Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Margaret spoke. “Matthew said you went north from the Chesapeake with some slaves. That was more than a year ago.”

  “Eighteen months. They were just arrived from Africa. We took one hundred fifty-five of them off a sinking slave ship. Sixty-nine were dead. Drowned when the Dutch threw them overboard.”

  The women gasped, and then the room fell silent. Margaret saw the cloud cross Caleb’s face, and the flash of anger before he continued. “We bought ten wagons and horse teams with the money we got from the slave ship and took them north.”

  “You? Alone?”

  “No. Primus was there. He’s a slave from South Carolina. Ran away to join us and fight the British. He came with me. I would never have made it without him.”

  “Where did you take them?”

  Caleb sat motionless for a time, while the knots in the pine firewood popped and sparks danced.

  “Nova Scotia.”

  Margaret started. “Where?”

  “Nova Scotia.”

  “Up in Canada?”

  “Yes. We tried to find a place down here somewhere, but . . .” He shook his head slowly. “No one would let us stop. Even in Vermont. No one. After what I saw on that slave ship—Matthew and I—I wasn’t going to let someone make them slaves.”

  “Are there Africans up there? In Nova Scotia?”

  “Yes. Two or three thousand of them.”

  “You let them go? Could they speak English?”

  “Not at first. I used more of the money from the Dutch ship to buy some land up there, enough that they could stay together and farm. Primus stayed with them. He’s worked farms before, and after we got some homes and buildings built, there was enough money left to buy some cattle and pigs. I stayed until they learned enough English to get by. They worked hard. They’ll be all right. Primus is there with them.”

  Adam leaned forward, eyes wide, voice strained. “The Dutch were throwing them overboard? Into the ocean?”

  A few seconds passed while Caleb picked his words. “There was sickness on board.”

  “Didn’t they have a doctor? I thought all ships had doctors.”

  “They did, but he died. So did the captain.”

  “Overboard? Just threw them into the ocean?”

  Caleb nodded but remained silent. A look of stunned revulsion passed over Adam’s face, and he shuddered.

  Margaret said, “How did you get home from Nova Scotia?”

  “Took passage on a French frigate. Arrived late this afternoon.”

  “You must be tired.”

  Caleb smiled. “The warmth is making me drowsy.”

  “Would you like some cider? We pressed some good cider this fall.”

  “That would be good.”

  Adam put on his coat to go into the backyard and bring a pitcher of chill cider from the root cellar. Talk mellowed and time was forgotten until Margaret pointed at the large clock on the mantel and exclaimed, “Why, it’s past ten o’clock! Where has the evening gone? We’ve kept Caleb up far too long for his first day home.” She turned to the children. “Get ready for bed, and we’ll have prayer in my room.”

  Ten minutes later they gathered around Margaret’s bed, all in their long nightshirts except Caleb. He still wore his regular clothes. Margaret did not question it as they knelt, and then she turned to Caleb. Her smile, and her words, were casual.

  “It would be good if you offered the prayer.”

  Caleb smiled and nodded toward Adam. “He’s been the man of the house for quite a while. Maybe he should do it.”

  A stab of cold fear pierced Margaret’s breast, and Brigitte looked first at Margaret, then at Caleb, and dropped her eyes to stare at her hands clasped before her. Margaret nodded to Adam.

  “Your turn.”

  Adam bowed his head. “Almighty Father, we thank thee for delivering Caleb back to us . . .”

  The house was quiet when the mantel clock struck eleven, with Caleb seated in a large upholstered chair before the hearth, head leaned back, staring into the blue and yellow in the glowing embers of the dying fire. He was stocking-footed, still in his street clothes. He heard the whisper of woolen slippers in the hallway of the bedroom wing of the house and watched his mother enter through the archway, white in her nightshirt, hair in a single braid down her back. Without a word she sat in the chair to his right and for a time stared into the fire.

  She broke the silence.

  “A lot to think about?”

  He slowly nodded his head but said nothing.

