‘You’ll hang for this, John Paul,’ O’Hare growled.
The Scot grinned. ‘Aye. You bring your warrant to Norfolk, Virginia, and watch me tear it into little pieces. And you too, O’Hare, if you’d care to come yourself.’
‘I should break his neck here and now,’ Harry said. ‘He calls himself an Irishman.’
‘’Tis not an easy thing, to have a death on your conscience,’ Paul advised. ‘Leave him to rot in his own guilt. Now move, boy.’
It never occurred to Harry to argue or disobey. He turned away from O’Hare, still carrying the armful of muskets, and ran to the head of the stairs. There he looked down, heart pounding; there seemed many more people in the taproom than when he had left it perhaps an hour earlier, and there could be no doubt, from the way everyone was looking at him, that noise from the fracas upstairs had filtered down.
But Paul was at his elbow. ‘Harragin, Smart, Lovelove,’ he snapped, and three of the men stepped forward. ‘We need to make haste,’ Paul said. ‘And have no pursuit.’
‘Aye-aye, Mr Paul,’ said the man called Harragin, and faced the crowd, hands resting on the pistol thrust through his belt. ‘You heard the gentleman.’
The men backed away. Paul felt in his pocket and threw a gold piece at the bar counter. ‘Drink my health,’ he said. ‘And make sure the lobsters do it too, when they come down. Come on, boy. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The crowd cheered and surged at the bar, while Harry followed Paul on to the street, the three sailors at their heels. On the dock opposite a manned boat waited, and seconds later they were pulling across the harbour towards an anchored brig, a two-masted vessel, square-rigged forward and schooner-rigged aft.
‘I’d drop those firepieces now, Mr McGann,’ Paul suggested. ‘In the drink would be best.’ He spoke coolly, and gazed back at the shore without the slightest evidence of emotion, although there was quite a hubbub coming from the inn.
‘I owe you my life,’ Harry gasped, obeying. ‘Mutiny was the charge against you, as I understand it,’ Paul remarked. ‘You struck an officer, they’re saying.’
‘There was provocation.’
‘There always is,’ Paul agreed. ‘I’m an officer.’
Harry gazed at him, mind spinning; he simply had no idea what was to happen next. ‘Then why did you assist me?’
Paul smiled, a rare lightening of the somewhat tense features. ‘These lobsters, and those who pander to them, irritate me,’ he said. ‘Besides, they’ve been speaking of you on the waterfront these last twenty-four hours. Is it true you held a two hundred pound anchor from staving your ship in while it was catted?’
‘It seemed the only thing to do, at the time,’ Harry admitted modestly.
‘But only you could have done it,’ Paul commented. ‘Here’s my ship …’ as they came into the shadow of the brig. ‘The Caroline Wind. My master stands for what I do: the devil with the lobsters. And he always has a place for good men. Will you ship with me, Harry MacGann?’ Once again, to hate or trust? Could he ever trust anyone again, after Black Jack O’Hare? But this man had just broken the law on his behalf, and risked his life to do so, whatever ulterior motives he might yet be concealing; for the moment he was the only alternative to the gallows. ‘Willingly,’ he said. ‘Although I’d appreciate knowing where.’
‘Virginia, first. Norfolk. We’ve some profit to deliver to our owner. Then we’re bound for the West Indies to load rum and molasses. There’s sun and flying fish. And profit.’ Harry gazed up at the ship. The very words made his blood tingle. And yet it was further distorting his life. ‘I’d hoped to take ship for home,’ he admitted.
‘I doubt that’s possible, right now. Or wise. There’s a warrant out for you. They’ll track you down, even in Ireland.’
‘And will they not track me down in Virginia?’
Paul tapped his nose. ‘But we don’t accept New England laws, or New England warrants, in Norfolk. Nor English ones neither. Them least of all.’
‘It seems to me,’ Harry commented. ‘That there are parts of this country in virtually a state of revolution.’
‘That’s right,’ Paul agreed. ‘There are those of us stand for Freedom and the Rights of Man against tyranny. There’s a proud role, and in Virginia, we lead the field. Will you sail with me, to freedom, Harry McGann?’
