Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  “I doubt I ever heard of such a plan either.” He stopped working his hands and turned to Caleb. “The only thing that justifies it is the hard fact that neither Billy nor I can think of a better one. If you can, I’d like to know about it.”

  For a time Caleb did not answer, and then he spoke quietly. “A long time ago I worked for a newspaper that’s out of business now. And I’ve spent six years learning to kill or be killed, and taking Africans to a safe place. I can’t think of anyone who would hire me for what I’ve learned to do. So I doubt I can add much to what you and Billy have put together.”

  Matthew’s eyes fell for a moment. “If the bank decides to take the risk, it’s possible there would be a place in it for you.”

  “You’re the sailor. Not me.”

  “You can learn.”

  “That depends. In the meantime, maybe I’ll have to leave home. I can’t stay there and be another mouth to feed.”

  “One hundred forty dollars in gold coin will feed the family for a long time.”

  “A lot longer if I’m not there.”

  “That’s between you and Mother.”

  Caleb stood and stretched. “Well, it looks like I came home to a lot of surprises. Some bad, some good. Adam and Prissy’ve grown up. Your son’s a handsome little fellow. You and Kathleen seem happy. We’re all trying to figure out how to keep from starving to death. The whole country’s in trouble. Seems like if the war was all we thought it was, we ought not to be facing such a total disaster.”

  Matthew shook his head. “I know, I know. But we’ve got to remember, we still have the important things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Our health. Family. Freedom. We’ll find a way out of this. It’ll all work out somehow.”

  Caleb started for the French doors at the same instant they opened, and Kathleen entered with two glasses of buttermilk on a tray.

  “You two have been talking so long I thought you might need something cool.”

  Caleb glanced at Matthew and held up a hand. “Thanks, but I had so much breakfast I’m still full.”

  Matthew said, “Maybe some other time.”

  Kathleen caught the interplay between the men and a shadow of question crossed her face. “Is there something I should know?”

  Caleb shook his head. “No. I promise the next time I come I’ll be ready for buttermilk.”

  Kathleen shrugged, turned, and walked out the door, and Caleb followed. She went back to the kitchen as the two men walked to the front door where Caleb donned his coat and buttoned it.

  He opened the door to brilliant sunlight sparkling off endless snow crystals, and the sound of water running everywhere. He paused at the door long enough to turn to Matthew.

  “Let me know how things work out with the bank and Covington.”

  “I will.”

  Notes

  The desperate economic condition of the United States and the city of Boston has been explained and documented in preceding chapters. The characters and events in this chapter are fictional.

  Winter Hill is a small village on the west bank of the Mystic River, not far from Charlestown, across the Back Bay from Boston. See Freeman, Washington, map facing page 229.

  Boston

  December 19, 1783

  CHAPTER XIX

  * * *

  Thick fog rolled in like a curtain at midnight, followed by a twenty-degree drop in temperature at four a.m. By eight o’clock every rope, sail, mast, arm, and spar on the few ships in Boston harbor was sheeted with ice, and the skeleton branches of every tree in the streets and yards of Boston were sparkling as they drooped low with a thick coating of ice.

  Caleb pulled up the collar of his coat, thrust his hands in his pockets, and hunched his shoulders against the raw morning as he walked along the waterfront toward Griffin’s Wharf. Cold was one thing, and wet was another, and Bostonians could stand either. But when the two occurred together, the chill went clear to the bone, and even the hardiest of those in town bundled heavy and walked rapidly.

  He shivered as he picked his path on the treacherous ice that covered the docks, vapor rising in a cloud from his breathing as he worked his way through the few men working on the wharves. He kept his eyes left, looking for a tiny shop with a hastily made wooden sign that said something about printing. He did not expect it to be set back from the street, nor did he expect it to be on the door of what had once been a storage shed attached to one side of a fish packing house. He turned toward the unpainted door, then stopped long enough to glance forty yards up the waterfront to where a knot of bearded men in ragged coats had gathered near a ship tied to the dock, shouting at something that was happening inside their circle. He watched for a moment, then turned to the small wooden sign above the door with the words PRINTING—NEWSPAPER that had been scrawled in block letters with a large lead pencil. He pushed through the door and stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark of the cold, dingy room that was rank with the smell of printer’s ink.

