The Fallon Blood, page 6
part #1 of Fallon Series
Michael frowned and moved back behind an oak. He’d promised to take care. If it took skulking in the bushes like a footpad, he’d do it. But what, he wondered, were they doing in the street? All of this bustle spoke of singular haste. But where would Mr. Gadsden be going in such hurry of a lowering Monday morning?
The door to the house opened, and two men came out. Peter Timothy, publisher of the South-Carolina Gazette, hurried along beside Christopher Gadsden, who seemed to overshadow the smaller, darker man, not so much by size as by the force and power of his presence. Gadsden was barely above medium height, with a prominent chin and a high forehead. His eyes gave the first sign of his magnetism. They were mesmeric.
“This is ridiculous,” Gadsden stormed. “For what does the Assembly have an agent in London? What is Garth doing there, gambling in the hells or looking out for the interests of the colony? He was sent the strictest instructions. He was to join the other colonial agents in opposing this, this monstrosity even being proposed. Yet the next we hear, it’s not only proposed, it’s passed. And we don’t even hear it from him.” He wheeled on Timothy. “You are certain of all this? The information is correct?”
“It’s correct, sir,” Timothy said wearily. “What shall we do?”
Gadsden’s face darkened. “Even you must agree the last chance of peaceful persuasion is gone.”
Timothy was silent.
“If we can’t change it, we’ll make use of it. We’ll build a bonfire with that paper to burn the throne itself.”
Timothy looked around wildly. “For God’s sake, sir. This is a public street.”
Taking the smaller man by the sleeve, Gadsden drew him toward the carriage. “All right. We’ll talk in the safety of my carriage. But the whole world will know soon enough.”
The groom and stableboys scrambled out of the way, barely finished with their tasks. The coachman climbed to his perch, fumbling with the last button on his waistcoat. Heads together in close conversation, Gadsden and Timothy climbed into the carriage, and a rap on the roof from inside sent it lurching off down the street.
Michael waited until the stable workers had gone back up the drive before he came out, and then he did so slowly, thoughtfully. Burning the throne? Something had passed in London. An act of Parliament? Well, whatever it was, he knew where to find out. He’d have a stop at Dillon’s before going on to the bridge.
The darkened sky finally split open, letting loose a downpour left over from April, driving the fishmongers and peddlers to shelter in doorways and under eaves, hurrying mechanics on their way. A private of the Sixtieth Foot lay against the side of a building, snoring, oblivious to the rain pouring in his face, or the whore hurriedly rifling his pockets for a stray coin that might have escaped the tapster’s hand. She looked up as Michael passed, but didn’t slow her fingers’ probing.
A train of high-wheeled wagons, each drawn by a six-horse hitch, creaked past him, splashing mud at every puddle. The harness bells clanked dolorously in the wet. The upcountry drivers sat hunched on the seats, hats pulled low, and even the dogs that usually ran ahead of the train trudged drearily.
By the time he reached Broad Street Michael was sodden, and mud had oozed up over his shoes. But the light and warmth of the tavern beckoned him the length of the street, and he picked up his pace.
Outside the tavern two slaves huddled miserably by a sedan chair. Michael eyed them curiously as he turned in. The few men who used a chair generally treated their bearers well. They certainly weren’t left out in the rain.
Looking at the bearers, he didn’t see the cloaked shape that cannoned out of the tavern and crashed into him. Startled, he fought for balance, muddy shoes slipping on rain-slick cobblestones and crashed to the pavement.
Justin Fourrier regarded him indifferently from beneath a dripping tricorn. “Watch for your betters, man,” he snapped, and climbed into the sedan chair. The bearers were on their feet before he was inside, and no sooner was the door shut than they started up the street at an easy gait.
With a strangled roar Michael surged to his feet. Before he could take a step Christopher darted into the rain and threw his arms around him in a bearhug. He struggled as the other man pulled him into the tavern. Benches scraped as men turned to see what was going on.
