The Fallon Blood, page 7
part #1 of Fallon Series
The plantations were not many along the coastal rivers. Most were inland, along the drainage of the great tidal rivers that ran to the sea. Some were there, though, great houses, of wood or brick, each with a dozen outbuildings.
“They’re sure fine-looking places, ain’t they?” Daniel said.
“They are that.” Such a place would be heaven for any man, he thought, that and a good wife beside him. He said as much to Daniel.
“A wife? Oh no, sir. I don’t want no wife. Comes time for me to settle down, I’ll buy me a nice-looking girl, and I won’t free her none neither.”
“But why not a wife, Daniel? You wouldn’t have to pay to buy her.”
“True, sir. But a slave girl, I be the boss; a wife, she be the boss.”
Michael fell back in the boat laughing.
The Combahee River curved back on itself time and again. Michael held the tiller while Daniel continually retrimmed the frayed lines to the triangular sail. Then, as they rounded a bend, Michael saw the dikes of a rice plantation. High earthen mounds running for hundreds of yards along the river, they were meant to keep the water level over the rice constant, trapping the water behind them, keeping excess out. On top of the dike slaves hurried along with buckets carried on yokes across their shoulders, periodically disappearing down the far side of the embankment.
Daniel climbed back over the seats to take the tiller. “I said we’d make it. By the sun it isn’t much later than three.” He pointed the boat in at a small dock. A grassy slope ran up from the river to a two-story white house with porticos across the front.
“Are you certain this is the right place, Daniel?”
“This the Mallaton plantation, all right.”
Michael climbed up on the dock and headed down the riverbank. A dirt ramp led up to the top of the dike. Some of the slaves with yokes and buckets eyed him curiously as he passed, but they hurried on, saying nothing.
The interior of the field was divided into long rectangles by dikes just like the one by the river. Some rectangles were already shallowly flooded. In others, stooped blacks worked with hoes, making trenches about three feet apart. In these runs the rice seed would be planted. Then the section would be flooded. A man rode to meet him, dismounting to walk the last part of the way.
“I’m looking for the Mallaton plantation,” Michael said.
“This is it,” the man said, and stuck out his hand. “Are you the new owner’s representative?”
Michael took the hand and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Carver sent me to look things over. I’m Michael Fallon.”
“Peter Harris.” He waved a hand at the activity in the field. “I see you didn’t expect this.”
“No. With Mr. Mallaton dead I expected the fields to be lying fallow. So did Mr. Carver.”
“I thought the new owner would want a crop, so I went ahead with the planting.” He caught the unspoken question in Michael’s glance. “I was Mr. Mallaton’s manager.”
“Quite a surprise. A happy one for Mr. Carver.” Michael smiled. “Mr. Carver has asked me to go over the plantation’s books, see what sort of profit and expense it has.” They started along the dike toward the house, something nagging at the back of Michael’s mind. He looked back over his shoulder, but he couldn’t seem to put his finger on what it was.
“It’s not there,” Harris said. “The reservoir, I mean. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?”
Michael turned to take a good look. There wasn’t any reservoir. The water for flooding the fields wasn’t there. “But, how—”
“We use the tidal system. With the sluice gates we use the river to flood the fields. No worry about drought, like the inland plantations.”
“Mr. Harris, I have a boatman with me. He’ll be taking me back as well, so he’ll need a place to stay and some food.”
“I’ll have him put up in the quarters.”
Michael nodded slowly. Daniel would probably be more comfortable there than he would sitting alone in the big house with no one to talk to. “He’s free, Harris, not a slave. I wouldn’t want any misunderstanding.”
“I’ll make certain it’s known.”
The plantation house was the kind called a double-house, like two of Mr. Carver’s house put together with a large hall running the length of the building. Every piece of the furnishings spoke of imported elegance, from English furniture to Turkish rugs to crystal chandeliers. Michael settled in what had been George Mallaton’s study with the plantation’s records, while Harris went to arrange for Daniel.
