The Kentucky Trace: A Novel of the American Revolution

20.

249 20 Daniel was waiting dinner for Leslie when he got there, so he had to sit around, pretend to eat, and listen to the talk of the other three. He didn’t mind; it was good to let other men do the talking. Nooning finished, he and John Sawyer put charcoal through the crusher while Daniel dug niter dirt and McGee worked on the pirogue. Daniel stopped for a rest and look at the crushed charcoal. He decided it wasn’t fine as it ought to be, and went into his private quarters to return with a corn pounder. Pounding charcoal was a one-man job. He and John took turns, but the turns were so short there wouldn’t have been enough time to work on his letter, if he had remembered to bring paper and ink. The pounder was heavy, and with charcoal dust flying up in the pounder ’s face, it was a nasty job. He was glad when Daniel dragged up a mixing trough, and said they could start measuring and mixing. A little more than a keg of saltpeter, crushed and pounded, plus half a keg each of sulphur and charcoal were put into the shallow trough, then shoveled and raked until there was an evenly colored mixture that Daniel said he would have to try before he’d call it gunpowder. He put a greased thread into a short length of dry cane closed at one end, 250 poured in powder until it was almost filled, added priming powder, then stuck it under a good-sized rock, and lighted the thread. The men ran a short distance away, but not quite far enough to be completely out of the shower of dirt after the high-flying rock. “She’s powder all right,” Daniel said as he untangled a cane splinter from his beard. He was happy, singing in Cherokee or whistling as he helped with two more mixings of powder. During supper he told them: “Boys, we’ve got the saltpeter and sulphur, so with the charcoal comen along all right, in two more days we’ll have better than eight hundredweight of gunpowder. No later than sunup two days from tomorrow mornen, John ought to be headed east with at least two hundredweight, and you, McGee, could be pushen off with most a the rest. The Professor has got some sulphur, and his powder can come out a the last cookens.” McGee nodded. John looked at Leslie. He knew the look meant the letters John was to take would have to be finished in two more nights after this one. Walking back to his rockhouse, guilt for his trickery of the missus topped off with the false baptism and dread of the lies he must tell his parents, left no room for planning the letter. Back in his rockhouse with a good fire going and more light coming from a flambeau, Leslie decided to copy what he had already written, and so begin the final draft. Time was running out. He mixed ink, cut a fresh quill, and settled himself, fresh paper and smudged first draft under his hand, Bible and prayer book within arm’s reach. He read what he had already written in bits and pieces at odd times. It would do, he reckoned, after a little rearranging, and some of the words had a strange look. He’d have to check their spellings with the Bible and the prayer book as usual—unless he called on Jethro; he didn’t aim to do that. His mother’s rule was that all household help must be able to read and write a joining hand. This meant they had to learn to spell. Jethro had taken to spelling like a duck to water while Leslie was less readily taking to Greek and Latin. Jethro had never got past Dilworth’s Grammar, but he could just about spell every word in Entick’s Dictionary. Leslie wished he’d bought one the last time he was in Richmond. 251 He thought of Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary in the library at Sea Winds. His mother had consulted it more often than his father. In a way female education made more sense than that for boys with a father like his. Schools for young ladies maybe wasted time on needlework, but the most of what they taught, even the Social Graces, could be...