The Audacity of Hubris - Volume Two

By Scott Keller

THE AUDACITY OF HUBRIS is a beautifully written, evocative portrayal of colonial Virginia's settlement. Aristocratics from England, including Lord Faifax, are confronted by the increasing wealth of the colony's planters, led by the Spotswood, Burwell and Carter familes. Based on actual events, the novel follows the intersecting paths of these fa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Keller
• Release date: Jul 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218458935

Scott Keller

Born and raised in Virginia, Scott Keller graduated from Duke University and Columbia University's masters program. He has been an active horseman, rider and competitor his entire life. He lives in Virginia with his wife, dogs, cats and horses.

Book preview

Part One

Nanzatico

To sleep; perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub: for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?

Hamlet—William Shakespeare

We will be known as a culture that feared death and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity for the few and cared little for the penury of the many. We will be known as a culture that taught and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke little if at all about the quality of life for people. All the world, they will say, was a commodity. And they will say that this structure was held together politically, which it was, and they will say also that our politics was no more than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of the heart, and that the heart, in those days, was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

—Mary Oliver

October 1772

There is no crueler beast than that which lurks within the human heart.

A gunshot rang out, its report exploding across the lawn. Smoke rose slow from the muzzle. Frozen in disbelief, his lifeless eyes stared toward the heavens, saw nothing.

June 1772

Nanzatico, Virginia

She laid her quill on the desk.

My name is Katherine now. Charles is my husband. Neither Kitty nor Blaze, not anymore. Those names belonged to the lives we led before we met. We shed them, left behind their memories no matter whether good or bad. The rest of this tale is going to be a bit about us, near all of it true.

We’ve settled into our new house on the Rappahannock, which is so very beautiful. We face the river from atop a small bluff, which has a gentle, sandy bank below. Arched lintels above the reception rooms’ doorways make the corniced ceilings seem even more elegant. Charles explained how the men had tooled the plaster moldings, which seemed a bit much to me, though it does look lovely.

Elegant—though it seems far away from the place that was once my home, far away from a particular creek that finds its way to join with the waters that lap against our riverbank. Perhaps a drop of two of tainted blood once spilled in its waters might have mingled with the sand where the river meets our shore. But with Uncle Burs buried, we no longer travel north to the piedmont, which saddens me.

Our new home is not so remote from where Charles spent much of his childhood, which suits him well. That place is called Sabine Hall, though his cousin lives there now. Nanzatico, where we live, is named for the Indians who lived here long ago. This was their land.

We all have our secrets, don’t we?

Katherine closed the journal. She leaned back in the chair, stared through the window. The river seemed one with the darkness. A few stars hinted where the heavens began their ascent above the forests that lined the opposite bank.

She reached forward, opened the window. She’d grown accustomed to the river’s night sounds, its night silences. In those deep hours, the hours when ancient secrets were revealed to those who listened well, only the wind through the trees reminded her that she was still of this world. All else belonged to another one, one where everything was more certain.

Charles stirred in the bed. She glanced over her shoulder from the desk. He slept deep.

They planned to visit Charles’ cousin, Landon, at Sabine Hall the following day. Katherine thought the place reeked of arrogant privilege. Intolerance dripped from its walls. While she found such visits less daunting over the months since they’d moved into Nanzatico, Katherine took comfort from knowing that Charles viewed his older cousin with bemused disdain.

Landon Carter, eldest son of Robert Carter, the man who had had led transforming the colony a kingdom unto itself, had little to gain from anything or anyone. His only interest was to protect what he had inherited, not only the land or the family’s plantations, but a way of life that seemed to teeter over the edge of a bottomless grave. If Landon feared anything, he feared losing control.

Robert Carter had been the Fairfax’s sole agent in Virginia. After learning of their agent’s newfound wealth, Lord and Lady Fairfax sent their introverted son to Virginia with but a single instruction. All that was required of Thomas was to steward the proprietary with diligence. Yet his unchecked appetite for whoremongering, drinking and gambling led him to ignore how land grants were awarded, a woeful neglect of the family’s colonial affairs.

Robert Carter had granted himself huge swathes of fertile acreage whenever the opportunity arose, which had been often. His son Landon had waited at the head of the hereditary line when the old man had passed, then bellied up to the funereal trough with abandon. On inherited land with inherited slaves, Landon built a monument to his ancestral good fortune, named it Sabine Hall.

Landon embodied the decadence of a dying era. He saw the world in decline, its aristocratic rules near obsolete. Holding firm to his belief that the way he lived was deserved simply by his birth, Landon spent sleepless nights worrying about losing the legacy his father had worked so tirelessly to build.

Though he disapproved of his cousin’s marriage to Katherine, Landon had traveled from Sabine Hall to their wedding at Carter’s Run in Millwood a year earlier. Sadly, an otherwise joyous day had been overshadowed by the passing of a family patriarch, Uncle Burs, who’d choked to death on a biscuit during the reception. Landon had viewed the entire gathering as yet another of his many disappointments.