It was Michael’s first chance to examine the actual workings of a rice plantation, and he made the most of it. At once it became clear that a steady profit had been made, even with constant expenditures by Mallaton for racehorses and fighting cocks—and the betting that would have to go with them, Michael thought. His eyebrows went up as he checked the figures. With only the smallest amount of prudence Mallaton could have doubled his acreage every three years. Double in only three years, and that with all the expense of his imported gewgaws. No wonder the rice planters could live like grandees.
He bent back over the table, scribbling furiously, stopping only to dip his pen or trim a new one. One set of papers was for Mr. Carver, a straightforward report on the plantation’s finances. Another he made for himself; it was a detailed transcript of the costs involved in setting up the plantation. There was no telling when it might come in handy. By the time Harris returned he had two stacks of finely covered foolscap.
“I thought you might want to wash up for supper,” he said.
Michael sat up and worked his neck to loosen the kinks. Shadows through the window lengthened with the setting sun. “Thank you, I will. Is there time for me to stretch my legs outside for a moment?”
“Oh, certainly. Plenty of time. I didn’t want to rush you at the last minute.” He stopped, visibly indecisive. “See here, Fallon, I think I’d better be straight with you. I put in the crop for more than just making sure the new owner was off to a good start. I like the job I have here, and I’d like to keep it.”
“Well, I’ll put in a word for you,” Michael said slowly, “mention the work you’ve done. But I think it’s only fair to tell you I’ve reason to believe Mr. Carver bought this as a wedding gift for his daughter. Since her intended is a planter himself he’ll want to manage himself, or perhaps bring in his own people.”
Harris breathed softly, “Damn. I’d hoped he was another merchant climbing the ladder.”
“Ladder? What ladder?”
“The ladder to the aristocracy. More than one merchant has bought rice or indigo land to get the status of being a planter.”
“Added status? Man, some of the most important men in the colony are merchants. Henry Laurens. Gabriel Manigault. Christopher Gadsden. I could go on with a dozen more.”
“They’re merchants, but they’re important because they’re planters, too. It’s from that they get their place. You’re not long in the province, are you?” Michael nodded. “In England, it’s lords and such. Here it’s planters. Only our aristocracy isn’t rigid, like theirs. If you become a planter, and you’re reasonably pleasant, then you’re accepted into the ruling class. It doesn’t matter if the money that started you was inherited or earned in trade or won on horseraces, so long as it was honestly come by. So, merchants buy plantations and become aristocrats. It happens all the time.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully. He gathered the papers together and rose. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take that turn outside.”
The sun was a glowing red ball sinking on the horizon. Long lines of slaves wound their way down the dikes, the day’s work done and supper waiting in the quarters. Those coming from the upriver fields were indistinct, their faces in darkness, their shadows stretching out long in front of them.
A creaking board heralded Daniel’s arrival. He watched silently. Michael spoke, finally. “Are you comfortable, now, in the quarters?”
“Yes, sir. It’s right fine there, and they happy folk.”
“Happy? As slaves?” He shook his head. “I don’t see how they can be.”
“It ain’t being slaves they happy with, sir. Just being treated good and fed plenty. That’s all most folks want, I guess.”
“And freedom? What about that?”
“Most of them be scared of it do you give it to them. Anyways, they know they ain’t going to get it. They ain’t going to risk running away and getting caught, and they know ain’t nobody going to bankrupt hisself by setting them all free, so they happy right where they be.” Michael nodded in the darkness, understanding, yet not understanding. “Mr. Fallon, we leaving here tomorrow?”
“No, Daniel. I’ll need most of tomorrow here. The day after, I think.”
“Oh, that be fine.” Daniel grinned suddenly. “There a gal down to the quarters thinks a boatman from the big, wicked city is something. I have one more day, I going to show her just how wicked it be.” They laughed together easily. “Good night, Mr. Fallon.”
“Good night, Daniel.” With a last look at the silver river Michael turned and went back inside.
