Ovoka: The Audacity of Hubris

By Scott Keller

OVOKA, laced with historical figures and the tensions of pre-Revolutionary War America, draws readers into the daily lives of colonial Virginia in the beautiful Shenandoah piedmont. Born into privilege but determined to make his own way in the world, Isaac Spotswood seeks a modest life on his own farmstead. The land-grabbing, slave-owning ways o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Slate Hill Press
• Release date: Feb 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218146887

Scott Keller

Born and raised in Virginia, Scott Keller graduated from Duke University and Columbia University's masters program. He has been an active horseman, rider and competitor his entire life. He lives in Virginia with his wife, dogs, cats and horses.

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Table of Contents

Part I

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Chesapeake Bay - 1752

The Spotswoods

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Molly Morgan

Maidstone, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Maidstone, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia

Part II

Ovoka, Virginia – 1765

Rev. Charles Green

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia – 1765

Ovoka, Virginia – 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Millwood, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Rev. Charles Green

Maidstone, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Historical Background

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-218-14687-0

eBook ISBN 979-8-218-14688-7

Copyright © 2023 Scott Keller

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

SLATE HILL PRESS

by Rockwell Kent

∞

Ovoka

The Audacity of Hubris

By

Scott Keller

"Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing."

MacBeth, William Shakespeare

The Colepeper-Fairfax Northern Neck Proprietary – 1737

Part I

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Isaac Spotswood, that’s my name.

Some folks think it’s odd, a name like that, Spotswood. My father didn’t leave me much inheritance. A name, a pile of debts, not much else. To say my decisions were always right would be a lie, though that isn’t the whole truth. Selfish, maybe. You can judge for yourself, though your judgment isn’t what matters.

Looked out through my window at the Shenandoah, its source rising from springs deep in the slate blue hills. Ovoka, that’s what the natives called it. Ever-running waters. The river gave sustenance to everything along its banks, carried away the blood spilled into its brooks, cleansed the world of its sins.

Not all stories have happy endings. Some tales don’t even end with absolution. Heaven or hell? Didn’t matter to me. Got what pleases me most for all the time that’s left, my wife Molly.

Chesapeake Bay - 1752

A rising sun.

Low mist rolled over the ridge. Stillness everywhere. But for the creek waters spilling round its riverstones, the silence was near complete.

Chinn stared down at him. Wasn’t much left. Bones, meat, innards. Ravens circled overhead. Once a man, now a memory. They’d never find him. They’d never know the truth.

Every man’s got some bad in his heart. Some more than most. Chinn was no different. He’d long since learned how to harness his tendencies, which a more educated man may have called pernicious. The hangman wasn’t coming for him. Never would. Chinn wasn’t anything more than a good soldier who knew how to get through the day, come out better off.

Long as he got what he’d been promised, Chinn didn’t care about redemption. That was for others, the fearful ones. God’s eyes didn’t shine on him.

The Spotswoods

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

My arms near shook they’d heaved so much wheat onto the wagon. The afternoon sun scorched our backs. Sweat poured down our chests. Rest came when the others rested.

Father punished me by making me work alongside the slaves. With over a thousand acres to harvest, the toils never ended. But my labors weren’t punishment. To me, they were some of the finest hours of my youth. He couldn’t punish me. Whatever lessons he thought to teach, mine were learned from the men in the fields.

A young cavalier, twenty and one, an only child, an only heir—shirtless, drenched, exhausted. Proud of my defiant streak. My ring could bear no other crest. Nothing could break me.

Alexander Spotswood stood on the veranda, watched a carriage approach between the lush boxwoods that lined both sides of the drive which led from the road to the house. It passed the gatehouse, continued closer. The driver pulled to a halt. Carter Burwell stepped out, talked with his man, strode toward the house.

Spotswood descended the front steps. Greetings, Burwell.

Spotswood. Burwell nodded. They shook hands. Damn cold out here.

Good to see you, Burs. Thank you for dropping by.

Was there a choice? Burwell laughed. Come when summoned, no?