  A rustle came from one corner, and he peered as a sparse man stepped toward him.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I heard you were trying to start a print shop, or a newspaper. Thought I’d see if you could use a hired man. I’ve had experience.”

  The tall, angular man shook his head. “Tried. It failed. Not enough business. I’m just getting the press and print ready to load. I’m leaving.”

  “Need any help loading?”

  “Sure, but I can’t pay. I’ll manage.”

  “Could I leave my name? In case you change your mind?”

  “Save the trouble. I’ll be out of here by tomorrow evening.”

  Caleb nodded. “Thanks, anyway. Good luck.”

  He walked back out into the freezing morning and closed the door and picked his way through the ice on the aged, black timbers to the front of the fish house where he slowed to study the uproar of the crowd of men to his left. Caleb turned toward them, and had gone half the distance when he understood. A fight on the docks never failed to draw a crowd, and two men in the center of the circle were settling a difference with their fists and knees. Caleb walked to the outer edge of the circle for a moment to look and listen, and was turning to leave when someone screamed, “A knife! He’s got a knife!” and the crowd shrank back, scattering. Caleb turned back, hands still in his pockets, and saw a large man, well over six feet tall and above two hundred fifty pounds, with a fish knife clutched in one hand, standing over a smaller man, reaching for his hair. The big man’s mouth showed traces of blood, and the smaller man, writhing on the ground, was bleeding from a badly broken nose, a deep cut above one eye, and a smashed mouth. The bigger man caught the blood-matted hair in one hand and started a stroke with the fish knife when Caleb shouted, “Hey!”

  The big man’s head jerked around to glare at Caleb, and the circle quieted as he bellowed, “You want to get cut too?”

  In that instant Caleb was seeing the last bully he had met—Conlin Murphy, who had beaten him unconscious six years earlier simply because Murphy was a vicious brute and Caleb was a gangling sixteen-year-old innocent. And he was remembering Charles Dorman, the man who saw the beating and spent a year teaching Caleb how to use his fists. In his mind flashed the day in June 1778, when Murphy again called him out in front of the whole regiment at Valley Forge, and he had battered Murphy to the ground, bloody, unconscious, and filled Murphy with a smoldering hatred and a vow to kill Caleb—and the day in the woods near camp when Murphy and two other men ambushed him. The desperate, two-minute battle left Murphy and one of those with him dead, and the third one running back to the commanding officer to tell a tale of murder. The court-martial had cleared Caleb of any wrongdoing, but left him with a history that included killing two American soldiers in a fight.

  It all came flooding to him as he stood peering at a big man who had beaten a small man and was ready to kill him with a fish knife.

  Caleb moved forward. “You’ve beat your man.
He’s down. That’s enough.”

  The man snarled, “Get away.” Again the knife started its downward stroke and Caleb broke for the big man.

  “Leave him alone! You’ll kill him.” He stopped five paces short of the two of them, peering first down at the smaller man, then up into the wild eyes of a brute lost in blood lust. Caleb moved his feet, balanced himself, and nearly shouted, “You use that knife on him, it will be murder! You’ll hang.”

  The big man lunged, and Caleb saw the knife coming up and shifted to his right and the knife missed and Caleb set his feet and swung hard with his left hand and felt the solid jolt clear to his hips and saw the man’s head snap back and blood spurt from his broken nose and he swung with his left hand again and hit the man hard over his heart and the man doubled forward and Caleb swung his right hand from his heels and hit the man’s temple just above his left ear and the big man went down sideways, sprawling on the icy black timbers and the knife went skittering fifteen feet into the crowd. Men moved away from it. Caleb straightened, feet spread, both hands ready, and waited, but the big man did not move. Caleb brought his breathing under control and straightened his coat and looked at the crowd, eyes blazing.

