The Colony of Maryland, 1749
William Cobham knew that he was dying. He couldn’t remember if he were lying in the same bed where his wife, Mary, had died more than fifty years before. He remembered the March evening of her death, particularly the cold winds that blew through small gaps in the wooden slats of the walls. Now there was no cold wind, only the heat of this July afternoon. This house was substantial, with no gaps in the walls.
Things had improved somewhat in Maryland, especially for his sons. They had homes with good foundations and firm walls. They had wives with good families to help them, and rich lands and slaves. They had produced many children. “Our line is settled, Mary,” he whispered to the figure that often came to sit with him these days. The pale shade of Mary Cobham nodded her head and smiled. She never said anything to him, but he found her presence comforting. Of course, perhaps she was only a fragment of his tired brain, but it did not matter anymore.
His slave, Emma, and her grandson, Rafe, still served him. He regretted that he could not afford to purchase Emma’s daughter when the Duvall family sold her to a wealthy family in Virginia. He had not made a will to ensure the future for Emma and Rafe, but he would request that both be given to his grandson, Samuel, and his fair young wife, Rebecca. They seemed to appreciate Emma, who was old and of decreasing value in the slave markets. “I should make a will,” thought William idly.
His brother Joshua, the lawyer, had also neglected to make a will—he who had witnessed so many wills and profited from the lands mentioned in them. Joshua had not expected to die those thirty years ago, but good living and his own gluttony had doomed him when he was not yet fifty years of age. His son, Isaac, had inherited all of Joshua’s property, found it debt-ridden, and disposed of the lot before leaving for Virginia
Seventeen eighteen—that was the same year his son, John, had married Elizabeth Sollers, the youngest daughter of a deceased gentleman. William approved of this match heartily, for Elizabeth was a kind and pretty lass, with a calm capable attitude. She gave John five living sons, and they were producing grandchildren for him.
“Mary, will I see Joshua again? There are so many folks that I should like to see once more,” he asked of his ghostly companion. Mary only smiled. “I’ve outlived them all, it seems.” William was eighty-four years old and had even amazed himself with his longevity. They had not been easy years.
“Ah Mary, do you watch the living? You should not have died of that fever. Fevers—nothing but fever in this New World. Our Philip took the fever too, but did not die then. He died of his own stupid vices—”
Philip, his golden and charming boy, had proved a great challenge to him. Even when young, he had been a daredevil, riding the fastest horses and daring men larger and wealthier to challenge him. But Philip’s good looks and charm had won him many friends, including Thomas Gittings, the son of a rich gentleman planter. Gittings had a sister, Elizabeth, and before Philip’s twentieth birthday, he had been forced to wed her. The marriage had been unhappy, for Philip had never taken to family life with any joy. Working his lands, which had been a gift from his wife’s family, was a burdensome chore to him. Philip had been meant for town life, with taverns and cockfights and conversation.
“He died so young, Mary,” muttered William. “He was scarce forty years old when he fell from that horse. He left those children and poor Elizabeth with so little. His oldest daughter, Bess, had to move in with John and his family.”
His eldest son John was steady and a hard worker who loved his lands. William understood John, even though he wished that the boy had more spirit to him. John disliked the cockfights and races, and lacked his brother’s taste for gentlemanly excitement. “Much like me,” he thought with a smile
“Ah, my Mary, I hope that you can see John’s boys. Philip’s wife took the younger children away after he died and I know his sons but little. But John’s boys … ah, they’re a rugged bunch. Real little savages at times. I think that young Samuel is my favorite, although at times he reminds me of the Old Lord in England. Samuel will live life his own way, and he had the sense to wed that beautiful Rebecca. Samuel’s wife comes to sit with me sometimes in the afternoons, and a treat for the eyes she is.”
William could hear Emma coming up the stairs to his loft bedroom. She moved slowly these days. There was another step on the stairs, much lighter and quicker.
It was his daughter by marriage, Elizabeth Sollers Cobham. Now in her fifties, she was still slim and her dark hair had gray strands only about her face. Her eyes were calm, and she usually wore an air of contentment. This tenderly reared daughter of the gentry had not scorned to marry his John, the son of a bastard, and their life together had been good.
