mind that his lineage was as good as theirs.
Swiftly, he began to concoct a scheme. He knew the Indian girl would become pregnant; he would see to it. Once it began to show, he would contrive to keep her in the back country, set her up in a cabin of her own, unseen by anyone except him and perhaps King Sebastian. He would tell her she would be safer that way.
He could then inform Jeanne that he meant to adopt a male child. He never doubted that the Indian girl would deliver a son, just as he never doubted his own ability to withstand and overcome her fury when he took the child away. He was a man, which gave him an advantage; he was white, which gave him another. He could deal with her forcibly, if it came to that. There was little Charles wouldn’t do to assure the continuity of his line and the future security of any male who bore his name.
Later, he could pass the child off to outsiders as his sister’s orphaned son. The plan excited him, and he couldn’t completely conceal the reaction. The girl was walking at his shoulder now. She noticed his sudden hard smile, which just as quickly disappeared.
He saw her questioning look. Gently he touched her arm, gazing at her in a way she took to be reassuring. His fast, noisy breathing slowed. They walked on.
He inquired about arriving ships with Africans for sale. None was expected for three weeks, he learned. The only noteworthy vessel in port was a merchantman out of Bridgetown, a trading vessel carrying a few passengers: Gull of Portsmouth.
Charles passed a group of five young men who seemed fascinated by the sights of the little port. He had seen their kind before. Indentured boys. They had a whipped look—all except one stocky young fellow with heavy shoulders, light brown hair, and eyes that glowed like ice in the sunshine. He moved with a certain swagger.
Going in opposite directions, each took brief notice of the other. The bound boy was curious about the man with the primitive clothing, aristocratic bearing, and sprouting beard. The former slaver and would-be slave owner was wondering how someone could voluntarily consign himself to slavery.
A mate leaned over the merchantman’s rail.
“Back on board, lads. The tide’s flowing. You’ll find grander sights to gawk at in Penn’s town.”
The indentured boys hurried back to the ship, and the tall aristocrat drifted away in the crowd, his Cherokee woman following with adoring eyes. In the cheerful light of the morning, each man had already forgotten the other.
Book One
Answer The Drum
… In future wars the Nation must look to the Academy for the skill t o conduct valor to victory.
SECRETARY OF WAR JOHN C. CALHOUN
TO SYLVANUS THAYER, SUPERINTENDENT,
U.S. MILITARY ACADEMY
1818
1
“L IKE SOME HELP LOADING that aboard, young sir?”
The stevedore smiled but there was no friendliness in his eyes, only avarice inspired by the sight of an obvious stranger.
A few moments ago the driver of the Astor House passenger omnibus had thrown the travel-battered trunk down at the head of the pier. Orry had picked it up by the one rope handle still unbroken and had dragged it scarcely three feet before the stevedore stepped between him and the gangway.
It was a brilliant, windless morning in June 1842. Orry was already nervous about the day ahead. The stevedore’s fixed smile and hard stare only worsened that state, as did the sight of the stevedore’s two associates lounging nearby.
Nerves and cowardice were two different things, though; Orry had no intention of letting the former lead to the latter. He had been warned that New York teemed with all sorts of swindlers, and now it appeared he had finally met one. He took off his tall, stylish beaver hat and mopped his forehead with a linen handkerchief from an inside pocket.
Orry Main was sixteen and stood almost six feet two inches. His slimness accentuated his height and lent him a certain grace when he moved. He had a long, plain face with the good color of
Swiftly, he began to concoct a scheme. He knew the Indian girl would become pregnant; he would see to it. Once it began to show, he would contrive to keep her in the back country, set her up in a cabin of her own, unseen by anyone except him and perhaps King Sebastian. He would tell her she would be safer that way.
He could then inform Jeanne that he meant to adopt a male child. He never doubted that the Indian girl would deliver a son, just as he never doubted his own ability to withstand and overcome her fury when he took the child away. He was a man, which gave him an advantage; he was white, which gave him another. He could deal with her forcibly, if it came to that. There was little Charles wouldn’t do to assure the continuity of his line and the future security of any male who bore his name.
Later, he could pass the child off to outsiders as his sister’s orphaned son. The plan excited him, and he couldn’t completely conceal the reaction. The girl was walking at his shoulder now. She noticed his sudden hard smile, which just as quickly disappeared.
He saw her questioning look. Gently he touched her arm, gazing at her in a way she took to be reassuring. His fast, noisy breathing slowed. They walked on.
He inquired about arriving ships with Africans for sale. None was expected for three weeks, he learned. The only noteworthy vessel in port was a merchantman out of Bridgetown, a trading vessel carrying a few passengers: Gull of Portsmouth.
Charles passed a group of five young men who seemed fascinated by the sights of the little port. He had seen their kind before. Indentured boys. They had a whipped look—all except one stocky young fellow with heavy shoulders, light brown hair, and eyes that glowed like ice in the sunshine. He moved with a certain swagger.
Going in opposite directions, each took brief notice of the other. The bound boy was curious about the man with the primitive clothing, aristocratic bearing, and sprouting beard. The former slaver and would-be slave owner was wondering how someone could voluntarily consign himself to slavery.
A mate leaned over the merchantman’s rail.
“Back on board, lads. The tide’s flowing. You’ll find grander sights to gawk at in Penn’s town.”
The indentured boys hurried back to the ship, and the tall aristocrat drifted away in the crowd, his Cherokee woman following with adoring eyes. In the cheerful light of the morning, each man had already forgotten the other.
Book One
Answer The Drum
… In future wars the Nation must look to the Academy for the skill t o conduct valor to victory.
SECRETARY OF WAR JOHN C. CALHOUN
TO SYLVANUS THAYER, SUPERINTENDENT,
U.S. MILITARY ACADEMY
1818
1
“L IKE SOME HELP LOADING that aboard, young sir?”
The stevedore smiled but there was no friendliness in his eyes, only avarice inspired by the sight of an obvious stranger.
A few moments ago the driver of the Astor House passenger omnibus had thrown the travel-battered trunk down at the head of the pier. Orry had picked it up by the one rope handle still unbroken and had dragged it scarcely three feet before the stevedore stepped between him and the gangway.
It was a brilliant, windless morning in June 1842. Orry was already nervous about the day ahead. The stevedore’s fixed smile and hard stare only worsened that state, as did the sight of the stevedore’s two associates lounging nearby.
Nerves and cowardice were two different things, though; Orry had no intention of letting the former lead to the latter. He had been warned that New York teemed with all sorts of swindlers, and now it appeared he had finally met one. He took off his tall, stylish beaver hat and mopped his forehead with a linen handkerchief from an inside pocket.
Orry Main was sixteen and stood almost six feet two inches. His slimness accentuated his height and lent him a certain grace when he moved. He had a long, plain face with the good color of
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