by Ron Carter
Tillotson gestured. “Sit down.”
Dulcey drew a chair to the front of the desk and slowly settled, still silent, still waiting. He was surprised at the subdued sound in Tillotson’s voice.
“With your education and experience, you know of the . . . ahhh . . . peculiar . . . predicament in which you now find yourself.”
Dulcey did not move nor speak. Tillotson went on.
“You are wanted for murder. I hold your life in my hands.”
Dulcey made no indication he had even heard.
“If we can . . ahh . . make the proper . . . arrangements, it is possible you can be much more useful here than stretching a rope in New Haven.” Tillotson stopped and slowly leaned forward, forearms on his desk, voice soft, eyes points of light. “Do you understand?”
Dulcey said quietly, “I can guess.”
Tillotson continued. “I have substantial business holdings here. And elsewhere nearby. Substantial. I have need of a man with your education and experience. There are business records—critical records—that must be kept, correspondence, agreements, contracts. And there is money—large amounts of money passing through these businesses.” He paused for several seconds, then continued. “It is all controlled by the office I keep here in Eastport. Am I making myself clear, Mister Dulcey?”
Dulcey nodded. “You are.”
“The office is small. Insignificant. It draws little attention. I will continue using it until someone takes notice of the . . . ahh . . . traffic that comes and goes, and makes an inquiry. When that happens I will simply close this office and move my affairs to any one of half a dozen other offices I have in other ports. Passamaquoddy—Lake Champlain—Lake Ontario—and as far west as Lake Erie. Do you grasp the breadth of my . . . ah . . . affairs?”
Dulcey cleared his throat. “I believe so, sir. Sizeable.”
“There are certain elements in my business that must be handled very . . . delicately. Cargo manifests—contracts—money—governments involved—all must be handled discreetly. A man with your education could be useful. Does this interest you?”
Dulcey looked down at his hands for several seconds. “Are you threatening me, sir? Either I do your bidding, or you turn me over to the local constable for trial at New Haven?”
Tillotson straightened in his chair, and there was mock surprise in his face. “Have I said anything about New Haven?”
“Not directly.”
“Nor do I intend to,” Tillotson exclaimed. He settled, and his tone became conciliatory. “Of course, you can see that if I have no need for you, I will have to surrender you to the local authorities. What I’m offering you is a chance to avoid the . . . ahh . . . unpleasant probabilities that might otherwise await you, and at the same time opening an opportunity for wealth and position. I see that as a decent, Christian thing to do for you. Do you agree?”
The thoughts flickered in Dulcey’s mind—Now—now—we make it or break it—now. His voice was even, his words spaced. “What is your proposal?”
Dulcey saw the spark come into Tillotson’s eyes as Tillotson answered.
“Take a position here in my Eastport office. Learn the business. Mister Driscoll will help train you. I will pay you full first-officer wages until you are competent. After that, there are other . . . compensations . . . we will discuss. Are you interested?”
Dulcey stared at the manifests on the desktop for a time with his mind racing—Do it right, do it right, do it right. He cleared his throat and spoke. “I will have to think on it.”
Tillotson drew and exhaled a great breath before he answered. “You have until this afternoon, when we finish exchanging cargoes with the Liverpool.”
By seven o’clock, with the morning sun risen, Dulcey was back at the main hatch counting crates coming out and barrels going in. The crews broke the steady rhythm of handling the cargo nets for their midday meal, then returned to the established routine. At four o’clock the last net of crates came from the dimness of the hold into the sunlight, and swung over the side to be lowered to the dock. Dulcey entered the number of crates on the manifest, added the figures for the two days of work, wrote down the total, and checked it against the number of crates that had been counted into the hold at Philadelphia. They matched. He signed and dated his entries and waited for the last net of barrels from the Liverpool. He counted them into the hold of the Mona, entered the figure, added the load, and signed and dated it. Then he walked down the gangplank and made his way to the Liverpool. He walked the gangplank up to her main deck, to her large center hatch, and had begun to descend into the hold when the voice of a bearded seaman came loud and challenging from behind.