While Landon still saw Katherine as a commoner, Katherine continued to view Landon as a domineering, doddering fool scarce fit to raise the children he’d sired. He allowed his youngest, Judith, to behave with an unbridled spirit which, at near twenty, more resembled the behavior of a toddler.

Katherine leaned back in the chair, watched silver clouds drift across the midnight skies. Had anyone asked her only a few years earlier whether she could imagine the life she was living, her answer would have been one of utter disbelief. Reading through journal entries from her troubled days with Ezra seemed as if she was reading a story from a madwoman’s imagination, one which few would believe. She pushed her journal deep into the desk drawer, slid it closed.

She rose from the chair, crossed the room, slipped her nightgown to the floor. Settling into bed beside her husband, she pulled the covers close round her shoulders, smiled at the wonder of it all.

Sabine Hall, Virginia

Landon Carter stepped away, let his whip drag across the smokehouse floor. A naked slave hung by the wrists in shackles, his face to the wall. Blood ebbed from lacerations on his shoulders, his back, his thighs. Carter handed the bullwhip to his overseer.

A former indentured worker sent to the colony by his family in Bedfordshire, Rhys had been granted free crossing to the colony as a King’s Passenger. He had settled into his labors at Sabine Hall, never returned. His ruthless guile had appealed to Landon. After only a year, he’d waived Rhys’ indenture, promoted him to huntsman of the new pack of Belvoir hounds that had been brought over from England. Many of his friends had complimented Rhys on his casting skill putting the hounds to covert when foxhunting, which pleased Carter very much.

Another year later, Rhys was overseeing the entire plantation. While floggings had become routine, Rhys had learned to punish past the point of cruelty, once castrating a slave with a common saw. He never intended for his victims to die, though several did.

Rhys took the whip, looped it in his hand.

Hot in here, eh? Carter nodded, placed hands on his knees, bent to catch his breath. Your turn. Have at him.

Yes, sir. Rhys let the lash uncoil slow from his hand. With pleasure.

Thought you could run away, Moses? Carter removed his gloves, tossed them aside. He pulled a silk pocket square from his waistcoat, wiped sweat from his brow. One more attempt will cost you more dear than a mere whipping.

He tucked the square into his pocket, headed toward the door, turned round.

Have one of the girls dress his wounds.

He left the smokehouse, walked toward the big house on the hill.

Nanzatico, Virginia

Charles glanced at the mantle clock, paced the room, looked through a window. Mulatto Tom led the carriage horse without concern for their tardiness. His deliberate pace maddened Charles, but he decided not to chastise him. Mulatto Tom was their only help.

Although Mulatto Tom’s lumbering ways had annoyed Landon’s overseer, Charles’ affection for Mulatto Tom had grown over the past year since Landon had agreed to part with him. Orders had softened to suggestions. Their dialogues had become conversations. Charles knew better than to consider Mulatto Tom a friend, but he no longer viewed him as a slave. The middle ground between them was becoming more amorphous with each passing month.

Charles left the reception room, paused in the wide center hallway, which opened at both ends onto verandas, one which faced the river, the other which faced the fields. A pleasant breeze flowed quiet through the house. He closed his eyes, felt it trace his cheeks.

Katherine, please. Charles called from the bottom of the staircase. Even Tom is getting restless.

Doubtful. Katherine laughed, peeked over the landing. Why the hurry?

Why? We’ll be late again, darling. He ran a hand through his hair. You know my cousin’s not a patient man. Rather prefer not to listen to yet another lecture on the importance of punctuality.

She smirked, returned to her mirror.

Sabine Hall, Virginia

Sabine Hall stood at the end of a long drive. Old sugar maples canopied the drive that led from the lane to a turning circle in front of the house’s broad portico. The family’s private chapel stood to the left, courtyard stables to the right. The rear of the main house overlooked the Rappahannock, which flowed along the southern boundary of the property. The plantation’s tobacco barns stood out of sight behind a row trees where a long wharf extended into the river.

Charles steered the gig to the circle, halted, waited for a groom to take hold of the reins before hopping to the ground.

Thank you, Manuel. Charles spoke as he walked brisk to the other side of the carriage, held Katherine’s hand as she stepped down. Make sure that Yeller gets plenty of water.

Yessir, of course, sir.

They hurried up the steps, across the broad limestone loggia to the doors. A house servant opened them as they approached.

Good afternoon, sir.

Thank you, Nat. Charles nodded. Good to see you looking well.

Thank you, sir. Likewise. You’re expected in the garden.

They followed Nat through the hallway to the rear doors where another house servant, a middle-aged woman called Betty, waited to open them. Katherine smiled to herself about how they could have avoided all that showy fuss by simply walking around the house.

