The Colony of Maryland, 1746
Samuel Cobham was away fighting for the British Crown for another year. He returned unexpectedly to the Western Branch Hundred in Prince George’s County, and his parents found him a gaunt stranger who was recovering from a knife wound in his arm. “Damned fool settlers,” was Samuel’s only comment. “Just because there are no buildings on the land doesn’t mean that the savages don’t think they own it. We saved the life of that damned stupid Palatine family who were trying to build a cabin where the savages thought that they had hunting rights.” The English Cobham family generally shared the rampant distrust of the new German and Ulster Irish, who were rapidly moving into the colonies.
The Cobhams, living quietly on their three hundred acres in a peaceful section of Maryland, had never seen the kind of killing and danger that Samuel encountered. America was still a land of extreme contrasts from the relatively peaceful coasts to the wild and dangerous interior.
On a cold November morning, Samuel rode out with his father to survey the changes in land. The trees were barren, and the first frosts had turned the lingering vegetation black with death. The sky was clear, but the pale blue held no promise of warmth to come. Even the sun seemed dim and cool.
“We’ll have to leave these fields for a few years,” explained John. “The last crop from them was no good.”
Samuel nodded. He was well aware of tobacco’s tendency to wear out the soil in a few years. “Soon we’ll have to follow the Germans. They have always preached putting manure and shell back into the ground.”
John laughed shortly. “Aye, if you have the money and labor to do so. I don’t think that tobacco will be the crop of choice for such practices. The prices are too low now, except for the very choicest Patuxent River crops. It will be grain and fruits planted. You boys will have a struggle. You’ll need to find new properties.”
Samuel shrugged. “There are always new lands. I’ve seen lots of them.”
John Cobham turned in the saddle and surveyed his son. “You have seen what these new lands can cost.” He sighed and seemed weary. Samuel had always regarded his father as a distant, but indomitable, figure. Now he noted that John’s ruddy brown hair was graying rapidly. His face was forever tan, and wore the marks of many decades of struggle. His gray eyes, usually gentle when he looked at his wife and children, were faded and set into a thoughtful squint. Even his father’s big, strong body seemed to have eroded with time.
“Yes, I’ve seen what the new lands cost, Pa. Our folks came here and took it. The poor heathens don’t understand the simple principles of land ownership. They come back to their hunting places and find that somebody has built a cabin, so they kill them and burn the cabin. Sometimes I understand how they feel. But new folks come in hordes, Pa … all of these hungry families and greedy men who sell them land. Then we’ve got to go fight for it.” Samuel’s voice broke for a moment and his father turned to him with surprise. He knew that his son had seen some terrible things on the western frontier during the past few years.
“Sam—” he began, and then turned away and watched a few wild turkeys move slowly through the distant brush. “So what is it that you want now?”
Samuel gave a short laugh. “I want fabulous wealth and land and power, Pa. I want to see new things and roger beautiful women and drink my fill with the full assurance that devoted servants will see me home.”
John Cobham began to laugh, a rare sound to his son. “Ah, Sam—don’t all men dream of such things?”
“Did you, Pa? You always seemed so—so contented here. I never thought that you wanted to travel or become important, or … ahem … meet other women.” Samuel regarded his father with new appreciation.
“Of course I thought about such things. When I was a boy, my father was gone a great deal and I tried to help my mother keep our small leased farm together. She worked herself to death.” John’s voice grew cold for a moment. “But she was always happy because she knew that Father loved her as she did him. She also had us children. I wanted to live as the other planters did, with big settled houses and fathers who planted the land. There was always something about Father and Uncle Joshua … they never quite seemed to belong.”
He shook his head. “I hated Uncle Joshua for his ambition and cruelty. I even hated my father sometimes for his indifference and indecision. He was more or less about, but never quite there, if you take my meaning. But Mother was there for a time, then Cousin Frances, and, of course, Old Emma. But I wanted a more stable life, Sam, and when I met your mother it all became worthwhile.”
Samuel considered this for a moment, a bit uncertain with this new closeness to his often-distracted father. “Pa, you and Grandpa seem to have known what you wanted, at least with your wives. You wanted a settled peaceful life here … and Grandpa—”
“My father was always a stranger in this world, Sam. He was the illegitimate son of a younger nobleman. Do you know what that meant?”
Samuel shrugged. “Not much unless the family was willing to look after him. When I think of the Calverts …” He thought of the ruling family of Maryland, the Lords Calvert, with all of their riches and power, and rumored to be solicitous about their bastard son, once ruler of the province.
“Never remind the Calverts or any other powerful family of their origins, Sam.” John smiled briefly. “My father’s ancestors make the Calverts look like paupers. My great-grandfather was an earl, and his fathers were advisors to queens and kings, and their heirs are still rich and powerful. For God’s sake, son—they were Cecils! Earls of Salisbury, Barons … But the family was large and had little use for bastards such as Father and Joshua. Oh, they gave them some education and a little money, but nothing more. That’s why they took their mother’s name—Cobham—and left for the New World. The situation in England for the last years of the Stuart Kings was not conducive to kindness.”