“How goes it today, Father?” she asked. “Shall we open this shutter and let in some of the fresh evening air? I do not believe that it will rain tonight.”
“Aye, open it. The moon will rise soon, I think. It comes to keep me company at night,” said William, sitting up a bit as Elizabeth and Emma plumped his pillows and prepared to feed him his evening meal. The ghostly Mary retreated to the corner of the small bedchamber, smiling gently.
“So—how is the pain in your legs today?” asked Elizabeth, seating herself on a small stool at his bedside. She put a clean square of linen beneath his chin, and began to spoon warm stew into his nearly toothless mouth. As usual, she had mashed the meat and vegetables to allow him to swallow them.
“The pain is not so bad today,” lied William between bites. “Nay, no more now, daughter. Your good care of me will keep me about until I am but a shriveled husk. ’Tis time that I moved on.”
“You cannot die until Samuel returns from Philadelphia,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Besides, it will soon be John’s birthday. Do you not want to see your son turn fifty-eight?”
“That I should have a son so old!” William muttered. “That I should be of such an age, having outlived Mary and Philip and Susan …”
“You have lived to be with your family, Father,” said Elizabeth calmly. “Here, this milk is still warm from afternoon milking.” She held a cup to his mouth and he took several swallows. “Foul stuff. Next supper I’ll only drink cider,” he announced. “Or some of that good beer that Sam’s wife brews.”
“Whatever you wish, Father,” replied Elizabeth. “Emma, I think that we shall change this bedding tomorrow.” Emma nodded silently; her face was composed and her eyes sad. She was thinking of all of the deathbeds that she had attended during her time—her mother in the slave ship, poor fragile Mary Cobham, lovely Frances Duvall, poor Master Philip, and countless others.
“God forgive the white folks,” prayed Emma silently. William Cobham would soon be going to God. “Forgive him, he’s a good man. He don’t understand.”
Elizabeth had finished serving supper to her father by marriage. “I must go back to the main house now. John will be coming in with the men, and wanting his supper,” she said with a slight yawn. “The time goes so quickly, even though the days are long now.”
“Aye, Elizabeth, it goes faster with each day. When one is as old as I am, grieving for lost ones fills those days,” he said. “This land has not been kind to so many. I wonder why I have been spared so long.”
She bent to kiss the old man on his forehead. “There must be a reason, Father. You tried to tell me that when Mama died.” Elizabeth frowned, remembering herself as the child of eight who had not understood why God would take her Mama and pretty Frances and her good friend Susan away from her. Death stalked them all each moment of their lives.
Elizabeth’s reverie ended as she noticed the twilight beyond the wooden shutters. “Shall I close the shutters before I leave?” she asked, rising from her seat.
“No … it will not be cold tonight, daughter. I shall be warm enough,” William replied. He had always hated being closed in.
“God keep you, Father. Sweet dreams.” Elizabeth placed a kiss on William’s wrinkled forehead.
“And to you, daughter. The day that you consented to wed my son was a fortunate one for us both,” said William, patting her hand gently. “You are a good woman.”
Hours later, long after Emma and her grandson had gone to bed in the chamber below, the moon shone brightly through the open shutters. Insects danced in and out, but William was accustomed to them. His ghostly Mary had returned to sit on Elizabeth’s vacated stool.
“Ah Mary, I wish that Anne Sollers could have lived to see her child Elizabeth wed my son. How strange that Anne and I might have married after your death. But then, I only loved you in my life,” sighed William. The ghostly Mary shook her head with a doubtful smile.
“It happens sometimes, Mary, sometimes men do love.”
Mary had risen and was stretching out her hands for him. “Are you telling me something, my Mary? Is this cold that I feel creeping up my legs a sign that I’ve no time left?” he asked.
“My William,” she said with a smile. “I know that you are cold. I shall prepare hot cider for you. Then we will go into memories.”
William Cobham closed his eyes.