“Easy Michael, easy with you.” Christopher stopped just inside the door, but he didn’t release his grip.
“That’s the second time he’s done that. He acted as if I was no more than a clump of dirt. Let me go. I won’t stand for it.”
“You have to stand for it, man. At least, for now. What would you do if you caught him? You’re a bound man. If you so much as strike him he can have you up before a magistrate and flogged. It’s a fool’s game you’re thinking of. You can’t win.”
Michael went rigidly still. With an effort he forced himself to relax. “All right, then. I can’t win today. Drink with me to tomorrow.”
Christopher spread his hands with a rueful smile. “I would that, were I not flat. The cards desert me for the moment.”
“And you talk to me of fools’ games. Well, never mind. I’ll buy, if you can stand to drink beer for a change. Tapster, two pints of beer, if you please.”
“I’ll drink anything that’s free, except water.”
Michael took the tankards, turning serious as he handed the redhead his. “Christopher, you’re a man as hears things. What’s occurred of late?”
“Such as?”
“Such as an act of Parliament that Charles Garth was supposed to try to stop. Only, he failed, and it’s been proposed and passed without so much as a word from him about it. I gather it’s something to do with paper. And trouble likely over it.”
Christopher stared at him with his mug half tilted. “For a man wanting information, you know an awful lot.”
“You know about it, then?”
Christopher hesitated before nodding. “Hell, the whole city will know before the day’s down. Come to the back.”
Anslow was at the table alone, reading a letter that he folded and pocketed when Michael sat down. “What’s he doing here?” he asked Christopher. “He’s not one of us.”
“Us?” Michael said.
“Just a few lads who think the right way,” Christopher replied easily. “We’ve banded together to make our opinions known.” He turned to Anslow. “There’s nobody born a member of the Liberty Boys. They have to be recruited. Now bring out the letter and let Michael here know of this Stamp Act our gracious sovereign has given us.”
“It’s the Parliament, not the King, that’s—” Anslow began.
Christopher waved his protests aside. “The letter, man. The letter.”
Reluctantly Anslow laid the pages on the table and smoothed them out. “It’s called the Stamp Act.” He spoke as if he begrudged every word. “Come the first of November, 1765, no legal papers can be served or given, no warrants or summons, no clearance papers for ships, unless it has a stamp on it. Have to have the stamp for newspapers and broadsides and pamphlets, even for packages of playing cards and dice. It’s a wonder they’re not requiring it for musket wadding.”
“There’s been stamped paper required in England for years,” Michael said.
“This ain’t England,” Anslow snapped.
“There are some differences, Michael,” Christopher said smoothly. “Tell him what Benjamin Franklin said, Anslow.”
Michael looked at him in surprise. “Benjamin Franklin? Him that’s the deputy postmaster for the colonies? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s also the London agent for the Pennsylvania colony.”
“And he used to be a partner in Mr. Timothy’s paper,” Anslow added. “He spoke up to Mr. Grenville, the Prime Minister, he did, when all the colonial agents were called in to give their views. They say he told him straight: the money should be raised by the colonial assemblies. That would make it an affair of the people who must pay it, it being what he calls an internal tax, one that you’ve got no choice but to pay. The Parliament, he said, could levy external taxes, the kind you can avoid paying by not buying the taxed item, tariffs and such, but not internal taxes, as the colonies aren’t represented in Parliament.” He nodded sharply to emphasize the words.
Michael took a long pull at his tankard before speaking. Taxation without representation again. On the other hand, this man Franklin had reason with him. “It sounds as if the money’s to be raised for some special purpose.”
“Yes. Oh, yes.” Anslow ruffled the pages, but barely looked at the one that came to the top. He sounded as if he had it memorized. “The money raised by the Stamp Act is to be used to reimburse the crown partially for the expense of keeping members of His Majesty’s armed forces in His Majesty’s North American colonies for the preservation of the lives and property of England’s trade with those colonies.” He twisted his face and spat on the floor. “Protection. Preservation. There’s been no trouble with the Indians in four years, none with the Spanish in three, and none likely since Florida was ceded to the Crown. Just what is it we need these soldiers for? I’ll tell you. To drink and start fights and harass decent women in the streets. And the officers are as bad or worse.”
