The Fallon Blood, page 24
part #1 of Fallon Series
“Sir, I’d better go inside. The vote—”
Michael smiled. McDowell tensed as if he’d snarled. “Ah, the vote, is it? That’s thinking of today. Men who do too much of that can be misunderstood. And if a man’s misunderstood, why he might be flogged, or tarred and feathered, by mistake, you understand. But a man who thinks to the future, and to what the future brings, well, a man like that does well.”
McDowell licked his lips uncertainly. “I, ah—I—What is it exactly that you mean?”
“Well, lad, a man who thinks of the future would tell me who—”
At that moment Byrne stuck his head out. “The vote’s done. Gadsden, Lynch, and Edward Rutledge are in. What do we do with this one? I turned his friend over for a ship sailing tomorrow for the Spice Islands and beyond. He’ll spend the next two years learning to step lively at the end of a knotted rope.”
With a cry McDowell tore himself free and leaped for the rail. Michael grabbed for him, but the clerk landed a wild fist to the chest that felt as if every rib had been broken. He caught at the stone bannister to keep from falling. When he straightened, McDowell was rolling to his feet in front of a rearing ream, dodging into the crowd with the driver’s curses and the crack of his whip at his heels.
“Damn it, Christopher. We’ll never catch him, now. We’ll never find who sent him.”
“It’s no matter, Michael. It’s King’s men who did it. King’s men who weren’t inside to twist the vote. That’s enough.”
“Perhaps. But which King’s men? You say Gadsden was selected? Good. But Lord, the things we do for the cause. What do you expect history will say about this?”
Byrne laughed. “History will say we were all grand patriots and shining heroes, with right and justice on our side. Else it’ll say we were traitors, and hung.”
“Well, let’s get back inside and see can we get an inkling which.”
18
The Continental Congress met in Philadelphia in September of 1774, with all colonies represented except Georgia. By October they had adopted the Continental Association, by agreement of non-importation, non-consumption, and non-exportation. They also sent a memorial to the British people, expressing hope for reconciliation, and another to the King giving assurance that the colonies would be loyal subjects if the offending laws were repealed.
In South Carolina a Provincial Congress was elected. It promptly appointed a Committee of Correspondence to keep touch with other Provincial Congresses, and a Council of Safety to see to the day-to-day affairs of running the province. William Henry Drayton was appointed head of the Council. By April of 1775, he was challenging the power of the Congress.
The air had the April feel of neither heat nor cold, and the water lapped mildly on the landing below the Exchange. In the small boat, a sailor swung in his oar and rose to toss a line ashore. Michael deftly caught it and tied it off. The boat’s passenger, a ship’s officer, stepped ashore and immediately stopped, gaping at the ring of men around the landing.
“Here, what’s this? King’s mail here. Royal Post Office.” He seemed disgruntled that the magic phrases didn’t act as a password.
“A committee from the Council of Safety,” Michael lied. Christopher led five men toward the boat.
The officer puffed like a turkey cock. “We’re not breaking your damned Association. We’re not importing anything. This is the mail, I tell you. I’m from the Post Office packet Swallow.”
“Of course,” Michael said smoothly. “We’ll escort you to the State House.” He gestured at Byrne and the others carrying the mailsacks up to toss them in a wagon. “That’ll spare your men having to carry them. In fact, you might consider leaving them here. There’s been considerable violence, lately, and some citizens can’t tell packet seamen from Royal Navy.”
The officer had swollen even further, face bright red, at the sight of Christopher’s men handling the mail, but as Michael finished, he deflated. He was suddenly reminded of the riots in New York and Boston. And they’d burned a ship in Annapolis. “I’ll go along to see it gets there.”
“Certainly. Mr. Howe. Mr. Anslow. Would you gentlemen escort this officer? Perhaps you’ve some rum to help keep off the chill. The late cold comes on suddenly,” he added to the officer, who’d made a noise and looked at the sunny sky.