Landon sat in a terrace chair above the tiered parterre gardens, which stepped down from the veranda to the edge of the river bluff. A boxwood maze stood at the center of lawn. A bowling green had been made to the side of the gardens, though no one in recent memory had used it. Landon took pride in his maze, which he’d designed thirty years earlier. It pleased him that the boxwoods had grown tall enough to hide those lost within its narrow alleys.

Charles. Landon stood, removed his hat, A wry, terse smile followed. He greeted them with open arms, which closed as they approached. He clapped his hands together. So good of you to come. You as well, Katherine. How lovely you look today.

Thank you, sir. Katherine smiled, blushed slight. We’re not terribly late are we?

Not at all. Right on the hour. Commendable, Charles. Your wife appears to be a fine influence.

Of course she is, cousin. Katherine’s tamed nearly all of my atrociously bad habits. Charles glanced at her. Former habits.

Bravo. Keep to the grindstone. Carter spoke to Katherine. Understood?

Understood. She failed to keep a small grin from curling at the corners of her lips. She changed the subject. Will Judith be joining us today?

That wretched daughter of mine? Heaven knows where she is at the moment, so it seems doubtful. Carter gestured to a long iron bench opposite his chair. Please have a seat. Tea will be out in a moment.

As he spoke Betty descended the veranda steps with a loaded tray. She had not yet learned of her husband’s beating in the smokehouse that morning, though if she had, her service would have been expected to be the same despite any unspoken animus.

She set down the platter on a low table between them, poured tea for each. A linen cloth covered the biscuits stacked on a sterling plate. She shooed away a curious fly.

Might want to keep that napkin on there, sir. She stepped back. They terrible today.

Thank you, Betty. Carter waved her away. Carry on.

Your gardens look wonderful, sir. Katherine reached for her teacup, sipped. So well-tended.

Yes, they are. Thank you. We’ve added more peonies this year.

You mentioned the other day that Moses has been acting up. Charles took a biscuit, replaced the linen. Any more troubles?

That rogue? Carter’s tone darkened. He had the temerity to run off just yesterday. We caught him of course. He was sleeping in the Beale’s tobacco barn. Dumb as a mule. First place we looked.

Better be careful, cousin. He’s one of your best men.

For now. Carter smirked, sipped his tea. Any problems at Nanzatico?

Aside from paying Buckland’s bills? None whatsoever. Mulatto Tom suits us quite well, though you were right. He can be a touch, shall we say, deliberate.

Another word would be slow. Carter laughed, reached for a biscuit. Once you have your planation in working order, we shall send along some better help.

Yes, well, about that. Charles paused. Funds are a bit depleted these days.

Nonsense. He paused, finished his biscuit. Had you not been such an inveterate gambler perhaps you wouldn’t be such a profligate spender.

Those days are over, Landon. Let me assure you that Katherine’s seen to that as well, haven’t you, darling?

It was on the top of my list. She laughed. Which required a bit of arm-twisting, but it seemed to work.

One should hope. Carter leaned forward in his chair, reached for another biscuit. In any case, yes, Charles, you’re right. Moses is an important figure here. The others listen to him. However, that can’t be a reason to treat him different than we would treat any of them. Unfortunate but true, ox are more intelligent than some of ours, more dependable than most. At least one can always trust an ox to be precisely what it is, never anything else.

Katherine watched Landon. He spoke more by rote than to engage. At least the late Uncle Burs had been more charming despite his many flaws.

Yesterday Moses was a traitor. Carter continued without pause. Today, we punished him for his mutiny. Perhaps tomorrow we shall pardon him for his villainy.

By the end of the week, perhaps invite him for tea. Charles smirked. One big, happy family again.

We shall see. Carter chuckled. In the meantime, that poor soul won’t sleep well tonight.

You needn’t be reminded, Landon, but Moses is a tenured slave.

Tenured? Rubbish, no such thing. No doubt he’s licking his wounds right now.

Does Betty know? Charles glanced at the house. She wouldn’t poison these delicious biscuits, would she?

Only my daughter would do something so treacherous. We’ll let Betty go tend to her husband. Carter laughed, turned to Katherine. After we’re finished here, of course.

Of course. She bit the inside of her cheek to maintain her composure. Our needs come first, don’t they?

How is life along the river these days, my dear?

Lovely, though quite different from living with endless views of the Blue Ridge. She looked out at the river. A small merchant ship lay at anchor in the distance. It feels much closer to the world of commerce here.

As indeed it should. Carter nodded. We’ve built quite a business on these banks. Our tobacco is the finest in the world. Hogsheads loaded from our own docks straight onto ships heading back to London or Amsterdam.

Charles has always admired your plantations. Quite impressive. Perhaps Nanzatico will soon rival yours.

Well, perhaps someday. Landon scoffed, turned to Charles. Tell me who’s smarter. Washington or me?