He had no choice, because Paul was right; Bartlett would know where to find him if he returned to Tramore, and his presence there could well involve his family in his disgrace. His best course would be to disappear for a while — beside, now he could write a letter and reassure Ma and Pa and Biddy that he was alive and well.
But it was what he wanted to do, anyway. ‘I’ll sail with you, Mr Paul,’ he said. ‘Wherever your fortune takes you.’
*
‘He got away?’ Josiah Bartlett stood in the middle of his hallway, hands on hips. ‘From four armed soldiers? That is impossible.’
‘You’d think so,’ James Passmore agreed, twisting his tricorne in his hands. ‘But he was aided by a Scottish brigand named John Paul.’
‘And where are they now?’
Passmore pointed in the direction of the harbour. ‘They’ve left. Paul is first mate on a Virginia ship, owned by a Norfolk man, William Jones. Both Jones and Captain Dowding are well known rascals as well. They all are, down there. It is a hotbed of sedition and discontent, Virginia. Ah, well, he’ll not be back in these parts for a while. There’s now a warrant issued against him as well.’
‘And can it not be served on him in Virginia? Are not all these colonies part of the same British Commonwealth?’
‘Maybe they’re all coloured red on the map, Mr Bartlett. But each colony is terribly jealous of its own rights, as you well known. It’d probably take a brigade of regulars to arrest Jones, in Norfolk. No, we must just bide our time. Meanwhile, what’s to be done about O’Hare?’
‘What of him?’
‘He claims the ten pound reward. He says he led the soldiers to McGann, and cannot be blamed if they then let him go again.’
‘Tell him he can go to hell,’ Bartlett declared. Passmore nodded. ‘Aye. It’s your money, Mr Bartlett. Well, I must be getting back to the ship, sir. Your health.’
‘And have you still no idea as to the scoundrel who set McGann free the first time?’ Bartlett inquired. ‘By God, I’d take the skin from his back. Indeed I would.’
‘I have no idea at all, Mr Bartlett. I’ve spoken separately with every man on board, and without exception each denies any knowledge of it. And you know something, sir: I believe them all. I’ve been at sea long enough to tell when a man’s telling the truth. A rum business, that.’ He looked past his employer at Elizabeth, standing at the head of the stairs to overhear them. ‘A rum business, to be sure. Good day to you, sir. Miss Elizabeth.’ He put on his hat and left.
Bartlett gazed at the closed door for several minutes. ‘Now what the devil did he mean by that?’ he asked himself, and turned. ‘Eavesdropping, miss?’
‘I am glad Mr McGann got away, father,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You did a wicked thing in condemning him to death. We owe him our lives.’
‘And that gives him the right to behave as wantonly as he pleases? You’d start making the laws now, would you, miss? He may have saved our lives, but it was his he was thinking of. And now he bears a grudge. You’d have him come back here with murder in his heart, is that it?’
‘He’s not like that, Father.’
‘As you should know, eh? You never did tell me the truth about what you were doing on deck that midnight.’
‘I wished to speak with him,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I wished to befriend him. Perhaps … perhaps I may have given him the mistaken idea that I wished more than that.’
‘Perhaps, by God!’ Bartlett shouted. ‘Perhaps you did. Perhaps …’ he pointed at her. ‘A rum business, by God. Passmore said that. Looking at you. Oh, indeed, admit it, you scarlet hussy. You went to him in the middle of the night, and you set him fre
e. You betrayed your own father.’
Elizabeth inhaled, deeply. ‘I did not betray your father. But I did set Mr McGann free. I could not see him hang.’
‘And what did you and he do, before he left the ship?’
‘Why, nothing. We … kissed goodbye.’
‘Kissed?’ her father shouted. ‘And did he leave you a maidenhead?’
