They were now coming into “civilization,” as Joseph Morris expressed it. Plantations were to be seen on every hand, and they frequently encountered the overseers and their slaves, for in those days half the population of Virginia were colored people who were in bondage. Yet the darkeys were a happy set and often they could hear them singing at a distance as they worked in the corn and tobacco fields, or around the immense barns and warehouses.
A storm had been brewing and the next day Joseph Morris and Dave lost no time in riding straight on to Georgetown, on the beautiful Potomac. The river was scarcely reached when it began to rain furiously and so strong was the wind that to ferry across the stream was impossible. Consequently they remained where they were until the afternoon of the day following. By this time the wind went down sufficiently for them to be ferried to the east bank of the stream, and then they set out directly for Annapolis.
Riding was now easier than ever and they frequently met horsemen and ladies out for pleasure, and occasionally a chariot would roll by with the family arms blazoned on its side and its horseman and footman in resplendent livery.
“That was the governor’s turnout,” whispered Joseph Morris once, after a brilliant chariot drawn by four horses had swept by, sending a shower of dust and dirt over them. “I can tell you he lives well.” Dave turned around to catch a good look at the show, but a bend in the road already hid it from view.
Not long after this came a yelping of hounds and a great pack burst into view and behind them half a dozen hunters, including several city dignitaries whom Joseph Morris knew by sight. With the gentlemen were several colored servants, and all seemed to be in the highest spirits. As they swept by, the Morrises learned that they were bound for the woods beyond South River, on a grand fox hunt.
“They’ll have sport,” said Dave, gazing after the crowd. “But it won’t be anything as thrilling as that deer and painter tussle in the dark.”
At last they came to the city gate and passing through made their way to a respectable enough hostelry where accommodations were not high priced. The tavern was a low, two-story affair, with many windows, all filled with tiny panes of glass no larger than one’s hand. In front was a low stoop, with a heavy railing, and above this stoop hung a rudely carved wooden plough painted yellow, and underneath the sign, “Golden Plough Inn, Kept by Theophilus Mangot. Good Fare at Reasonable Prices.”
Behind the tavern was a wide yard and a large barn, and from here came several negro hostlers to take charge of their steeds.
“Right welcome, sirs,” said the host, coming out in shirt sleeves to meet them. “Right welcome and just in time for the best of the rooms.”
“The best will depend upon the price you ask,” answered Joseph Morris cautiously. “We want that which is good without being extravagant.”