transparent, too, but it was often grim or sullen or, like today, just determined.

      Richard wished his boys would laugh more often. All of his older children were too serious.

      "Pa, I smell bacon," Joseph said.

      Richard sniffed the air. Someone was cooking at the landing.

      The sound of a loud splash was followed by the sounds of struggle in deep water. The three of them pushed through the brambles to the open space of the North West River.

      "Look, boys!" Richard said, and pointed to the bear that was fishing in the river.

      "That's where it's coming from," Joseph said, and pointed to the smoke that rose from a cabin across the narrow river. He wasn't interested in a bear; he was hungry.

      "Ferryman!" Richard yelled across the river, then told John to go and fetch the ox and cart.