You, of course, cousin. Charles laughed. Unless one’s goal is to rule the world.

Quite right. Carter smirked. That pretender.

All the land you’ve both acquired, his to sell to immigrants, yours to grow tobacco. Rather the same aim, no?

Not at all, Charles. That’s why you’ll never succeed at this. Carter paused, spoke as if Charles knew nothing. One creates power, the other creates wealth.

Odd how you and Uncle Burs saw things so similarly. Charles grinned. One begets the other.

Burs left quite a bit of land to Spotswood, didn’t he? Never quite understood that myself. Who knows what skulduggery they were up to.

Indeed, he did. A few thousand acres. Might’ve been more. Some said ten, but the truth’s likely closer to two. Spotswood’s done the unthinkable, though. Freed all of Burwell’s slaves, hired indentured lads to work the fields. Promised them five acres for every year they work. Such poor thinking. He sets a dangerous example for us all.

Katherine glanced at Charles, remained quiet. She’d speak her mind on the way home.

Does he have no idea how to manage a plantation? Carter scoffed. The entire village depends on the slaves doing whatever work needs to be done, work those dumb Scottish boys haven’t the strength to do. Especially up there in Millwood.

Isaac Spotswood knows how the world works, Landon. No matter how much we may disagree, he has strong opinions. He lives by them. Rather admire that.

Admire? He may be worse than Beale, that shiftless neighbor of mine who fails to understand that we have one king, no matter how many of his sort might want otherwise. The sheer vastness of their stupidity never ceases to amaze.

Katherine placed a hand soft on Charles’ forearm, nodded down the hill toward the slave quarters.

Landon, look there. Charles pointed. What’s all that commotion about?

A small riot had erupted. Several slaves gathered round Moses, who sat on the steps of his cabin. Their shouts carried on the breeze.

Where the hell is Rhys? Carter looked round, sighed, stood. Damn him.

Perhaps overseeing whiskey casks in the warehouse. Charles grinned, stood. Shall we, cousin?

Katherine remained seated as the men walked down the hill. She refilled her teacup. She had witnessed enough cruelty to know she had seen more than enough.

Carter strode toward the crowd of eight, perhaps ten men. They stood gathered round Moses, their voices shouting curses to the heavens.

Stop now. Carter’s voice boomed over theirs. Stop this nonsense at once or else.

Charles stood behind his cousin.

The slaves quieted, turned to face Carter. Moses wore only loose trousers, his torso wrapped with swaddling. He remained seated, cleared his throat.

You see here what your whipping wrought. Moses spoke slow, deliberate words. These are my people. They ain’t taking no more of your abuse. We won’t stand for it.

Carter stepped forward, waited for the other slaves to make room.

We’ve been nothing but kind to you, Moses. We tended to you when you were ill last winter. No work until you recovered. Do you remember that?

Sure enough, sir.

Yet your recent behavior, what of it? Nothing but insolence for weeks. Then running away. What did you expect, son?

Moses remained silent.

Put yourself in my shoes. What would you do? Carter paused. Would you tolerate such behavior?

No, sir. Moses paused. Wouldn’t have to.

And why is that?

Freedom is a curious thing, ain’t it? When you got it, it don’t seem like anything special. When you don’t, well, even a little bit tastes mighty fine. Makes this life taste a whole lot worse. Put me in your shoes? Promise you one thing, sir, none of my men would ever show me any disrespect because my respect for them would be enough.

Carter stood still. He looked at Moses, held his gaze.

Alright, Moses. Understood. He turned away, stopped, addressed the others. But if any of you have doubts about how bad a whipping feels, ask him. So bravo, men, keep up the good work. Now back to the grindstone.

Charles followed his cousin back toward the terrace.

What of all this rebellious chatter that Beale’s been spreading? Thinks he’s Montesquieu, does he? Ridiculous. Carter waved to Katherine as they approached. An equality of voices with seats in proportion to population—what could be more absurd? Even those barbaric Turks dabbled with democracy until the great Alexander set them straight.

Tyranny—isn’t that how most monarchies fail? Charles laughed as they walked up the steps. Perhaps we shall see how ours dies away someday.

We’re the exceptional ones, Charles, don’t forget that. Carter turned to Katherine. You’re a fortunate woman, my dear, to have found your way here. Not many from your circumstances ever pull themselves up by the bootstraps, so you’d better count your blessings.

More than you know. Katherine smiled. Although my blessings failed to include a father such as yours, so who’s the more fortunate one?

Carter looked at her, harrumphed. He took his seat, reached for a biscuit.

As we were saying, those rascals can be a handful sometimes. Not an honest one among them. He bit, chewed, swallowed. The whole breed of them, drinking or whoring until they’re too spent to be nothing but indolent creatures, laying about as if they’ve nothing else to do.

