Tatts was a fascinating place where a man could never be bored if he had the smallest interest in horseflesh. The people alone who gathered here daily were a true representative cross-section of London Society from bookmakers to lords and dukes, who all considered themselves 'men of the turf'.Urchins dashed about taking orders for food, shouting their Cockney slang so rapidly, you had to have a quick ear and an agile brain to grasp their meaning. Nicholas stopped a boy and handed him a couple of shillings. "Get me a meat pie and a glass of beer."
The boy touched his cap. "Right ye are Guv, a smack in the eye and a pig's ear, comin' right up!"
In less than two hours Nicholas saw his horse being led into the sale ring, and was about to press closer into the gathered crowd to listen to the comments and the bidding, when two large constables in their Robert Peel uniforms came up to him.
"Are you Nicholas Peacock?"
He looked the policeman in the eye and answered evenly, "I am."
"And did you put that horse up for sale today?"
"I did." Nick felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"In that case, I'll ask you to come along quietly," said the large man, casting a wary eye at Nick's wide-shouldered, powerful build.
"What is the charge, constable?" Nick knew well what the answer would be.
"Horse theft," said the man in threatening tones.
At that precise moment, Nicholas raised his eyes and saw Edward, Prince of Wales, watching him. For a split second he felt a relief at the presence of his influential acquaintance whom he'd played cards with only a few nights back. Then his hopes were dashed as the prince deliberately turned his back on him. Amusement glittered in Nick's eyes. "Put not your trust in princes," he muttered.
"What's that?" asked the Peeler.
"Nothing, gentlemen, nothing at all. I am unfortunately at your disposal." He bowed formally.
They handcuffed him and led him outside to a police wagon affectionately called a Black Maria.
Nicholas felt anger. This is some insane vindictiveness cooked up by that bitch, Lady Pamela and her greedy paramour. He'd left behind two of his own horses that together were worth ten times what the nag he'd taken was worth. Nick questioned his own wisdom as he bumped along in the wagon with the barred window. Perhaps he should not have come along quietly. Perhaps it would have done him a good deal better to have bolted, but he still clung to the ideals that justice would prevail, and a man was innocent until proven guilty.
The buildings of Newgate Prison formed a four-sided square The House of Session and Newgate Street abutted the College of Physicians and The Old Bailey. Nicholas found himself in Lord Shraftsbury's beloved prison for the night until he could be taken before a magistrate in the Old Bailey the following morning.
He was unceremoniously thrown into the common cell at Newgate, where the gaoler patrolled on a catwalk high above the cell. Nick realized it was a necessity. Any guard would have been killed by the rabble that resided in that befouled hole before the night was out.
The room was already crowded, and Nick surmised that by nightfall they would be packed in like rats. Drunks, prostitutes, thieves, and cut-throats were tossed together in the 'common cell'. An apt name, indeed. He knew it would feel like a lifetime before morning arrived and he was taken before the judge.
All his cunning came to the fore as one word drummed in his brain. Survival! Nick pushed his way into a corner and slid down with the wall against his back. All eyes were upon him, as he was obviously well-to-do and likely had money lining his pockets.
The sights of these dregs of humanity bothered Nick not at all, nor did he mind overmuch their touch as they brushed shoulders. The hardest thing for him to stomach was the stench. The cell was permeated with eons of urine and excrement, and the bodily odors of the great unwashed rose in a miasma that almost brought tears to the eyes.
The people about him smelled like rotting vegetables. He watched what happened to the weak ones. Young frail women were immediately stripped by older, larger and coarser members of their sex. Drunken men were instantly stripped and searched by those who had their wits about them, and men who found themselves here for the first time were cowed enough to submit to the hardened types who spent most of their lives passing in and out of the place.
Nicholas braced himself for the first assault, which he knew wouldn't be long in coming. A burly, thickset male, with no neck, and the look of a dockside brawler advanced in a threatening manner. Nick hooked his foot behind the man's leg and as he lost his balance and fell onto Nick, he caught him under the chin with an uppercut that sent him with a sickening thud against the flagstones of the cell floor.