“Stop where you are! You got no business down there. Who are you?”
Dulcey turned to face him. “Dulcey. From the Mona. I handled the count at her main hatch.” He held the manifests out before him, and the man took them. For several seconds he studied the figures, the totals, the signature, and handed them back.
“You still got no business down there.” He pointed to the hatch into the hold.
“Who are you?” Dulcey asked.
“Bos’n.”
Dulcey continued. “I want to see if any of our cases were damaged. Insurance. I need to know. For Tillotson.”
“No damage,” the man growled. “I watched.”
“Then you won’t mind if I go down. Come down with me if you wish. Won’t take five minutes. That, or I’ll have to tell Tillotson that you have refused me entrance.”
The man stared for a moment. “Tillotson’s orders? He never done that before.”
Dulcey shrugged. “All I can tell you is this is the first time I’ve kept the manifests for him, and I intend letting him know I checked both cargoes for damage. Insurance.”
Dulcey saw the reluctance in the man’s face as he said, “Follow me. Five minutes.”
Down in the hold, Dulcey quickly walked the narrow aisles between the stacked crates, jerked on some of the tie ropes that held them in place, counted rows and crates, made some mental calculations, and nodded to the bos’n, who was right behind him.
“Well done. Tillotson will hear about it.”
The man bobbed his head and started back toward the stairs leading up to the main deck when Dulcey paused for one moment and turned. He drew a slow breath, eyes closed, while he tested the air in the hold for the last time. The scent of rum was unmistakable. He followed the bos’n out onto the deck, nodded to him, then walked down the gangplank and on to the Mona. On deck, he approached Tillotson’s quarters, rapped on the door, and waited.
“Enter.”
Dulcey ducked to pass through the small doorframe and stopped before Tillotson’s desk.
“We’re finished. Here’s the record for the Mona. I checked the hold of the Liverpool. The gypsum we delivered was undamaged and well secured. I thought you would want to know. Insurance.” He laid the manifest on the desktop, and for a time Tillotson studied it.
“Very good. Very good.” He laid the manifest on his desk and leaned forward, eyes alive as he asked, “I need your answer. Are you interested in my proposition of this morning?”
Dulcey rounded his mouth and blew air. “Yes. I am.”
Tillotson stood and reached for his cape. “Shall we go visit Mister Driscoll at his office?”
It was not yet half past five when Tillotson opened the door to the small, austere, worn office of Bristol Lines, and the two men entered. There was a front counter, two desks, a potbellied stove against the wall on the left, an old, scarred, black safe in one of the back corners, and four filing cabinets against the wall on the right, all of them locked. The walls were bare except for an ancient, yellowed map of the coastline of Maine on the wall behind the stove. Driscoll rose from his desk to meet them at the counter, eyes searching for the manifests. Tillotson handed them to him and was unbuckling his cape as he spoke.
“This is Robert Dulcey,” he said. “He’ll be with us for a time.”
Driscoll reache
d to shake Dulcey’s hand while the two exchanged perfunctory greetings, and Driscoll made a noticeable appraisal of Dulcey. Tillotson went on.
“Mister Dulcey is a Harvard-trained navigator. Knows ships and commercial shipping. He’ll be here in this office while he learns the business. You will train him.”
Driscoll’s mind was running—Harvard—navigator—what’s he doing here?—what are they not telling me?
Driscoll turned to Tillotson. “All of it? The entire business?”
Dulcey did not miss the implication, nor did he miss the fact that one wall was lined with four large cabinets, each under lock. It ran in his mind—too many cabinets—all locked.
Tillotson went on. “Start with the contracts and the various businesses we deal with. Later we’ll open the financial records. Am I clear?”
“Yes,” Driscoll answered.
Tillotson continued. “The Mona and the Liverpool will take on provisions tomorrow and sail the next day. Start Mister Dulcey with the contracts for those two loads. He can draw up the new manifests. Acquaint him with the customers who’ll be receiving those loads. Show him the records of some of our other customers. I’ll check on progress in about twelve days when I return. Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir.”