With respect, Landon. Katherine kept her voice quiet, sat tall. If we see that sort of ill treatment again, then it will be our last visit to your home.

Really, Katherine? Must say that’s rather presumptuous coming from a woman who knows little about life on a plantation.

Pardon me? You know nothing—

Darling, please. Charles placed a firm hand on her knee. We’re Landon’s guests. This isn’t the time.

Isn’t the time? She turned to him. Then please do tell me when the appropriate time might be.

My, my. Landon reached for his teacup, glanced at Katherine, then spoke to Charles. Isn’t she in a mood this afternoon?

Enough, Charles. Katherine set down her teacup, rose from her chair. Shall we?

Perhaps you might apologize, Landon. Charles removed his hand. Katherine’s not accustomed to your charming wit, as are the rest of us.

Landon stared at his cousin.

Absolutely. Carter turned to Katherine, stood, bowed. My deepest apologies, Katherine. Too often my tongue proves mightier than my judgment.

Katherine nodded, stood. What did either of them know about life’s struggles? Both had been reared with nothing but the finest silverware, the best horses, the costliest educations. Katherine’s background—somewhat more muddied. They all walked round the house to the circle.

Crushed oyster shells lined the path. Pale blue harebell flowers grew in the shade along the sandy path. Their fragrance mingled with a breeze drifting in from the river.

Charles shook the reins, urged their horse into a more active trot. Although the shaded lane through the woods outside Sabine Hall’s gates benefitted from sandy, loamy soil, enough ruts dappled the road to bounce them from the bench more than once.

Nanzatico, Virginia

To survive from one day to the next, what sort of life is that? To see the struggles of others from a distance makes me ill when there’s nothing to be done but to bear witness. My life’s struggles seem nothing by comparison…

Katherine pushed her journal aside.

Charles had complained about the heat upstairs, fallen asleep downstairs in the reception room. With the windows wide open, she found the evening pleasant enough but grew restless in his absence. Odd how much she’d grown accustomed to sleeping beside him.

Ezra had been a vile man, a worse husband. Never smelled of anything but sweat or whiskey. His stink had grown to disgust her. His very presence had grown intolerable. Yet Charles had rescued her from a morass of unsettled feelings about Ezra’s death. It made sense to her now, the ungrieved relief she’d felt watching the gravedigger shovel dirt onto his coffin. He’d deserved a pauper’s grave.

She reopened her journal, lifted the quill.

…There is nothing to forgive myself for. It was only when Ezra was laid to rest that my heart breathed free. The most wonderful thing about Charles is that he’s taught me how to be loved. Yet to love and be loved makes the suffering of others less fortunate near unbearable. What we saw today, a man called Moses whipped to the point of incapacitation, it brings me to tears. No man should ever have the power to treat another man as anything but his equal. Before one raises a hand one should remember that our Lord avenges the innocent…

Her first marriage had been an enormous mistake, yet one of necessity. She had shoved Ezra from that bridge—there was no denying that. Yet God had wreaked His vengeance on him, not her. What else could she have done? Anyone in her shoes would have done the same.

She had heard his neck snap when Ezra had fallen onto a large stone in the middle of the creek. He had laid prone, one arm twisted at a contorted angle behind his waist. She remembered watching his fingers twitch as his eyes searched for something, anything to grab. She remembered how his fingers had stopped reaching, how his eyes had stopped searching. She remembered the stillness as she had watched blood leak from his skull into the clear, cool water. She had wondered whether his soul had seeped into the water as well. All that blood, his blood, soon mingled with the silt, tinged it dark. That was all the heaven his soul was entitled to.

Katherine rose, went downstairs. She paused in the doorway of the sitting room, heard Charles snore in the darkness, continued to the door.

She sat on the top step of the terrace which faced the river from the rear of the house, wrapped her arms around her knees. Wispy clouds hid a crescent moon. Its muted light shimmered through their drifting veil onto the river’s quiet waters. Silence embraced all.

The door opened behind her. Charles walked outside, joined her on the steps.

Beautiful night, isn’t it?

She nodded, remained quiet for a moment.

Reminds me of home, sitting under stars in the middle of the night, watching the mist roll over the ridges.

This is home now. Charles wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Do you miss the mountains?

No, not anymore. It feels like all those years were nothing but a dream.

Some were quite a nightmare, weren’t they?

Yes, they were. She sighed. But that’s faded, too. Seems all blurred together, snippets of memories so tangled up that they don’t seem real anymore.

That’s enough, isn’t it?

More than. She leaned into him. Remember our wedding day?

An entire year ago.

Your poor Uncle Burs. Katherine shook her head, sighed. Never forget Harriet running up to us, telling us he’d died.

That did rather put a damper on things, didn’t it?

It was sad.

Sad? Charles chuckled. Burs was a selfish man to the last but he lived an incredible life. Ironic that he died on our wedding day, yet quite fitting in so many ways.