The caravan moved away smoothly, and melted into the flow of traffic on Broad Street. Michael led the way, followed by half a dozen men with an ill assortment of muskets and fowling pieces. Then came Anslow, Howe, and the packet officer, with the wagon close behind. The crowd split around them, instead of pushing closer to see what was happening, as Michael had hoped. Still, between the two men forcing rum on him, and the five men crowded across the seat of the wagon, the packet officer couldn’t see into the wagonbox.
Christopher ran forward to join him. “What if he finds out we’re from the Provincial Congress instead of the Council of Safety?”
“I doubt he knows the difference. Damn it, there shouldn’t be a difference. Drayton is trying to run the Council of Safety like his private property”
“Aye. He’s been as rabid as a reformed drunk since the placemen voted him off the Governor’s Council. And then to have another placeman sent to take his judgeship, and him out on the circuit when it happened.” Christopher winced as if he could feel it. “Lord, that’d turn any man.”
“If he’d been turned to helping I wouldn’t mind.” A crowd of boys ran up, jeering at the packet officer. He waited till they started a game of tag and faded back into the flow around them before speaking. “I loaded one of my coasters for Boston. A hundred fifty barrels of rice and some money And a few hogsheads of tobacco to be sold in New York, the proceeds to be carted on to Boston with the rest. Drayton swells up like the whole damned Council of Safety and allows as how the rice can go, because that’s specifically exempted from the Association. The money can go, because that’s not mentioned. But, says he, the tobacco is prohibited goods. It must be off-loaded, or I’d risk the extreme displeasure and wrath of the Council of Safety. Right pompous, Drayton.”
“I’ve noticed. But did you then?”
“What? Unload? Hell, no. In the first place it’s export to Europe that’s prohibited, not to other colonies. In the second, even if it was, we must keep Boston going. It’s likely there the first blow will come, and if they’ve been weakened enough to fall, then we’ll go down like nine-pins, all down the coast. Here we are.”
“Mr. Anslow, Mr. Howe,” Michael said, “escort the officer inside. The rest of you get those bags unloaded.”
The men on the wagon grabbed up the canvas sacks and raced into the State House. The packet officer followed more slowly for Anslow and Howe still pressing the rum bottle on him. In a few minutes they were all back without the bags or the officer.
Howe pulled a bundle of letters from his coat. “Here, Mr. Fallon, sir. He didn’t half raise hell about the seals being broke without him there, but we danced him around about it only being for ten seconds, and he’d enough rum in him not to wonder how it could all be done so quick.”
“All right, all you lads get out of here. Come, Christopher.”
The two of them started down Meeting Street, away from the bustle, Michael shuffling through the official despatches. In no time they were around a quiet corner. Abruptly Michael stopped, staring at the direction on one despatch. “‘To Lieutenant Governor William Bull of His Majesty’s colony in South Carolina, from Lord Dartmouth, Secretary of State for the American Colonies.’” He broke the seal and began reading.
God, it’d all broken loose. The English were sending ten thousand men to the colonies, just as he’d predicted last July. He turned and began to run toward the State House, phrases from the despatch whirling in his thoughts: Suppress the uprising. Enforce a blockage. Seize public arms and powder.
Christopher caught up to him. “What’s the matter? What are you running off for?”
“No point telling it twice. Come on!”
Peter Timothy was in the hall outside the Assembly Room. He stared. “What’s happened?”
“Get Pinckney out here for me, Peter.” Timothy hesitated, and Michael plunged on. “It’s important. Vital. Would I ask for the President of the Provincial Congress if it wasn’t?”
After a moment Timothy nodded. “I’ll try.”
Michael and Christopher paced the hall, waiting. Michael checked his watch against the clock by the wall. What was keeping them?
Charles Pinckney stepped into the hall, shutting the door carefully behind him. He was a broad-nosed man, with a long upper lip and a second chin beginning to show. “I’ll tell you, Fallon, sometimes we seem to forget we’re a Congress and act as slothful as we did when we were the Colonial Assembly. What is it?”
Michael held out the letter, its official seal plain. Pinckney looked quickly around to see they were alone, and began reading. Suddenly he looked up and said, “God help us.” At last he sighed and folded all the sheets together. “I’ll take this in immediately. It will be a bombshell to those who are talking reconciliation.”
