Clara Elizabeth Byrd had been married twice by the age of sixteen and she had decided she had no taste for it.
Her first husband, Mr. John du Pont, being of Huguenot lineage with an estate on the James River, had been a kind man. Though nearly twenty years her senior, he had not laughed when Clara suggested he might make her a wedding gift of a sloop. Instead, he asked in what color he should commission the sails be dyed. Clara imagined that they’d have made good companions for one another had he not swallowed a chicken bone and died before the cake had been cut.
It was a tragic affair, resulting in Clara’s return to her family home farther down the river. The sloop came, too, in accordance with Mr. du Pont’s presumed final wishes. Clara was incandescently thankful. Never mind that she had not yet learned to sail it. She had read every novel on the subject and was certain she could manage without too much trouble.
Before she had occasion to try, her father selected a second husband for her. Mr. Frederick Earwood, as if the name weren’t bad enough, was a quiet young man with no humor about him. Upon learning of his betrothed’s sloop, he sat back in his chair, studied one corner of the ceiling so intently it seemed he’d quite forgotten there were others in the room and then said in a careful monotone, “We shall take the ship with us if only to dismantle it and use its parts for firewood this winter.”
In that moment Clara determined her second husband would be her last. She devised a plan, requesting to be wed in the Lower River Chapel on the bank of the James. From there, they would retreat to Mr. Earwood’s holdings near the Carolina border. Her sloop would be moored by the dock awaiting its miserable journey inland.
Which, of course, it would never take.
In all the tales of adventure Clara had ever heard, it was never young girls who were daring. It was always boys running off to rescue a friend or fetch much-needed medicine or stumble into good fortune. Clara knew girls would be daring if given half the chance. And she intended to take that chance, right from under the pale nose of Mr. Earwood.
And so it was that Clara Elizabeth Byrd took a second husband in order to have her first adventure.
She spent the weeks leading up to the wedding putting her scholarly knowledge to practice, sailing the sloop a little farther each day. She loved it every bit as much as she expected. The sun on her face and the wind in her hair, the horizon glinting with promise. She was meant for a life in full view of the sky.
Soon, the wedding was upon her. The vows were necessary, and so, unfortunately, was the moment Mr. Earwood was given permission to kiss the bride. Mr. Earwood leaned close, his lips puckered as delicately as a doll’s. Clara feigned a girlish giggle, neatly pressing her own lips to his cheek.
Though it displeased Mr. Earwood, the congregation applauded her charmingly modest sensibilities. No one raised an eyebrow when she begged for a few moments alone after the ceremony. And while the rest of the party processed toward the town green for cake and feasting, Clara raced to the river and climbed aboard her sloop, where she’d stored everything she would need to make her journey: a few precious coins, clothing, some food, a fishing pole and even a sword from her grandfather’s trunk.
The sun was just passing into the west as she raised the main sail and jib. The air was sharp with the last chill of winter, the trees eager to send green shoots into the Virginia sky. A thin sweat coated Clara’s brow as she worked to unknot the ropes that kept her little boat tethered to the dock. If anyone saw, she would surely be stopped and dragged back to the side of an irritable Mr. Earwood.
The skirts of her black silk gown were twisted around her ankles in the narrow spaces. She’d have preferred to wear her new green mantua gown for the occasion; its open cut would’ve made maneuvering around the ship much easier. But both her maid and her father had been horrified at the idea of a bride wearing such an unlucky color, so she’d relented rather than give herself away. Now she moved slower than she desired on account of not wanting to trip and fall headfirst into the water.
Finally, with a ferocious shove, her little sloop drifted away from the dock and into the steady current of the river. Though the sloop was a modest size for traveling the James, twelve feet from prow to stern and four feet across, it would be noticeable due to the brilliant yellow of its sails. Mr. du Pont’s generosity was both a boon and a curse, and since she could not obscure the color of the sails, Clara needed to disguise herself to avoid discovery.
Stowed on the boat was a set of boy’s clothing, stolen a piece at a time from her own father’s laundry, which she would don as soon as it was safe to do so. For now, she slapped one of her father’s old cocked hats on her head and kept her body hidden in the belly of the hull, emerging only to adjust the boom when the wind shifted.
She sailed thus, lying flat on her back with her eyes trained on the gentle billowing of her yellow-dyed sails, until the sunlight sliced orange and pink across the sky. The air began to get cooler, the sky above darker and all of a sudden Clara felt a chill of fear. She was alone as she had never been. Alone with precious few possessions and no notion of where to take them except away from Mr. Earwood and the promise of a landlocked life.
It was then that she heard it: sudden splashing in the river and shouts in the distance. Her pulse quickened and the chill she’d felt only seconds before was replaced by a fresh sheen of sweat. She lay on the bottom of her boat with ears pricked and eyes open wide, hoping the sounds would pass her by. But instead of moving off, the splashing grew nearer, the shouting louder.
When her boat rocked sharply to one side, it was all Clara could do to keep from crying out in surprise. She bit the inside of her cheek and waited for the rocking to subside.
Nothing followed. Her boat resumed its course, floating smoothly downstream. Had she bumped a stone? Had some large catfish mistaken her for food?
“You there! Boatman!” The shout carried across the river to Clara’s ears.
The shock of it caused her to bite too hard on her cheek. She tasted blood.
“Good sir! Pause and speak with us!”
If she lay in the bottom of her boat, they might assume it was adrift and come out to retrieve it for themselves. If she answered, they might know her for a girl and still come out.
Though her hands shook, she knew she must move. Lifting only her head, she spied two figures pacing her on shore. They were smartly dressed and bore expressions of determination and mild panic. The one in front was tall; his stride was commanding and bold. The one behind had a flower pinned to his brocade waistcoat and ran twice as fast to keep apace with his friend. Here the banks of the river were peppered with long stretches of tall, marshy grasses several feet deep. The two men had to run farther up the hillside in order to see the river where she sailed.
Clara pitched her voice low. “Good day to you, sirs!”
With a pinch of panic, Clara noticed how the man behind seemed to pause midstride, as though aware that something was amiss. The other plowed on, shouting, “Have you seen a girl? She came this way! Did she cross the river? A girl!”
For just a second Clara’s mind reeled. These men would know her for the runaway she was and force her to return to the dreadful life she’d only just escaped. She would be married and her sloop dismantled by sundown. But her sense returned nearly as quickly as it had fled. They sought a girl from their side of the river. She was not the delinquent they pursued.
Clara thought of the splashing and suspected it had been no catfish that had nudged her hull. She placed a steadying hand on the boom as the wind shifted. The sloop rocked in response. Lowering her chin and keeping her voice deep, she responded, “I’m afraid I haven’t seen her. There’s been nothing but sunlight on the water with me this day.”
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