Bon Marche Read Online Free Page A

English. Those were advantages, certainly.
    He could speak English.
    Well enough, he was sure, to make his way. But his accent would tell everyone he was French. Would that matter? He thought not. The Marquis de Lafayette was a Frenchman, but perhaps more of a true American than some of those native to the land.
    And what else?
    He had his wit. His ambition. His determination. His spirit. In sum, all of those counted for something.
    Charles lay in the hay, contemplating his first move as an American. His name, he thought, was too French for continuing use. He’d have to change it. There was no reason to keep the name Dupree; he wasn’t even certain it was his name.
    Charles was all right, though. He had always liked the sound of that; it was comfortably familiar. So—Charles what? He said “Charles Dupree” aloud, stretching it out, listening to the full sound of it for perhaps the first time. Again: “Charles Dupree.”
    He experimented with it, shortening it. “Charles Du…” Once more: “Charles Du…” He was onto something. “Charles Du … Charles Du … ee.” That was it!
    Again and again he pronounced it, louder and louder, until finally he was shouting it. “Charles Du … ee! Charles Du-ee!”
    He couldn’t just say it; he’d have to write it, too. More contemplation, trying to visualize how it would look on paper.
    He brushed aside some hay, exposing the dirt floor of the barn. With his forefinger he laboriously traced out the letters: C-H-A-R-L-E-S D-U- No! Not that way. He erased the “U” in the dust, beginning again. Carefully and deliberately he spelled out his new name: D-E-W-E-Y. He didn’t know why he did it that way; it was as if someone was guiding him. But, he liked it. D-E-W-E-Y. He grinned in satisfaction.
    Pushing himself to his feet, Charles bowed formally, announcing: “Good afternoon, sir. My name is Charles Dewey.”
    He laughed heartily.
    The new American swung open the door of the barn, to be instantly warmed by the bright sun of the October morning. He was glad for that. His thin uniform gave him little protection from the cold.
    Once more he walked westward.
    II
    A HEAD of him he could see an approaching squad of Continental soldiers. An officer was mounted, but the others were afoot, pushing in front of them a group of Negroes, roped together.
    Charles Dewey felt a sudden fear. For the first time it came clear to him that he was a deserter! If he was caught now and sent back to the French navy, Admiral de Grasse would have no choice but to hang him.
    He saw himself, in a momentary mental flash, with the cruel rope knotted about his neck, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his face a ghastly purple. And hanging on his chest a crudely lettered sign: Déserteur!
    Charles shook his head to dispel the vision.
    These Continental soldiers wouldn’t know he was a deserter. Nor were they likely to care, if they did.
    Having reached that conclusion, Charles called to the officer, as the men came abreast of him: “Good morning, sir!”
    â€œGood morning,” the officer—a lieutenant—replied. He stopped the column. “A rare fine day, isn’t it?”
    â€œIndeed it is.” Charles smiled.
    â€œWhere are you bound, sir?”
    â€œWestward.” Dewey had no better answer. “I’m just mustered out of the French navy. At Yorktown.”
    The lieutenant sighed. “We had hoped to get finished with this damned job”—he gestured toward the Negroes—“in time to get to see the surrender. But—”
    â€œIt was a magnificent sight!” A safe lie.
    â€œI’ll bet it was.” Another sigh. “Well, we must be getting on.”
    Dewey’s curiosity got the better of him. “Who are these men?” Meaning the Negroes.
    â€œRunaway slaves,” the officer told him. “They’ve been working for