Nick nursed his grazed knuckles and kept his eyes open. He saw a guard on the catwalk gesture toward him as he spoke to his fellow warder. Now Nick was being observed from above as well as below. His muscles bunched and he waited. His vigil wasn't a lengthy one. Two cell inhabitants formed a team and approached him from either side. He waited, crouched like a cat, then with a surge upward, he brought his knees up sharply into the groin of the first man, who rolled at his feet with pain. The second he took by the throat and smashed his fist into the large, bulbous nose, instantly covering the knave's face with his own blood.
The ironic part was that if they'd asked Nick for a handout, he'd likely have given them his last guinea with an amused curl of the lip. But lately too many people had decided to take from him what was his by right. The assaulted pair had simply picked on him at the wrong moment.
The two guards above, who'd been waiting for the toff to get dragged from his high horse, were disappointed, but clearly Nicholas saw their reaction and was forewarned. No one approached him the rest of the night, not even the drabs who knew he must have money in his pockets. He had clearly demonstrated that it was going to stay in his pockets, so they gave him a wide berth. They were well occupied most of the night as copulation was freely and openly indulged.
Nick's fit condition enabled him to banish sleep for one night, and in the morning when it was time for him to be taken before the magistrate, the two guards who took him from the common cell were ready for their bit of pleasure. In the long passageway they jostled him and loudly accused him of trying to make a break for it. Dutifully, they brought they billy clubs down about his ears.
Nick was ready for them. He elbowed one in the ribs so viciously, he'd carry the bruise for a month, while the other lost the only two teeth that remained in his head. But they had clubs, they wore hobnailed boots, and they now had their excuse.
The man they dragged before the magistrate was well-bloodied and beaten, but his spirit was undaunted. When Nickolas raised his head, the judge immediately noted three things about the prisoner in the dock. He did not smell, he was expensively clothed, and he had an air of authority.
A young solicitor stepped forward when the bailiff called the prisoner's name, and told the magistrate that his clients were charging the man with theft of a horse.
Without hesitation, Nicholas addressed the judge, "Your Honor, I should like a word with the prosecution, an' it please you."
"That would be highly irregular and out of the common way, but then I suspect you yourself are out of the common way. Permission granted."
The young solicitor, obviously a junior member of the law firm to which Peter Chetwynd belonged, approached Nicholas with a flicker of apprehension.
Nicholas minced no words. "Chetwynd obviously fears me enough to wish me out of the way. He does right to fear me. Once I tell the judge I am Lord Harry's son, he'll do no more than fine me and I have the means to pay that fine. However, if you withdraw the charge on condition the property is returned, I've signed aboard a ship for the colonies that sails tomorrow." The timber of his voice changed. "If that ship sails without me, I shall return to Peacock Hall, pull it down stone by fucking stone, and build a mausoleum for your learned Mr. Chetwynd." Nick smiled through his split lip. "You decide."
The decision was already taken.
Any fool could see Nicholas Peacock was dangerous.
As the portal of Newgate opened to release him, Nicholas pulled the collar of his blue jacket tighter against the icy winds that whipped along the bleak street, sending piles of litter spinning in circles about his feet. A deep frown creased his brow; he was not out of the woods yet. A growing apprehension filled him as he thought about his sea chest and the treasure it contained. With all speed he made his way back to the inn where he'd resided since arriving in London.
There was an immediate contretemps as the landlord had rented room number five to another patron. Nicholas was about to separate him from his breath when he caught a significant glance from Nell. He sat down at a table and she popped a pint down in front of him.
"Ooh luv, whatever 'appened to yer poor face?"
"Nell, for God's sake, do you know the whereabouts of my sea chest?"
"I 'ave it safe," she whispered. "That bleedin' swine wouldha' pawned it if he'd clapped eyes on it."
