The Constable's Tale: A Novel of Colonial America

by Donald Smith

  Maddie had been right to turn her back on this kind of a life. Harry’s house was perfectly comfortable, as far as he was concerned. It even had some of the finery that enhanced the lives of wealthier residents of Craven County. But these graceful touches were mere tastes of the full measures of luxury that cushioned the daily existence of the better sorts, made the snags and pitfalls of their lives more tolerable. Harry tried to imagine the elegant Maddie spending the rest of her days in such a house as his. Visiting and receiving visits from neighbors whose manners of dress and conversation gravitated toward the simple side of things; their practical talk of the turnings of seasons, plantings and harvests, livestock, babies, elderly parents and their bodily ailments. Art and literature, politics, new discoveries in nature; such topics as would interest Maddie rarely came up at Sunday dinners with his mother and Natty, with his shark’s-tooth necklaces and irregular bathing habits. Natty’s idea of entertaining conversation had to do with the old days in the swamps of Albemarle country, tales of alligators and supernaturally large mosquitoes and summer nights spent among sand dunes and their whistling grasses, on the lookout for wayward ships.

  He did not realize he was asleep until he was roused by a crashing noise. It was a single, sudden violence, like something large and heavy falling against the door of his cabin.

  After taking a stunned moment to come fully awake, Harry clawed his way out of the cramped bed. He half expected the door to be splintered apart. But in the darkness it seemed solid to the touch.

  Carefully undoing the bolt, he opened the door a crack. It was even darker in the passageway than the cabin. Opening it a smidge further, he focused every bit of wakefulness into his ears but could detect nothing outside of the ordinary creaks and groans of a ship at sea. Whoever or whatever had caused the disturbance either was gone or lurked in the inky stillness. Waiting for Harry.

  He closed and rebolted the door. Felt among his belongings until he found his knife and ax. But what then? If someone had tried to get in and found the door too substantial, what would it gain Harry to go outside and confront the threat, if such it was? Maybe someone had simply tripped and fallen, then continued on his way. Somebody big.

  Returning to his bunk, he wedged his blades between the mattress and the side partition, sharp sides down. He disliked feeling trapped inside this small space, but another review of his position convinced him to stay.

  After what seemed a long time, he relaxed enough to recall another dream that had come to him earlier that night. It must have been triggered by the smoky smells the ship gave off. Martin was tending a tar kiln. It was night. Hot black soup oozed off a pile of smoldering pine logs and into a graded trench, pooling in an earthen basin at its lower end. In the torchlight another servant ladled the result into steel pots to boil down for pitch.

  As he felt himself slipping away again, the dream took on an aspect of reality. Toby was there. She was in distress. Running away from something in the house. Running in bare feet, as if having been roused from bed. Heading toward the pit. Martin was looking away at something in the distance. Unaware or, even more frightening, unconcerned about whatever was wrong with Toby. Harry felt powerless to intervene, his muscles turned to lead. He tried to shout a warning cry for help, but his throat was paralyzed. He was strangling in his own panic.

  He bolted upright.

  Except for a faint glow of stars coming through the porthole, it was still dark. He had no idea what hour it was. But he knew he would not be able to fall sleep a third time that night, and he could not bear to stay in the bunk.

  Tucking his blades into his belt, he unbolted the door. Stepped into the passageway, into the drenching blackness. How often Comet Elijah had lectured him about using all his senses, including the hidden ones. He did so now, inching along, one shuffling step at a time, at each step pausing like a coonhound to sample the air.

  Finally, a pale light ahead. Maintaining his deliberate pace, he gained the companionway and crept up the stairs. Blades at the ready.

  A fog had wrapped itself around the ship. It was so dense that neither bow nor stern was visible. The air seemed lifeless, but a whisper of water along the hull indicated they were moving. Going in the same direction of whatever wind there was, making the illusion of no wind at all. Sailing in the same direction as the drifting cloud that enclosed them.

