The Fallon Blood, page 4
part #1 of Fallon Series
Those words hit Michael hard, and the fact that they did stunned him even more. Had he really thought of her in terms of marriage? An indentured man and a merchant’s daughter? It was madness. It’d be years before he could offer for her like. As well to have the thought killed before it grew. Then why wouldn’t it die?
He sat across from the old man, his back to the driver. “He seemed surprised at my being your clerk, sir.”
“Shipping houses don’t have bound men as clerks, Michael. Those positions are reserved for the sons of the house’s best customers, so they can learn enough to set up for themselves and do without the house that gave them their start. It’s an exchange, the trade you lose later for the trade you gain now.”
“Then, if I might ask, sir, why is it you’re taking me into this position instead of one of your customers’ sons? Young Fourrier, for instance?”
“Justin’s not interested in entering trade to get money, though—” He bit off the end of his remark. “As to why, the last clerk I had was the son of a good customer, a man of good birth and upbringing. But he not only spent more time drinking and wenching than in my warehouse, he gambled incessantly.” His lips pursed as if at a bad taste. “He had to flee the colony, at last, and left the records he was keeping in complete disarray. That, I decided, was the last of the young gentlemen for me.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Michael said, and meant it as a promise.
“I’m sure you will, Michael.” Carver looked at the sun and frowned, then consulted a fat pocket watch. “Drive on, Samuel. The bridge.”
The carriage lurched off, and Michael watched the house recede. He was just studying it again, he told himself, as he’d done on arrival. He kept thinking that. The windows remained empty of a girl with raven curls.
4
Michael settled quickly into his new life. His room above the stables was spacious, and he didn’t mind the faint smell of horses that permeated the air. It was little enough to a country man. The furniture, for the most part cast off from the main house, was sturdy. In fact, and the thought always brought a grin, it was finer than that he’d had in Ireland.
A large bed, set opposite the door, had a feather mattress and goosedown pillows. On one side a large clothespress held the plain suits Mr. Carver insisted on buying, saying he couldn’t have a clerk who looked like a dock idler. On the other a lowboy, with a mirror over it, contained the rest of his possessions. By the windows was a table, where he ate meals fetched from the kitchen. It wouldn’t have been a bad life, except for one thing, and he’d begun leaving early to avoid that.
He hurriedly tugged his stock straight and shrugged into his coat. For two months he’d maintained his early schedule, only to sleep late now. Clapping on his hat, he ran down the steps and started for the street. Almost immediately he skidded to a halt. Damn. He was too late. Elizabeth was already in the garden, taking her morning stroll.
She floated down the paths calmly, fingers occasionally touching a white blossom on a low dogwood branch. His eyes followed her with an ancient hunger. Her skin would be softer beneath his fingers than those four-petaled flowers. He bowed to hide his stark look, but she swept past unheeding of his presence. When she was safely gone he straightened and took a deep breath. It was to flee that throat-parching desire at the sight of her that he’d taken to leaving early. He would not, he vowed, be late again.
He was on the carriage path when Mr. Carver called to him from the veranda.
“So there you are, Michael. I was beginning to think you’d taken to sleeping at the bridge.”
No, Michael thought, but I burn for your daughter, and if I am much in her presence the desire will be writ plain on my face. “I want to straighten up those books, sir. Young Wynfrey left it all in a bigger mare’s nest than I believe even you suspected.”
“I must say you’re a pleasant surprise, Michael. And I’m aware you’ve been working longer hours than I ask. Take this afternoon off. You’ve earned it. You may use my library, if you wish to read. I’ve just finished Salmon’s Abridgement and Review of the State Trials. You might find that interesting.”
“I thank you, sir, and I would like to read. Only—” he hesitated, “—I did happen to notice you had Thomas Phipp’s treatise on growing rice and the Frenchman Mieraux’s journal of trade with the West Indies. If I could borrow those instead?”
Carver’s eyes widened in surprise, and he nodded slowly. “Yes, of course, if that’s what you want.”