6
Charlestown simmered as the last cool of spring gave way to the heat of summer. So did Charlestown tempers. Companions who’d drunk together for years suddenly erupted in blows across the table and shouts of “Gutter trash Liberty Boy!” and “Gutless King’s cotquean.” Men muttered in corners, and friends spoke guardedly, listening for hidden meaning.
Daniel was sitting on an upturned bucket beside a warehouse, puzzling out the words on a broadside. Three soldiers of the Sixtieth Foot, weskits undone, facings stained, saw him at the same time Michael did. They lurched toward the boatman.
“What you doing there, darkie? You can’t read.”
Daniel’s head jerked up. “I can read some, sir,” he said. “And I can puzzle out the rest.”
“He can read, he says,” the spokesman chortled. He had an unpleasant, gap-toothed grin and a nose that had been broken more than once. His companions cackled drunkenly. “This bloody colony,” he snarled. “Won’t give no credit for a few drinks to His Majesty’s troops, but they got niggers sitting in the street, lording it over folks, pretending they can read.” Suddenly he snatched the broadside from Daniel’s hands, and the boatman rose, his back to the wall. “Admit you can’t read, damn you. Admit it, or we’ll skin you right here.”
They were inching forward when Michael stepped up behind them. “Back away there,” he snapped, and on sudden inspiration, “Stand at attention, damn you.”
The voice of command snapped them as rigidly upright as only a drunk can stand. As Daniel slid along the wall toward Michael, one soldier followed the boatman with a wavering gaze until his eyes fell on Michael. His mouth fell open.
“You ain’t—You ain’t no officer,” he managed, and the other two jerked around.
The bent-nosed leader advanced, head and fists thrust forward. “Bloody civilian.”
Michael’s fist crunched into the lobster’s nose, and he felt a thrill of satisfaction. The man rolled backwards on the ground. He straightened groggily and felt for his once-more broken beak. “Kill you,” he muttered, and struggled to his feet, tugging out his bayonet. His companions fumbled for theirs.
Michael set himself, looking around for a weapon. With even a stick he might have a chance, but there was nothing. Suddenly the three soldiers froze. There was a scuffle of feet behind Michael. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Spread out behind him were a dozen men, warehousemen and dock idlers, barrel staves and maul handles in their hands. They stood quietly, eyes fixed on the soldiers.
The redcoat Michael had hit rubbed at his nose, winced, and shook his fist. “We’ll settle you yet.” His two companions pulled him away down the street.
Michael turned to thank his rescuers, but they were already drifting away, seeming to avoid one another’s eyes as well as his.
One glanced back at Michael as he left. “Don’t think I’m one of those damned Liberty Boys. I just can’t abide the lobsters.” He suddenly looked around to see who was listening and quickened his step.
Michael picked up the broadside, dropped by the soldier, and smoothed it out. “Are you all right, Daniel?”
The boatman nodded. “Yes, sir. Thanks to you. What they want to do something like that for? I never seen any of them before in my life.”
“Scavangers. You were handy.” He frowned at the broadside. “What is this thing, Daniel? Where’d you get it?”
“From a ship in the harbor, just down from New York. Man seemed real excited about it. He said it was about something the folks up in Virginia done, but I hadn’t got it all worked out fore them soldiers come.”
Michael scanned the first line, and a name leaped out at him. Patrick Henry. Christopher’s fire-eating young lawyer. Now, it seemed, a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses. Hastily he read the sheet. It hadn’t taken Henry long to create a stir. He’d proposed a set of resolves on the Stamp Act; the true strangeness was that they had passed.
The first four resolves were innocuous statements that colonists in America had certain rights which had been recognized by the Crown long before this. But the fifth had meat to it, and teeth.
RESOLVED, that the General Assembly of this colony have the sole and only exclusive right and power to lay taxes and impositions upon the inhabitants of this colony and that every attempt to vest such power in any other person or persons whatsoever other than the General Assembly aforesaid has a manifest tendency to destroy British as well as American freedom.
