The Constable's Tale: A Novel of Colonial America

by Donald Smith

“You don’t know what this means to me,” said Harry. And, in fact, the man likely had no idea how it was to have every hope pinned on the whim of a stranger who had no reason to go out of his way.

  “Oh, and here’s a letter for you. Just got here yesterday. A friend in the mail office heard me talking about you and your name sounded familiar. He remembered seeing this, but he didn’t know where it was supposed to go.”

  Harry was already opening the envelope. It was Toby’s handwriting.

  CHAPTER 25

  9: Spit not in the Fire, nor Stoop low before it neither Put your Hands into the Flames to warm them, nor Set your Feet upon the Fire especially if there be meat before it.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  August 14, 1759

  New Bern, North Carolina

  Dearest Husband,

  I was Glad to get yr. Letter of August 8th inst. & was hoping you would be back before I could reply. May you be safe & well Home again before this finds its way into yr. beloved hands. But if not, I hope it finds you in Fair Health and Good Cheer. Wee planted out our Colliflowers soon after you left and sowed Carrots and Turnep Seed laft week, and transplanted Brocoli to ftand. Yesterday Wee sowed some lots of Onion feed and Rhadish & Lettuce, Garden Cresses & a little white mustard. Martin says you fo much like Peas in the Fall so Wee will fow fome of them bye-and-bye. Also fome Fpinatch. It has been very dry here. Don’t be worried but wee had a little excitement ye other night when a Lightning Bolt fet a Tree afire in the Turpentine Orchard down near ye Creek. It was full of fap and burned like a torch & might’ve burnt down ye Whole Orchard except Martin had posted fome Men to keep a Watch for just such a Thing and when they faw it there they blew their horns and got fome Neighbors over to help our boys put it out before it did too much Damage. Martin expects Wee will have 1 or 2 hundred barrels of turpentine ready to ship before long and more before ye Season is thru’. He is overfeeing the diftillery at ye Creek himself, which he says takes every bit as much care as making a Good Whisky.

  I fuppose you have no way of Knowing what a Difturbanfe your leaving New Bern without ye Blefings of Judge McLeod and his Courthouse Circle has Caused. No need to Dwell on that now, but there can be little Doubt that ye longer you ftay away, ye more Trouble there is likely to be. I am not Upbraiding or intending to Upfet you, my Dear, but only Letting You Know how ye land lies here. I am certain that whatever decifions you are Making, are ye Correct Ones.

  Longing for yr Safe Return. Every Day is a Misery without You.

  Yr. Loving Wife, Toby Woodyard

  SHE HAD ADDRESSED IT TO HARRY IN THE CARE OF PETER BURKE IN Boston, whose name she must have gotten from someone in New Bern who knew Noah. Somehow it had passed from hand to hand, ship to ship, followed in Harry’s wake all the way to the Saint Lawrence.

  “You see? You see?” Harry said, waving the letter in front of the soldier. “This letter proves who I am. It is addressed to me, Henry Woodyard, and it’s from my wife, Toby Woodyard, of New Bern, North Carolina.”

  The soldier shrugged. “That’s something you need to take up with the general. If we’re not at war by the time he gets back. Good luck to you, mate.”

  Reading by the cold light of a cellar window, he felt injured by Toby’s words. Especially the endearments. They were reminders of how he had betrayed her, both physically with Jacqueline and mentally, in the case of his feelings for Maddie, confused as they might be. He knew that Toby could only be wondering what he was up to, dashing off on the trail of an old love. He felt suddenly unworthy of the woman who waited for him and had a renewed longing to be back at her side.

  His efforts to expose Ayerdale as a liar and a spy were no further along than that night at the ball in Massachusetts Bay. Now that he considered the matter, they had come to less than nothing, except a possible explanation for Ayerdale’s disappearance from camp. It fit the pattern of his previous perfidy, leaving suddenly on the eve of a fight. As for Maddie, her fate was almost certainly out of Harry’s hands. What remained was the mystery of why she had gone missing along with Ayerdale. Could she somehow have become entwined in Ayerdale’s crimes? It had been ten years since Harry had seen her, and in the intervening time she had traveled the length and breadth of the European continent. Met many sorts of people, including Ayerdale himself. Even spent time in France. Maybe she had even gotten involved with the Scotch would-be prince, the one reportedly planning his second invasion of England, possibly with the aid of the French king. Could Maddie herself somehow have turned coat? Whatever the case, the reality was that Harry was now cooped up in a cool, damp, poorly lit church basement in Canada. Powerless to do anything but complain.

