The Fallon Blood, page 8
part #1 of Fallon Series
Michael found his voice then, but before he could use it, Carver nodded and said, “I’m sure Mr. Fallon won’t mind. Will you, Michael?”
He was trapped. “Of course not, sir.”
Elizabeth was a trifle disconcerted. She’d expected protest. Well, at least her father hadn’t stopped her altogether. She busied herself with her fingerless, dark lace mitts. Come along, then. I’ll be back shortly, Papa.”
“Take care, child.”
Michael put his tricorn under his arm and followed her out into the portico. Samantha was at the steps with Elizabeth’s parasol and fan, a young black lad in livery at her side. Elizabeth dismissed the boy, ignoring Samantha’s startled look, opened the parasol, and headed for the carriage. Samantha, looking after her, at Michael, at the boy retreating on the carriage path, shaking her head, followed slowly. Michael trailed along behind.
Elizabeth fanned herself slowly as the carriage wound its way through gradually thickening traffic. The fan did little to dispel the heat, and the motion of the carriage was too slow to generate even a slight breeze. She tried to take her mind off the torrid weather by thinking of what laces and lawns the modistes might have, eyeing the garments of ladies passing in the crush.
Michael watched the street with a different eye. The throng was as heavy as ever, but this was a crowd to be watched. The solitary redcoat, out on the town, the knot of two or three, half drunk or more, were gone. But three times in the space of ten minutes Michael caught sight of a squad marching, each man tensely alert, bayonets fixed on their shouldered muskets, led by a sergeant with his halberd. Some in the crowd watched the soldiers closely—determined, ragged men with barrel staves, or sailors carrying belaying pins. And passersby and peddlers made haste away from both.
At the first shop he held the door for Elizabeth. She took it as his duty and swept by without acknowledgment. He followed her in with a wry smile. She didn’t know him from a fencepost; that changed nothing.
The dressmaker and her assistant, with smiles and curtseys, covered the counters with bolts of English lawn, boxes of Dutch lace, and piles of Italian fans. Immediately Elizabeth was engrossed. The assistant was not so engrossed, however. She patted her yellow hair for the handsome Irishman, and gave him a wicked smile. Michael returned her smile with interest.
“Mr. Fallon.”
Michael stiffened as Elizabeth snapped at him. Had she seen the girl smiling at him? And if she had, why should it bother her?
“Hold out your arms. That’s it. Straight out to the sides.”
Uncertain, Michael did as he was bid. She took two lengths of lace and tossed one over each arm, straightening them neatly for study. He gritted his teeth till he was certain they could hear the grinding. He quivered with barely suppressed anger. Unconcerned, Elizabeth held a piece of this cloth and a swatch of that up to the lace to see how they looked together.
The dressmaker’s assistant, amused, grinned at him, twitching her hips once at the same time. This time the modiste saw her, and gave her a sharp rap across the wrist with her measuring stick. Her yelp drew Elizabeth’s attention, but the two women met her look with bland smiles.
Elizabeth turned back to the decision at hand. The Brussels lace with the blue silk. That was it.
She left the shop feeling quite satisfied. Michael, embarrassed by the parcels he carried, viewed the street with a jaundiced eye. The riffraff were still in evidence among the ordinary passersby, and the marching soldiers, too.
“Any change, Samuel?” he asked quietly as he tucked the bundles under the carriage seat.
“No, sir, Mr. Fallon.” The coachman jerked his head fearfully up the street toward the State House. “I sure wish they’d hurry whatever they going to do. Things is getting more boisterous all the time.”
“Be quiet, Samuel,” Elizabeth said inattentively. She took her parasol and fan from Samantha and settled herself beside the black woman. “Drive on.”
The next shop was much like the first, with the modiste and her assistant rushing to curtsey and spread their wares for inspection. Here, too, the assistant seemed distracted from her work. In this case, it was the street outside that drew her attention from the fabrics. “I wonder if they’ve chosen yet,” she mused.
