-= 104 =-
1 August, 1782
Williamsburg, Virginia
"Aaron?" Brigadier General Roland Steving glanced at his slave. "Bourbon for me, and ... I believe it was scotch for you, sir?"
"Scotch is fine. Thank you." Thomas Heyward studied Aaron, dressed in a light blue waistcoat and breeches and wearing a powdered wig that clashed horribly with his ebony skin.
"We'll take our drinks on the terrace," Steving added. Aaron bowed and left.
Tom followed the older general to his terrace, whitewashed and spotless overlooking acres of his plantation. In the distance he could see field slaves picking tobacco and its distinctive, heavy scent filled the air. "It was good of you to see me."
"Not at all, General!" Steving beamed, drawing a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. "It's always good to see old friends. Please sit. I declare," he chuckled, "after what we've seen I should be used to heat, though this summer seems particularly onerous. Or perhaps I'm just getting old."
It probably didn't help that Roland was only one step below formal attire, with a thick waistcoat and breeches and an open jacket, but Tom merely smiled as the slave returned.
"Thank you, Aaron," Steving took his drink and sipped. Alcohol in heat was of course ridiculous, but it helped ease a nagging toothache and he smiled at his guest. "Word of your coming outpaced you by some days."
Heyward grimaced. "Rutledge?"
"No! Not directly at any rate. No, certain members of the state legislature believe your coming to Williamsburg is a God send. Coincidentally enough, these are the same people who encourage closer relations with our southern neighbors."
"Coincidentally." Tom sipped at the scotch and grimaced.
"Is there something wrong?"
"Not at all. Though now that I think about it, in this heat I'd love some lemonade if that can be arranged."
"Of course it can. Aaron!?"
While they waited, Steving gave his inexpert opinion about politics ('a tool of the devil, no doubt originally rooted in the sins of Sodom and Gomorra') and politicians (`a pack of old women, not unlike his grandmother, except while his grandmother would cane him if he deserved it, politicians would poll the other children and debate endlessly before deciding on an appropriate punishment three years later.') He paused at his guest's expression. "Do you disagree?"
It was a matter of public record Tom had served his stint in Congress, though he didn't consider himself a politician. "No," he smiled. "You're just usually not so....direct?"
"Of course I am," he huffed, "you just haven't noticed. I fought for this country and what she stands for, same as you. I bled for her. I watched good men die ... too many good men. I'll be damned if I won't use those liberties we fought to protect!"
"So you're running for office?" Heyward looked up and nodded his thanks to Aaron, taking the lemonade.
"God, no!" Steving shook his head and sipped at his bourbon, then studied his guest warily. "Though I will tell you true, sir. I do not care for what's happening. Not at all."
"The alliance with the Carolinas?" Tom knew of his disagreement with General Allen during the St. Augustine campaign.
"That's part of it. At least the way it's handled. I don't much mind they're attempting to turn you into a war hero, God knows children needs all the guidance they can find, but these state wide tours are really quite enough."
"I agree."
"I thought you might," Roland smiled faintly. "This isn't your style at all." Everyone, which is to say Rutledge, state governors and even some businessmen, believed it vital that 'their hero' was out among the masses putting a face to the savage war they'd just fought. A victorious face. 'It will comfort them amazingly knowing you're out there,' one soothed, 'unyielding to his enemies, supportive of his friends. You are the symbol this country needs after years of hardship, the promise that the worst has past.' As a result Tom found himself bustled from town to town for the past month. "General, do you know much about military history?"
"Not I."
"You know I have. I've learned, sir, that any time a government goes this far out of their way to idealize their generals ... something's wrong. Bread and circuses, sir. Give the populace something to admire while the true corruption eats at the fabric of their society when they aren't watching. Rome is perhaps the best example, but they hardly stand alone."
Tom jumped slightly at the word 'true' and studied his artillery general with renewed interest. "What do you think is happening then?"
"I think your Mister Rutledge wants to be king," Steving answered bluntly.
"I thought the whole idea of this rebellion was to throw off the monarchy," Tom barked, alarmed.
"That was my understanding as well." He smiled grimly at his guest's expression, satisfied he'd raised a grain of caution in his friend. "I'm probably mistaken."
Tom nodded. "Where's Daryl?" he asked abruptly.
"Daryl?" His sister's child, formerly his assistant until the south campaign turned brutal. "He's in Austria!"
"Austria? What's he doing there?"
"Continuing to learn his trade, I imagine. Our allies are quiet now that we are, I certainly can't send him to England in the current balance. Austria's moderately friendly and they're fighting the Poles, who I must say are putting up no kind of fight whatsoever. The Prussians mauled them cruelly last year and word is the Austrians are doing the same. I doubt they'll last the century in the current balance."
Tom thought of 1939 and frowned. "It doesn't seem fair."
"Fairness doesn't enter into it," Steving disagreed. "A nation's first responsibility, above anything, must be to the safety and security of its citizens. The Polish government is no longer able to fulfill its responsibilities. It must stand aside for those who can. What if we'd lost at Altamaha River, if the Redcoats ran through Charleston, Wilmington, Williamsburg. Would we really be able to claim authority over the folk here if we couldn't protect them from their enemies? That seems less fair."
"Yes, but by that logic anyone, no matter how cruel, has the right to conquer his neighbors if he's strong enough to do so. You can't believe that."
"I believe the 'cruel' one is welcome to try. Military history also teaches that whenever someone goes too far - wants too much, or treats his subjects so barbarically that he loses his right of sovereignty - God ensures someone will come to redress the balance."
You're wrong, Tom thought grimly.
Steving sensed their conversation had taken a dark turn and his guest was brooding. That wouldn't do at all. "Are you attending the ball tonight?" he asked lightly. To his surprise, Heyward just grimaced more.
"I am. I thought about claiming to be sick, but I think that would insult too many people."
"Why don't you want to go? Half the town's coming out to see you."
"I didn't ask for this publicity, Roland. Maybe you're right and they're up to something. All I know is I'm starting to feel like the prize horse at the fair. Not to mention I'm apparently for sale."
"Eh?"
"Haven't you heard? Those bastards keep trying to find me a wife."
Steving nodded gravely. "And that is...disagreeable?" he asked mildly. Rumors in the army began circulating when it became apparent Heyward had no interest in the comforts of any of the female camp followers. He wasn't married, no fiance to be loyal to. Could he be...?
"I'm not looking for a wife," Tom answered sharply.
Just so. "Still, they make good camouflage. Women, I mean. I cannot tell you how many awkward situations my own Beth has pulled me out of." At Heyward's hooded, even cold expression he continued. "If you want them to stop ... trying to help you, then you must deny them a target. That is logic. Find someone you don't mind talking to that seems comely enough and pay attention to her. Your... people... will be at ease, and if anything happens, or nothing at all, I would say that's between the two of you."
Heyward frowned. "I'm not going to use someone like that."
"As you will," Roland shrugged, rising. "Though she would be using you also, make no mistake. There are many women who are happy to have someone around to deflect unwanted attention, and of course there's the prestige of being associated with a war hero." He smirked at the last. "Plus, you might not have to go to so many balls."
Tom grumbled and stood. "Perhaps." He smiled wanly. "Thank you, I'll consider it."
"Do that!"
And go home. I like you Tom, but get your Carolinan master the hell out of my state!