  A rustle of clothing from behind made him instinctively dodge, almost but not quite avoiding the blow. He spun around, willfully ignoring the pain filling his right shoulder.

  His assailant was a big man with a square, bony face and coal-black eyes, dressed in tradesmen’s clothes and a sailor’s woolen cap and holding a belaying pin. It had missed Harry’s head but caused enough shoulder damage to make him totter.

  Harry ducked another blow, this time grabbing a gigantic arm as it went by. With a shrug, the man broke Harry’s grip. But before he could have a third swing, Harry crouched and, pumping his own legs like pistons, drove forward, encircling the man’s waist with both arms. The man toppled backward, his head snapping back and making a sharp report as it struck the deck.

  Harry thought the fight was over. But the man was tough. With amazing agility for his size, he regained his feet and lunged, this time holding a knife. Harry whirled away, narrowly avoiding the weapon, and kicked at the hand, at the same time grabbing his own blades from his belt.

  The pain in his shoulder had weakened his entire right arm to the point that he distrusted its competence, feared he would drop the ax. He jammed it back into his belt and held the knife forward in a menacing gesture with his left hand. Saying a silent thanks to Comet Elijah for teaching him to fight equally well with either.

  They circled each other in the gloom, Harry steadily losing ground to the larger man until they came to the railing. Harry’s back pressed against the wood, the hiss of rushing ocean in his ears. His assailant paused, as if making a final assessment before charging. Harry took advantage of the break to feint with his knife. It proved just enough distraction for Harry to boost himself up onto the top of the railing. He leapt onto a set of ratlines and began scampering up.

  He felt the weight on the rope ladder as the man swung in behind. Harry looked back. His pursuer was climbing at what seemed a leisurely rate, as if certain that the end of the encounter would be to his liking. On his face, in his black-button eyes, was a look more of annoyance than anger or even excitement. He had clamped his knife between his teeth for easy access when the inevitable moment came.

  Harry continued until he came to the top of the lower mast. It had been easily fifteen years since he had stood on such a structure as an adventurous boy exploring merchant ships on the New Bern docks. Back then, he had no qualms about performing the tricky maneuver required to gain the top, which involved leaning backward over the deck some forty feet below while grasping tarred rigging, literally holding on for the sake of life, and swinging one’s self out and up. Now, with the investment of a few more years of living on Earth, and a deepened appreciation of the blessings that his future life promised, he hesitated. But below him, making the ratlines shiver with each step, was a man who for some reason wanted him dead.

  With a passably smooth sequence of movements informed by memory, he passed the point of maximum vulnerability to a sudden muscle spasm or a sneeze or a hiccup and stepped up and onto the wooden platform that sailors called the top, or the fighting top, depending on the type of ship. He was sure that in this case the latter would be more fitting.

  He barely had time to catch his breath before an enormous hand appeared beneath his feet. He gave it a stomp with the heel of his boot. The man cried out but held on and boosted himself up, managing to dodge a kick.

  Before he was fully on his feet, Harry kicked again, this time full to the man’s face. There was a small explosion of blood. The man grabbed at the knife still between his jaws and pulled it away. Harry realized what had happened. His foe had not been as self-possessed as he had seemed. In a moment of haste and
distraction, he had placed the knife between his teeth with the blade pointed backward. Harry’s kick had driven it into flesh and the muscles on either side of the mouth that make it smile.

  The weapon slipped from the big man’s hands. He staggered, dripping blood, seeming to ponder his situation, then lunged. But now the scales were rebalanced. Harry grabbed him around the neck and, squeezing it in the crook of his arm, began punishing his attacker’s face. He bellowed and stomped on Harry’s foot. The sudden pain was just enough to loosen Harry’s grip and his opponent squirmed away. Without pause, Harry, still trying to ignore the soreness afflicting his shoulder, launched a powerful upward blow to the chin. Its force was enough to lift the man slightly off his feet despite his size and drive him backward into the platform railing. Without stopping to consider whether he wanted his opponent to come out of the battle alive to answer questions, Harry grabbed him around the knees and lifted. First the torso disappeared over the rail, followed by legs and feet.

