Bon Marche (23 page)

“Good, because I won't go if my pony can't go!”

Martha laughed at her, hugging her tightly. “We'll keep that in mind, darling.”

The twins, Lee and Louise, less aware of what was really happening—they were only four—nevertheless danced about the mansion, singing a nonsense ditty taught to them by their black nanny: “We're going west, you hear, for to be a pioneer.” Over and over again.

III

I
N
the first week of June 1796, Dewey heard the news that Tennessee had been admitted to the Union as the sixteenth state, with Knoxville as its capital. He had hoped to be well along on the road by that time, but dreaming of the West, and getting there, were two different things.

Charles was learning that there was a lot about preparing for travel in the wilderness that he didn't know. He had confidently designed a large, deep-bodied wagon, meant to carry the household furnishings both he and Martha wanted to take along. The body would be boatlike, so that it would float, if necessary, in fording the deep rivers.

There were to be two of the large wagons, and the slaves were set to the task of building them. When the first was finished, it was floated on the James River as a test. So cumbersome was it, and so unstable, that it listed to one side, shipped water, and sank.

A week, then, was wasted in trying to refloat the sunken wagon and salvage it. Only the wheels were brought out of the James.

After that experience, he re-adapted his design to widen the beam and to fasten pontoon-like devices on each side to keep the second wagon level in the water. But, that made it so heavy a team of oxen had difficulty pulling it, even before it was loaded.

Angry with himself because of his ignorance of wagon design, Charles abandoned what he had once proudly dubbed the “Fortunata wagons” sending a fast rider to Pennsylvania to order four of the tried Conestoga wagons from the craftsmen there. Three weeks passed before they could be delivered.

Yet another problem, and another delay, grew out of the difficulty of finding a manager-in-residence to look after Fortunata until it could be sold and until what he would be leaving behind could be brought to Tennessee at a later date. Lawyer Exner had made two recommendations to him, but Charles, after interviewing the men, had turned them down.

“Perhaps I seek a paragon,” Dewey admitted, “but I must, initially, leave behind all of the blooded horses and a majority of the Negroes, and I need someone I can trust implicitly.”

“I have such a man in mind,” Exner assured him, “but he hasn't yet replied to my letter.”

“Please do what you can to expedite this matter. I hope to leave by the end of June.”

His first target date for departure had been the end of April.

By the third week in June, the Conestoga wagons had been delivered and were being loaded. Exner sent word that the man he was recommending “most highly” for the managerial position would arrive within two days.

On the morning of the second day, Charles paced the drawing room nervously, hoping that the lawyer had finally found the right man. When he heard horses on the road, he strode out onto the veranda and looked down the long lane. As the riders came closer, Charles gasped.

“Come quickly, Martha,” he shouted into the house. “My God, it's Andrew!”

MacCallum raced his horse to the entrance of Fortunata, ahead of Exner, vaulted off it, and embraced his old friend. Martha, laughing and crying, joined in the welcome, kissing her former tutor in a most unladylike manner.

“You're to be my manager?” Charles asked, finding it hard to believe his good fortune. He hugged the Scotsman once more.

“I came, Charles,” MacCallum said soberly, “because I'm so delighted that you're putting this … uh … stultifying life behind you. You'll remember I told you once that the time would come when you'd leave Elkwood—”

“I remember.”

“—and that you shouldn't hesitate when that time came.”

“Perhaps the time did come earlier, Andrew, but I couldn't leave while Statler still lived. His last days were very unhappy.”

“So your letters told me. But now you'll leave, and I'm very pleased to be even a minor instrument in the beginning of your new life.”

“I have a grand idea!” Charles exclaimed enthusiastically. “When we're established in Tennessee, and it comes time to bring the horses and the rest of the household there, you can join us!”

MacCallum grinned. “No, no, I'm not a frontiersman. I'm very happy in my post at Princeton. When this is finished, I'll be content to go back there. I'll leave the adventuring to you.”