Nicholas let out a breath that left him almost weak.
"What the 'ells in it? I could hardly drag it to me room."
"Gold." He laughed, then winced as the lip broke open again.
"I'll believe ye; 'thousands wouldn't! Ye'll find her greatcoat on me bed. I used it to keep warm last night." She hesitated a second. "There's no chance ye can stay tonight?"
He shook his head. "This is goodbye, Nell. I'm going aboard today, before anything else happens."
She gave him her room key. "Yer stuff's in the room at the end of the 'all. Good luck Nick; I'll miss ye."
Up in her room he washed and dried himself on her meager towel. He donned the warm greatcoat, then unpadlocked the chest to make sure everything was still intact. He took one of the blankets he had purchased and laid it across the foot of the small iron bed, then he shouldered the trunk and headed for the docks. His spirits lifted with each step he took. Things can only get better.
Nicholas loved the sea. It had a balm that was healing to his soul. At first, he found the work backbreaking and fell exhausted into his hammock at night, but as his muscles toned and his appetite increased, the work became easier and easier for his toughened body. His resolve toughened as well. Never again would he be taken for a fool. In time he would build his own empire, and none would dare take it from him.
Nick celebrated Christmas and his twenty-second birthday in the Azores and reveled in the brilliant sunny days. He listened avidly to stories of America, where he was heading.
On the long night watches he talked with the other men and asked questions of everything from the land, to the food, the climate, and the way of life of the people of the South.
By the time they made port in Bermuda in early January, Nicholas was tanned a deep mahogany, and his shoulders were a few inches broader. He resembled a bronzed god with turquoise eyes; a startling contrast against his dark skin.
When he reached the Port of Charleston, he was excited to experience for himself the richness and color of his chosen land. Nicholas was enchanted. He found himself totally captivated by the languid pace of life, the grinning black faces, and the never-failing sunshine, warm even at the beginning of February. He soaked up and absorbed every detail like a sponge, ever thirsting for new sights, and smells, and tastes to savor.
From the day he saw his first planter mounted on a Thoroughbred arrive in town, followed by his elegant wife and daughters in their carriage, who in turn were followed by a wagon-filled with their black servants, he knew what he was going to be. Deep down inside he believed that slavery was wrong, but here in the South it was an accepted way of life, and when he thought about it, he acknowledged that it was much like the landed aristocracy of England.
It suddenly came to him that he was wasting valuable time. It was as if he emerged from a dreamlike trance that had held him spellbound. From this moment on I will make every minute, every action, every thought count for something.
Nicholas got into a friendly game of poker, just to learn the ins and outs of the game. Blackjack, he discovered, was his beloved vingt et un, and he was delighted that these Southern gentlemen loved to gamble as much as he did.
By the third evening in Charleston, he'd won a horse and a body servant. He felt ambivalent about owning a slave, especially when the ownership paper was made over to him, and he saw in black and white, so to speak, that the man known as Samuel, approximately thirty-five years old, was now the property of Nicholas Peacock.
Samuel was a pleasant-looking man with a high head and an unceasing supply of dignity. He was slim and straight and had a distinguishing touch of gray upon the tight wool of his head. His nose was thin and hooked, and he looked down it often.
Nicholas soon discovered that Samuel was going to be one of the most significant encounters he would make in his life. He was a never-ending surprise. He knew everything that was worth knowing about everywhere and everyone. He had spent his life in the homes of rich Southern families, where gossip had been a way of life. Nicholas was amused to discover that Samuel was an unmitigated snob, who looked down upon no-account white trash, field hands, house servants, et al.
The two men formed an instant bond with a strong rapport, and amazingly they had no trouble understanding each other. The crisp, clean phrases of the Englishman acted as counterpoint to the soft drawl of his man-servant, and Nicholas had the distinct impression that Samuel owned him rather than vice-versa.