  “Matthew needs to talk with you. Something about the slaves and money.”

  “I know. I’ll talk with him tomorrow.”

  “You haven’t seen his son. John Matthew.”

  Caleb’s face softened. “No.”

  “I can see your father in that little boy.”

  For a moment Caleb’s breathing slowed, but again he said nothing. In that instant Margaret knew she could not press him. Not tonight. She moved on.

  “You saw battle?”

  A look came into his eyes—a mix of defiance, and hatred, and pain, and Margaret thought she saw hopelessness.

  “Yes. I saw battle.”

  “Killing?”

  He nodded but held his silence.

  “It’s over. You’re home. Can you leave it behind?”

  “Some of it. Maybe. I hope so.” He fell silent for a moment, then went on. “Is Billy home? Is he all right?”

  “He’s home. He’s fine.”

  Margaret took a deep breath. “Be patient with us. For nearly six years we haven’t known if you were dead or alive. We need to know about those years.”

  Caleb turned to look into her face. “I’ll try. You be patient, too.”

  “We’ll try.”

  She stood and for a moment she looked down at him, and then she turned and walked from the room. It was past midnight when Caleb opened the door to peer outside. The snow had stopped, and the half-moon was a blur behind thinning clouds. He returned to the parlor to quietly bank the coals in the fireplace and silently went to his room.

  It was three o’clock in the morning when Margaret’s eyes opened and she lay still, searching in the black of her room for what had awakened her. From down the hall came the soft sounds of mumbled words, and she rose to put on her slippers and walk down the polished hardwood floor to Caleb’s room. He was talking in his sleep. She listened intently for a time, but could make out only one phrase that was repeated many times. “ . . . watch the left flank . . . watch . . . left flank.”

  She stood in the dark hallway for a time, waiting for him to shout and come out of his bed fighting a battle that existed only in his mind, but the mumbling faded and died, and she went back to her bed.

  At half-past seven, the morning prayer and breakfast were finished, Caleb had cleared a path through the snow to the front gate and out into the street, and Prissy was drying the last of the morning dishes. Caleb came from his room in his heavy coat and paused at the kitchen archway.

  “Will Matthew be home?”

  Margaret shrugged. “I think so. You going there?”

  “Yes. Business. Nova Scotia.”

  “Dinner’s at one o’clock.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  The wintry sun was half-risen on a white Boston that was surprisingly warm, with the sound of water dripping and running from melting snow and icicles. Caleb walked the path to the gate, out into the street, filled his lungs with clean cold air that carried the salt tang that reached as far back as his memory could go, turned to his right, and walked briskly up the street with the snow crunching. He turned in through the gate of the Thorpe home, to the front door, and knocked. Seconds later the door opened and Matthew stood before him. For a moment neither moved and then Matthew reached to embrace his brother and draw him inside.

  “Are you all right? Eighteen months. I was getting worried.”

  Caleb grinned. “Fine.”

  Matthew turned. “Kathleen, come see who’s here.”
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br />   She appeared in the kitchen archway in her heavy nightshirt, tall, dark hair a tumble on her back, and in her arms she held John. She stood still for a moment, threw her free hand to her mouth, and exclaimed, “Caleb! Caleb! You’re home. We’ve been so worried.” She nearly ran across the parlor to throw her arm about him and he held her, and she backed away to look at John, her eyes glowing with pride and love.

  “Caleb, meet your nephew. John Matthew.”

  Caleb stared at the sleepy-eyed two-year-old in his nightshirt, hair awry, one arm about his mother’s neck, and the boy stared back at Caleb with the frank look of a child suspicious of a total stranger. Then the boy leaned his head over against his mother’s cheek, and reached to hold her while he glanced alternately at Caleb, Matthew, and Kathleen, unsure whether he accepted the man standing before him.

  Matthew smiled and Kathleen laughed. “He doesn’t know you. Give him a little time. He’ll be in your lap going through all your pockets.”