‘We kissed,’ Elizabeth repeated, firmly. ‘By God, you little whore. Think yourself all of a woman, eh? But you are still a little girl, and I am still your father. Into that bedroom with you. Kneel. Skirts up, by God! I am going to turn your ass redder than a cherry.’ Elizabeth hesitated, then sighed, and turned to obey. She shared a peculiar relationship with her father, one which had grown in the eight years since her mother’s death — and it was something she valued above the understanding that he was her only worthwhile relative: those left in England were simply too far away and too different now to be regarded as more than strangers with the same name. Father had cared for her and educated her; in return she had loved him and now managed his household for him, young as she was. More important than anything, she understood him. If he varied hugely between genial benevolence and moods of almost savage misanthropy, she knew the latter was the result of sheer loneliness, accentuated by his almost incestuous love for her. And this too was easy to understand, simply by glancing at the portrait of her mother which hung above the mantelpiece in the parlour; Adelaide Bartlett and her daughter could have been twin sisters. Thus her father pined, and alternately adored and abhorred, and when he chose to lay into her with his belt it was sheer frustration at being unable to woo her himself. Yet she loved him more dearly than any human being she had ever met. And she respected him, for his honesty and his belief in the rule of law, in the glory that was the British Empire and his reverence for the established order of things, just as she knew that he would never actually harm her in any way and indeed was, most of the time, a wonderfully kind and thoughtful man.
But also a jealous one. And it was she who had broken one of those precious concepts, the rule of law, to aid a man who had then made advances to her. She was utterly guilty, even if she regretted nothing of what she had done. Yet she knew she must suffer, and perhaps needed to suffer. So she knelt on the floor, her face buried in her pillow, her skirts gathered round her waist, and winced at the blows, and chewed her lips to keep from weeping, and wept, and waited for his anger to dissipate itself, and for her bedroom door to slam as he hurried away in shame at his own outburst. Then she slowly and painfully got up, and went to the window. From here she overlooked the harbour, and could watch the ships coming and going. A vessel was standing out of the East River now, under full sail. She would not of course be the Carolina Wind, which had departed the previous day. But she could have been, and the Carolina Wind, now probably a hundred miles down the coast, would look very like her: they were both brigs.
Would Harry McGann be standing on her poop, looking back at New York, and remembering? She hoped he was. Just as she hoped he would come back, some day, although howhe would be able to manage it after having resisted the redcoats was beyond her comprehension. Yet she knew he would. He was that type of man.
And was he her type of man? He was actually nothing but an Irish peasant. The Bartletts came from land-owning farming stock, in Sussex, and her father considered he had left even that solid base far behind. And intended to leave it further. He was already a wealthy man, and his wealth was growing. Supposing he ever did let her marry, it would only be to someone in a class to which he still aspired, not from which he reckoned to have risen — much less a class below even that.
Gently she rubbed her bottom, whistling through her teeth at the soreness. Harry McGann had touched her there, and he would have touched her in many other places, had she allowed him to do so. Her nipple. She stroked it herself, and her breathing quickened. He had been so gentle, for all his size, and all his strength, strength which she had watched used to advantage more than once. Oh, Harry McGann, she thought. Because were she ever going to love anyone after Father — or despite Father — it would be Harry McGann. She was absolutely sure of that.
*
‘Well, my Irish hero, what do you think of St Eustatius?’ asked John Paul.
Harry stood at the rail to watch the Dutch island slowly dropping below the sharp horizon of the Caribbean Sea. He had not thought a great deal of the sunswept island. Or indeed of the entire Leeward Chain. The unceasing heat and the endless days of fine weather were all very well, but he found himself longing for the lushness of Ireland. Or New England? Yet this voyage had been one of the happiest of his life. On the Carolina Wind there were none of the passions and anxieties of the Spirit of the West. This crew was entirely American, save for himself, and if they respected their officers, they expected to be treated as men themselves — there was no cat-of-nine-tails on board this ship. And the officers themselves understood the relationship. Hence John Paul, First Mate, could pass the time of day with Harry McGann, foredeck hand, without any fear of loss of discipline, and the Captain himself, Abner Dowding, was not above mixing with his crew. Yet it was the personality of Paul which dominated the ship, which had caused no questions to be asked when he had brought a fugitive on board. He was no man to be crossed, Mary the prostitute had said. He was also a man of private mystery, clearly also a fugitive — although whether from law or love or merely life no man could tell — as well as a consummate seaman.