“But what can you do about it? It’s passed. It’s done with.”
He was greeted by silence, embarrassed on Christopher’s part, suspicious on Anslow’s. Something was afoot. His curiosity was pricked, but he was damned if he’d show it.
The drumming on the roof tiles had faded away, and a quick glance down the length of the common room showed the sun coming out in the street. He tossed back the last of his beer. “I’ll be leaving now. I must shift these wet clothes and get on to the bridge.”
Christopher reached out as if to stop him. “Michael, I—”
“I do have to go, Christopher. We’ll talk later.”
As he walked out into the sunny street a thought struck him. How many of those men in there, drinking so quietly, were Liberty Boys? And what were they planning?
He turned up the drive of the Church Street house hurriedly. He still had to change, but with luck he’d be no more than an hour late. Halfway past the house he saw Mr. Carver on the veranda, talking to a dignified man with a broad face and a prominent nose. With a start he recognized Henry Laurens, one of the most influential merchants and planters in the Carolinas. And, more importantly in light of what he’d heard and seen that morning, Christopher Gadsden’s foremost opponent in the Assembly.
Mr. Carver saw him at the same moment. “Michael, what are you doing back at this hour? Has something happened at the bridge?”
“No, sir. I was caught in the rain, and I came back to change.”
“It’s just as well. I’ve something for you to do. I was going to send for you.” He turned to Laurens. “Henry, this is the young clerk I told you about. Michael Fallon. Michael, this is Mr. Henry Laurens.”
Michael bowed. “I recognize Mr. Laurens, sir. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
Laurens returned the bow courteously. “Thank you, Michael.”
Michael was seized by an impulse. What would Laurens say to his news? “Mr. Carver.”
“Eh? Yes, Michael?”
“There’s some news in the city, sir. You may not have heard, yet. Parliament’s passed a stamp act for the colonies.”
Carver and Laurens looked at each other, frowning. “Damn,” said Laurens heatedly.
“Now, Henry—”
“Don’t ‘now, Henry’ me, Thomas. They’ve gone right ahead, ignoring our advice and our pleas alike.”
“Nevertheless, it is the law now.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t the law. I merely say it’s a bad law. We tried to stop it and failed. Now we must try to repeal it.”
“Pray God it can be done before the hotheads have a chance to profit on it.” Carver’s voice was bleak.
Laurens nodded grimly. “Yes. I must go now, Thomas. We’ll meet again this afternoon.” He nodded to Michael. “And good day to you, too, Mr. Fallon. I’ve heard considerable of your abilities from Mr. Carver.”
“Thank you, sir,” Michael replied, and made a leg, but Laurens was already heading for the street, a preoccupied frown on his face.
Michael’s own face was carefully blank, but his mind was hot. Gadsden and the Liberty Boys, Thomas Carver and Henry Laurens.
Carver’s voice pulled him out of his reverie. “Come inside, Michael.” As Carver closed the study door behind them, he was lost in his own thoughts. “I’ll have to get hold of the Middletons, if they’re in the city,” he murmured. “And the Draytons, and young Rutledge.” He started suddenly as he remembered he wasn’t alone. “Yes, Michael. Come over to the desk and look at this map.” He unrolled it over the desktop, setting the inkpot to hold one end and the sand sifter to hold the other.
Michael bent over it. It covered a part of the province south of Charlestown, with all of the rivers and roads marked. Names of plantations, or in some cases of their owners, had been written in. One, on the Combahee River, had been circled. Mallaton.