  He folded the letter, handling it as gently as holy writ, and tucked it into his pocket. There his fingers rubbed up against a metal object.

  The badge.

  Harry had time on his hands. Nothing to do but wait until General Wolfe returned from his scouting expedition upriver.

  Time to work on a puzzle.

  Ambrose the schoolmaster had some writing materials in his knapsack and was happy to lend them out. In the watery window light, positioning the brooch for as good a view as he could get, Harry began scribbling. He continued until daylight faded, then resumed at sunup. Crumpling sheets and dropping them to the floor as he filled them up with chains of letters that spelled nothing.

  *

  “I didn’t know you could write Latin,” said Ambrose, stopping by at midmorning to see what Harry was doing. Harry was just about to throw away another sheet decorated with crosshatches and random-looking letters.

  “I don’t,” said Harry.

  “Well, you’ve written out a proper Latin phrase.” Pointing a finger at Harry’s latest result at the bottom of the paper. “LEVIUSQUAMAER. It means ‘lighter than air.’ Except your Latin is all run together. No spaces between the words.”

  Harry stared at what Ambrose was looking at. It was the same group of letters he had made three weeks earlier using the name of Ayerdale’s plantation as the key word. He had just gone through the exercise a second time using Rosewood, thinking he may have made some mistake in his previous attempt, since what it had produced looked like nonsense.

  He now remembered where he had seen the phrase before. Levius quam aer was the family motto cut into the stone pillar at the entrance to the Ayerdale plantation. Though light and airy were not what came to mind when Harry thought about Rosewood.

  His thoughts flew back to the night he and Noah had sat inside the Campbell house. The bodies of Edward and Anne Campbell on the floor, resting in caked pools of their own blood. Little Andy Campbell’s lifeless form outside in the yard. Harry recalled his guesswork, his invented account of how the crime might have unfolded. A storm-battered traveler seeking shelter. The Campbells opening their home, as was the custom. Then, trouble. A dispute or something discovered that the traveler needed to keep secret. Violence. The turmoil so unexpected that the Campbells had had no chance to defend themselves. Edward the first to die, since he was the most able. Throat slashed. Then Anne stabbed. Last, little Andy, shot in the back outside as he tried to escape. The baby spared, maybe out of some speck of humanity buried deep inside the killer despite the horror he had just committed. The bodies positioned to make it look like Indians’ work. Then, bad luck for the murderer. A piece of finery he was wearing, a Freemason’s pin, separating from his clothing during the struggle. Sent skittering, unnoticed, across the floor. Coming to rest underneath the baby’s crib.

  And now a name to go with the badge.

  “It has a pretty ring,” Ambrose said. “‘Lighter than air.’ Does that phrase have some special meaning to you?”

  “It bloody well does,” said Harry.

  *

  Another batch of prisoners made a clatter on the steps as they marched out. A single replacement came in and, needing scant urging, revealed the latest subject of discussion in the camps. Wolfe had finished his scouting upriver and was now back in his island quarters. Still no word as
to when or where he might decide to attack.

  Harry climbed the steps and banged on the door until a guard opened it to see what was the matter. “I have to talk to General Wolfe,” he said. “I have urgent information for him.”

  The guard promised he would let General Wolfe know. Leaving Harry once again to marinate in a puddle of doubt and impotence.

  That afternoon he had a visitor. It was the friendly soldier who had left the message for Fletcher. “I brought something for you,” he said. He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a piece of salt pork. “Try not to show it around. This lot would trample their granny for a taste of bacon.”

  “Have you heard from Reverend Fletcher?”

  “No, no word.”

  “Listen . . . what’s your name?”

  “Baker. Sergeant Baker.”

