Becoming Americans (20 page)

      "Uncle John, the boy has no mind for stealing. He's just testing the chew, that's all. He's a mind and an eye that won't be filled up."

      Richard snapped his finger and the child's head turned back, arrested for a moment from the constant twisting which just moments ago had the two men laughing. But Joseph turned too late, this time, to avoid collision.

      "Blast you, Boy!"

      An elegant stranger sat in the dusty street and fingered the broken feather that hung limply from his hatband.

      "Look, Pa! He's got a suit like yours!"

      "I doubt that," the stranger said as he examined the rough tow of Richard's breeches, and the old leather buff coat with one side slit nearly to the armhole. He pulled himself up—struggling to regain his dignity—muttering, "That boy should be at work, this time of day," then hurriedly resumed his errand down the busy Front Street by the river.

      "You lost a ribbon!" Joseph called after him, but the man had disappeared into the crowd of sailors and merchants and slaves. The boy rubbed the strip of satin against itself and marveled. He'd never known a thing so smooth or slick that wasn't oily.

      "But I just stepped from my boat." Richard spoke to himself, but he was talking to the stranger. Why had he let Anne talk him into wearing these work clothes to James Town?

      "It is like your suit, isn't it, Pa?"

      "They're both blue, if that's what you mean," his father said.

      "The fine suit my brother sent you over with? I'm surprised you have it still, living in the wilderness. It must be Anne. God blessed you with an industrious wife who could mend your clothes and mend your ways."

      "Uncle! I pray you guard your resentment of my youthful indiscretions and remember the ears of children…."

      But Joseph wasn't listening to the adults renew an ancient squabble that meant nothing to him. His eyes and ears and nose were in the present, the excitement of this day. With one turn of his head he saw more people than he'd seen in the whole nine years of his life. The city of James Town was alive with activity and colors and smells that he hadn't imagined on Deep Creek. His plantation home at the edge of the great wilderness swamp held excitement of its own, but the life in the city capital in the spring of 1676 was more than….

      "Joseph. Boy!" What do you think?"

      This man, this "Uncle John," was talking to him.

      "Sir?"

      "What do you think, Boy? What think you of our city?"

      "I don't know, Sir. I don't know what…it is."

      "What is, Boy?"

      "A lot of it. I don't know what a lot of it is. I've never seen so many houses and outbuildings. There must be as many houses as I have fingers and toes!"

      "I think there probably are, Boy. A slight few more, there are."

      "I like all these ships together, Pa. Did you come in one of those ships?"

      "One much like that one, Son."

      Richard pointed to a two-masted ketch at anchor. Some people leaned against the rail while others lay about the deck.

      Holding still to see, the boy could tell that those who lay about weren't moving, and that creatures who were skin and bones and filth hovered over them, wiping brows and holding piggins and buckets for them to be sick into. A mast was broken, and the sound of saws and hammers came from below decks. The smell of vomit and of new sawn pine drifted from the ship, and Joseph remembered last year when his baby sister, Mary, and the old servant, Robert, died of the flux.

      "You had an easy voyage, Richard. Fair winds and sunshine, in just seven weeks, it was. Old Captain Ferris told me it was the only smooth voyage he's made yet."

      "Uncle John, my son asked me to describe the ship which carried me. It was much the size of that unfortunate vessel."

      Joseph stared at the older man whom he was beginning to dislike.

      "Pa, why do you call him "uncle?"

      "He is my uncle, Son. A brother to my father. That makes him your greatuncle. Your Grandfather Williams's brother."

      "A noble, gentle man, your grandfather was, my boy. You are greatly honored to be his namesake. A martyred defender of his God and King. A loving brother to me. And to our brother, Edward. God rest both their souls of blessed memory."

      Father and son echoed him, though Richard looked sideways at his Uncle, who was rolling his eyes upward in prayer.

      "Had I an Uncle Edward, too?" Joseph was intrigued.

      Richard gave the lesson: "Your brother John is named after Uncle John, here. You were named after my father, Joseph; your brother Edward, for my Uncle Edward—of loving memory," he looked at Uncle John. "Baby Richard was named after me."

      "I thought John was named for Grandfather Biggs."

      "So think he and your mother," Richard said, and he and Uncle John laughed.

      Joseph though for a moment then, "Who did you get named for, Pa?"

      Richard slowed his step and bent to adjust the garter of his stockings.

      "My father was up to Oxford fighting for King Charles—the first King Charles—when I was born. My mother died to give me birth—they said I breathed my first as she breathed her last. Her mother—my Grandmother Batts—kept me for a while, and named me for Grandfather Batts. Grandfather Richard Batts. He was dead. And before I knew him, so was my father, fighting for his God and King. As Uncle John has often said."

      "Batts?" Joseph was confused.

      "I never knew my Batts kin. None of them. My Uncle Edward took me from her and raised me, more or less, until he found the way of being rid of me. And I of him."

      "Ingrate!" Uncle John had turned red.

      "Forgive me, Uncle. I place no blame. I might well do the same were I bequeathed a rebellious and deceitful child such as I was."

      "Edward had his faults, but he did well by you, and I must have faith that he died a God-fearing man." Uncle John was flustered with competing memories and emotions, and not completely willing to accept the explanation.

      "Look, Pa! An Indian!"

      Tall and proud—taller than the invaders who surrounded him—the old Pamunkey strode towards the white men, walking with such confidence and purpose that young Joseph stepped aside to let him pass. Joseph wanted to reach out and touch the bronzed skin—flesh tanned with smoke and bear's grease. The men had different reactions.

      "Brazen heathen," Richard grumbled, reminded of Opeechcot by the knot of tied hair.