Both Elizabeth and the dressmaker looked at her sharply, and Elizabeth threw down the fan she had been examining. “I did not come here for political discussion,” she said icily. “If I cannot make a purchase without being told the events of the day, I will not make one. And I will tell my friends to do the same.”
The modiste, seeing a large part of her custom slipping away, stammered in her haste to soothe. “I’m very sorry, Miss Carver. It won’t happen again. I assure you.”
“See that it does not.” And Elizabeth marched out of the shop. Michael, wondering at her temper, was barely in time to open the door for her.
When he turned from the door he found that she had not returned to the carriage. Instead she stood talking to Justin Fourrier, one hand resting lightly on his arm.
“Please, Justin,” she said, “whatever you say, don’t mention congresses or stamps or delegates. Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said, obviously surprised by the request. “A pack of fools, playing at treason.”
“Not another word about it, Justin. Neither for nor against. Shopgirls moon over that stupid congress. My coachman seems terrified. My father even insisted I bring his clerk for protection. All of it because of this silly stamp thing.”
Fourrier raised an eyebrow at Michael, the corner of his mouth curling up. He was on ground he was surer of, now. “His clerk?” He stepped back and swept a courtly bow. “If it please you, let me be your guardian, so that you may, indeed, have a guardian.”
Michael bristled. He was more protection with a switch than this jack-o’-dandy with a sword.
Elizabeth smiled up at the dark Huguenot. The day might go better than she’d thought. “Mr. Fourrier, you do me honor.” She tucked her hand under his arm. “Mr. Fallon, go back to the house. Tell my father that Justin will protect me, if there’s any need.”
“Your father told me to accompany you,” Michael said. “I cannot leave you, even with Mr. Fourrier.” Justin handed her into the carriage. “I said, your father—”
“You are dismissed, Mr. Fallon. Drive on, Samuel.”
The coachman rolled his eyes helplessly at Michael, then cracked his whip over the horses. The carriage lurched ahead down the street.
Michael glared after them. Elizabeth and Fourrier. How much pleasure it would have been to knock the popinjay sprawling. And that was senseless. They were betrothed, or as much as.
In gloom he started back to Church Street. Then, before he’d gone half a block, he saw a man he had been needing for a week or more. “Mr. Drayton! Sir! Mr. John Drayton!”
Drayton turned at last and waited impatiently, tapping his walking stick on the cobblestones. He had a high, sloping forehead and a pointed nose and chin. A member of the Governor’s Council, he was a staunch King’s man, and one of the party that sought more power for the Council. He hated Gadsden as much for his insistence that the Council remain weak as for his radical views.
At that moment Drayton was wearing a frown. “Yes, yes. What is it?”
“I’m Michael Fallon, Mr. Drayton. Mr. Thomas Carver’s clerk.”
“Yes. I’ve heard him speak of you. What is it you want?”
“It seems possible,” Michael said carefully, “that Jonathon Wynfrey, Mr. Carver’s last clerk, may have made some errors in recording exactly how much rice was bought from you.”
Drayton eyed him shrewdly. “Errors, eh? Go on.”
“If you might have your secretary make a listing of what we purchased from you the last three seasons, and what was paid, it would help immensely”
“Very well. I’ll have such a list made and sent to you. We can’t allow, uh, errors to go uncaught.”
“No, sir.” Quickly Michael cast around for something to change the subject. Any minute the planter would be asking openly how much had been stolen. “Do you know, Mr. Drayton, if the Assembly’s voted on the delegate question, yet?”
The other man jerked erect. “You’re not one of Gadsden’s men, are you?!”
“Gadsden’s men?” Michael said. “I’ve never met him, sir.”
Drayton relaxed slightly. “They voted to send representatives, and without so much as a by-your-leave to the Council. Christopher Gadsden, Thomas Lynch, and John Rutledge. Those are the men they’re sending. I’d have thought Lynch and young Rutledge would have better sense. As for Gadsden of course, well, one can expect anything from Gadsden.”
“Did I hear my name mentioned?” Approaching unseen, the slender Gadsden leaned on his cane and watched their surprise with amusement. “You’re well, I hope, John. And you, sir, are Michael Fallon, I believe?”