  Harry looked over to see him rolling and bouncing down the ratlines and over the side of the ship, where the fog and the ocean sucked him away.

  *

  The purser identified him as one John Liddle, a resident of Philadelphia. At least that was what he had said when boarding only minutes before the ship loosed her lines and sailed away. A cabin search turned up a small sea bag containing toiletries and a change of clothes. No papers to confirm his identity, much less any hint as to why he should have been so intent on killing Harry. The officer theorized that he had tried to break down Harry’s door with the intention of stabbing him before he could get out of bed. Failing that, the ship’s interior joinery consisting of good thick American oak, he must have gone outside to bide his time. Perhaps Liddle was hoping Harry would make his way onto the deck to report the incident to the watch commander at the helm; Liddle could intercept Harry there, as the commander and the bow watch were the only others up and around. The fog that blocked the crewmen’s vision of the fight was, for the attacker, a gift.

  Captain Biggerstaff took a casual attitude toward the whole episode. As if it were not the strangest thing he had seen during his career at sea. He did consent to having the second officer go with Harry to the courthouse when they reached Boston to report the incident. Harry wondered if he should mention to the young deputy sheriff who took down the information about the previous attempt on his life. The deputy, who looked barely out of his teens, seemed eager to hear the smallest detail about this case. But Harry decided that bringing up Annapolis might cause unwanted complications that could divert him from his purpose. All he wanted now was to find the shop of George Johnston.

  It was midday by the time Harry was finished making his report. The ship he had arrived on was due to continue its voyage to Louisbourg on the next morning’s tide. The process of loading supplies for Wolfe’s army, along with new passengers, already had begun by the time Harry left the dock. All that remained was to return and collect Annie and his other belongings, which the steward had agreed to hold for him.

  Harry ate an early dinner at the tavern where he intended to stay for the time he would be in Boston, which, he hoped, would be short. The innkeeper gave him directions to George Johnston’s shop. It was not far away, but Harry reckoned their business could wait until the following morning.

  He arrived back at the ship at a little past four, just in time to see a smartly dressed couple waiting to board. Maddie McLeod and Richard Ayerdale were watching a sailor manhandle their baggage up the gangplank. Directly behind them, looking as poorly entertained as ever, was Reverend Fletcher.

  CHAPTER 17

  83: When you deliver a matter do it without passion & with discretion.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  NONE OF THEM LOOKED HAPPY TO SEE HARRY. BUT AYERDALE AT least was civil. Either he had forgotten about the unpleasantness at Rosewood or had decided to pretend it had not happened. Very much in the spirit of the Rules, Harry reckoned. He wondered if Richard as a young cadet of the Ayerdale family had been made to write them all out in a copy book, as the judge had required Harry do, or if Ayerdale just had somehow absorbed them as part of his general raising-up. It also seemed possible that he was born knowing them.

  “And what brings the young constable to Boston?” Ayerdale asked affably enough after all had gotten over their surprise.

  “I’m still searching for the owner of the Masonic badge from the Campbells’ farmhouse.” Harry guessed they had not heard about his dismissal as an officeholder.

  “Did you think you’d find him in New England?” asked Fletcher.

  “There is a well-known seller of jewelry here who, I am told, may be able to let me know who bought it.”

  “You can only be referring to George Johnston,” said Ayerdale. “I’ve never met the gentleman personally, but I’ve dealt with his house. It is first rate. As to whether he could identify your killer, I would give that long odds.”

  As he spoke, an improbable idea that had been lurking in Harry’s mind rose to the surface. What if Ayerdale had killed the Campbells? He was in New Bern at the time. In fact, he must have arrived at McLeod’s house within a day of the murders, which could have put him in the vicinity of the Campbell house. Was he a Freemason? Harry tried to remember if that was something he had heard or only assumed. But what reason could such a man, from such a storied family, possibly have for killing a small-scale North Carolina planter and his wife and child?