“You never told us,” replied Samuel.
John shrugged. “As much of the grand old blood runs in our veins as that of the current earl and his lofty kindred. It matters not, son. That blood and a few hundred pounds of tobacco will buy a horse in Maryland.”
“Blood looks much alike, Pa, whether it is man or woman, Indian or white,” said Samuel bleakly.
“Aye, it does, son. But don’t be fooled by the look. We’re much different down to our preferences for pork or mutton in stew. We humans all excel at hating each other.” John dismounted and took his rifle from the holder on his saddle. “I think we’ll try for a couple of those turkeys.”
“Pa, what if we went back to England?”
John shook his head. “No, son. I was born here, as you were. This is our land for what we make of it. England is the past and we’d have no part there. We are a new family, Samuel. Our seeds have been planted and must flourish or die here.” He paused. “My father came here from England, and I was born as a link between the two lands. But you are an American, Samuel. Oh, we speak the language of England, although a bit more differently every year than the folks in London, or so I hear. We bear the names of English families. But you are not English, especially not in their eyes.”
Samuel thought about this for a while as he and his father quietly moved through the underbrush. He had seen enough of the British soldiers and land merchants to understand that they held a sense of superiority to those born in the colonies. He was as quick to resent their attitude as many of the other men in the provincial militias, but thought it of small consequence. The English would go back to England, and the Americans would remain in their new lands. “Yet we are Englishmen,” he reminded himself. “We are still the king’s good subjects, even though thousands of miles removed from him. Why, Grandfather Sollers even met the king!”
“So your mother tells me,” said John. “But he was a gentleman, and that was long ago.”
Samuel took a deep breath of the chill air and scanned the brush around him. He had developed a good eye for things that moved in the bushes, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. The turkeys were fat and still plentiful in this part of the Cobham lands. Soon the brush and trees would have to be cleared for a future tobacco crop, and the turkeys would disappear. He took aim with his rifle, and fired quickly at one of the unsuspecting fowl.
“Fine work, son!” cried John after Samuel had killed the bird with a clean shot to the head. “No lead to pick from the carcass. Your mother will be pleased.”
Samuel put the bird in a bag to be attached to his saddle. “It’s a big one. I think that we can feed the whole crew tonight with this.”
John nodded. “Yes, since Bess and Tom Witten came to live with us, the house seems a bit crowded. Poor Bess—I hope that Tom will be able to provide for her soon. She’s expecting a child, you know. They’ve no money and not much hope of taking lands of their own.” He stood up in his stirrups and surveyed the landscape about them, checking automatically for intruders of both the two- and four-legged variety. “I’m thinking of building another house for some extra room,” he added, and surveyed his son closely. “We could even allow for another couple.”
It took Samuel a few moments to comprehend his father’s thought. “No, Pa, not for me.”
“What about Mistress White? My father tells me that you’ve a yen in that direction.”
“Pa, I haven’t thought of her in some time. Nor have I seen her since I’ve been home.”
“Hmmm. She’s been most unhappy since her mother’s death.”
Samuel was surprised. “Her mother died? When?”
“In the summer. Another fever. Took many of the children also, including Rebecca’s little sister.”
“And Rebecca?” Sam’s voice was hesitant, and he stared at the frosty leaves below his feet, decaying into the soil, fading into the inevitable.
John shrugged. “Her brother, John, holds the plantation now, or so your mother tells me. She will marry next month.”
“Marry!” Samuel seemed totally shocked by this news.
“Aye, and what choice does she have? There is a good man wanting her to enter his household. One of the Dent brothers—he’s good lands and good prospects. His wife died of the same fever that took Rebecca’s mother.”
“Philip Dent …,” murmured Samuel, frowning. “I’ve known him for years. A fine fool, and much too old for her.”
“He’s been appointed a justice, Sam. He’s a gentleman, and can give the girl much.”
John considered his second son, who had removed his hat and was running a hand through his hair restlessly. Samuel had always done that, even as a small boy, when he felt conflicted or guilty about something. Samuel had been respectful and attentive to him, as was his duty, yet he often felt that he knew very little about this dark and restless young man. He hoped for something that would anchor his son’s life—or perhaps Samuel would end up wandering about as had John’s father, doing jobs for various planters and earning money where he could. Maybe some men weren’t meant to settle and raise families.
Yet John could also see the pain on Samuel’s face at the thought of Rebecca marrying another man. He wanted his son to be happy, and he was not at all certain what would make Sam contented. After all, Samuel was of an age to marry, and had shown preference for no other woman.
“Samuel, it has been many months since I have given you a chore to do,” began John slowly as they re-mounted their horses. The horses, breath gauzy in the icy morning air, turned eagerly toward their stable and breakfast. The men held them back with both skill and patience.
“Aye, it has. But you are still my honored father,” said Samuel with a grin. “I am dependent upon your good will,” he added, only half in jest.
“Then hie yourself over to young White’s home and visit Mistress Rebecca. True, she’s promised to another, but vows not yet taken may be avoided. After all, we are a new world!” John Cobham laughed and spurred his horse toward home.