Before Michael could open his mouth, Drayton drew himself up indignantly. “And I believe you said you did not know Mr. Gadsden. Good day to you both.”
“Sir!” Michael called after him, to set the matter straight, but realized it was impossible. Even Gadsden’s word in support would do more to convince him he was right than to dissuade him. Drayton turned. Michael opened his mouth again. “Will you still have that list sent?”
“I said I would. I do what I say.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.
“I hope I haven’t caused you trouble,” Gadsden said. Michael failed to see the twinkle in his eye.
“No. No, I don’t think so.” Still, Michael frowned at Drayton’s retreating back. It wasn’t pleasant to be taken for a liar. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to be knowing just how you know my name.”
“I heard it mentioned, as the name of one who might be useful to the cause of liberty.”
“Heard it mentioned, along with enough of a description to pick me out on the street.” Michael grinned, and Gadsden smiled in return.
“Well, perhaps more than mentioned. It’s said you have a good head on your shoulders, and you think the right way about the cause. You could be a valuable man, a prominent man, even.”
Michael shook his head. “I’ve no desire for politicking, sir. And as for the way I think, I think the American colonies have a bad bargain, which is the usual way of it when you deal with the British. From that I’d say your cause is likely a good one, but there are ten thousand good causes. A man could spend every minute of his life on them and not touch the hundredth part.”
“Um. Well.” Gadsden looked down at the paving stones, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “And the Virginia Resolves,” he said suddenly. “What of them?”
“What of them? Well, they seem the right way to go if you want to stop this Stamp Tax. To my mind we must deny the English the right of any taxes at all. If they’ve the right for one, then they’ve the right for all, and no matter about external or internal.”
“Then you might be interested in this. It was passed just before the delegates were elected. It is what we will present in New York.”
Michael took the paper Gadsden pulled from his coat pocket and unfolded it. He scanned it quickly, but one section held his eye.
RESOLVED, that the only representatives of the people of this province are persons chosen therein by themselves, and that no taxes ever have been or can be constitutionally imposed on them, but by the legislature of this province.
“Mr. Fallon, those ten thousand good causes you spoke of are scattered all over the world. This one’s in your own yard. Think of it. Good day.”
With a bow Gadsden disappeared into the swirl of traffic, leaving Michael to see Christopher Byrne, staring after Gadsden.
“Wasn’t that Christopher Gadsden, lad?”
“It was. Don’t you know him?”
Byrne’s head jerked around, and his smile faded. “Know him? No, no. I’ve had him pointed out to me, is all. I was a little surprised to see you talking to him so friendly like. You’re coming up in the world, making the acquaintance of the muckety-mucks.”
“Just trade,” Michael said, and wondered why he lied. “Will you tip a glass with me? For a change, I’ve news.”
“And I’ve a piece of news or two as well. ’Tis said the stamp agents for South Carolina will be George Saxby and Caleb Lloyd.”
“They’ve been talking that in the streets for a week, now. Come on. Let’s prime you with some of Dillon’s beer and see if we can’t get something fresher out.”
Byrne paused at the mention of Dillon’s. “Ah, listen, Michael. Would you mind walking yourself up to Queen Street, to Shepheard’s? There’s a tab at Dillon’s—a pound or two. You understand.”
“You haven’t been gambling again? I thought you’d sworn off.”
“You can’t expect a man to be in London without trying his hand at one or two of the hells,” Christopher said sheepishly.
“All right, then,” Michael said with a smile, “Shepheard’s it is.” And he wondered when Christopher had given his name to Gadsden, and why Gadsden had chosen today to approach him.
7
The delegates sailed for New York, and Charlestown waited uneasily for the arrival of the stamped paper. Summer passed into autumn; tempers grew hotter.
Michael was tying up a bundle of papers when he heard the commotion in the warehouse. He opened the window and stuck his head out. Jepson, in the entrance, was thick in a jabbering knot of warehousemen and dock idlers. The Scot looked up at Michael’s halloo, mouth working and burr thick. “It’s the Planter’s Adventure, with the paper. She’s anchored under the guns of Fort Johnson.”