They walked into the house. Burwell removed his gloves, his coat, handed them to the house boy, followed Spotswood to the oak-paneled library where a fire burned in the hearth.

We’ve much to discuss. Spotswood stopped to stir the smoldering embers, tossed another log into the fireplace. Please, sit.

Burwell settled his magnificent corpulence into a winged chair beside the hearth. Thank God. He rubbed his legs. These breeches are too thin for this weather. Near froze to death on the way here.

Better have some warmer rugs made up. Spotswood walked to the cabinet, fetched a bottle of claret. He poured two glasses, handed one to his friend. Wouldn’t want you to freeze your bollocks.

Burwell laughed. My girls can scarcely knit a kerchief.

Spotswood shrugged, sat opposite. They raised glasses, drank.

Much better. Burwell set his glass on the side table. You know now that he’s squandered most of the family’s funds, that drunken buffoon Fairfax is coming from Kent to watch over us.

Had his mother not left him all this land to profit from, that castle would’ve long since crumbled to dust.

Thank God his father married a Colepeper. Burwell chuckled. Lady Fairfax must be howling in her grave.

How many siblings does the good lord have? Four or five? Spotswood smirked. Can’t have too many of one family. It will be their downfall.

A servant brought biscuits, left them on the table, departed.

We’re building an empire here, Burwell. You know that. We’ve nothing to lose, everything to gain. Fairfax be damned.

Preposterous, Spotswood. He’s close to the crown. He belched, drank more, reached for a biscuit. Between us, our lands reach further than one can see. How much more does one man need?

Our plans have little to do with how much, Burs. You know that. Rather, for how long. That’s where our ambition leads us.

Burwell chewed his biscuit, brushed crumbs from his half-buttoned waistcoat. You know, Spots, when my parents married, two great families were joined. No castles, no arms, but their vision built chapels, roads, plantations. Schools. They brought over masons, carpenters, teachers. All our true and faithful servants. The crown’s as well, of course.

Of course.

We’re forming a just society here in Virginia, are we not?

A just society? Spotswood scoffed. That’s for philosophers, my friend. Let me tell you how the world works. Prejudice, ambition, greed.

Revenge?

Revenge is for those who lost. Gluttons destined to lose again.

Burwell rubbed his belly, sighed. What else have you to eat in this pile of stones?

More biscuits? Spotswood laughed, rang the table bell for service.

Instead, Spotswood’s son Isaac appeared from the hallway. You rang, father? Good afternoon Mister Burwell.

Burwell nodded.

Isaac, you look a veritable mess. Spotswood glanced at the doorway. Why aren’t you in the fields? Where is everyone?

Seems there’s some trouble out back.

Isaac’s mother often reminded his father not to challenge his mulish arrogance, thought it would castrate his confidence. Spotswood thought his wife a soft woman, no different from most of her kind. Pampered, protected, wearisome. She coddled her boy. Spotswood’s methods were more intolerant. Resolve it.

Isaac nodded, departed.

You gentry. Burwell chuckled. No different from the commoners.

Baronets.

Ah, yes, noblesse oblige. Leeds, Oxford and all that.

Shall we remind ourselves that we are cut from the same cloth? The path from poorhouse to power is paved with hypocrisy, no?

As is the return. Burwell smirked. Apologies for not having been one to skulk around the stacks in Bodleian.

Laughed at his friend’s wit. Nonsense, Burwell. What’s learnt in books pales in comparison to being here amongst the savages.

We’ve nothing to prove. Burwell glanced toward the hallway. More to eat, eh?

Wait here, old man. Spotswood rose, went to the kitchen. Heard commotion outside, looked through the window.

Isaac stood between two angry fieldhands. Several others surrounded them, waiting for the first strike. His father shook his head, watched.

Despite an attempt by Isaac to intervene, the two shirtless men began to fight. Isaac stepped aside.

Burwell joined Spotswood at the window. Care to wager?

Hate to take your money, you inadequate excuse for a man. Again.

That scranny one looks the winner to me.

Think so?

Burwell pressed his belly against the bench, leaned toward the window. Most definitely.

