The Constable's Tale: A Novel of Colonial America

by Donald Smith

  “You were a good learner.”

  “We guessed you’d gone on another of your long hunting trips, or maybe to visit your people, the ones who went to Canada. But you never said good-bye and you never came back.”

  “It was time to go. I had nothing more to teach my people. Or you.”

  Noah and Blinn had been following this exchange with looks of surprise and curiosity. Harry said to them, “I think what he means is I wasn’t listening to him anymore. Or to Natty or anybody else, for that matter.”

  “I also wanted to see my relatives the Haudenosaunee, the ones the French call Iroquois. The Mohawk, Onondaga, Seneca, Oneida, Cayuga, and my own Tuscarora cousins who survived the uprising and went up to live with them.”

  “Comet Elijah was an important man,” Harry said, directing himself to Blinn, who had arrived in New Bern from England only four years earlier and had shown scant interest in the town’s history. Harry realized he himself knew little more than Blinn, tales from the old days just not striking him as information he needed to have. But he did know Comet Elijah’s story. He had heard it over and over again from Natty.

  “He was the young king of a Tuscarora band that lived north of New Bern. When the southern group attacked the Swissers, he kept his people out of the fight, and by doing so saved many lives. King George himself rewarded them with unquestioned ownership of their land. Some—the ones who didn’t move away to Canada—still live on it to this day.”

  “The king gave them their own land?” asked Noah.

  “Well, yes. It sounds strange now, but that’s what happened.”

  “I decided I would go up to Canada for a visit,” Comet Elijah said. “See if they were still angry with me for not helping them kill the whites. By the time I got up there nobody seemed to care anymore, so I was safe. I stayed for a good long time and even took a wife, but she died one winter. Then after a while I got tired of it. It’s too cold up there. I wanted to come back home, see the old places again. See how you came out. Has the young warrior gained wisdom to go along with his knowledge of the tomahawk?”

  “I’ve changed, Comet Elijah. Mostly for the better, I hope.”

  Blinn made an impatient noise in his throat. Curiosity satisfied, Harry guessed. “I am sure we all got a lot to talk about,” Blinn said. “First, though, we need to ask you some questions.”

  Harry told Comet Elijah about the murders, including the peculiar poses of the bodies.

  Blinn said, “It looks like it happened during the storm that came through here three nights ago. Where were you, exactly?”

  “I went into my longhouse when the storm came up.” He pointed in the direction of his ragged home. “It was right around dark.”

  “Did you see anyone?” said Harry. “Any travelers coming through here?”

  “Now that I recollect, I heard hoof beats later in the night. Somebody riding by fast. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still blowing. Yes, I am sure I heard a horse. It went by too fast for me to hear what they were thinking.”

  “They?” said Blinn.

  “The man and the horse.”

  Harry said, “Do you remember the direction the sound was coming from? Where they might have been headed?”

  Comet Elijah made a pass through the air with a withered hand, signaling no. “I was under my blanket, trying to keep the rain off. But I may as well not have bothered. I was getting soaked. That night was not a nice time for me. We can talk more about it later on, if you’d like.”

  Harry looked back toward the ruined camp, then at the pot of uncooked chicken.

  “This is no way to live. You need to come and stay at my place. You and Noah here would make fine barn mates.” He introduced Noah and briefly told his story, how he had been left homeless by the murder of the Campbells.

  “There’s plenty room in the barn,” Noah agreed. “It’s better even than a tavern. You can have your own pile of hay.”

  “That’s a fine offer, but I want to spend a few more days in the woods.” He looked around. “Every one of these trees is an old friend. I see many have wounds from people draining off their life’s blood.”

  “What about the Giant Head?” Blinn asked in a mocking tone. “Aren’t you afeared of getting gobbled up?”

  “I may need to battle a monster tonight,” Comet Elijah said, nodding. “My ancestors would expect me to put up a good fight.” Giving it another moment of thought, he added with a sly grin, “Might do my ótkwareh some good, too.”