  “Baker, something big’s afoot here. I need to talk to General Wolfe. It is a matter of the utmost importance.”

  “I’ll make sure he knows.”

  “There was an American here in the camp, his name is Ayerdale. An officer in the Virginia militia. He disappeared several days ago. I have proof he is on a spying mission for the French. And that he is a murderer besides. By now he may have crossed over to the French side to tell them what Wolfe is up to.”

  “I don’t think even Wolfe knows what he’s up to.”

  “We’ve only been led to think that. Maybe he made up his mind days ago, and somehow Ayerdale found out. Or maybe Ayerdale has some other piece of vital information. Anyway, the general needs to be made aware of this without delay. Ayerdale is a traitor. It could affect the success of the whole campaign.”

  “That sounds very serious, Harry. I’ll see that he gets this information immediately.”

  “Wait a minute.” Harry began talking faster, sensing he had not made his case well enough and, in fact, may have sounded like a mad man. “I am the constable of Craven County, North Carolina. I have spent the past six weeks chasing Colonel Ayerdale for a murder I am now certain he committed there.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the Masonic badge. “I found this at the place where the crime took place. It was dropped by the killer. Do you see this inscription?” Harry pointed to the markings, trying to keep his fingers from trembling with anxiety. “This is code for a Latin phrase, ‘lighter than air.’ That’s the Ayerdale family motto. If you don’t believe anything else, please take my word as a sworn officer of His Majesty the king that this proves Ayerdale is a criminal, and he may be consorting with the French army at this very moment.”

  He watched Baker climb the stairs. Still unsure if he had been persuasive but satisfied he had done as best he could.

  The day wore on. Inmates milled about in the gloom. More soup, improved by the pork, which he shared with Abel and Ambrose.

  He felt strangely tired when he finally lay down on his cot for the night. Wondering why so exhausted. As darkness set in and he slipped off to sleep, he realized he had been prowling the room the whole afternoon.

  Sergeant Baker woke him the next morning, shaking his shoulder.

  “You’ve been sprung.”

  “Am I to see General Wolfe?”

  Baker put a finger to his lips and beckoned him to follow. Harry said quick good-byes to Abel and Ambrose, promising to do what he could to get them freed, then trailed Baker up the staircase. He passed the guards, who nodded to Baker. Through the wooden doors of the church they went, then outside onto the elaborately carved two-story stone porch.

  At the foot of the entrance steps, looking like a herald of the underworld with his black robe and unsmiling face, was Reverend Fletcher.

  CHAPTER 26

  10: When you Sit down, Keep your Feet firm and Even, without putting one on the other or Crossing them.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  THE MINISTER’S BORROWED QUARTERS BACK ON THE ISLAND PROVED to be a handsome two-story white stucco house surrounded by flowers. Harry had seen others very similar in New Bern, Bath, and Edenton. He had never been to France, but somehow this one looked peculiarly French. He could not say why.

  During the boat ride under a misty rain, the minister had made clear that any questions would have to wait until they arrived at their destination. Whether it was wise to go along with someone who had been in the steady company of a murderer passed through Harry’s mind. Though Fletcher was of smallish build, now that Harry had a chance to see him moving about for a longer period, Harry guessed that underneath the robe might be the body of an athlete. Harry took comfort in Fletcher’s apparent association with the sturdy Sergeant Baker and also the fact that the guards had given back Harry’s blades.

  Harry and Fletcher settled into chairs in the front parlor, which was expensively furnished though covered with a fine veil of soot. Fletcher’s face remained hard. But not particularly menacing. More like a man with a toothache.

  Harry spoke first. “You must have good connections here, to get me out of jail. I thought I wasn’t to be released until General Wolfe questioned me.”

  “There are few things in this world that cannot be purchased, including freedom. But set that aside. An interview with the general would not be the best idea at this time.” Before Harry could judge his meaning and whether it contained a threat, Fletcher said, “I understand you’ve been asking after the whereabouts of Colonel Ayerdale and Miss McLeod. You’ve been quite insistent.”