IV

W
ITH
MacCallum at Fortunata, Charles pressed his plans to leave Virginia by the end of June.

It was an impressive caravan he put together: the four Conestoga wagons, each drawn by four light draft horses; two open-body farm wagons, with two horses each; riding horses for himself, Martha, the two older boys, plus the pony for Corrine; a half-dozen extra mounts, two milk cows, and seven slaves, including Martha's young housemaid, Angelica, brought along to help care for the children.

One of the six black men was Horace, who had pleaded with Charles not to leave him behind. “Ah'll work hard, Mistah Charles. This”—he held up his handless arm—“ain't gonna stop no hard work, Ah kin tell ya.”

“I don't know, Horace. It's going to be a very difficult journey, and I'll need—”

“Please, Mistah Charles! Ah'm 'fraid when ya leaves thet Mistah Funston he gonna kill me!”

Dewey thought, at first, that the slave might be exaggerating the danger he faced, but the more he thought of it, the more he remembered about Funston Lee. Horace was added to the travel party.

Finally, June 28 was selected as the departure day.

On the preceding afternoon, after Martha had arranged with Katherine to have Funston Lee away from Elkwood, the Dewey family knelt at Marshall Statler's grave for a moment of silent prayer.

When they got to their feet, Charles said, “I hope that you older children will remember your grandfather. He was a great and kind man, and he loved you very much.”

The sun was only a rosy presence in the east the next morning as the wagons lumbered away from Fortunata. Looking back at the mansion, Charles could see Andrew MacCallum standing on the veranda, waving. The Scotsman cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “God keep you all!”

The slaves of both Fortunata and Elkwood lined the road leading out of the plantation, many of them weeping.

Martha wept, too.

But Charles Dewey shed no tears.

It was too joyful a moment for that.

17

I
T
was three days to Charlottesville. By the end of the first week they had made the torturous climb to the summit of the Blue Ridge Mountains and had started down again.

Charles had decided to keep a journal on the trip. In it he wrote, “July 5: Slow going, but the weather has been most favorable. The children are delighted by seeing the countryside and all manner of wild creatures—none of a dangerous nature as yet. We hope for Staunton in two more days.”

However, a wheel on one of the Conestogas was damaged when it bounced over a large rock, and it was four days, not two, before the travelers saw the village of Staunton. There they were to turn south to Lexington, cross the western reaches of the James and the Roanoke rivers and journey on to what was called the Wilderness Road, heading for Bristol on the mountainous border with Tennessee.

“July 10: Left Staunton at first light this morning, after having purchased a crude map of the wilderness area south of here. Much concerned about our slow progress.”

Three days later they reached Lexington, the last substantial community they would see for some time. Charles and the family stayed overnight in comfortable accommodations at the Old Blue Travern, which was filled with travelers.

The children were fed and put to bed. Charles and Martha had the small luxury of eating together in the dining area of the tavern. The innkeeper, one Mr. Willingford, was an extrovert who chatted amiably with them.

“Where you headed, folks?” he asked.

“To Tennessee.”

“A long journey—a long journey, indeed.” He looked at them quizzically. “I gather that you're new to wilderness travel?”

“Yes, we are,” Charles acknowledged, feeling inadequate at having made the admission.

When they finished their meal and had ordered ale, Willingford brought to their table a buckskin-clad young man named Abner Lower, identified to them as a long-hunter. His face was leathery; there was a greasy odor about him. Lower sat down with them.

“What is a long-hunter, Mr. Lower?” Martha asked.

“Some say a fool, ma'am.” The young man grinned. “Some of us hunters go into the western wilderness for furs and stay several years at a time. A long time—so long-hunters.” He pondered for a moment. “It's been three years since I've seen my home at New Market. I hope to be there in three or four days.”

“Are you married?” Martha wanted to know.

The hunter laughed heartily. “I was when I last left. I'll just have to see if I still am when I get back to New Market.”

Charles got out the map he had bought in Staunton spreading it out in front of Lower. “Is this accurate?”