  Caleb reached to touch the boy’s arm, and John shied away. Caleb shook his head. “He looks like Father.”

  “More every day.”

  Matthew said, “Take off your coat. Have you had breakfast?”

  Caleb rounded his cheeks and blew air. “Yes. I think those women at home intend feeding me to death.”

  Kathleen laughed. “I have to go take care of John. Maybe you two could use the library.”

  The two pushed through the French doors into the chill, dark-paneled library, and Matthew went to the stone fireplace where he used flint and steel to strike sparks into shredded linen, then blew lightly and added slivers, then sticks, until the fire was crackling. The two brothers sat in upholstered chairs near the hearth, hands extended, palms turned outward toward the fire while the room warmed.

  Matthew asked, “When did you get in?”

  “Last night.”

  “You’re all right?”

  “Good.”

  “You had trouble with the Africans? It’s been eighteen months.”

  “No trouble.” He paused for a moment. “Took them to Nova Scotia.”

  Matthew straightened, incredulous. “Where?”

  “Nova Scotia. Couldn’t find a place for them down here.”

  “Who took them in?”

  “No one. We kept four of the wagons and teams and sold the other six and used most of the rest of the money from the Dutch ship to buy some land. We built some barns and homes. They’re farming. I stayed long enough to be sure they could speak a little English and could survive a Canadian winter and turned them over to Primus. He’ll take care of them.”

  “He’s up there with them?”

  “Yes. I think he intends finding a ship that will take them all back to Africa. If he does, he’ll sell the farm to pay their passage.”

  Matthew slowly shook his head. “Seven years ago we declared that the Creator made all men equal, and we fought a war because of it. How is it we have to send Africans to Canada to keep them from being slaves?”

  Caleb stared steadily into the fire, and his words came quiet and deadly serious. “Seems like someone made a mistake. Either the Declaration of Independence, or the United States, or the Creator. Someone.”

  Matthew turned his head to his brother, eyes narrowed, glittering, and Caleb could not miss the sharpness in his voice. “Be careful. Rising above slavery doesn’t come easy. The Creator called out Moses, and it took him forty years.”

  Caleb shrugged it off, and Matthew took a new direction.

  “Do you have any of the Dutch money left?”

  “A little. About one hundred forty dollars in gold coin.”

  Matthew leaned back, speaking more to himself than Caleb. “What’s the right thing to do with it?”

  Caleb’s answer came instantly. “I got a look at the docks and some of the town yesterday coming home. Shipping firms closed. Court notices on the doors. The harbor and wharves half-deserted. Shops closed. Good men in the streets begging for work. That’s what I saw. Am I right?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “Is gold coin hard to come by?”

  “Nearly impossible.”

  “I saw Mother’s hands. And Brigitte’s. They’ve been working too hard. Are they bringing in any money?”

  “They trade work for food. I’ve been splitting their firewood and handling the Monday wash water.”

  “Are you bringing any money into this house?”

  “Not much. No.”

  “Billy?”

  “Same. Splits six cords of wood once a week for half a dollar. Trades work for food. Continental paper dollars are worthless. No one has money. It’s the same everywhere.”

  Caleb paused for a moment before he went on. “The banks? Can they be trusted?”

  “No. Too many are closing.”

  Caleb took a deep breath. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, the one hundred forty dollars goes into Mother’s money jar in the cupboard.”

  “It’s not our money.”

  “Where’s the Dutchmen we took it from?”

  “Gone. I’ve got the name of the shipping firm and the name of the ship. I could send it to them.”

  “Not if I have a say in it. Do you remember what we saw that day? Dead bodies in the sea. Dead men and women and babies in the hold of that ship. Sick. Starved. No light. No air. Up to their waist in seawater and their own filth! Those slavers getting rich and fat. You think I’m giving that money to them for what they did? No, it stays with Mother.”

  “You’ll have to tell her where you got it.”

  There was an edge to Caleb’s voice. “I will. It’s my pay for the past eighteen months of my life.”