“It is. Was there something else you were wanting me for, sir?”
“Uh? No, nothing else.”
“Then, if you’ll excuse me, the day is high already, and I’m behind time. And thank you, sir.”He sketched a leg and went on into the street.
Carver watched him go, tapping absently on the bannister. So there was ambition there, too. It would be interesting to see where it led.
Michael commonly took the roundabout way to the bridge, heading first away from the wharves toward King Street. There he turned up the peninsula till he came to the Printing House, just below Broad Street, where Peter Timothy published the weekly South-Carolina Gazette. Next to Dillon’s Tavern, it was the best place in the city for finding out what was going on, not only from the handbills posted around but from the loungers outside. But today he couldn’t seem to see the advertisements of rice and indigo, ships and slaves. He left quickly and headed down Broad for the Bay, not pausing at Saint Michael’s or the State House for a gossip. He couldn’t have taken anything in even if he’d heard it. Softer than dogwood petals she’d be.
Jepson, the Scots wharfman in charge of loading and unloading ships at the bridge, was waiting for him just inside the warehouse door. “Do you know what Mr. Carver intends about the purchase from Mr. Soule, si—? Mr—? Do you know what Mr. Carver intends?”
The wharfman still had difficulty deciding exactly where Michael fit in the scheme of things, a bound man giving orders to free men. When he was irritated his burr became more pronounced; if he talked to Michael long, he became nearly unintelligible.
“Keep it,” Michael said.
“But there’s no more than three hundredweight of good rice to a tierce,” the wharfman said thickly. “All the rest is midlings and small rice.”
“Bring in men with sieves,” Michael explained patiently. “Have them separate it and barrel it according to kind.”
“Aye. But I dinna like it. Paying top price for a mess of midlings and stock feed, while he goes on his way.”
“He won’t go for long. Bring the wharfmen here from the other wharves, a few at a time. Let them see what you’re doing, and let them know why.”
Jepson grinned slowly. “Aye. Aye. The story’ll be all over town in a day. Soule’ll have to open every barrel he sells, to prove it’s rice.”
Michael left him chortling to himself and climbed the narrow stairs to his boxlike office. Light from the outside window spread over his desk, from which he could see through the inside window that opened to the warehouse. From the shelf he took ledgers and boxes of loose papers and set to work, forgetting Jepson, trying to forget Elizabeth.
Slowly the pile of sales and transactions scribbled on scraps of paper decreased. He’d just put one receipt aside when something made him pick it up again. Two hundred tierces of rice delivered by the coasting schooner Santee Pride, with a scribbled note in Wynfrey’s crabbed hand that ten barrels had been ruined by wetting. That was unusual. Those barrels were tight enough to be used as water casks, and sometimes were. Something began hammering at the back of his mind.
He ruffled through the ledgers until he found it. Ten barrels of damaged rice sold, the same day, to Matthew Titus and Company for animal feed. The same barrels? If so, it was a very quick sale. Besides, unless he was badly mistaken, Titus and Company handled only first-quality rice.
Maybe it was Soule’s attempted deception that made his mind wander that way, but he wondered what the difference between ten barrels of first-quality rice and ten barrels of stock feed would cover in the way of gambling losses. The conviction settled on him slowly, but it settled firmly. If anything was to be proven against Wynfrey, though, he’d need more than supposition and a single receipt.
The door swinging open to bang against the end of the desk brought him erect. Byrne stuck his head in with a grin.
“Are you burying yourself in the work, then, Michael? It’s a fine, bright day outside. Very fine for March. Not a cloud in the sky. I tell you, man, it’s a day to be drinking cold sangaree, or snuggling a hot wench.”
Michael laughed and leaned back in his chair. “That’s all very well for the likes of you, but there’s some of us have a job of work to be done.”
“Since when did you start living your life by the Book? Come down to Dillon’s with me. I’ll stand you a pint of beer or two. Besides, Mr. Carver told me himself he gave you the afternoon off, and it’s close enough to noon for any but the English.”
“All right, then. Let me put this away, and I’ll go.”