Must say, my inclination is to let them battle on. Spotswood grinned. Though it may cost you dear.

A pound sterling?

Two.

Burwell agreed.

Ran to the yard, pushed the two men apart. What’s going on here?

They paused, stared at me, chests heaving. Neither spoke.

Didn’t you hear me? What’s this bother all about?

The one to my left paused. Well, sir, Samuel here gone messed with my woman.

Samuel?

Course it ain’t true. Samuel shook his head. He’s a damn liar.

Zachary?

Caught them myself, sir.

You’re a goddamn liar. Samuel stiffened his back, raised his chin. Your woman ain’t worth wasting my cock to fuck her with.

Tried to grab his arm but Zachary tore lose. He lunged, hurled Samuel to the ground. Samuel rolled, leapt to his feet, swung. Caught Zachary square on the jaw. Blood sprayed. Zachary staggered back a step. Samuel closed in, hit him hard in the gut. Hit him again, this time in the chin. Zachary gasped, moaned, fell. Chickens scattered away.

Might want to pick up your teeth. Samuel stood over Zachary as he curled on the ground. Fore you crawl on out of here.

Glanced at the fallen man, then at Samuel. Saw the overseer approaching from the stables.

Henderson was a girthy, green-eyed son of a lowcountry planter and some forgotten slave girl. Sixty, or thereabouts. Made his way through a hardscrabble life with dignity, diligence, loyalty. Lived in a patent house carved from a far corner of my father’s land. A man of few words, though those spoken carried weight, bore wisdom. Carried a coiled whip on his belt.

Pick yourself up, son. Henderson spoke to Zachary. Get on back to work.

Zachary rose to his knees. You ought to—

Ought to what? Henderson interrupted him.

Nothing, sir. Dusted himself off, fetched a tooth from the dirt, walked away.

All you boys get on back to work. Henderson barked at the others. Turned to Samuel. What do you have to say for yourself, son? Shameful.

Sorry, sir. Don’t mean no disrepect. Zachary, though, he gone too far this time.

Gone too far?

Samuel paused. Yessir. Samuel paused. Lies about most everything. Always looking for trouble. Been that way for a while now. Seems worse these days, though.

Henderson toed the ground, chose his words careful. Samuel, you been here a long time. Near ten years now. Don’t make today your last day with us.

Samuel looked away, looked down, looked Henderson in the eye. Yessir.

Alright. Go on now.

Samuel wiped blood from his knuckles onto a trouser leg, headed back toward the stables.

Henderson turned to me. Apologies, sir.

Thank you, Henderson. Glad you were here.

It’s my doing, not yours. They know you’re not near hard as your old man.

Glanced at the fields. Men’s lives. Turned back toward the house.

Henderson called to me. More like a benevolent uncle, he’d watched over me since my voice had changed from a choirboy’s chirping to something somewhat more virile.

Paused, waited for him.

You needn’t get involved in these disputes. He talked soft. Nothing good’ll come of that.

Father sent me out.

Time you started doing what’s best for you.

Smiled, shook my head. Can the fox outrun a wolf?

Smart one can. Henderson shrugged, smiled. You keep your eyes open.

Nodded, walked back to the house, entered through the kitchen door.

Burwell looked at me. That skinny bastard cost me two quid.

Two quid? Closed the door behind me. You got off light.

My father laughed. Everything was a game to him. Just another one to win. Who cared about right or wrong when there was a profit to be made?

Spotswood rode out to the fields. Sat on his horse atop the rise, surveyed the tobacco crops spread in rows across the gentle land. Beyond that, another fifty of corn. Another fifty of wheat. Isaac rode beside him.

He turned in the saddle towards his son. Perhaps we should build another mill by the creek. Quite certain Morgan would be interested. We’ll get Burwell to pay for it.

We’ll need more tenants, more help in the fields.

Of course we will. They’re coming across every month.

Isaac looked at his father, looked eastward across the river, across the valley. All this property. How much is too much?

Spotswood laughed. Is there such a thing?

Perhaps. Guess we’ll find out.