Abner studied it. “Aye. Accurate enough, it seems.” He looked up at Charles. “Those wagons outside, the ones with the nigras, are they yours?”

“Yes.”

Lower shook his head doubtfully. “I'm afraid, sir, you might have a misconception of what the Wilderness Road is like.” He nodded toward the map. “You see, it's more like a trace—a buffalo trace, really—pounded hard by God knows how many of those beasts over God knows how many years. It's clear enough to follow, that's true. But a road? Well, sir—”

“We didn't anticipate that the travel would be easy,” Charles commented. There was a certain defensiveness in his tone.

The long-hunter sighed. “My daddy used to say that unasked-for advice is no advice at all because it won't be followed.” A hesitation. “But I wouldn't be honest, Mr. Dewey, if I didn't tell you that you'll not make it over the Wilderness Road with those wagons.”

Charles's shock showed on his face.

“Aye, that's right,” Lower insisted. “The best thing I can tell you is to sell the wagons and most of what they carry, right here in Lexington, and make your way on horseback.”

“But we can't,” Martha cried. “All of our household furnishings are in the wagons.”

The long-hunter grunted, sorry now that he had given the unsolicited advice. “Well, ma'am,” he said pleasantly, “it's true that I never tried it with wagons myself, and maybe…” He drained his tankard, bowed to Martha, and left the table.

“Charles, we can't just abandon everything here,” Martha insisted, tears coming to her eyes.

Dewey patted her hand. “Calmly, dear. We'll proceed as planned.”

II

“J
ULY
15: Our first bad weather,” Charles wrote in his journal. “Heavy rain, with severe thunder and lightning, swelled the Roanoke, turning the banks of the river into the stickiest mud ever seen. Waiting here on the north bank till waters recede for safe crossing.”

It was the seventeenth before they could cross the Roanoke and continue their journey. Charles began to fume more and more about the slowness: “July 19: That long-hunter was right. ‘Road' is a misnomer in this wilderness. At times it is but a footpath, and it becomes difficult to move the wagons through. I know now that I have made a basic error with the wagons, but we must persist, error or no. Becoming concerned that we may not reach our destination before winter. Damn the slowness!”

Three days later they faced another delay. The trace bar on a Conestoga was split when the wagon jolted over a deep rut, unseen because it was filled with leaves. Dewey had no choice but to pitch camp while the repairs were being made: “July 22: Probably couldn't have picked a more beautiful place to be halted. If there is more natural beauty on the face of the earth than this wilderness, I cannot imagine it. Shot a white-tail in the afternoon and all enjoyed its meat roasted over a large gay fire. All are well, in good spirits. All are working hard, including the older children and dear, uncomplaining Martha.”

That night, as they slept under the stars on blankets spread on beds of fragrant pine needles, Charles was awakened by a slight moan. He listened for a moment or two. Then—a muffled cry. It was his wife. He could barely make out her form in the dark; her face was hidden from him.

Charles touched her. “Dear, are you ill?”

“No, no,” she answered softly. “Just a twinge or two in my muscles. I'm a bit sore, I guess.”

He leaned over, kissing her cheek. “I've been working you too hard.”

“Don't be concerned, darling.”

Charles relaxed again, trying to go back to sleep. Minutes passed, perhaps a quarter of an hour.

Suddenly, Martha screamed in pain.

Dewey shot to his knees, leaning over her. “What is it?”

She began to weep—hard, sobbing weeping.

“Get some light here!” Charles shouted.

Angelica brought an oil lamp, and one of the Negro men began to stir the embers of the fire to bring it to flame again. Charles was shocked by what the light showed him. Martha's face, running with sweat, was twisted in pain.

“My God, what is it? Tell me!”

“Oh, Charles—” She was biting her lip, drawing blood. “I didn't want you to know, to worry. I've been pregnant since mid-May.”

“What?”

“I didn't want to delay your plans, so I didn't tell—”

“Are you aborting?”

“Yes … yes!” Her crying turned to a wail. “Oh, Charles, I'm so sorry.”