  “Anyone else want to get into this?”

  No one moved in the silence.

  “Any of you know either of these men, get them out of here.”

  A few men nodded and moved closer to the two battered men on the ground, but their eyes never left Caleb. He stood for a few seconds longer, then turned and started back down the waterfront. Those in front of him moved to open a path, and Caleb did not look in either direction as he walked away. He was fifty yards from the quieted crowd when he raised both hands to flex his cold fingers and look at his white knuckles. None was broken. He thrust his hands in his coat pockets and walked on, head bowed, struggling to regain his mental balance after the sudden, unexpected rush of brutality. He heard a high voice calling from behind, and turned. A small, hunch-shouldered, weasel-faced man with a scraggly beard, wearing a threadbare coat with a ragged scarf over the top of his head and tied beneath his thin jowls came trotting, watching his feet on the ice.

  “Hold up. Hold up.”

  Caleb waited. The man slowed and stopped six feet in front of him, breathing heavy, vapors rising in a cloud. He was grinning, eyes glowing from beneath heavy brows coated with ice. He pointed over his shoulder.

  “You done it now.”

  “Done what?”

  “Beat Judd! That big man back there. Waterfront bully. You beat him in front of everybody, and when you done it you took away the only thing he had and he won’t let it go. No sir, he won’t. He’ll come lookin’ for you. Yes sir, you done it now. Done it proper.”

  “Judd who? Who is he?”

  “Just Judd. Mean—worst on the waterfront. Crippled half a dozen men in fights. One died. Sheriff can’t do nothin’ about it because nobody dares talk against him.”

  Caleb looked at the man. “Why are you telling me?”

  The little man shrugged. “Figgered you should know so’s you’ll watch. It’ll be all over the waterfront by noon. He can’t stand for that. You better watch, ’cause he’ll come lookin’ sure.”

  Again Caleb was seeing Conlin Murphy—remembering the oath he swore to get his revenge for the beating Caleb gave him with the whole regiment watching—the ambush in the woods—two men dead. Would Judd become another Conlin Murphy? Would he? Caleb took a deep breath.

  “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  There was a sense of indifference in the man as he answered. “Loman. I’m nothin’. Live wherever I can. Mainly around the waterfront.”

  Caleb shook his head. “I can’t do anything about Judd. He’ll have to do whatever he’s going to do.” He turned to leave when the small, pinch-shouldered little man grasped his sleeve.

  “There’s a way to stop it.”

  “How?”

  “Challenge him to a fair fight. In front of the crowd. He’ll look like the coward he is if he says no, and if you beat him again, he’s finished. Either way, you’d be doin’ everybody on the docks a big favor.”

  For several seconds Caleb stood staring back up the wharf, caught in the agony of deciding whether he wanted to risk a reputation as a waterfront brawler, or walk the streets of Boston forever fearful of an ambush by a brute of a man with a fish-gutting knife in his hand. His mind settled.

  “I’m leaving.”

  The little man shook his head. “Too bad. There’s three or four cowards just like Judd that are always around him, feedin’ off him. They’ll come lookin’ for you. You won’t see them, but they’ll see you, and tell Judd. Watch! Too bad. Too bad. There was money to be had from all this.”

  Caleb shook his head as he walked away. The little man stood watching until Caleb turned into a narrow, crooked street that angled toward the Boston Commons and was lost from sight.

  Caleb walked to Fruit Street, then turned east to stop at the Red Rooster Tavern. He entered, waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and walked to the desk, facing a plump young woman with a scarf holding back her brown hair and wearing a soiled apron over her gray cotton dress.

  “Is Mr. Whalen in?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t own the tavern any more.”

  “Who does?”

  “Charles Penobscot. He’s not here right now.”

  “You in charge?”

  “I’m his daughter.”