Wonder how Isaac and Molly are faring. Perhaps we should go back for a visit one day.

Charles looked out at the river, imagined a tobacco warehouse and wharf similar to what his cousin had built at Sabine Hall.

Sorry. What did you say?

We should visit Molly and Isaac one day.

Of course, darling. Brilliant idea.

Katherine glanced at him, caught his eye.

Promise?

Absolutely. He turned to her, smiled. Whenever you like.

Soon.

How about tomorrow or the day after?

Should we send word ahead?

That would take days. Why wait?

Can we? Katherine stood. Tomorrow?

Of course we can. He stood. What else have we to do?

A heron stepped through the cattails, rose from the shallow water with a silver fish in its beak, flew slow to its nest in an aged catalpa tree above the river’s edge.

Mulatto Tom walked the carriage round front.

You and me, brother, we’d go round the world together. He held the horse at the bit, fingers light on the reins, ran a hand along its neck. Ain’t no other horse round here good as you, Yeller. Not one. You a good horse. Now you listen to master today. Missus, too. They taking you on a trip. Might take a day or two to get where you’re going but you’ll have yourself a good rest fore you come on home. When you’re back, yessir, you’ll get a nice long rubbing. Rub on you till you shine like a penny. Promise you that, brother. You a good horse.

He patted the horse gentle on its withers, adjusted the trace straps a hole looser.

Charles opened the front door, waved.

We’ll be out in a moment. He glanced over his shoulder inside. Or two.

Yessir.

Fetch the trunk, will you? Carried the damned thing downstairs myself. It’s on the landing.

Yessir. Mulatto Tom checked the brake, whispered in the horse’s ear. You a good horse.

Charles walked to the carriage. Mulatto Tom headed toward the house.

One more thing. Charles ran a hand through his hair. Call up to the missus. Tell her to move along, if you don’t mind.

Will do, sir.

Mulatto Tom grinned to himself as he turned away. You a good horse. Whispered it again.

Katherine stood at the base of the staircase, bent to grab the trunk handles.

Hold on, ma’am. Let me get that.

Thank you, Tom. Charles left it sitting here.

It’s heavy, ma’am. Said he carried it downstairs himself.

He did. When it was empty. Charles insisted that we carry down our packings. We did, stack by stack. Katherine shrugged. But who knows, my shoes needed near half the trunk.

You women folk. He laughed. You all need to learn how to travel light. That’s what men folk do. That’s right. They travel light. Course not me. Don’t travel much myself. Not that much to pack neither.

Someday. Katherine smiled, patted his shoulder. You never know.

No, ma’am, you never do.

He hoisted the trunk. She followed him outside to the carriage. Charles helped her onto the bench, walked round to the other side, mounted.

The drive led out through the gates, up a slight curve to a crested hilltop, then narrowed to a lane through the forest until it reached the Fredericksburg road. Katherine was still growing accustomed to her new surroundings, searched for the few familiar landmarks she’d noticed on their last trip to town.

Tom has such green eyes. Her thoughts returned home. Almost blue like ours.

You see that more down here than up country. Must’ve been quite lonely back in the day. Charles smirked. Never saw the attraction myself.

He seems a good sort. Katherine let his comment pass. Don’t you think?

A bit lazy for my liking but otherwise, yes, quite agreeable.

Perhaps we’ll have a housemaid one day.

Charles glanced at her.

Perhaps. Though we’re fortunate to have Tom. Lord knows what we’d do without him. Burs forced me to muck stalls with the boys one day. No thank you.

Your uncle wasn’t very healthy. Katherine grinned. Nor very keen about what he ate.

No, he wasn’t. But what a horrible way to go, choking on a biscuit.

He did love his biscuits.

Yes, he did. Charles laughed. Loved them to death.

Katherine leaned against Charles’ shoulder as they rounded a curve.

They decided to lodge for the night at the village tavern. The clapboard ordinary sat on the south side of the road, faced the ferry wharf. Tree brick chimneys rose from its steep double-pitched roof, one at each end, one in the center of the rear wall. Charles pulled to a halt in front of the porch, set the brake. A groom hurried down the steps, held the reins as they stepped down.

This one won’t trouble you. Charles spoke as he stepped aside. He’s an easy keeper.

Yes, sir. The groom nodded. Will you be leaving in the morning, sir?

Irish, eh?

Yes, sir. The lad ran a hand through carrot ginger hair. County Meath.

Have the carriage ready by eight, would you? We’ve a lengthy trip ahead of us.

A porter fetched their trunk. Katherine carried a small valise. Charles held the door for her as they entered the tavern.

Good day, sir. The tavernkeeper called from the bar. Needing rooms?

Katherine let her eyes adjust to the dim light. A low, beamed ceiling made the air feel close, but it was an otherwise spacious room with a large hearth on the far wall. A few patrons sat at tables, most with tankards of ale.