“I’ve bought a rice plantation,” Carver said. His finger came to rest on the circled name. “George Mallaton, the owner, spent one summer too many there instead of coming to the coast as he should have.” He shook his head and sighed. “Yellow fever. His heirs have no interest in planting and were happy to sell, but I don’t know what condition the place has fallen into since his death. It was a matter of buy quickly or not at all. That’s where you come in. I want you to look over the plantation’s books, and the operation of the place. Let me know what it’s going to take to put everything to rights and be ready for next year’s growing season. It’s too late for this year, of course.” He tapped a fingernail on the spot on the Combahee and spoke half to himself. “Elizabeth deserves as much.” He nodded slowly.
Michael looked up from the map sharply. Elizabeth? What did she have to do with buying a rice plantation? A bitter answer came almost immediately. Fourrier was a planter’s son. What better wedding gift for Fourrier and Elizabeth than a rice plantation? “I’ll need a boat to get there,” he said slowly.
“What? Oh, yes. I’ve arranged for a boatman.”
“All right, sir,” Michael said. “I’ll see that everything is arranged properly.” He’d see it was the best wedding present a woman ever received, damn Fourrier’s eyes. “When do I meet the boatman, and where?”
Carver tugged out his pocket watch and checked it against the clock on the mantel. “He should be reaching the bridge any minute now. By the time you get some clothes together, two or three days’ worth, and get back to the Bay, he should be ready to leave.” He noticed Michael staring fixedly at the map. “Is something the matter?”
“What? No, sir. Nothing. If you’ll excuse me, sir?”
He left Carver studying the map again himself, finger once more resting on that circled name.
The sun was bright outside, but the air was still damp with a heavy mugginess that told forebodingly of summer to come. He tramped back to the stable, casting glances over his shoulder at the house, at the windows of Elizabeth’s room. There was no sign of her, no swirl of curtains, no movement. It would have been fitting, he thought, if she’d been there to see him go, considering the nature of his journey.
He changed his clothes quickly, toweling off with a rough square of osnaburg, packed two suits of clothing in his drawstring bag, and kicked the door shut behind him. As he clattered down the stairs, he resolved not to look up to her room again. Until the last instant he kept it. Then, when the next step would take him where he could no longer see her window, he looked. Not even a sign of life. He hurried on, castigating himself for a lack of will. Damn the girl, anyway.
Most of the wharves were busy along the Bay. It was a peak rice shipping period, barrels crowding everywhere, along with deerskins, indigo, and pitch and other naval stores. At the end of Carver’s Bridge a large, double-ended skiff with a jury-rigged tiller was lashed to the ladder that led to the water. There was something familiar about the black boatman’s weathered face, Michael thought. A minute’s study brought it to him. It was Daniel, who’d rowed him ashore his first day in Charlestown. He slapped his thigh in recognition, and Daniel looked up.
“Do you be my fare, sir? The gentleman I’m to take to the Mallaton plantation on the Combahee?”
“That I am, Daniel. Catch.” He dropped the bag to the boatman and scrambled down the ladder after it. Daniel was regarding him questioningly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Michael Fallon’s the name.” He stuck out his hand, and the boatman looked at it in surprise for a minute before taking it. “In January you fetched me from Captain Harding’s Rose. The Black Irishman.”
A wide grin split the boatman’s face. “Yes, sir. I remember now. You surely have changed.”
“Just the outside, Daniel.” Michael looked at the boat and shook his head. “I remember you row a fine fast clip. How many days do you expect it to take us?”
“No days at all,” Daniel laughed. He kicked some canvas-wrapped poles lying the length of the boat. “I got me this. Leg-o’-mutton sail. Shouldn’t take more than five or six hours. Luck be with us, I have you there by three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Then let’s be off.”
The patched, brown leg-o’-mutton pulled them down the Cooper River quickly and round the tip of the peninsula, cutting across the spit of White Point where a deep vessel could not go. They had to beat back up the Ashley, but once the skiff made the turn into Wappo Creek, directly west of the city, the wind pushed them at a brisk clip, the marsh gliding past as fast as a man could run, down the creek and out into the Stono River, running down the coast. An occasional heron, flapping across the river, and a snowy crane standing on one leg in the marsh grasses were the only signs of life.