  CHAPTER 7

  57: In walking up and Down in a House, only with One in Company if he be Greater than yourself, at ye first give him ye Right hand and Stop not till he does and be not ye first that turns, and when you do turn let it be with your face towards him, if he be a Man of Great Quality, walk not with him Cheek by Joul but Somewhat behind him; but yet in Such a Manner that he may easily Speak to you.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  VAPORS FROM A SIMMERING POT GREETED HARRY AND NOAH AT Natty’s house. It was well past midday. Blinn had started back to town to report to the sheriff the discovery of the old Indian. Natty was not at home, but judging from the stew’s rich and nearly done appearance, Harry reckoned he was not far away.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Noah, his eyes wandering around the dark interior. “It looks like something that grew out of the ground.”

  The way Harry had it figured, Natty so missed his former life in the Albemarle, where the dividing line between outdoors and indoors was sometimes vague, that he tried to remake it here. Over time the house had taken on a wild, shaggy look, more like a dwelling in the man’s swampy homeland to the north. Thick garlands of hanging moss covered the walls inside and out. Their curling, dried-out tendrils gave the place a feeling of year-round autumn in another world. Worked into the moss were animal parts: snakeskins, antlers, turtle shells, bear and panther bones, and some other smaller, less easily identified objects, including one about the size of an apple that looked eerily like a jawless human skull.

  Harry said, “Natty wanted his own place away from the main house, away from Mother, who can be a thorn in the side at times. My house is even farther away, near the edge of our family’s property.”

  As Harry was explaining this, Natty stepped through the doorway, bending his neck to the side to clear the top. He had the rangy look of a runner. A narrow face with sharp features, pale blue eyes, and neck-length hair going raggedly gray, tied in back with a ribbon. He had on an open-throated deerskin hunting shirt and leggings. A necklace of blackened shark’s teeth gleamed with moisture against his sweaty chest.

  He slapped the burlap sack he was carrying down on a chair. “Coriander,” he said. “I’ve found a wild stand of it up toward Sandy Creek.”

  After exchanging greetings, Harry told him the news about the murders. Natty made a frown. “The Campbells was good folks,” he said, tearing apart some of the good-smelling leaves from the bag with his fingers and letting the bits fall into the stew. “I’m sorry to hear about this.”

  “Natty, I’ve seen Comet Elijah. He’s come back. He has a camp a couple miles from here.”

  “I knew we’d not seen the last of him. How did he look?”

  “Old. And smaller than I remember. But not too bad for a man that age.” Harry decided not to mention the part about Comet Elijah’s ótkwareh.

  “Well, he can stay here anytime he likes.”

  “Mother might not care for him being so close by. I’ve already invited him to board with us.”

  “We don’t want to upset Talitha. But there are a few things she’s got no say in.”

  “Also, Maddie McLeod is back in New Bern.”

  “Go on. This must be the time for homecomings.”

  Noah threw Harry a questioning look. Harry said he would explain about Maddie later. Natty said, more or less to Noah, “I swan, I don’t know which one I like better, this Harry or that boy who used to court those pretty ladies and set taverns afire.”

 
; “I saw Maddie yesterday.”

  “I wouldn’t mind laying these old eyes on that one again myself.”

  “You’ll have to hurry. She’s leaving again tomorrow to get married.”

  Natty smacked his hands together. “Glad to hear it. And who might the fortunate bucko be? Anybody I know?”

  “I doubt it. He’s from Virginia. His name is Ayerdale.”

  These words had a surprising effect on Natty. His eyes went large and it looked like he stopped breathing.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard the name.” He seemed to recover himself. Got up from his chair and walked over to the hearth. “I reckon we better have some of this mess before it all boils away.”

  “Smells good,” said Noah. “What’s in it?”

  “Pig brains,” said Harry. “Natty’s famous throughout Craven County for his pig-brain stew.”

  “I threw in some tongue and heart and a little liver, just to make it interesting.”

  Before they could put a ladle into it, someone rapped at the door. It was Maddie.

  *

  The fairy princess from the night before was gone. In her place was a woman in men’s riding clothes, hair down and tied back with a ribbon, and a sober eye. She and Harry stood for a long moment, neither speaking, eyes locked.