One room.

The barkeep glanced at Katherine, then back.

Yes, sir. He pointed. First room upstairs on the right. Lovely view of the river.

Charles nodded, took Katherine by the elbow.

Sabine Hall

Moses swung his legs from the bed, stood slow, tightened his trousers round his waist.

He’d passed the night with little sleep, unable to lay with any comfort on the palette. Betty had slept on the floor beside the bed, but she’d risen earlier, gone to work in the house. Moses could scarce lift either arm. Both shoulders ached bad. Betty had cleaned his lashings, dressed them with swaddling from waist to armpit, but the lacerations sent piercing pain through him with near every movement.

He glanced at the whiskey bottle on the table, decided against any more liquor to dull the pain. Enduring its agonies big and small gave him a better sense of what it meant to be a man. If nothing else, Moses wanted to be strong enough to take whatever he was given. He walked barefoot to the door, stepped outside into the morning.

Manuel headed toward him from his cabin down the row. Having survived smallpox as a child, Manuel remained a careful sort, but he was deft with most any tool despite his wiry frame. His face still bore the cratered marks that smallpox leaves behind, told of his suffering at nature’s hands. While he helped in the fields come each autumn harvest, Manuel’s labors had been carried out in the stables since he’d been old enough to sit a horse. Proved a natural round them, enough to impress the master. Carter had recognized his talent for tending to the horses, promoted Manuel to manage the entire stable yard when he was not yet twenty. Along with two grooms, Manuel tended to each one, from the stoutest draft to the leanest racehorse. He had a quiet way about him, one that calmed even the spookiest of them.

Come on, Manuel. Moses nodded to him. Let’s go.

Alright, boss. Where to?

We got to talk. Come on.

They walked to the smokehouse. Moses looked round to check whether anyone could see them. He opened the door, stepped inside. Manuel followed him.

See there? Moses pointed at the bloody walls. That’s my blood.

That ain’t right, Moses. Manuel shook his head. It ain’t right, but that’s the way it is.

Says who?

Says master.

Yessir. That’s why it don’t work for just one of us to run away like me. We all got to run. Better chance for least some of us to get away.

Where’d we even go?

Let me think on that. Moses’ brow furrowed. But this is between us for now.

What bout Old Nassaw?

We been talking. Moses walked to the wall, reached for the wall shackles, looked at them in his hands. They treats us like pigs. Worse.

Hate to say it, Moses, but maybe you got to keep quiet from now on.

Keep quiet? Moses turned round, smirked. We’re men, Manny. We don’t need to lie down like cowards. We die once—the only choice we got is how.

Don’t know what you got planned. Manuel shook his head. But whatever it is, you can count on me.

Let me talk with Nas. Moses walked to the door. See what he says.

They parted.

Moses took small steps, walked stiff. He returned to his cabin, settled in a chair, reached for the book Betty had taken from the master’s library. He had taught himself to read at a young age but he hadn’t begun to use his skill until more recent. Moses opened the volume to where he’d stopped reading the night before.

Moses had married Betty when he was twenty; she, sixteen. Both born at Sabine Hall, they’d both spent their entire lives on the plantation. Moses had cut tobacco since he turned old enough to hold a knife. His wife had worked as a maid for decades before becoming head of the Carter’s household, which she’d ruled for four decades with a gentle touch. Betty loved her man for the man he’d proven to be, but she feared for him.

Carter knew how much Moses was respected by the other slaves. They considered him their leader. When Carter’s wife had died, however, his tolerance for any misbehavior became unchecked. With no one to question his methods, his methods became vitriolic.

Moses looked at the book in his lap. While anything outside the plantation seemed alien to him, books let him imagine what it must be like to live one’s dreams. He began to read.

Betty saw Moses approach the summer kitchen. She tossed a pan of water onto slumbering ashes in the hearth, wiped her hands on a rag, stepped outside. It tore her gut to see him in pain.

What’re you doing here, Moses? She frowned, wagged a finger. You ought to be in bed.

Walk you home every day. He stopped, bent at the waist, hands on his knees. Took a moment. Today ain’t no different.

Old fool. Betty shook her head. Think you’re still courting me?

Never stopped. He grinned. Not yet anyways.

Hush now. Too smart for too long, that’s what you are. Trouble’s all that comes with that.

They walked down the hill. Betty held his arm at the elbow, let him lean soft on her hand with each labored step. He glanced at her, smiled.

Been thinking over what we talked ‘bout the other day. Moses spoke quiet. Don’t know how much longer it’s going to be.

You can’t be serious, Moses. Betty waited for him to open their cabin door. Still the gentleman, though.

Won’t ever stop that neither. Moses closed the door behind him. Talked to Manny today. Going to talk with Nassaw tomorrow.

How long did it take them to catch you? One day, Moses. One.