The paper. Less than a fortnight was left before the act went into effect. Just the same, he’d been hoping by some miracle the cursed stuff would never arrive. Now there was no telling what would happen. He’d better get back to Church Street now, and take both his own news and the colony’s with him.
By the time he reached the house he was running. Angry bunches of men were jabbering on the street corners, gathering numbers despite the approach of evening. He took the steps two at a time, tucked his tricorn under his arm, and knocked on the study door.
“Come.” Carver was seated behind his desk. “Ah, Michael. You look as if you’ve been running. Sit down and cool yourself. What brings you here in such a hurry?”
Michael laid the papers on the desk, away from Carver’s reach. “The Planter’s Adventure made port this afternoon.”
“Damn.” Carver’s voice grated angrily. “We’ve tried every single thing there is to try. Henry Laurens, for one, still thinks we can find a way out, but I’m no longer sure.”
“You know what this means, sir.”
Carver snorted. “I know quite well. Gadsden may be in New York, but his mob will still be in the streets over this. Liberty Boys. Killcows and bellswaggers, that’s what they are.”
“Yes, sir.” Michael was leaning forward intently. “But if they stop the stamped paper, not a ship will be able to clear the harbor. We must get every cargo we can shipped and gone, else, come the first, you’ll likely have a full warehouse and nowhere to send it.”
“Yes, Michael. Step up the loadings.” He hesitated. “You don’t see the full impact of it, do you? It goes beyond the customs collector not giving clearances except on stamped paper. Some will try to close the courts on the same grounds. No stamped paper, no official business transacted. No sales bigger than buying a fish in the market. No contracts.”
“Sir, I thought you were opposed to the stamps. You sound as if you want to use them.”
Carver eyed Michael speculatively. “I’ve heard many dock workers attend the Liberty Boys’ meetings. And clerks. You’re mixed up in it?”
“That I am not,” Michael said forcefully. “I’ve seen the mob before, in Ireland and other places, and I’ve no wish to be part of one, no matter the cause they cry.”
“Then I advise you to stay in this evening. There’ll be trouble. If any approach you, remember, good law or bad law, it is the law. And all laws, good or bad, must be obeyed until they’re changed.”
“Yes, sir.” Did the old man think he was one to run with that pack, he wondered, or was he talking to convince himself? It was time to tell him his own news. He touched the bundle of papers on the corner of the desk. “About these—”
The merchant reached out to pick them up.
“It’s about your former clerk, Jonathon Wynfrey.”
Carver’s hand stopped as if the bundle had turned into a snake. Slowly he pulled it back. He sat without speaking, watching and waiting.
Michael frowned and went on. “Wynfrey was a thief. More than fifteen hundred pounds he stole, current money. Over two hundred pounds sterling.”
Carver drummed his fingers on the desk. “You can prove all of this?”
Michael nodded. “I can. Every bale of your goods he sold on his own account. Every time he ordered a hundred barrels and wrote that he’d ordered a hundred and ten. It’s all there, every shilling of it.”
The old man touched the bundle, reluctantly. “I’ll take these. Mention it to no one.”
Michael frowned. This didn’t make sense. “Did you know this, sir?”
“No, Michael,” Carver growled tiredly. “I suspected, but I didn’t know.”
“You suspected,” Michael said blankly. Then it came to him. “You won’t use it, will you? You’ll not use a page of it!”
Carver tried to look away, but Michael’s eyes held him. “No. No, I won’t use a page of it.”
“Why? Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, why? They’d hang a poor man in a minute for touching the thousandth part of that. Are you going to let him go free because he’s a rich man’s son?”
“In a way, Michael. Yes.”
“And what about that law we’ve got to obey, good or bad? What about that?”
“It’s not right, is it?” He picked up the offending papers and turned them over in his hands. “If I made the use of these you want me to, what would happen? Tell me that.”
“Why, once the charges against Wynfrey were laid before a magistrate, a warrant would be issued.”