Tillotson turned to Dulcey. “Any questions?”
“What hours am I expected to be here?”
Driscoll answered. “Eight o’clock in the morning until six o’clock in the evening, except for emergencies.”
Dulcey asked, “Anything wrong with me being here evenings, after hours? Shouldn’t take long to understand your office practices if I can get some uninterrupted time.”
Tillotson looked at Driscoll, and Driscoll answered. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. I’ll give you some business records. Confine yourself to them.”
It flashed in Dulcey’s mind—There are some records you don’t want me to see? He spoke to Tillotson. “Do you want me to stay with the crew on the Mona while she provisions?”
“No. Report here to Driscoll at eight o’clock in the morning. For now, go back to the Mona for the night. Tomorrow morning after mess you come here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tillotson watched him close the door and listened until his footsteps faded before he turned to Driscoll. “He’s wanted for murder in New Haven. You watch him while I’m gone. If he tries to get into any of the money records or the names of the people we’re dealing with, don’t ask any questions. Shoot him. Then get the local constable and tell him you’ve killed a felon who was burglarizing this office, and he’s wanted for a murder in New Haven.” He paused for a moment, then spoke forcefully. “If he gets those records, there’s no end to what he could do. Extortion—bring in the authorities. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Watch like a hawk. If this all goes wrong, you’ll answer to me.”
Driscoll nodded, and Tillotson turned on his heel and walked out.
Lamps and lanterns were winking on when Dulcey arrived at the Mona. He went down into the galley to take evening mess with the crew, then sought his hammock to lay quietly, lost in thought until a seaman blew out the last of the lamps. More than an hour later he pulled off his trousers and shirt, reached for his blanket, and closed his eyes.
Dawn was breaking when Dulcey finished the morning mess of fried sowbelly and scrambled eggs, swallowed the last of his hard brown bread, and returned to his place in the hold. In minutes he had all his belongings stuffed into a seaman’s bag and had it slung over his shoulder. He climbed the stairs into the full sunshine of a clear, cold day. Five minutes later he pushed open the door of Bristol Lines and found Driscoll at his desk, quill in hand, hunched over a great ledger, making entries from an open file. The two exchanged brief, sterile formalities of a greeting, and Driscoll hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Put your bag back there behind the cabinets.” He tapped papers on his desktop. “There’s the forms and numbers and the names of customers you’ll need for the manifests Captain Tillotson needs before we close tonight.”
Dulcey stowed his seaman’s bag behind the filing cabinets and returned to Driscoll’s desk. He picked up the papers, recognized his own accounting from the Mona, checked the figures from the Liverpool accounting, glanced at blank forms waiting to be filled out, and gestured toward the other desk near the stove.
“Can I use that desk?”
Driscoll shrugged and said nothing as he continued transferring information from an open file to the great ledger. Dulcey sat down at the desk, separated the papers, studied them briefly, and reached for the quill and inkwell to his right. He checked the papers once more before he began the task of preparing the two new manifests that could be required at the port of destination, and as he methodically entered numbers and weights on the papers, he was carefully memorizing the names of customers, the ports where they maintained offices, and how much of the cargo was to be delivered to each.
Andrews Ltd.—New York—eighty barrels Spanish produce—Stearns & Stearns—Philadelphia—Two hundred twenty barrels Spanish produce—LeBlanc Corporation—Quebec—two hundred cases gypsum—Dearborn Ltd.—Montreal—one hundred sixty cases of gypsum—gypsum going north on the Liverpool—Spanish produce going south on the Mona—Spanish produce in barrels with bungs?—coming from a ship that reeks of rum?—Spanish produce doesn’t come in barrels, it comes in crates.
At noon Dulcey walked out of the office and west on the waterfront to a tavern with a sign declaring it to be the White Gull. He ate his midday meal of baked cod and potato and paid one week’s rent for a small room on the second floor, then returned to the office. It was midafternoon when Dulcey leaned back, rubbed tired eyes with the heels of his hands, stood, and took the papers to Driscoll’s desk.