  Natty called out, “Is that Maddie? Come on in, girl, we was just about to eat.”

  Maddie nodded in his direction and said, “I need to talk to Harry. Maybe another time.”

  In the grayness of an increasingly dank afternoon, Maddie looked older than in the amber light of candles. Tiny lines stretched out from the corners of her eyes and around her mouth.

  “I looked for you at your house, but your wife said you might be over here. Congratulations, Harry. She is beautiful. Very well-spoken for a servant.”

  “I suspect the whole thing was Mother’s idea.”

  He made a quick version of the events, feeling a fresh stab of guilt at the end, realizing how much his tale of unintended romance sounded like an excuse.

  “Well, you could hardly have been expected to remain faithful to me. I was off exploring Europe, having a fine time. And, Harry, I confess I was not always faithful to you.”

  “Ten years is a long spell.”

  They walked as they talked. Maddie speaking evenly, matter-of-factly, as if addressing a onetime business partner, not a lost darling.

  “The purpose of my visit is simple. In light of our history together, I feel you may have questions that need answering. We need to resolve our situation so we can get on with our lives. We need not have secrets between us, nor lingering mysteries. That, Harry, is the best way.”

  “Suits me,” he said.

  She talked of how she finished her education in Edinburgh, and then Olaf agreed for her to stay in Europe, tour the Continent, with her mother as chaperone. A not-uncommon thing among those of her age and class, she explained. As it turned out, it lasted seven years. Her mother died of a fever about halfway through, and she was on her own. But whenever she ran low on money, the judge would send another note of credit to wherever she was. Venice, Avignon, Brescia. All the fashionable places.

  “It makes me feel bad now to think of how much of his money I spent. But I guess it meant little to one as wealthy as my grandfather.”

  “I tried not to think about you,” Harry said. “But I couldn’t help wondering where you were, what you were doing.”

  “I’ll confess I was curious about you as well. Mail from friends in New Bern caught up with me now and then, and I was much amazed to hear you had come under Grandfather’s tutelage.”

  “I am in his debt for everything he’s done for me. And continues to do.”

  She talked more about her adventures. She had befriended people whose names she seemed to think Harry should recognize, though he could not imagine why. Politicians, poets, diplomats, novelists, essayists. She had written some herself—poems, satires, even a play—under pen names. They were mostly circulated among friends, except for letters to newspaper editors touching on political issues.

  She moved on to the subject of lovers as if she thought this might be something Harry would want to know about, which he did not. A middle-aged banker in Rome. A youthful artist in Geneva. A dark-skinned man in Marseilles who helped unload the ship she had arrived on from Venice. In Padua, a beautiful and intense young Spaniard then visiting the courts and literary circles of Europe. A man, she implied, whose appetites did not stop at women.

  Harry had nothing comparable to tell. He offered a few details about life with his mother and Natty, realizing how boring his adventures sounded. Thinking that matters involving money might impress her, he said how, two years previous, his family had made a fateful financial choice. In response to falling prices they had cut back on the amount of tobacco they were raising and were now shipping much more timber, tar, pitch, and turpentine. Gifts of the seemingly unending legions of pine trees on their property.

  “Well, I don’t want to prolong this any more than necessary,” Maddie said when he started talking about forest products. “I just thought we should speak before we go our separate ways. It felt like unfinished business.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Yes. I wanted us to be clear about where we stand. So we can make the clean break I believe would be best for both of us. You seem happy. I hope you wish the same for me.”

  “Do you love him?”

  Maddie stopped and turned to face him. “Richard? Of course I love him. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “I’m sorry, I had no right to ask. I’m sure he has everything you want in a husband. You should be happy together.”

  “I have to go now.” She resumed her pace. “Olaf is expecting me for supper. And I have to get ready to leave for Williamsburg. Richard has business to look after there before we leave for Canada.”

  “We?”

  “I’m going with him. We’re taking a schooner in the morning, so we don’t have to go anywhere near that awful swamp. What’s its name?”

  “The Great Dismal.”

  “Yes. A good word for it.”