  Caleb glanced around. It was near noon, and the tavern should have been half filled with men ordering their midday meal and drinking hot buttered rum against the cold and fog. Instead, there were only three silent men seated at different tables, each grasping a rum mug.

  “I knew Mr. Whalen. I grew up in Boston. I came to see if he could use a hired man. I can do most anything. Do you know if your father would have need? I’ll work for about anything he’ll pay.”

  The girl shook her head. “It’s just him and me. Unless we get more business we’re going to have to close or sell. Sorry.”

  Caleb nodded. “Thanks anyway.”

  He turned his collar high and hunched his shoulders as he walked back into the street and picked his way over the slippery cobblestones, working north and east. By one o’clock he had sought work from the owner of a bakery and a clock maker; neither could pay for a hired man. A little after one o’clock a freezing wind blew in from the Atlantic to set the bare trees in motion, rattling with the ice, and clear out the fog and set the ships in the harbor rocking against their anchor chains. By four o’clock Caleb had worked his way through the entire peninsula. Five other shop owners, including a silversmith and a gunsmith, had no need for hired help at any price. With the wind at his back, he faced into the twilight of a sun already disappeared, walking toward home when the thought came to him.

  Money? What did that wharf-rat say? Too bad, because there was money in that trouble this morning? Money? How?

  He puzzled on it for a time, head down, working his way through the narrow, crooked streets, and was crossing an intersection when he caught a flicker of movement to his left and he looked. There was nothing in the oncoming gloom of deep dusk. He turned left onto the street where the Dunson home stood, and walked on, watching, while lights came on in windows and curtains were drawn closed for the night. He was two short blocks from home when he again saw movement in the shadows to his left, and he broke into a trot. At the next corner he darted to his left, vaulted a white picket fence into an enclosed yard, and dropped to his haunches, watching everything coming from his right. Ten seconds passed before the black shape of a thin man came dodging from one tree to the next, running toward the corner, where he turned right. Caleb waited until the man had turned before he leaped the fence and sprinted.

  The man heard him coming from behind, spun, slipped on the slick cobblestones, went down scrambling, and had regained his feet when Caleb grabbed his coat collar from behind. The man threw up both hands exclaiming, “I have no money. No money.”<
br />
  His beard was a series of food stains, and he was wearing a filthy, patched coat, scarf wrapped about his head, old trousers, and shoes far too big for his feet. He smelled of sweat and smoke and rum and was trembling.

  Caleb seized the front of his coat and lifted him clear off his feet and backed him against a sycamore tree.

  “You’ve been following me for half a mile. Why?”

  “No, no, no!”

  “You’ve got five seconds before we go to the sheriff.”

  “No, please, no. Not the sheriff.”

  Caleb let the man’s feet settle to the ground. “Why were you following me?”

  “I meant no harm.”

  “Last chance. Why?”

  “I had to. Or get a beating.”

  Caleb recoiled. “Judd?”

  The little man was nearly whimpering. “Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.”

  “Where is he? Right now, where is he?”

  “Back at the dock.”

  “You go tell him. You found me, and I want to see him again tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Same place. Alone. Tell him, or I’ll come find you.”

  “I will, I will.”

  “Get your arms up.”

  The man’s arms went straight up and Caleb went through his pockets. There was no knife or pistol.

  “Get moving.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The small man pivoted and darted away and Caleb watched him disappear into the darkness. He stood where he was, watching, listening in the freezing wind until the evening star appeared in the east, and then he walked two blocks past home, turned to his right, and circled back through the streets. He stopped again at the front gate, watching and listening, and then walked quickly to the front door. Inside, he unbuttoned his coat and hung it on a peg, while Margaret came from the kitchen.

  “You’re late. I was getting worried. Hungry?”

  Caleb walked to the fireplace to turn his palms to the warmth. “I could eat.”

  “Pork stew all right?”

  “Good.”

  Margaret returned to the kitchen and Caleb heard the shuffle of dishes before she returned with a large bowl of steaming stew to set it on the table.