      "His people have been here for many more generations than our own," Uncle John said. "They, too, are sons of Adam. He has every right to be here, as he wears the badge for passage issued to our tributary Indians. He is about some business, no doubt."

      "No doubt," said Richard. "But I hear tales of the business of these savages up the rivers, nowadays. Some of them are about no good business. And how can you speak up for them? You were here to witness the massacre of '44."

      "We are at peace with these people, Richard. They provide us markets and labor and information against those western and northern tribes who might not be so peaceful. Not to mention the Dutch and the French traders."

      "So it's said." Richard wanted no more argument. He was thirsty, and he saw a sign that beckoned.

      "The clouds have brought a chill," he said. "A mug of ale and a fireside are the thing we want for a good chat. What say you, Uncle? The boy and I have had a brisk sail today."

      "I'd hoped we might first pass by the church and offer thanks for your safe voyage. Certainly, you'll be offering a prayer for your father-in-law before he faces the General Court tomorrow." John Williams was a pious man who searched for ways and opportunities to express his sense of duty to the Established Church. "Governor Berkeley and his Council may not be in a lenient mood."

      "Then God will not be looking, and the Governor and his Council can be hanged!" Richard had little patience for the participants of the process that was closing in on his father-in-law.

      "For Heaven's sake. If you must blaspheme, then not so loud!" John was shaken around such talk.

      "We'll have a drink before." Richard had halted beneath a painted sign that displayed a red cock and bull.

      "Not here," insisted his uncle. "The costs here are too high. The Cock and Bull is for gentlemen of substance. Or for men of substance who would pass as gentlemen. There's no lack of inns and ordinaries in James Town, though none be anything but dear. But follow me, if you will persist."

      John led them through the newer part of town, past the brick church and its recently completed tower, towards the older, western part of town where filth and rubbish lay in the streets, and abandoned houses of daub and wattle still existed among scattered, low frame buildings. The glorious State House stood on a slight rise not far away.

      Sounds of laughter, and of wooden trenchers being banged on tables, and of female voices squealing in mock protest came from several doors along the street. The General Court was in session and that alone was occasion for the gathering of crowds to town, though James Town always bustled with the business of trade and government. Half of the population on any given day was just passing through.

      The Blue Ball seemed to be the liveliest establishment, and so was like a magnet to Richard. Smoke rose from the chimney, then poured out the door when he pulled at the latch. A burning log had rolled onto the dirt floor and added to the smoke of tobacco that clouded the packed room.

      "We can't talk in here," Uncle John said.

      "Fine. Fine. That's true enough. You know of another place?" Richard looked about before he pulled the door behind him. He'd come back here alone. This looked like his kind of place.

      John Williams led them to his favorite establishment, The Hawk and Dove.

      "A pint of cider for the boy, and maybe then a bowl of popped corn with milk and sugar." Richard looked to Joseph whose eyes were wide with anticipation at being served in a real ordinary. "For me, hot rum. And for my uncle…?"

      Richard grandly played the host to his uncle and his son. He'd spoken with the owner when they first entered, showed the man his papers, and was granted credit till the fall, when all bills were due and payable in tobacco notes.

      "Hot rum, extra sweet, for me." John was glad to be sitting down, and relaxed his demeanor of family patriarch. The Hawk and Dove was much to his liking. Here the clientele was an older, more settled group. He smiled, comfortable here. He was glad to see his nephew after these ten years. And he was pleased to see this
boy
who had already impressed him with intelligence and curiosity. John Williams had lived to acknowledge the intemperate piety of his own passing generation, and often worried for the future of Virginia when it was left in the hands of Richard's. But, then he'd meet one of this new generation of youngsters.

      "You're raising a fine boy, Richard. I must say I'm surprised."

      Joseph—the boy he spoke of—didn't know whether to be pleased for himself or insulted for his father. He held the wooden mug for its warmth.

      "I try to give him what I didn't have." Richard took two deep swallows of his rum and sighed. "Ahh. I'm going to make it."

      "Ahh. Me, too, Pa," Joseph said, and took two sips of his cider.

      "I've thought of you often over the past years, Richard." John wanted to heal the wounds. "Your Aunt Mary speaks fondly of you."

      "Uncle John, that was another time. Much has happened since I left Gloucester County. I have a family, a plantation…."

      "Family, Richard. You always had family. A proud, vindictive uncle, maybe, but a loving aunt, and a doting cousin. You must always know—and you must tell your children—that you have family. And we must never let that knot be untied again. Family's the most valuable resource we have in this huge country. You must know that by now, Nephew."

      "I do, Uncle. And I know I didn't show the gratitude I should have. Uncle Edward did me a great favor. And you did. But I was just a child—not much older than my Joseph—when I was sent to Virginia. I was only thirteen, Uncle."

      "You didn't act thirteen," said his uncle.

      "True enough. I was old for my age." He took another drink of rum.

      "You all were old for your age. It was a strange time, when you were a child. Cromwell and the Devil were on the prowl. Fathers being killed. Some by their own kin. Families moving to the cities. England overrun with orphans and loose children in the streets. Stealing, attacking innocents. Wild. The wildest ever. And even here, even now, your generation is undisciplined and violent…."

      "It's good to see you, Uncle John. I'm glad my Joseph has met another Williams. His only family has been Biggses. I've missed you all, too. How fares Cousin Thomas?"

      John relaxed again. "He's fine, God be thanked. We nearly lost him in '72 with the flux, but he survived."

      Joseph wasn't listening to them anymore. He was staring at a man with hair so short it barely covered the ears.

      "My master shamed me before my wife and child, he did," the man was saying.