  They walked back to the railing where Maddie had fastened her horse.

  “I . . .” he began, before he really knew what he wanted to say.

  “I’ve already forgotten about you, Harry,” she interrupted. “Let’s leave it that way.”

  CHAPTER 8

  40: Strive not with your Superiers in argument, but always Submit your Judgment to others with Modesty.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  “AS OF YESTERDAY I’D NEVER SPOKEN TO AN INDIAN,” NOAH SAID AS he and Harry rode out the next morning to fetch Comet Elijah. “Now I’m to be living with one. How exciting.” From his way of speaking, Harry could not decide whether he was really excited or just making fun.

  Their plan was to have him settled into the barn in time for Harry, Noah, and Toby to proceed into New Bern for the Campbells’ memorial service, which had been set for two o’clock.

  “An old man like that has no business staying out in the open,” Harry said as they continued along. “He’ll be fine in the barn until we can figure out something else. I’m sure you’ll be glad, too, when you can make other arrangements.”

  “Actually I’m growing rather fond of the cows. We’ve had some interesting conversations.”

  They almost missed Comet Elijah’s camp in the thin morning light filtering through the pine tops. All that was left of the longhouse was a scattering of tree limbs and loose bark.

  “It appears he decided to seek other accommodations,” said Noah.

  “I don’t think so,” said Harry, poking through the shapeless heap that was Comet Elijah’s belongings. At the bottom was the cooking pot. Lying next to it, a trade ax. This was nothing more than a simple tool: brute, unornamented steel built for hard use. Chopping wood and dispatching small animals. Age and wear had darkened both the metal head and the handle. Harry tested its heft. Flipped
it in the air one revolution, catching the wood as it came around. Showing off a little for Noah. The ax had a familiar feel. Harry allowed himself to think it could have been the very one Comet Elijah had used to teach him the customs and methods of the tomahawk.

  “It’s not the first thing you turn to when you need a weapon,” Comet Elijah had told him when Harry first had showed curiosity. He could not have been much more than eleven. “In fact, it’s the last thing you go for. You shoot first. Musket and pistol, in that order, or whichever is closest at hand. Then, if they’re still coming on, use your spear if you have one. You want to take care of them before they get in too close. Only when they’re right on top of you do you draw out your small blades.”

  Comet Elijah spent several years teaching him the surprisingly large number of offensive and defensive maneuvers possible with the ax alone and in combination with a long knife, the other object a woodsman always carried with him. He began with the foot stances available for use depending on the kind of threat posed. “Your legs are your fighting platform,” he told Harry. “You have to have a good way of standing, firm and balanced, the basic one with your feet about shoulder-length apart, one foot some little ahead and the one behind turned out, just so.” Then came the different ways of carrying the blades, whether both on the left or right side or one on each side, or both or just one of them in the small of the back, out of sight. Each spot had its advantages and disadvantages depending on a person’s amount of skill and inclinations. The overriding idea was to get them in hand with the proper grip, and into action quickly, once the need became evident. Young Harry took in these mysteries eagerly. They were parts of the grown-up world that Comet Elijah and Natty lived in, not the tiresomely prettified world, as he thought of it then, of the Judge McLeods and the Reverend Reeds and the vestrymen and storekeepers of New Bern. Harry felt he was being brought into a secret society, a priesthood of the forest whose rites were as intricate as any Masonic ones he could imagine.

  After Harry mastered the preliminaries, Comet Elijah began teaching him the various presentations to the enemy. High guard. Low guard. Middle guard. And the angles of attack. Eight in all, going around an imaginary circle with your opponent’s head at the center. The thrust. The cut. The hammer blow with the back end of the ax. Special uses of the handle, fine points about how it can be employed. How, in the middle of a fight, to change your grip to best suit the way the contest was going. Methods of engaging an enemy who was close to you and one farther out. Dealing with multiple attackers. Each movement distinct, at once simple and brutal, savage in purpose, yet as graceful in its own way as a dance step. Each little piece to be practiced endlessly, both singly and along with others in different sequences. The possible combinations seemed without number.