Dillon’s was crowded at that hour, with every table full and men on benches out front. As they entered, the tapster pushed a staggering redcoat out the door. He followed them back in, dusting his hands. “Come in here soused as a fishwife dunked in a pickling barrel,” he said. “When I said this was a respectable place as don’t serve drunks, he called me a damned colonial nit and wanted to fight. I showed him colonial nit.”
“That you did,” Christopher said, “and right enough, too. Would Tim Grogan or Henry Anslow be around?”
The tapster nodded, with a sharp look for Michael. “They’re in the back corner, where they always be.”
“Then come along, Michael. We’ll get us a pipe and see what they have to say.”
Michael took a clay churchwarden from the public rack and broke off an inch of the stem to get a fresh mouthpiece. The tobacco was a thick twist, heavily flavored with rum, that had to be shaved and broken up in the hands. Christopher used tongs to hold a coal for their lighting.
Puffing, they strolled back through the tavern. From the murmurs of greeting, the number of tankards raised in his direction, Christopher was well known. He returned all salutations with a nod, but he didn’t stop.
Between the depth of the tavern and the tobacco smoke, the back of the room would have been dark except for the wrought-iron sconces on the walls and the lamps hanging from the ceiling. Even so, the ceiling was dim with haze.
The table where Christopher finally stopped was separated from the others, though still in the common room. Four men sat there, coatless, two playing put and two watching. The players continued their game, slapping the cards down with a grunt, stopping only to rake in the wager and deal again. The watchers looked up immediately.
“It’s all right,” Christopher said. “He’s a friend.” The two men slid warily aside to make room, and they sat down. “The two who’re so interested in the cards are Henry Anslow and Tom Milner,” he went on. One of the players waved a hand before slapping his next card down. “These others are Robert Gosnell and Martin Hill. Cousins, God bless them.”
The card player who hadn’t waved spoke without lifting his sharp nose from his cards. “Now that you’ve told him our names, Byrne, maybe you’ll tell us his.”
“Michael Fallon, Anslow. And I said he’s a friend.” Christopher grabbed a passing barmaid by the skirt. “I’ll have a bowl of sangaree for this table, Sally” As she turned away he flipped up her dress for a look at her ankles, and she snatched it away angrily. “But they’re so lovely,” he called after her.
“Sangaree,” Anslow said sourly. “Honest beer not good enough for you?”
“You don’t have to drink any if you don’t want it.” He smiled suddenly and leaned back complacently. “I won thirty pounds Saturday last betting Mr. Milford’s Dancer to beat that Georgia bay.”
Gosnell’s goggle eyes grew even larger above his fat cheeks. “Thirty pounds! That’s betting deep.”
“Deep? There were fine gentlemen there betting ten times as much, and more. Besides, I never lose.”
Hill had been engrossed in rueful study of the cards and the heap of winnings in front of Anslow, but at that he snickered. “When did that start? Just the other day I watched you play at loo with some of those fine gentlemen and never win a hand.”
“A trick of the eyes, lad. I’ve the touch of gold in my fingertips.”
“Brass, more like it,” Hill snorted.
“Jealousy. Pure jealousy. Ah, here she is.” The barmaid set the punchbowl on the table, eyeing Christopher’s hands warily, and he began ladling out the dark mixture of iced and sweetened wines with bits of nutmeg floating on top. “Speak now, if your principles keep you from drinking. There’ll just be more for the rest of us.” No one spoke, and he passed a mug to Michael.
“Dia’s Muire Ihuit, Byrne toasted Michael. God and Mary with you.
Surprised, Michael replied automatically. “Dia’s Muire Ihuit agus Padraig.” God and Mary and Patrick.
The other men all drank deep, but as soon as the mugs hit the table the four turned their eyes to Michael.
“Now,” the sharp-faced Anslow said, “it’s time for some questions.”
Hill idly flipped over cards from the deck. “Are you a loyal subject of your King, Fallon?”