And someone to be liked? Or, even more, trusted? Harry thought so, could his reserve ever be penetrated.
Til swear it must be the busiest port I have ever seen, Mr Paul,’ he acknowledged.
‘It is that.’
‘And yet … no excise men? They could be making their fortunes.’
‘They are making their fortunes, Harry. By buying and selling at whatever prices the market can command, with no interference from the law. That is how we were all meant to live, boy. Do you suppose that all the rum and molasses in our hold was made in Eustatius? They grow hardly anything there except a little weed. This cargo originated in Antigua …’ he pointed astern of them to the south, ‘ … and St Kitts …’ he pointed south west; in each case the hills of the islands could clearly be seen. ‘And from various other English colonies. They have no more desire to pay duty than we do, so they send their goods, illegally to be sure, to the Dutch entrepreneurs, and sell them, and the Dutch in turn sell them to us. Again at a profit, to be sure.’
‘And you sell them … ?’
‘To the merchants of Norfolk and Charleston and Savannah, and even, occasionally, New York.’
‘And you can still make a profit?’
‘Surely,’ Paul explained. ‘Because we don’t pay duty either. You’re not afraid of a few revenue cutters, are you, Harry?’
‘They’ve been chasing me all my life,’ Harry confessed.
‘Aye, I suspected as much. Does it not show the stupidity of this German, George, and his addle-pated parliament? They enact these Navigation Laws, as they call them, which say that all goods arising in any English colony must be shipped back to England, on English ships, to have duty levied in England, before they can be shipped back to the colony which wishes to buy them. Why, do you realise that, legally, if we of Virginia wish to sell Virginian goods to Maryland, just up the coast, we are still required to send them to England first? There’d be no profit in that. So we smuggle. And King George spends vast sums on warships and revenue cutters, and arouses the wrath of an entire people, and gets hardly a penny back for it. Whereas if he’d let the trade go free, the entire nation would grow wealthier. Some of that money would have to rub off on the government.’
‘Only by imposing some other tax,’ Harry objected. ‘From what I’ve heard the crew saying, you Virginians are not about to pay any taxes at all.’
‘Not the way things stand at the moment. We get nothing from England save soldiers we do not want and Colonial Governors we want even less. We’re better off mana
ging our own affairs. If the king wants our money, then he must grant us representation in his parliament, so that we can argue our case. To accept arbitarily imposed taxation would make us slaves. Oh,’tis a strongly held opinion, Harry. I had no time to show you around during our two days in Norfolk. When we get back this time, you will come to the House of Assembly in Richmond, and listen to the speeches there. We’ve some great men in Virginia. Mr Henry will stir your blood, boy. Oh, indeed.’
‘When we regain Norfolk, Mr Paul, I have a hankering to find that ship bound for Ireland. The hue and cry will be done by now, surely.’
‘Maybe,’ Paul said. ‘And you’ve no hankering for this life?’
‘Indeed I have. And I’d like to come back to it. But I’ve things to do at home, first.’
Paul smiled. ‘Like a girl, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
‘They’re no good, for a sailor,’ the Scot said, his smile vanishing.
‘And so you have no hankering to return to Scotland, ever?’
Paul stared at the sea. ‘A man must always hanker after returning to his birthplace, Harry. It’s in his blood. But whether he is ever wise to do so, now, that I doubt. Virginia is my home, now. I’ll lay my bones to rest there. If Davy Jones’ locker don’t claim me first.’ He straightened, frowning, his keen eyes searching the horizon, and as he did so there came a call from the masthead: ‘Ship ahoy, bearing east by south.’
‘Out of Antigua, I’ll be bound,’ Paul muttered.
‘Can she know our business?’ Harry asked. ‘She might. The meinherrs in Eustatius mentioned there was a Navy frigate in Antigua, and that’s a good sized ship.’ He hurried for the poop, where Captain Dowding was just emerging on deck, summoned by the hail. ‘We should set everything we have and run for it.’ Dowding levelled his telescope. ‘She’d still haul us down. She has twice our speed, John lad. And she’s Navy, all right.’
‘By Christ,’ Paul said. ‘It could be a hanging matter.’
Old Glory Page 9