That’s why it needs to be a whole bunch of us.

You do what you want. She shook her head slow. But this is what you’ll hear from inside your coffin. Told you so.

Doubt that. He laughed, pulled her close with an arm round her waist. Cause you’ll be missing me too much to talk when you’re sobbing like a baby.

Could be. She grinned. But you’ll still be dead.

You see that window? Moses pointed, contorted his face. My ghost’ll be right there watching if you go taking up with any of those fieldhand boys.

Love it when you act all sassy, boy.

My back wasn’t so hurt, you’d be seeing what sassy is right now.

Betty laughed, spanked his bottom. Moses winced, grinned at his wife.

Landon Carter woke late.

He dressed at the window, watched his men weeding the tobacco fields. Harvest would begin in a few weeks when the tobacco leaves began to yellow. Rhys would see to that.

Carter turned away, sat at his writing desk, put quill to paper. His words flowed with angered vitriol over his nineteen year-old daughter’s petulant defiance. As the surviving daughter from his third wife, Judith seemed to believe that she deserved special treatment despite Carter’s insistence that she was entitled to nothing more than what he provided for her.

In protest, she’d left home to stay with the parents of the boy she planned to marry. Carter’s late wife had been the cousin of William Beale, a rival planter with whom Carter shared nothing in common.

Beale’s twenty year-old son, Reuben, embodied all that Carter detested about the Beale family. Not a hint of ambition ran in any vein of the family’s men. Despite the father’s purported bravery in the Indian wars with the French, Carter viewed him as a dilettante with no commercial aspirations who wanted little more than to sit on his veranda all day while his children did as they pleased. Reuben seemed content to spend his days fishing from the rocks below Fones Cliff where trout pooled in the shallows.

Although the family was well regarded in the county, the Beales’ means were modest compared with Carter’s eight thousand acres. Carter viewed their son as unworthy of his daughter’s hand despite Reuben’s attempts to win his favor. Regardless, Carter could not abide by his daughter’s defiance. Her belligerent refusal to return home to Sabine Hall infuriated him. That Reuben’s father sheltered Judith under his roof angered him even more.

Reuben Beale’s insolence had reached the point at which Carter refused to let him visit Sabine Hall. He suspected that was likely a reason for Judith’s infatuation with the boy—his obsequious willingness to stand up for her. Her petulant refusal to come home made him consider whether to banish her from returning under the most contrite circumstances.

Carter leaned back in his chair, sighed. His other daughters had married men of whom he approved, men he had chosen for them with great care. Why could Judith not do the same? She had always been a difficult child, but Carter had taken pains to ensure that her upbringing had been overseen by the finest nannies available.

He rang the service bell. His valet, Nat, appeared a moment later, knocked twice on the door jamb.

Come in here. Carter held out a sealed envelope. Deliver this letter to my daughter. Wait while she reads the note. If she decides to remain with the Beales, so be it. But she’ll never be welcome back in this house.

Nat stepped forward, took the envelope from Carter.

Yessir.

That fellow Reuben is a man not to be reconciled with on any account whatsoever. We simply cannot tolerate a marriage to anyone in that family. My daughter’s behavior is simply unacceptable.

Yessir. Nat nodded. What if she don’t read your note?

Her dowry remains at my pleasure. You may remind her of that.

Beg your pardon, sir, but ain’t you worried she’ll dig her heels in deeper if she got a take it or leave proposition?

Did you not hear me? Carter stared at Nat. Deliver my ultimatum with no delay. Judith comes home or she can consider herself severed from this family. Understood?

Yessir. As you wish, sir.

Nat nodded, left the room.

Carter stared out at the river. He did not understand how anyone his daughter’s age could confuse love with anything so mundane as that boy’s servile obedience. Was his childish arrogance not enough to dissuade a woman of any age? Apparently not. Perhaps it was even a joke between them. Either way, Carter promised himself that, whatever it took, she would never marry that young man.

She was his daughter. He was not giving her away. Certainly not to that fop.

Had Carter paid more attention, he might have noticed how much his daughter’s temperament resembled that of his cousin Charles. Although Charles no longer answered to his nickname, Blaze Carter’s antics as a bachelor had been well known in the county, as had been his gambling debts. Blaze had loved women, he’d loved whiskey, he’d loved cards. One not more than another. The only thing he enjoyed more was taunting authority. Many had a story about Blaze, most of them brokenhearted.

Carter rose from his desk, walked to the pantry, scavenged for biscuits.

Fredericksburg, Virginia

Katherine sat across the table from Charles. An empty wine bottle stood between them. The barmaid had cleared their plates but left their wine glasses on the table. A small fire in the hearth struggled to remain awake.

Aren’t you tired? Katherine rubbed her eyes. Can’t keep mine open.

Not in the least, darling girl. Charles shook his head. "Why don’t you go up