We weren’t put on this earth to tend sheep or mind a smithery. Spotswood scoffed at his son. We rose from conquerors. You know that. Let those impoverished witch-burning roundheads starve in their hovels. We’re the ones bound for glory, not those imbecile descendants of serfs up north.

They have Harvard.

Harvard? Spotswood laughed. Hardly Oxford, no?

The Spotswoods had arrived in Virginia with noble ambitions. The gentry would build a new aristocracy, no matter the cost. Spotswood’s grandfather, a baronet, would have approved. Curry favor with the king, unlike those addled peasants in Plymouth, Cavaliers had come prepared as masters, not pilgrims.

Two miles of riverfront. Isaac said. You’ve done well, father.

Not bad for a second son, indeed. All yours someday.

Isaac shifted weight in the saddle. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

What did he know, that libertine. Spotswood scoffed. You have doubts?

He remained quiet, paused. No, sir. None.

Spotswood ignored his son’s tone. My mother’s inheritance, as you well know, included all that Hermitage land, though little else. The baronetcy passed to her brother, Francis, of course. No matter. Wealth comes from land, not titles.

Our family’s past is no mystery.

You squander too much of your time, son. Reading books? What good will ever come of that? We’re landowners, not scholars. Landowners, something you must always remember. The tenants work for us. The village belongs to us. Our presence is why they are here, to serve our needs. If we went away, all this would vanish. They have no sovereign but me.

Shall we ask the smith to forge you a crown?

Spotswood laughed, dropped the reins, spread his arms wide. King of all we behold.

Yet not a kingdom.

A fiefdom, nevertheless.

Isaac laughed. Close enough.

Watch for foxes, will you? Perhaps we’ll go hunting tomorrow.

Mother asked for help planting her spring garden.

You’ll get nowhere with such womanly pursuits. She smothers you. Compliments, nothing but flattery. Give none, expect none in return. That’s the way, now isn’t it?

Isaac stayed silent. Knew a reply was neither needed nor required.

Which is better, son, power or wealth?

Isaac thought for a moment. Can’t have one without the other, no?

True enough. Spotswood halted his horse, faced his son. Each begets the other. Though given the choice, choose wealth. Monarchies don’t survive. They collapse under the weight of their own gluttony. These days, son, wealth buys power.

Hasn’t it always?

Of course not. Spotswood smirked. Back in the day, anyone with bullocks and a bigger stick was the winner. Now you can buy the stick.

You can’t buy souls, nor hearts.

Of course you can. God is an ambivalent auctioneer.

Isaac laughed. The highest bidder wins.

Finally, you’ve said something worth saying. His father laughed, too. Truth is never relevant. Only the appearance of it, that’s what matters. Cowering little lickspittles, they’re everywhere.

Living with the illusion of freedom.

Precisely the beauty of keeping all those poor souls in the dark. Who needs facts when you have fear at your disposal? All one needs is a bit of moral ambiguity.

Isaac urged his horse across a boggy patch in the field. Some are rather well educated, aren’t they? Magruder, especially so.

His father rode on, remained quiet. They deserve little more than what we give them, if that. Thought they’d come here, find oysters fat with pearls, live like kings.

Contemptuous of your authority, no?

Quarrelsome lot of desperadoes, here only because England wouldn’t have them.

Isaac smirked, let a moment pass. Our tenants in Millwood aren’t quite desperadoes.

Do you suppose any of those barbarians care about anything other than cards, drink or fornication?

Isaac laughed. Sounds rather like your friends.

The difference being rank and property. No connections, no manners, if it weren’t for our support they’d all be in irons in the hold of some privateer’s ship.

Really, father?

Look at Rome, starving for conquest. Spotswood continued on without once looking at his son. All they cared about was killing their neighbors, taking their land, enslaving their men. Thank God we’ve risen above such savagery.

Like our own monarchs.

Nonsense, son. His father sniggered. Rome, no different than Athens. Sodom and Gomorrah.

The Greeks might’ve disagreed.

The Greeks? Godless democrats. What could be worse? Heathens. Hang them from the bowsprits.

They entered a woody glen, tracked along a narrow path through the pine forest to the open fields beyond.