He read that one over again. God’s teeth, they’d as much as told the British Parliament to pack up and go home.
“You’re lucky that soldier couldn’t read what he had, Daniel, else he’d likely be frogmarching you off to the Provost for treason.”
“Trea—? Lord God Almighty, Mr. Fallon. What’s in that thing?”
A faint smile appeared on Michael’s face. “A man getting people fired up over the weather on a fine spring day.”
And in Charlestown bubbles began rising to the top.
The August heat was at its worst, and there wasn’t so much as a breath of air to dispel it, despite the open windows. Elizabeth sat at the vanity, drumming her fingers while Samantha worked at arranging her hair.
“Can’t you hurry? Am I supposed to sit here until I’m as sweated as a fishwife?”
“I’m almost done, Miss Elizabeth.” The slave woman pushed the last bone pin in place and patted the curl it held. “There.”
“About time. You’re as ham-fisted as a field hand.” She studied the effect in the mirror. It actually wasn’t a bad job, she grudged, but only to herself. There was no need to give Samantha a swelled head. “Have you told Samuel to bring the coach around?”
“No, Miss Elizabeth. I was just going to when you told me the red slippers wouldn’t do and get the gold ones, and then—”
“Well, go, go. Do you expect me to sit here all day? Or am I supposed to walk to the shops?”
Samantha sighed in exasperation and pursed her lips. “Very well, Miss Elizabeth. I’ll tell him.”
With its high, lace-trimmed modesty piece Elizabeth’s Watteau sack dress was perfectly proper. For girls and old ladies, she thought, but not for a young woman. She rose to follow Samantha downstairs, with a final look in the mirror from the door. Papa was paying so much attention to her gowns lately that she had to be extremely careful. It was really too awful.
Outside her father’s study she carefully arranged her face in the half-pout that always brought men around, including her father. Well, sometimes brought Papa around. She entered without knocking.
Her father didn’t even look up. He was behind his desk, perusing a map, in deep discussion with that clerk of his. What was his name? Talon? Fallon, that was it. They seemed to have their heads together often of late.
“Agreed, Michael. Harris will stay at Mallaton.” Carver was looking pleased.
“Papa?”
The two men looked up, startled, Carver with a smile spreading on his face, Michael with a tightness coming into his eyes.
“What can I do for you, daughter?”
“I’m going shopping, Papa. I’m taking Samuel and the carriage, and Samantha, of course. Oh, yes, and one of the liveryboys to carry my purchases.”
Carver hesitated. “I’d rather you didn’t go out just now.”
Elizabeth’s careful expression slipped for an instant. “Why on earth not?”
“Child, there are rowdies in the streets today, waiting to see how the Assembly votes on sending delegates to the Stamp Congress in New York. If the vote is to send no one, or if the delegates aren’t approved of, there will be trouble.”
Elizabeth shook her head and sniffed. “Bother. I’ll have Samuel with me, and besides, not the meanest layabout would dare raise his hands to me on a public street.”
“These aren’t ordinary dock idlers I’m talking about. They’re primed and set for trouble, looking for it.” He sighed as her chin jutted out. “Oh, very well. But you’ll need more protection than Samuel.” He eyed Michael, studiously looking out the window. “Mr. Fallon will go with you. Anyone will think twice before starting trouble with him.”
Michael turned stiffly from the window, his mouth open to protest. It stayed that way. What the devil could he say? What reason could he give? That he couldn’t be her protection because he very much feared if they were alone together for long she might need protection from him? He stood speechless. Elizabeth was under no such handicap.
“Really, Father, this is too much—”
“That’s enough, Elizabeth,” Carver said sharply. “You have your choice. Mr. Fallon attends you, or you stay at home. Which will it be?”
So suddenly that both Michael and her father stared in bewilderment, Elizabeth’s frown turned to a smile. “Very well,” she said sweetly. “He can come with me, if you insist, but I won’t be crowded in the carriage. If he comes, there’s no need for the liveryboy. He can carry my parcels.”