“Here’s the new manifests for both ships. Mona and Liverpool. Should I deliver them to Captain Tillotson?”
Driscoll took the documents and placed them in a file on his desk. “He’s coming here later. He’ll pick them up.”
“Anything else I can do?”
Driscoll pointed. “Take those files. The ships should be here sometime tomorrow. They’ll exchange loads. You prepare the new manifests.”
Dulcey nodded, picked up the two files, and returned to his desk. He had just sat down when the front door opened and a small man dressed in a worn woolen coat walked in, glanced at Dulcey, and delivered a sealed envelope to Driscoll. Driscoll opened it and laid the enclosed papers on his desk, and the man turned on his heel and walked back out the door. Dulcey looked at Driscoll, waiting for an explanation, but Driscoll remained silent and continued work on his ledger. Dulcey went to work on the two new files, and half an hour later he laid the second file down and leaned back in deep thought.
Gypsum again? Going north? India tea? In barrels? Going south?
He flinched at the sound of the door abruptly opening and turned to see Tillotson close it and walk rapidly to Driscoll’s desk.
“Are the manifests for tomorrow ready?”
Dulcey stood and walked to the side of Driscoll’s desk and watched Driscoll hand the two prepared files to Tillotson. “Here they are. Ready.”
Tillotson studied them for a time, then closed them and turned to Dulcey. “Do you know about the next two ships coming in? Two days?”
“I’ve seen the files.”
“You’ll have them ready?”
“Yes.”
“Any questions?” Tillotson’s eyes were focused, intent.
Dulcey shrugged casually. “None yet.”
“I’ll be back in about twelve days. Driscoll will give you what you need.”
Dulcey stood beside the desk, arms folded, as he watched Tillotson march out the front door and disappear into the jostle of men and cargoes on the dock. He turned to Driscoll.
“Any more papers I can work on?”
“I’ll get some.” Driscoll went to the filing cabinets and drew a ring of keys from his pocket to
unlock one of the drawers and draw out four files. “Here,” he said, “study these. They are some of our regular customers. Get familiar with them. There are more.” Dulcey took the files and turned to his desk, glancing back only to watch Driscoll thrust the keys back into his pocket and take his seat at his own desk.
Dulcey sat down, opened the first of the four files, and began the task of analyzing the papers. One hour later he laid the last of the four files on his desk and for a moment organized his thoughts.
Four separate companies, four different names—Peterson, O’Neil, Hoffman, Schaffer—all operating out of this office. India tea, Spanish produce, dried French fruit, Moroccan dates—all packed in medium-sized barrels with bungs in the lids—all being shipped south of here—New York—Philadelphia—Yorktown—Charleston.
He drew a deep breath and considered.
Pennsylvania gypsum. New York gypsum. Vermont gypsum. Packed in crates that vary from eighty pounds to one hundred eighty pounds. All going north. St. Andrews—on up to Quebec—Montreal—as far west as Kingston.
He stretched and settled, then glanced at Driscoll. He was hunched over an open file with one finger tracking information, while his other hand was making entries in the thick ledger. Dulcey gathered the files and walked to Driscoll’s desk.
“Any others I should see?”
Driscoll started at the interruption, grunted, and pointed. “Right there.”
They both turned their heads to look as the door swung open, and a hunch-shouldered man bundled in the garb of a seaman entered. He walked directly to the two men and stared at Dulcey while he laid a sealed document on Driscoll’s desk. Insantly Driscoll picked it up, but not before Dulcey saw the name scrawled on the envelope. “M’sieu A. Tillotson.”
Dulcey’s thoughts ran. Second one today—French—who are these men?
Driscoll pointed to the two files on the corner of his desk. “Don’t forget those files you asked for.”
Dulcey nodded, picked them up, and walked back to his chair and settled in once again. For more than forty minutes the only sound was pages turning, the tick of the ancient clock on top of the nearest filing cabinet, and the muffled sounds of the traffic on the Eastport docks. Dulcey flinched when the clock struck six, stood, stretched, closed the file he was working on, and spoke to Driscoll.
