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Cornwallis.” He laughed. “The general’s people told them they weren’t slaves anymore.”
    Charles stared at the sad-faced black men. One of them was a boy of no more than twelve, terror written in his eyes.
    â€œSee that buck over there?” the American went on, pointing to a muscular young giant. “He belongs to General Washington. Ran away from Mount Vernon, if you can believe that.” The officer obviously found such an act incomprehensible.
    â€œWhat happens to them now?”
    â€œThey go back to their owners. If we can’t find the owners, I guess they’ll be sold again.”
    The company moved off. Charles watched them go, his emotions disquieted. He had never seen slaves before. He didn’t like what he had just witnessed.
    Hunger pangs assailed him, causing him to quicken his pace. Still westward.
    III
    T HE broad main thoroughfare of the town surprised Charles. It was almost Paris-like in his eyes. Yet, what he saw wasn’t really a city, but a substantial village with a great bustle of activity on the wide principal street. He was impressed by the number of fine brick buildings. Public buildings, he thought.
    It was nearly noon, and he had walked some distance since he left the barn armed with his new name. He guessed that he had come the better part of eight or nine miles. He was somewhat light-headed from hunger; he had not eaten since he broke his fast aboard ship a day earlier.
    The young Frenchman stood in front of a large steepled church, watching as a two-wheeled farm cart, drawn by a team of oxen, lumbered slowly along the boulevard. Two fine carriages, moving much faster, wheeled around the cart, making their way toward a handsome palace-like building, its entrance framed by ornate wrought-iron gates.
    From the church came an elderly man, finely dressed in velvet coat and knee breeches, his powdered wig topped by a velvet tricorne. The gentleman nodded slightly to Charles as he started to pass him.
    â€œMy pardon, sir,” Charles said boldly, “but what town is this?”
    â€œWhat town…?” The man laughed. “This, young sir, is Williamsburg.”
    â€œWilliamsburg?”
    â€œIt is, sir. The capital of Virginia until just recently.”
    â€œI see. Is there a place where I might seek some honest work?”
    The gentleman studied Dewey. “French?” he asked.
    â€œYes, sir. I’ve come from Yorktown, where I was mustered out of the French navy after an enlistment as an aide to the Comte de Grasse, Admiral of the Fleet.”
    He watched the man’s face carefully, trying to gauge the reaction to his explanation. He was pleased that he saw no doubt registered there.
    â€œThe French have certainly been our dear and loyal friends. Papa Rochambeau spent some time here in Williamsburg, at Mr. Wythe’s home, prior to the Yorktown engagement. A charming man. I understand he’s expected to return soon. Are you acquainted with General Rochambeau?”
    Charles decided that he had lied enough. “No, sir. I’m aware of his reputation, of course.”
    â€œThe word is that he’ll be wintering here with some of his troops.”
    The young man just nodded.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry—I seem to have forgotten my manners. I’m George Milton.” He offered his hand.
    Charles shook it. “Dewey,” he said, “Charles Dewey.” It sounded so correct!
    â€œWell, Mr. Dewey,” the gentleman said in a kindly manner, “how may I be of service to you?”
    â€œIf there is some work I could do, perhaps just for meals…” There was a sense of urgency in the words. He added a phrase: “And lodging.”
    â€œWhat kind of work do you seek?”
    â€œI’m afraid I have few skills,” Charles admitted with a grimace. “I’ve been a sailor, and —”
    â€œAnd hungry, I’ll wager.” Milton spread his hands apologetically.