“They’re sure fine-looking places, ain’t they?” Daniel said.
“They are that.” Such a place would be heaven for any man, he thought, that and a good wife beside him. He said as much to Daniel.
“A wife? Oh no, sir. I don’t want no wife. Comes time for me to settle down, I’ll buy me a nice-looking girl, and I won’t free her none neither.”
“But why not a wife, Daniel? You wouldn’t have to pay to buy her.”
“True, sir. But a slave girl, I be the boss; a wife, she be the boss.”
Michael fell back in the boat laughing.
The Combahee River curved back on itself time and again. Michael held the tiller while Daniel continually retrimmed the frayed lines to the triangular sail. Then, as they rounded a bend, Michael saw the dikes of a rice plantation. High earthen mounds running for hundreds of yards along the river, they were meant to keep the water level over the rice constant, trapping the water behind them, keeping excess out. On top of the dike slaves hurried along with buckets carried on yokes across their shoulders, periodically disappearing down the far side of the embankment.
Daniel climbed back over the seats to take the tiller. “I said we’d make it. By the sun it isn’t much later than three.” He pointed the boat in at a small dock. A grassy slope ran up from the river to a two-story white house with porticos across the front.
“Are you certain this is the right place, Daniel?”
“This the Mallaton plantation, all right.”
Michael climbed up on the dock and headed down the riverbank. A dirt ramp led up to the top of the dike. Some of the slaves with yokes and buckets eyed him curiously as he passed, but they hurried on, saying nothing.
The interior of the field was divided into long rectangles by dikes just like the one by the river. Some rectangles were already shallowly flooded. In others, stooped blacks worked with hoes, making trenches about three feet apart. In these runs the rice seed would be planted. Then the section would be flooded. A man rode to meet him, dismounting to walk the last part of the way.
“I’m looking for the Mallaton plantation,” Michael said.
“This is it,” the man said, and stuck out his hand. “Are you the new owner’s representative?”
Michael took the hand and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Carver sent me to look things over. I’m Michael Fallon.”
“Peter Harris.” He waved a hand at the activity in the field. “I see you didn’t expect this.”
“No. With Mr. Mallaton dead I expected the fields to be lying fallow. So did Mr. Carver.”
“I thought the new owner would want a crop, so I went ahead with the planting.” He caught the unspoken question in Michael’s glance. “I was Mr. Mallaton’s manager.”
“Quite a surprise. A happy one for Mr. Carver.” Michael smiled. “Mr. Carver has asked me to go over the plantation’s books, see what sort of profit and expense it has.” They started along the dike toward the house, something nagging at the back of Michael’s mind. He looked back over his shoulder, but he couldn’t seem to put his finger on what it was.
“It’s not there,” Harris said. “The reservoir, I mean. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?”
Michael turned to take a good look. There wasn’t any reservoir. The water for flooding the fields wasn’t there. “But, how—”
“We use the tidal system. With the sluice gates we use the river to flood the fields. No worry about drought, like the inland plantations.”
“Mr. Harris, I have a boatman with me. He’ll be taking me back as well, so he’ll need a place to stay and some food.”
“I’ll have him put up in the quarters.”
Michael nodded slowly. Daniel would probably be more comfortable there than he would sitting alone in the big house with no one to talk to. “He’s free, Harris, not a slave. I wouldn’t want any misunderstanding.”
“I’ll make certain it’s known.”
The plantation house was the kind called a double-house, like two of Mr. Carver’s house put together with a large hall running the length of the building. Every piece of the furnishings spoke of imported elegance, from English furniture to Turkish rugs to crystal chandeliers. Michael settled in what had been George Mallaton’s study with the plantation’s records, while Harris went to arrange for Daniel.