“They deserve a bombshell.”
“You don’t have to deliver it.”
Christopher barely waited for Pinckney to leave before bursting out. “Michael, lad, I’ve waited. Now, what the devil’s happened?”
“The devil has happened. And hell’s let loose,” Michael said. “Ten thousand soldiers coming.” And he explained the letter’s contents.
When he was done, Christopher muttered a prayer and joined him in the pacing. The Congress must act, Michael thought for the hundredth time. What was delaying them?
More than once muffled shouting issued from inside the chamber, but no one came out. They paced through another hour.
Suddenly Pinckney was there again, mopping his forehead. “Something anyway. Copies of the despatch are being made. In ten days every colony will know of it. God knows what will happen then.” He sweated, and kept dabbing at it with the handkerchief. “Captain Byrne, is the Annalee available?”
“At a moment’s notice.”
“And I’ve three coasters in harbor,” Michael said. “They’re at your service. But what of the rest? What of the powder? We must hide it!”
“Committees must be appointed. One will consider raising troops outside the militia, since we can’t be sure militiamen won’t obey Bull. The powder? The powder will be seized as soon as men are chosen.” He stopped. “That sounds almost like a rebellion, doesn’t it? Heaven help us.” And he hurried back into the chambers, passing Thomas Lynch on his way out. Lynch, the stolid planter who had been a representative at the Continental Congress, gave Michael a jaundiced look. “You’ve certainly played hell, Fallon.”
“Then it’s hell they deserve. But why should you be upset? You’re as much for independence as any man, now. And how did that question go in Philadelphia?”
Lynch looked hastily to the chamber door, and searchingly at Byrne, before he spoke. “Careful, Fallon, please. Not everyone is so willing to come into the open as you and Gadsden. Oh, very well. We felt out everyone we were able. I fear Gadsden went too far at times. Even the hottest New Englanders were taken aback. One of the Massachusetts lot said Gadsden was ready to shoulder a musket and march off to Boston on the instant.”
“That sounds like him.” Michael grinned.
“We could agree on little except that we must cooperate. But as to what end—” Lynch shook his head. “Those haddock-eaters are a mixed lot. Many abhor independence, a few say it’s a last resort, and only a handful realize it’s the only way. But they may wreck it all, those cold-faced bastards. They find you’re from south of New York, and they begin preaching at you about slavery.”
Michael was surprised. “Come now. Surely that’s no news. How many long-faced New England slaver captains have you seen on the docks with Bibles in their fists, looking down their noses at those who own slaves while they count the pounds and shillings from their sale?”
“But what if they make it a condition for support of independence? Some of them said independence should mean independence for all men. An end to slavery is what they want.”
“It’s not so bad an idea, is it? I hold my own blacks as bound men, to be freed on eight years’ service.”
Lynch snorted. “Lord, you’re beginning to sound like John Rutledge. Worse. Well, that’s his business, and yours. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so angry about it if it wasn’t for their hypocrisy. I spoke to three of those fine merchants, owners of slavers, out of Salem and Boston. They claimed they traded molasses and rum, refused to admit to the third part of their trade. They claimed the southern colonies besmirched the American cause with slaves.”
Lynch fell silent, and Michael didn’t speak. Even Byrne seemed concerned. Did slavery become a bone of contention now, the colonies might forget about the British and start fighting one another.
The longboat slid through the dark harbor and the heat of August, a lantern above the sternpost marking its passage. Eight oarsmen bent and straightened in unison, water frothing and flashing round the oarblades in the faint moonlight. They were good, Daniel knew, for he’d trained them. He held steady for the lights of Charlestown, eyes probing ahead, but he spared a glance for Michael, seated in front of him and staring moodily at the water.
“That Mr. Ames,” the boatman said suddenly. “I don’t know as he can handle the harvest good as you, Mr. Fallon. Maybe you should’ve stayed.”
“I was smothering in peace and quiet,” Michael growled. He’d left for Tir Alainn as soon as the powder was seized, but the country had begun to wear. “As I told you halfway here, and at the mouth of the Santee, and at the boat landing, and when I said I was coming. If you want to worry so, I can always get you a job as a mauma.”