  “I believe Colonel Ayerdale is spying on General Wolfe for the French army. And that he is a murderer.” May as well come to the heart of it and gauge Fletcher’s reaction as to whether Harry should be going after his weapons.

  Expressionless, Fletcher got up from his chair, walked to the window, and looked out. The rain had stopped and a fog was drifting in off the water.

  “And I suppose you want to inform General Wolfe of these suspicions,” he said.

  “They’re more than suspicions, Reverend. I have strong evidence. And, yes, that is my intention. If you are somehow involved in this business, it would be to your advantage to say so now.”

  Fletcher looked at Harry, this time with what could have passed for a smile. Harry thought it wise to get onto his feet. At the same time he moved his hand toward the side of his belt where his blades hung. Fletcher, taking note of Harry’s posture, gave a short, joyless laugh.

  “Young man—may I call you Harry?”

  Harry nodded.

  “I do have a confession. I am not a minister of the gospel.”

  “I have doubted such from the beginning.”

  “My name is Giles deSavoy. I am a colonel in His Majesty’s army.”

  It took Harry a moment to absorb this, consider the possibility it was a lie.

  “Your name sounds French.”

  “Norman, actually. One of my ancestors was among the duke’s knights when he gave the usurper Harold his comeuppance at Hastings. One of my now long-dead cousins was Richard Coeur de Lion. My personal favorite out of our rather large family.”

  Harry found himself blinking, trying to take it all in. Staying at the ready. Every muscle charged with stored-up energy. But Fletcher’s—deSavoy’s—demeanor remained peaceable.

  “You may have some French ties yourself, if you go back far enough. William wasn’t called ‘the Conqueror’ for battlefield exploits alone, as my numerous kin like to say. One of his female offspring somewhere in the line may very well have married a good native Saxon by the name of Woodyard.”

  “Let’s say I believe any of this,” said Harry. “Why have you been keeping such close company with Richard Ayerdale?”

  “You are correct in your suspicions about Richard. He is a spy. I congratulate you on your powers of perception. But now, he is our spy.”

  *

  They were seated again. Harry relaxing his guard as the story unfolded. It seemed too rich to be made up. At least, if this man Giles’s intention were to deceive, he could have used something simpler.

  During his career, he said, which mostly had consisted of fight
ing the French army in France or elsewhere on the Continent, he had been drawn to a particular specialty: catching enemy agents. He had made a name for himself in this field. So when the government began suspecting a highly placed turncoat in America, the ministers turned to him for advice. Of several notable indications of treachery, the best evidence was the same that had gained the attention of the Americans whom Harry had overheard in Boston: a run of unexpected French victories near the beginning of the war.

  Early suspicions had fallen on Governor Shirley. But surprising French successes had continued after he had been recalled to London. Finally, Giles had been dispatched to America personally by the new strongman in Whitehall, a fiery-tongued package of energy named William Pitt, to investigate. Giles himself thought up his disguise as a senior clergyman looking into the status of the church in the provinces. A good excuse for his travels and inquiries, even when those verged beyond strictly religious matters.

  The same logical path taken by Browning had led Giles to Ayerdale. The name began cropping up during conversations with different officials in both the American and British military. It became a common thread: Ayerdale’s supposed taskings to gather information on the progress of the war and report back to the governor of Virginia. Giles sent Ayerdale’s name back to London as one of several possibilities. There, a fellow specialist in ferreting out such activities undertook some of his own investigating and discovered the truth about Ayerdale’s financial condition. Broke as a Methodist parson.

  “I also discovered that despite his outward shows of patriotism, Ayerdale has long harbored deep resentments toward His Majesty’s government,” Giles said. “Especially the army.”

  It was Harry’s turn to share. He told Giles what he had overheard about Ayerdale’s quarrel with the redcoat captain at the Monongahela.

  “I’d not heard that, but it fits with the rest of the picture. He is an important man in America, among the elite in your society. Many of them deeply resent being treated as anything less than full-fledged British citizens, with undiluted political and social privileges of such. In all honesty, I have to say I sympathize with their feelings. As colonists, you Americans in fact do not have the full rights of natural Britons. You even lack representation in Parliament.”