It was Michael’s first chance to examine the actual workings of a rice plantation, and he made the most of it. At once it became clear that a steady profit had been made, even with constant expenditures by Mallaton for racehorses and fighting cocks—and the betting that would have to go with them, Michael thought. His eyebrows went up as he checked the figures. With only the smallest amount of prudence Mallaton could have doubled his acreage every three years. Double in only three years, and that with all the expense of his imported gewgaws. No wonder the rice planters could live like grandees.
He bent back over the table, scribbling furiously, stopping only to dip his pen or trim a new one. One set of papers was for Mr. Carver, a straightforward report on the plantation’s finances. Another he made for himself; it was a detailed transcript of the costs involved in setting up the plantation. There was no telling when it might come in handy. By the time Harris returned he had two stacks of finely covered foolscap.
“I thought you might want to wash up for supper,” he said.
Michael sat up and worked his neck to loosen the kinks. Shadows through the window lengthened with the setting sun. “Thank you, I will. Is there time for me to stretch my legs outside for a moment?”
“Oh, certainly. Plenty of time. I didn’t want to rush you at the last minute.” He stopped, visibly indecisive. “See here, Fallon, I think I’d better be straight with you. I put in the crop for more than just making sure the new owner was off to a good start. I like the job I have here, and I’d like to keep it.”
“Well, I’ll put in a word for you,” Michael said slowly, “mention the work you’ve done. But I think it’s only fair to tell you I’ve reason to believe Mr. Carver bought this as a wedding gift for his daughter. Since her intended is a planter himself he’ll want to manage himself, or perhaps bring in his own people.”
Harris breathed softly, “Damn. I’d hoped he was another merchant climbing the ladder.”
“Ladder? What ladder?”
“The ladder to the aristocracy. More than one merchant has bought rice or indigo land to get the status of being a planter.”
“Added status? Man, some of the most important men in the colony are merchants. Henry Laurens. Gabriel Manigault. Christopher Gadsden. I could go on with a dozen more.”
“They’re merchants, but they’re important because they’re planters, too. It’s from that they get their place. You’re not long in the province, are you?” Michael nodded. “In England, it’s lords and such. Here it’s planters. Only our aristocracy isn’t rigid, like theirs. If you become a planter, and you’re reasonably pleasant, then you’re accepted into the ruling class. It doesn’t matter if the money that started you was inherited or earned in trade or won on horseraces, so long as it was honestly come by. So, merchants buy plantations and become aristocrats. It happens all the time.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully. He gathered the papers together and rose. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take that turn outside.”
The sun was a glowing red ball sinking on the horizon. Long lines of slaves wound their way down the dikes, the day’s work done and supper waiting in the quarters. Those coming from the upriver fields were indistinct, their faces in darkness, their shadows stretching out long in front of them.
A creaking board heralded Daniel’s arrival. He watched silently. Michael spoke, finally. “Are you comfortable, now, in the quarters?”
“Yes, sir. It’s right fine there, and they happy folk.”
“Happy? As slaves?” He shook his head. “I don’t see how they can be.”
“It ain’t being slaves they happy with, sir. Just being treated good and fed plenty. That’s all most folks want, I guess.”
“And freedom? What about that?”
“Most of them be scared of it do you give it to them. Anyways, they know they ain’t going to get it. They ain’t going to risk running away and getting caught, and they know ain’t nobody going to bankrupt hisself by setting them all free, so they happy right where they be.” Michael nodded in the darkness, understanding, yet not understanding. “Mr. Fallon, we leaving here tomorrow?”
“No, Daniel. I’ll need most of tomorrow here. The day after, I think.”
“Oh, that be fine.” Daniel grinned suddenly. “There a gal down to the quarters thinks a boatman from the big, wicked city is something. I have one more day, I going to show her just how wicked it be.” They laughed together easily. “Good night, Mr. Fallon.”
“Good night, Daniel.” With a last look at the silver river Michael turned and went back inside.