Did you hear? Isaac brushed away a low branch, ducked under another. Zachary’s run away.

Zachary?

Isaac sighed quiet to himself. The fight yesterday. The man Samuel pummeled, that was Zachary.

Ah, yes, the loser. Won two pounds from Burwell. Run away, has he? We’ll let the colonel know. Whitley’s keen on bounty.

Yes, sir.

Come, son, let’s race back. Spotswood turned, called over his shoulder. Devil take the hindmost.

They galloped along the river’s edge toward home. Isaac’s horse ran game, though not game enough. Spotswood patted his son’s shoulder when they dismounted. Almost.

Sunlight sparkled silver upon the river, mother of a thousand moons, as the natives called its waters. Deer grazed upon the opposing bank. Idyllic as it was, my thoughts turned to the tribes who lived in frontier valleys across the mountains that rose beyond the river to the west. The world’s bounties must have seemed endless to them.

We reached the house, both horses drenched with sweat despite the cool air.

Watched my father dismount. He seemed satisfied with our concurrent arrival at the gates. Almost. He grinned. But not today.

Laughed, handed my horse to a groom. Close counts as a win for me.

Mother waited at the door. She waved. Isaac, you’re needed in the house. Hurry along.

There’s only one winner, eh? My father smirked. Now go see what your mother wants.

Nodded, walked away, tried to breathe deep.

My father failed to accept that he was no longer the only man in the house. Hadn’t worn swaddling in twenty years—pulled on my breeches, buttoned up my shirt same as he did every day.

Mother waited at the door. Quiet, pensive. Her strength had waned, though her spirit remained strong. Guessed there were only so many melancholy nights one could endure before the heart began to rot.

Where have you and your father been? It’s near supper time.

Apologies, mother. We rode a good ways down the river.

Whatever for?

Shrugged. Entered the front hall, handed my coat to the house maid. Thanks, Patricia.

The front hall stood flanked by twin rooms. One, my father’s library. The other, a sitting room. Limestone hearths stood at either end of both rooms. A large central staircase ahead, hallways on each side, one to the kitchen, one to the dining room. A chandelier hung from the high, medallioned ceiling. Paintings of dead ancestors hung above the fireplaces.

Asked my mother how long till supper.

She smiled wan. We’ll eat when your father returns.

Can’t wait. Walked to the kitchen, interrupted the cook. What’s in the pots?

Husband and wife, Robert and Patricia. Been married since before my mother birthed me into the world. Patricia remained cheeky as she’d even been. Her husband always obliging of her sauciness.

Lamb stew. Robert answered me without turning, continued chopping herbs. He was quite serious about his cooking.

Won’t be but a bit. Patricia walked to the kitchen hearth, stirred the hanging pot. Long as the cook doesn’t keep pestering me.

Robert glanced at me. Getting sassier every day, isn’t she?

Wait till tomorrow. Patricia walked behind him, smacked his ass with the ladle.

Way you grumble through the night, these old bones’ll be lucky enough to see another sunrise.

Left them to their cooking, went out the kitchen door to the stable yard. Henderson was gathering eggs from the roost. He stopped, turned round, set down his basket.

Yes sir, Mister Isaac? He brushed his hands against his trousers, wiped them against each other. Damn chickenshit.

Wanted to ask about Zachary.

Still gone. Ain’t found him yet.

You know what happens when they catch a runaway.

Christian justice. Henderson nodded.

Laughed, though shouldn’t have. Whitley’s pastime.

That bullheaded cracker?

My father’s favorite henchman.

Either way, that boy Zachary deserves whatever he gets. Ain’t no cure for stupid, but there’s a price. Just the way it is.

Doesn’t matter. They’d better treat him right. Too many hangings.

Henderson looked me, shook his head slow. Son, ain’t never going to happen. You know that, not for boys like him. He’s nothing but chaff to your old man. Lose one, buy another.

My father, not me. Spoke firm. My skin’s thicker than his. He just hasn’t figured that out yet.

Lucky for you. Henderson laughed. "But don’t matter which way you look at it, there’s always going to be