Michael’s ears pricked. He’d sensed something as soon as he sat down, but only now did he have a suspicion what, and he didn’t like it. Conspiracy. “That’s a strange question to be asking.”
“These are strange times,” Anslow snapped. “And you haven’t answered the question.”
Four pairs of hot eyes glared at him, and he glared back. He was damned if he’d answer, not knowing who was asking, or why.
Christopher broke the silence. “Ease up, lads. He’s Irish.”
Hill’s mouth fell open in surprise. “What in hell’s that got to do with anything?”
“You’d better not let Grogan hear you ask that. You know how he feels about it.” Byrne sighed and leaned forward. “Look you, man, have you ever heard of an Irishman who was loyal to an English King?”
“I’d rather hear it from him.” They all looked at Michael expectantly.
He chose his words carefully. “I’m as loyal as most Irish, you could say. As loyal as Christopher here. And I’ll say no more on it till I know who I’m talking to.”
Christopher slapped the table. “And a good answer it is, too.”
Anslow frowned. “You can trust to his blood, Byrne, but the rest of us would rather know where he stands. Will you tell us that, Fallon?”
“Stand on what? God’s teeth, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Taxation without representation.” Anslow smacked his lips over the phrase. “How do you feel about that?”
Michael looked at them in bewilderment. Christopher stepped in quickly. “He’s new in the colonies, lads. It means, Michael, being taxed by a government in which you’ve no say, no one to represent you.”
“Then I’d say I was against it.”
Anslow pounded the table with his fist, and the others murmured approval. “That’s the ticket. And that’s just what we have here. The folk in England elect their Parliament, and they’re taxed by it. That’s right enough, only they’re not satisfied with that. They have to go and lay taxes on us. They don’t tax your Ireland, but they tax us.”
“Well, Ireland has its own Parliament, feeble as it may be,” Michael said, “and its own taxes.”
“And so do we. So do we.” Anslow looked around for disagreement. “We’ve our Assemblies and the like, and they lay taxes, too. But the English Parliament still taxes us.”
“Last year,” Christopher said intently, “having nothing else to do, they passed the Currency Act and the American Revenue Act. Anti-American Revenue Act, they ought to call it.”
“Now wait a minute,” Michael said. “I know something of that. It barely touches us here. It’s the New Englanders who trade in molasses and rum. They’re the ones it hurts.”
“Hurt one, hurt all,” Gosnell said, but Hill barked, “Damn blue-nosed New Englanders. They’re worse than the bloody lobsters.” He subsided under his companions’ glares, and Christopher went on.
“It’s the principle of the thing, Michael, lad. We’re taxed by a Parliament we’d no hand in selecting, where no man speaks for us. If there are taxes to be raised, let it be done by our own Assembly right here in Charlestown. And Robert has the right of it. If it hurts one colony, then it hurts us all.”
“What’s this other thing you mentioned? The Currency Act?”
“There’s no big to-do about that one, now. It seems Virginia was issuing more paper money than the colony could back, so now no colony can issue a single note more than’s already in circulation. Actually, we violate it every time we use a bill of credit as currency.”
Michael frowned. “That’s more serious than a tax on molasses.”
“Taxation without representation,” Anslow muttered into his mug.
Christopher leaned back, thoughtfully studying Michael. “Now, why would you say that?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? As the old paper money wears out, there’s less to go around, less to pay men for their hire, less to buy things. And of course the men who can’t be hired can’t buy anything at all. It all builds up like a snowball, you see. I suppose, too, if you look at it like that, the taxes hurt us, too.” Anslow and the others stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Go on,” Christopher said quietly.
Michael began to warm to the subject. “The less of the paper money you have, the more important it becomes to have some money that doesn’t wear out, gold or silver. But the taxes, the customs, have to be paid in specie, and it all goes to England, so it means we’ve got less and less of that, too. God’s teeth, you know how hard it is to get coin, even now. We could end up having to barter like savages. The English merchants would have us in their coat pockets. There’s your real problem, not this representation thing.”
“Michael, you’re a wonder.”