6
Charlestown simmered as the last cool of spring gave way to the heat of summer. So did Charlestown tempers. Companions who’d drunk together for years suddenly erupted in blows across the table and shouts of “Gutter trash Liberty Boy!” and “Gutless King’s cotquean.” Men muttered in corners, and friends spoke guardedly, listening for hidden meaning.
Daniel was sitting on an upturned bucket beside a warehouse, puzzling out the words on a broadside. Three soldiers of the Sixtieth Foot, weskits undone, facings stained, saw him at the same time Michael did. They lurched toward the boatman.
“What you doing there, darkie? You can’t read.”
Daniel’s head jerked up. “I can read some, sir,” he said. “And I can puzzle out the rest.”
“He can read, he says,” the spokesman chortled. He had an unpleasant, gap-toothed grin and a nose that had been broken more than once. His companions cackled drunkenly. “This bloody colony,” he snarled. “Won’t give no credit for a few drinks to His Majesty’s troops, but they got niggers sitting in the street, lording it over folks, pretending they can read.” Suddenly he snatched the broadside from Daniel’s hands, and the boatman rose, his back to the wall. “Admit you can’t read, damn you. Admit it, or we’ll skin you right here.”
They were inching forward when Michael stepped up behind them. “Back away there,” he snapped, and on sudden inspiration, “Stand at attention, damn you.”
The voice of command snapped them as rigidly upright as only a drunk can stand. As Daniel slid along the wall toward Michael, one soldier followed the boatman with a wavering gaze until his eyes fell on Michael. His mouth fell open.
“You ain’t—You ain’t no officer,” he managed, and the other two jerked around.
The bent-nosed leader advanced, head and fists thrust forward. “Bloody civilian.”
Michael’s fist crunched into the lobster’s nose, and he felt a thrill of satisfaction. The man rolled backwards on the ground. He straightened groggily and felt for his once-more broken beak. “Kill you,” he muttered, and struggled to his feet, tugging out his bayonet. His companions fumbled for theirs.
Michael set himself, looking around for a weapon. With even a stick he might have a chance, but there was nothing. Suddenly the three soldiers froze. There was a scuffle of feet behind Michael. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Spread out behind him were a dozen men, warehousemen and dock idlers, barrel staves and maul handles in their hands. They stood quietly, eyes fixed on the soldiers.
The redcoat Michael had hit rubbed at his nose, winced, and shook his fist. “We’ll settle you yet.” His two companions pulled him away down the street.
Michael turned to thank his rescuers, but they were already drifting away, seeming to avoid one another’s eyes as well as his.
One glanced back at Michael as he left. “Don’t think I’m one of those damned Liberty Boys. I just can’t abide the lobsters.” He suddenly looked around to see who was listening and quickened his step.
Michael picked up the broadside, dropped by the soldier, and smoothed it out. “Are you all right, Daniel?”
The boatman nodded. “Yes, sir. Thanks to you. What they want to do something like that for? I never seen any of them before in my life.”
“Scavangers. You were handy.” He frowned at the broadside. “What is this thing, Daniel? Where’d you get it?”
“From a ship in the harbor, just down from New York. Man seemed real excited about it. He said it was about something the folks up in Virginia done, but I hadn’t got it all worked out fore them soldiers come.”
Michael scanned the first line, and a name leaped out at him. Patrick Henry. Christopher’s fire-eating young lawyer. Now, it seemed, a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses. Hastily he read the sheet. It hadn’t taken Henry long to create a stir. He’d proposed a set of resolves on the Stamp Act; the true strangeness was that they had passed.
The first four resolves were innocuous statements that colonists in America had certain rights which had been recognized by the Crown long before this. But the fifth had meat to it, and teeth.
RESOLVED, that the General Assembly of this colony have the sole and only exclusive right and power to lay taxes and impositions upon the inhabitants of this colony and that every attempt to vest such power in any other person or persons whatsoever other than the General Assembly aforesaid has a manifest tendency to destroy British as well as American freedom.
He read that one over again. God’s teeth, they’d as much as told the British Parliament to pack up and go home.