Nicholas had only to voice a desire and Samuel took over and brought the desire to fruition. Nick remarked that he preferred living in a house rather than a hotel room, so Samuel took him on a small walking tour to show him some houses that were being offered for rent.
They walked up Savage, a street that ran off on an angle from Tradd Street. Nicholas found the houses on Tradd so much to his liking that he was hard put to choose one. They passed the quaint Sword Gate Inn, which was number 111, and number 75 was a big three-story house with stables. Then Nicholas saw the one he wanted: Number 26 Tradd Street. It was a little pastel pink house set back from the others. The cobblestone street led up to three brick steps and an exquisite miniature garden with a ceramic cat climbing the garden wall. The house was tall and narrow with a tiny balcony on the second floor surrounded by iron railings.
Samuel haggled the rent, explaining that such negotiations were beneath the dignity of his master, who was a great English Lord.
"Samuel, my father was an English Lord, but I am not. Must you exaggerate?"
"Ah must, Masta Nick. Thass the way it's done." They exchanged conspiratorial grins and moved into the house. All was accomplished on credit. Not one red cent had been expended.
Samuel advised him where to conduct all his business, took him to the best tailor, and told him which bank to use. He never tired of offering Nicholas his sage advice. "Masta Nick, ah have observed in dis life that success depends entirely upon attitude. Start out as y'all mean to carry on. Ma formula is based purely on 'as if'. Act 'as if' y'all owned the world, an' someday, y'all will."
Nicholas was vastly amused and agreed with most of the things Samuel said. "My tastes are simple, Samuel; I'm always satisfied with the best."
"Masta Nick, thass the attitude, egzactly!"
Nicholas made no secret of the fact that he wanted land; as much as he could beg, borrow or steal, and with land actually going for as much as fifty dollars an acre in some areas, it was time to break out the peacocks.
The banker, Gabriel DuBose, a small Frenchman with delicate features, was immediately taken with the Oriental birds, and declared it would be tantamount to sacrilege to melt the birds down for their gold bullion. He assured his new client that given a few days he would be able to secure a buyer who would be willing to pay a price at least triple their bullion value.
Samuel stood behind his master, holding the art pieces with more arrogance than an emperor.
Nicholas agreed to let DuBose hold onto the peacocks in exchange for a receipt for their total weight. Each bird weighed sligh
tly more than twenty pounds, so his receipt was for six hundred and fifty ounces of gold on deposit.
As usual, Samuel's advice on where best to buy land proved correct. They would follow the River Ashley inland and buy somewhere between Charleston and the Capital of Columbia. Nicholas realized that the land would be much cheaper if it needed clearing or draining. He would need men and mules to clear the land and get in a crop for this year. From now on, when I gamble, I will only wager for mules or slaves.
When Nick received word from DuBose that he had a buyer willing to pay twenty-five thousand dollars for the peacocks, he did not hesitate. Possibly he could have held out for more, but to Nicholas time was money and less a decent commission for the bank, he had received thrice their worth in bullion. He closed his eyes and silently thanked his brother Philip. Someday I will return the favor.
The next day Nicholas packed a mule and he and Samuel set out to find the chosen place.
Chapter Three
Amanda Virginia Jackson awoke the moment the first rays of sunshine filtered through her closed jalousies. She cautiously opened golden eyes and curbed her impatience to jump from bed and fling herself into the plans she had made for the morning. She knew one false move and all her fine plans would be crushed by the heavy hand of Mammy Lou who could almost see what went on clear inside Amanda's head, in her private, secret space. It was a constant game of cat and mouse to keep just one small step ahead of Mammy Lou.
Amanda's long black lashes that framed the unusual golden eyes swept down to her cheeks as she closed her eyes and feigned sleep the moment she heard the unmistakable tread of the old servant. She smelled the hot chocolate and freshly baked biscuits, along with the delicious aroma of cured ham, and her mouth watered in anticipation. She was aware that her young appetite was occasionally larger than was proper for a delicate and refined Southern girl.
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