  All this passed through Harry’s head in an instant, like an echo of some matter he already had thought on and forgot. For now, etiquette seemed to demand he make some gracious reply. Instead, he turned to Maddie. “I would very much like to say a proper good-bye. I wonder if I might tear you away for that long.”

  “We need to look to the stowage of our belongings and get settled in our quarters,” said Fletcher.

  “The parson is correct,” said Ayerdale. “I am sure we will all meet again before long, back in Carolina. My beloved and I plan to pay the judge another visit once the summer campaign is finished.”

  “My love,” Maddie said, “I see no harm in spending a few moments with an old friend. Surely you can look after my interests aboard.” Then, to Harry, “We wouldn’t be long, would we?”

  He shook his head. “A coffeehouse is just up the street.”

  Offering his arm, Harry guessed that her willingness to indulge him had as much to do with disliking being directed as it did with any pining to spend time with him. But whatever her reason, he was glad of the outcome.

  *

  “You do know, don’t you, that women aren’t supposed to be in coffeehouses?” Maddie said as they walked.

  That he did not know this made Harry feel stupid, a familiar feeling whenever he was around Maddie for any length of time.

  “In fact, though I’ve tasted coffee, I’ve never been in one of these places myself,” he said. “We can go to a tavern if you’d rather.”

  “No, I want to see if they’ll throw me out. They never have as of yet.”

  The place was filled with well-dressed men busy at loud conversations concerning business at the Merchants Exchange just up the street. Aside from a few curious stares, no one made issue of Maddie’s presence. Harry caught bits of conversation about prices being asked and paid for shares of farm crops, livestock, and, of even more interest to him, timber and timber products. And of buying and selling notes of credit on such commodities. He wondered if one of these men might be talking about one of Harry’s own debts then being held by factors in Glasgow and London. Playing Harry’s obligations like cards in a game of loo.

  When they were seated and sipping from their cups of the dark, bitter, strangely energizing brew, Harry tried not to sound like an interrogator. But he was curious as to how Maddie and Ayerdale had come to be in the company of Reverend Fletcher. “It looks like you three spend a pretty good bit of time together,” he said, trying to make it sound lighthearted, knowing he was not succeeding. “First in New Bern, the
n Williamsburg, now Boston. About to go to Canada.”

  “Oh, Harry, don’t see implications where none exist. I was as surprised as Richard when we ran into the reverend here in Boston. He is visiting various parishes to see about the health of the Church of England in America.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “He’s decided that since he’s this close, he will visit General Wolfe’s troops in Quebec. They are having a difficult time of it, by all reports. Reverend Fletcher simply wishes to do what he can to improve the mood of the redcoats by showing them that Mother Church cares for their welfare.”

  “I hope he succeeds. He depresses me.”

  “He is a serious man. But he does have a jollier side. You’ll see it after he knows you better. Richard and I have decided he will be the one to seal our bonds.”

  “So you are not yet wed?”

  “If it were up to Richard, we would be by now. The captain of the ship that brought us here could have done it. But I want us to wed on land, by a parson, surrounded by a lot of people. I am sure we can find some redcoats in Canada who would be happy to oblige us. I look forward to walking arm-in-arm with Richard under a bower of crossed hangers. It will be something to tell our grandchildren.”

  “Maddie—”

  She put her finger to his lips. “Please, Harry.” Her gay aspect falling away. “Don’t spoil my happiness.”

  This was unexpected. Harry had thought nothing he could say would have any effect one way or another.

  “I have no such aim. But there is something I have to say. How well do you really know this man?”

  “As well as I need to. He has many fine qualities. He is from a venerable Virginia family. That counts for something, doesn’t it?” With that, she put down her coffee, folded her hands in her lap, and lowered her eyes. No longer the grown-up, purposeful woman Harry had seen ever since she had been back. She seemed vulnerable, almost childlike, her defenses against whatever Harry might say dissolving before his eyes.