“You’re lucky that soldier couldn’t read what he had, Daniel, else he’d likely be frogmarching you off to the Provost for treason.”
“Trea—? Lord God Almighty, Mr. Fallon. What’s in that thing?”
A faint smile appeared on Michael’s face. “A man getting people fired up over the weather on a fine spring day.”
And in Charlestown bubbles began rising to the top.
The August heat was at its worst, and there wasn’t so much as a breath of air to dispel it, despite the open windows. Elizabeth sat at the vanity, drumming her fingers while Samantha worked at arranging her hair.
“Can’t you hurry? Am I supposed to sit here until I’m as sweated as a fishwife?”
“I’m almost done, Miss Elizabeth.” The slave woman pushed the last bone pin in place and patted the curl it held. “There.”
“About time. You’re as ham-fisted as a field hand.” She studied the effect in the mirror. It actually wasn’t a bad job, she grudged, but only to herself. There was no need to give Samantha a swelled head. “Have you told Samuel to bring the coach around?”
“No, Miss Elizabeth. I was just going to when you told me the red slippers wouldn’t do and get the gold ones, and then—”
“Well, go, go. Do you expect me to sit here all day? Or am I supposed to walk to the shops?”
Samantha sighed in exasperation and pursed her lips. “Very well, Miss Elizabeth. I’ll tell him.”
With its high, lace-trimmed modesty piece Elizabeth’s Watteau sack dress was perfectly proper. For girls and old ladies, she thought, but not for a young woman. She rose to follow Samantha downstairs, with a final look in the mirror from the door. Papa was paying so much attention to her gowns lately that she had to be extremely careful. It was really too awful.
Outside her father’s study she carefully arranged her face in the half-pout that always brought men around, including her father. Well, sometimes brought Papa around. She entered without knocking.
Her father didn’t even look up. He was behind his desk, perusing a map, in deep discussion with that clerk of his. What was his name? Talon? Fallon, that was it. They seemed to have their heads together often of late.
“Agreed, Michael. Harris will stay at Mallaton.” Carver was looking pleased.
“Papa?”
The two men looked up, startled, Carver with a smile spreading on his face, Michael with a tightness coming into his eyes.
“What can I do for you, daughter?”
“I’m going shopping, Papa. I’m taking Samuel and the carriage, and Samantha, of course. Oh, yes, and one of the liveryboys to carry my purchases.”
Carver hesitated. “I’d rather you didn’t go out just now.”
Elizabeth’s careful expression slipped for an instant. “Why on earth not?”
“Child, there are rowdies in the streets today, waiting to see how the Assembly votes on sending delegates to the Stamp Congress in New York. If the vote is to send no one, or if the delegates aren’t approved of, there will be trouble.”
Elizabeth shook her head and sniffed. “Bother. I’ll have Samuel with me, and besides, not the meanest layabout would dare raise his hands to me on a public street.”
“These aren’t ordinary dock idlers I’m talking about. They’re primed and set for trouble, looking for it.” He sighed as her chin jutted out. “Oh, very well. But you’ll need more protection than Samuel.” He eyed Michael, studiously looking out the window. “Mr. Fallon will go with you. Anyone will think twice before starting trouble with him.”
Michael turned stiffly from the window, his mouth open to protest. It stayed that way. What the devil could he say? What reason could he give? That he couldn’t be her protection because he very much feared if they were alone together for long she might need protection from him? He stood speechless. Elizabeth was under no such handicap.
“Really, Father, this is too much—”
“That’s enough, Elizabeth,” Carver said sharply. “You have your choice. Mr. Fallon attends you, or you stay at home. Which will it be?”
So suddenly that both Michael and her father stared in bewilderment, Elizabeth’s frown turned to a smile. “Very well,” she said sweetly. “He can come with me, if you insist, but I won’t be crowded in the carriage. If he comes, there’s no need for the liveryboy. He can carry my parcels.”
