America's First Daughter: A Novel(3)
How close are the British soldiers? How many? And what will they do if they find us? These questions raced through my mind as more of the plantation’s servants spilled into the space, as anxious as we were, though perhaps in a different way. For I’d heard the men say the British promised the slaves freedom.
Sally, my friend and playmate, and a slave girl just my age, tucked herself into the far corner. Her amber eyes were carefully shielded, hiding whether she felt fear or excitement. My mother, however, wore her alarm like a shroud. Though she’d taken the time to dress in frock and mob cap, her skin was pale, her hazel eyes wide with panic. “The British? How near?” Mama asked, the candlestick shaking in her hand.
Only Papa was serene in the face of the coming danger. Looking from the men to Mama, he straightened to his full height—and he was the tallest man I knew, with ginger hair and piercing blue eyes that shone with fierce, quiet power. He held up his hand to silence the room. “Worry not, my friends. The mountains and darkness will delay the British,” he said, the certainty of his words calming the panic. He turned to the servants and spoke with a reassuring authority that reminded us all he was master of the plantation. “Martin and Caesar, secure the valuables. Robert, ready a carriage to take my wife and children away after they’ve had some breakfast—”
“There’s no time, sir,” the rider dared to argue. “The British are already in Charlottesville. They’re coming to burn Monticello.”
Burn Monticello? My gaze darted about the brick-walled rooms of our plantation house—cluttered even then, in its first Palladian incarnation, with Papa’s cherished artifacts, marble busts and gilt-framed paintings, red silk draperies and a pianoforte, books and buffalo robes. Would all of it go up in a blaze of fire?
My father and mother exchanged a tense glance. Turning to his visitors, Papa said, “Gentlemen, you must forgive my lack of hospitality and reconvene elsewhere. Make haste. My servants are at your disposal.”
The room erupted in a flurry of motion. The slaves hurried about hiding the valuables. Metal clanked from the direction of the dining room, the sound of the silver forks, spoons, cups, and candlesticks being stuffed into pillowcases. Mama called Polly and me down to her. We rushed to her side, and she swiftly bundled Polly into her arms, snatching me by the hand and rushing us out into the damp night. My heart galloped as my bare feet scrabbled on the cold ground and I could feel my mother’s answering pulse pounding as she tugged me with a cold, clammy hand.
Mama had been in poor health since the recent loss of a baby, and she couldn’t hide her trembling from Papa as he hurried us to our carriage. “Hush,” he said, though she’d not spoken. Pressing his forehead against Mama’s, he murmured softly to her and I wished I could hear what he said. All the commotion—heavy feet trampling our flower beds, horses whinnying and jangling in their bridles, and men stuffing papers into saddlebags—obscured whatever words my parents shared. But anyone watching would know that their whispered words were laced with passionate devotion. Then, Papa kissed Mama and released her into the carriage.
“Papa!” I cried. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“Don’t fret, Patsy,” he said, reaching into the carriage to stroke my cheek and brush away a tendril of ginger hair, just like his. “I’ll secure my papers then follow on horseback.”
But the rider had warned us to go now. The British would capture Papa if he stayed. I wasn’t supposed to know that the king had branded my father a traitor nor that the British would hang him if they captured him. But more than once I’d overheard the legislators’ fiery speeches ring through Monticello’s halls, so fear crawled into my throat. “Come now, Papa. Or they’ll catch you. They’ll catch you!”
“Never,” he replied with a soft, confident smile. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. “My escape route is well planned. I’ll take Caractacus. There’s no faster horse in Virginia.”
The thought of him alone with enemies all around, the thought of us fleeing without him, the terror of never seeing him again—all of these horrid imaginings had my heart pounding so fast it was hard to breathe. I clutched at him. “Surely you won’t send us alone.”
Papa grasped a large satchel from the hands of a servant and passed it to my mother. “Be my brave girl. You won’t be alone,” he said, then called over his shoulder to a figure in shadow, and a reedy young man appeared at his side. In the faint light of the rising dawn, William Short, my mother’s kinsman and one of the many men who idolized my father, stepped forward.
William. How strange it is to realize now that he was always with us. From the very start. From that first frantic moment when I learned what it truly meant to be the daughter of a revolutionary, William was there, at my side. . . .
In his twenty-second year, William Short boasted of being one of the youngest elected officials in Virginia, but he was no militiaman. He seemed a strange choice to guard us. Even so, Mama gave no protest when Mr. Short alighted our carriage with a sprightly hop, and without further ado, commanded our driver to be off.
“Ha!” the driver shouted at the horses and our carriage lurched forward onto the road leading away from Monticello. Leading away from Papa, who stood tall atop his mountain, unwilling to yet surrender.
OUR CARRIAGE JUMPED and bumped down the rough road, southward. Thrown together inside, we clasped one another tight, my right hand in Mama’s, my left arm hugging Polly. A stunned, scared breathlessness rendered all of us quiet. With her knuckles white around the handle of a satchel of our belongings, Mama lifted her wavering voice to finally ask Mr. Short, “Where will we go?”