The Randolph Legacy by Eileen Charbonneau

eyes. “He was only ten when he went away to his Norfolk training, then to sea at twelve. He did so love the sea. He did so want to please my husband.”
    “Don’t think on it, Mother, you’ll only distress yourself.” Anne Randolph’s eldest son admonished her as if she were the child. She nodded, but turned the brigantine, and stared at Judith’s rendition of Washington’s silhouette as if she could breathe life into it.
    “May we speak with thy daughter, Mrs. Randolph?” Judith tried.
    A trace of a smile appeared on the woman’s face. “Our Sally is only yesterday delivered of a child. A fine new daughter.”
    “There is no need to disturb Mrs. Gibson at this delicate time,” Clayton proclaimed. He had been put in charge of his sister, Judith surmised, just as his brother reined their mother.
    A young house servant in starched linen knocked and entered the room, breathless. “Your pardon, mistress …” she began.
    Clayton Randolph frowned deeply. “What is it, Phoebe?”
    “I come from Miss Sally. She wants the Quaker lady and her daddy come up see her.”
    “How has she learned of their presence here?”
    “I don’t rightly know, sir.”
    “Winthrop!” Judith heard the deep-throated shriek sailing down the elegant curved staircase. “You bring those people to me before I pull the rafters down!”
    Phoebe smiled at Judith’s amazement. “Miss Sally, she be plenty mighty ’round her birthing times,” she explained.
     
     
    T he quartermasters sat Washington on the Peruvian chair. One left to summon the captain. The others stood guard, their long shadows protecting him from the sun’s direct heat. It was so warm there in the waist of the ship’s deck. Still, Washington needed Fayette’s coat for the remnants of the Frenchman’s courage it still possessed.
    The men of the Standard assembled in benchrow sections, according to rank. So many faces. Some looked disgusted, some sympathetic, some wore unreadable masks.
    It had rained. Yesterday, or perhaps the day before. Washington had raised his face to it, tried to catch it in his hands. After the rain came more of the relentless heat of the South Atlantic. Through it, sailors had risked flogging to slip him water.
    Collins, his guard of the Midwatch, sat in the officers’ section. Washington tried to show him how to anchor his arms at his thighs and lean forward, taking the pressure off his welted back. Collins followed his example, releasing a slight smile.
    All but Washington stood as the captain, in full-dress uniform, left his cabin. He approached the rail above them, motioned his officers and crew to their ease.
    The trial began.
    Captain Willis called his witnesses. Washington recognized none. They gave disjointed testimonies with haunted, ferretlike eyes. They spoke about Fayette and Washington as foreigners, whispering to each other in sedition, in French, even when Fayette was dying. The words, the vaulting space of the high blue sky, the heat of the sun left Washington’s head spinning. He anchored it between his hands.
    “Chaplain,” Captain Willis called, “swear in the prisoner.”
    Washington lifted his head. Judith did not believe in swearing. It was an insult, she’d said, to the truth that dwelt inside, to be sworn. A Child of the Light spoke the truth always, never swore. But he wasn’t a Child of Light. He was a Deist like Fayette, ruled by smatterings of Reason, the gift of a creator who had long since lost interest in individual creations. And he was ruled by his dreams—the ones in his sleep, and the waking ones that Judith called visions. But he would never be like Judith, who talked with God. So perhaps it did not matter if he swore.
    The chaplain’s detached eyes warmed a little. “Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly, offering the black book. “Place your hand here.”
    Washington followed his instruction.
    “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” he