  For a moment Matthew studied his brother’s face, then settled back in his chair and once again changed direction.

  “Do you have any thoughts about getting work?”

  “Is the newspaper shop still open? My old employer?”

  “No. Closed nearly a year ago.”

  “If you and Billy can’t get steady work, I don’t have an idea what I’ll do. Maybe have to leave Boston.”

  “And go where?”

  Caleb tossed a hand up. “I don’t know. Philadelphia. New York. Charleston.”

  “Philadelphia’s worse than here. New York the same. I don’t know about Charleston or other cities in the South.”

  “Maybe go inland. There has to be farmers or someone that needs to hire.”

  “I doubt it. There are a lot of men from the Appalachians and up north that have come here looking.” Matthew leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Caleb, this whole country is in trouble. We won the war. Now it looks like we’re going to lose the peace.”

  Caleb shifted his feet. “What are you going to do?”

  “Billy and I have been talking. Maybe there’s a way to get a shipping firm. He runs the office, I run the ships. If we can get the ships, then maybe there’s a way to get a cargo to go down south, and one to bring back up here.”

  Caleb shook his head. “Buy the cargo? With what?”

  “Not buy. Find someone willing to pay us to carry it. There are merchants here and north of here that have manufactured goods they’ll sell at cost, just to get their money out of them. Same with some merchants down south. If they’ll both cooperate, we can take the manufactured goods south, and bring rice or tobacco back. They get their money out of their goods, and we get our pay for the shipping.”

  Caleb stared at the floor for a moment before he spoke. “How far have you gone with this plan?”

  Matthew shifted in his chair, and Caleb saw the anxiety rise in him. “We’ve talked with the old Covington and Sons Shipping Company. Six ships. Good condition. I went over each of them. Been trading in Europe and India. Sometimes in China. They’re going to be taken by the bank or by bankruptcy if Covington doesn’t find a way to pay the loan. Covington wants to sell. They’ll turn all their assets over to anyone who’ll pick up the bank loan.”

  “How big is the loan?”

  “Just under
sixteen thousand pounds British sterling. Far below the value of six seaworthy ships.”

  A reckless grin crossed Caleb’s face. “You got sixteen thousand pounds British sterling in Mother’s money jar?”

  Matthew ignored it. “We talked to the bank—Billy and I. The bank has taken over so many businesses that couldn’t pay their loans that they’re willing to do almost anything to get rid of some of them at any price. The bank doesn’t want Covington. We made them an offer.”

  “What offer?”

  “Billy and I both have the written promise of Congress to pay our last two years’ officer pay. We offered them those notes at full value, and agreed to pay the balance of the loan within eight years.”

  “What did the bank say?”

  “They want time to present it to their full board.”

  “If you can’t pay off the balance in eight years?”

  “We think we could sell four of the ships if we had to and get enough to nearly pay off the bank. We told them that. They’re considering it.”

  “Trade with Europe is risky. The Atlantic’s a big ocean. Too many ships never return.”

  “We won’t trade with Europe very much. We’ll do our shipping up and down our own coast.”

  “Someone on the French ship that brought me here said the British have stopped all trade between the West Indies and the United States. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Won’t that cripple your ideas on shipping?”

  “We won’t trade with the West Indies. We’ll trade with legitimate merchants on the mainland.”

  “And if the legitimate merchants smuggle your merchandise into the West Indies for big profits?”

  “If we know about it, we’ll stop dealing with them.”

  “Sounds to me like a lot of smugglers and pirates are going to get fat running merchant ships past the British gunboats at night while legitimate shippers go bankrupt.”

  “Probably.”

  “Dangerous. You going to mount cannon on your ships?”

  “Not if we can avoid it.”

  For a few minutes Caleb stared into the fire, carefully going over the pieces of the plan, and then he turned back to Matthew.

  “I don’t think I ever heard such a loose plan. Any chance it will work?”

  Matthew leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, rubbing his hands together slowly, staring at them.