“Ah, no, sir, Mr. Fallon.” A sudden shriek rent the night air. “God almighty, what is that?”
“I don’t know, Daniel. Douse the light, and steer for it. There, where the torches are.”
The boat curved toward the closest wharves. Flickering torchlight on the shore partly illuminated a mass of men, throwing shifting shadows across their faces, so none could be picked out. Another ululating scream ripped from someone’s throat. The oarsmen eyed each other nervously, shifting on the benches.
“They killing somebody, Mr. Fallon,” Daniel said.
Something was carried through the crowd, which howled with mindless satisfaction. At the water’s edge, to a great shout, it was thrown in. A feeble splashing started, carried farther from shore every minute.
“Swing over a bit,” Michael ordered. “He’s floating right to us. Easy with him. Easy.”
At a sign from Daniel two slaves shipped their oars and pulled the sobbing man aboard. His naked body was coated in sticky black tar; patches of feathers sprouted at random on him.
Michael bent over him grimly. “Who are you?”
One eye fluttered open. “Sergeant Walker,” he breathed. “Gunner. Fort Johnson. Wouldn’t—drink—to Drayton.”
Tar-and-feathering and drowning, over a toast? It was an obscenity, and the Council of Safety was behind it.
“Daniel, drop me at the bridge, then take this man to the fort. Then take the boatsmen straight to the house.”
Daniel eyed the crowd dispersing on the dock. “Mr. Fallon, maybe I ought to come with you. And a couple of the rowers. They not much if it come to a fight, but they look mean enough.”
Michael took his sword belt and a pair of pistols from the bottom of the boat. He checked the primings and slid an inch of razor steel out to gleam in the moonlight. “I’ll be all right. Put me ashore, and take that man to help.”
Michael found the Bay dark and empty, except for the lights from alehouses. Laughter and song drifted through tavern doors; a dog barked down the street.
Then torches rounded a corner toward him. It was a Council of Safety patrol. They slowed at the sound of his footsteps, peering for him in the darkness. There was always sport in lone pedestrians.
A hand on his sword hilt, he walked steadily toward them. One of their number took a swaggering step, but another stopped him with a hand. Michael was visible now. The sword was clear, and the pistol butts. His clothes were those of a gentleman, and his face had the look of a fighter. The patrol stood still, only their heads moving as a dozen unblinking eyes watched him pass.
Michael groaned in anger. It was worse than under the British. Men barely dared walk the streets alone at night, and no man could speak freely. The Council had much to answer for.
Outside the room in the State House where the Council met, a young man stood sentry duty in a dove-gray civilian coat. “The Council is in session. You can’t—”
Michael thrust him aside and flung open the doors. In the dim light the Council froze behind their long, polished table, every eye on him. Laurens suddenly looked worried. Pinckney gasped. Drayton smiled unpleasantly. Patricianly handsome Arthur Middleton seemed annoyed. The rest stared blankly.
There was a rush of feet, and the young guard ran in with half a dozen reinforcements. Frowning, Middleton waved them away. The doors closed. “You’ve interrupted a very important meeting, Fallon.”
“I rescued a man tonight. Tarred, feathered, and thrown in the Cooper River to drown. His crime? Refusing to drink to Drayton. Have you thought how much of that is going on? And for what cause? Walker, Dealy, and Martin, tarred and feathered, for speaking disparagingly of the Council, for speaking disparagingly of Drayton. Mother of God.”
Drayton’s smile grew tight. “It should be clear to you: unity must and will be achieved at any cost. No dissent can be allowed.”
A stunned silence fell on the table, some of the Council members looking furtively at the others.
“Is that the way of it now?” Michael asked softly. “I seem to remember not so many years ago a Mr. William Henry Drayton being listed among the returned cargo for refusing to agree to non-importation. You pled the right of dissent then, didn’t you? You attacked Gadsden for stirring up, what was it you called them, the vulgar, illiterate masses. Now you loose your own mob on the city.”
