What Lies Buried: A Novel of Old Cape Fear

by Dewey Lambdin

  “But what ofjustice being done, sir? Surely …”

  “T’my lights, itjust was” Marsden declared. He held out the wide wings of his coat’s skirts to cup a cooling breeze off the Sounds, as trees and the standing crops began to stir, and the harsh sunlight was dimmed by darker, taller cloud heads. “We can’t do much tomorrow, a Sunday, but… day after next, I’ll convene a very public inquest, have ye, Swann an’ Captain Buckles testify. Save th’ damn flowers an’ gown ‘til then. Might even have Anne Moore in th’ dock an’ force her shameful doin’s to be known.”

  “Lay grounds for Osgoode to divorce her, you intend, sir. Hah!” Livesey said, seeing the need, and gaining new respect and admiration for the cagey old fellow.

  “Exactly what I mean t’do, sir, an’ Osgoode’s a damn fool does he not make hot haste o’ th’ doin’,” Marsden almost cackled in answer. “Biddy’ll be showin soon, an’ ’tis best th’ thing’s done so they can wed b’fore, not after. What, sir? Did ye not notice? Yer dear wife never gave ye this broad hint?”

  Marsden hooted, stroking his hand down his own little gotch-gut. “Some husband ye were! An’, the Cape Fear is shot of Anne Moore. She’ll never show her lyin’ face in these parts, again, an’ good riddance t’bad rubbish. Altogether, don’t ye conclude we’re doin’Justice main-well, Mr Livesey?”

  “I, ah … indeed imagine that we are, Mr Marsden!” Livesey agreed, after he’d gotten over his shock at that news. “Though … none of it bodes well for Harry’s—now Osgoode’s—faction. Nor for his law prospects.”

  “Well, th’ levellin’ faction’ll have t’lay low an’ sing small, fer a piece,” the wily older man said with a shrug as he took off his lace-trimmed tricorne to air out his scalp, too. “The powers-that-be in th’ colony will trundle along as they’ve always done, fer a spell. Mind now, Livesey, things will change. Sooner or later, all that poor Harry an’ Osgoode … an’ Thom Lakey, God rest his soul … worked for will come about. Oh, we call ourselves Englishmen, but sooner or later we must have more rights t’rule ourselves, an’ not stand hat-in-hand on word from London. Or th’ sorry pack o’ governors they send us.”

  “You really think so, sir?” Livesey marvelled.

  “I’d not wish ye t’come away from all this thinkin’ what I did was me bein’ King Roger Moore’s cat’s-paw. I’m not th’ barons’ pawn, no matter did they urge me t’settle things quick. What was best for us all, th’ peace o’ the region, was more my intent,” Marsden imparted with a sly wink. “As fer Osgoode, well … I ‘spect sympathy fer what Anne did behind his back’ll be more help than hindrance in his career prospects. Th’ whole world loves young lovers, an’ managin’ t’put th’ leg over Biddy behind Eachan MacDougall’s back is a feat worth a laureate’s ode in praise o’ darin’l”

  “Poor Georgina, though,” Livesey sighed, after a long moment.

  “Aye,” Marsden sadly agreed, looking as if he’d bitten into a green persimmon. “But … a year or two o’ grievin’, an’ it’s amazin’ what powers of recuperation th’ womenfolk own. None of it her fault, after all, an’ ever’body’ll be sympathetic … the womenfolk most especially … t’be th’ victim of a connivin’ two-faced man. Either way, she has Tuscarora, an’ set fer life. Good friends, carin’ kin …”

  She would feel burning shame, Livesey imagined, to have been a fool for Harry’s lifelong sham. God knew, he was! And once burned he thought she would be doubly shy of ever trusting a man again, certainly not a man like himself so closely tied to Harry Tresmayne, and Matthew Livesey felt a sudden, intense relief that Georgina would be so unapproachable of her own volition! That damnable dream was so unattainable!

  He could be a good friend, not a rival for Harry’s memory; his whole family could be a blessing, not a cringe-making burden—after a decent period of mourning, of course. Even then, there would always be an unbridgeable, unspoken-of gulf between them, and that Livesey thought both he, and she, could abide as nothing more than six)X)orúvz friends.

  “Damme, but Thom almost pulled it off, didn’t he, Livesey?” Mr Marsden said, marveling. “He’d been but a wee bit smarter, an’ he’d have been able t’brazen it out, no matter what evidence we discovered. But he was a ‘gone gosling,’ once ye set t’diggin.’ I do b’lieve that ye mighta missed yer callin’, sir. I expect I know yer political persuasions, but … Constable Swann needs replacin’. Lord, doesn’t \t,just! Come next by-election …”

  “I don’t see how I could, sir,” Livesey flummoxed, stunned by the suggestion of taking public office. “Though I thankee for thinking I might… ah …do better. My chandlery, though, our hopes of farming again, do we get a bit ahead. Never read at law, and … I might be too old to start,” he allowed with a soft laugh.

  “Law readin’!” Marsden scoffed. “Never did much meself’fore I become magistrate. Common sense counts more. Somethin’ t’keep in mind. Someone t’sit over th’ Slave Court, if just t’spare my pore ol’ bones a day’r two a week. Ponder on it, once we’re back t’normal.”

  “I will, I promise, your honor,” Livesey gravely said.

  “Damned if it don’t look like a good rain comin’, at that,” Mr Marsden commented, looking upwards again. “Thank God fer a new-tarred coach-top, fer it’s gonna be a gully-washer do we not get a move on.”

  They turned to see how things were progressing and saw Captain Buckles emerging from the house with a short, double-barreled coaching gun in his hands, Constable Swann with the damning gown and flowers re-bundled in its sailcloth … and Andrew Hewlett standing in the doors, his shoulders heaving, copious tears running down a face that was screwed up into a hideous death’s rictus.

  “He couldn’t have!” Andrew wailed, looking as if he wished for someone to run to for comfort—but none of them; not then.

  “Prob’ly can’t bring th’ body t’Saint James’s, Andrew,” Marsden muttered, looking bashful, of a sudden. “Him takin’ his own life, o’ his own hand, an’ all. S’pose ye’ll be layin’ Thomas t’rest, here? I could have th’ Rev’rend McDowell t’speak comfort with ye, though. Or, might ye have other plans …”

  “Bury him here!” Andrew shouted. “Where he’s safe! It can’t be so, what they told me! It’s a lie! He’d never …!”

  “Got anybody t’see after ye fer a spell, Andrew?” Marsden plugged on, anxious to get a polite duty out of the way and quickly finished. “Some folk t’stay out here, some folk ye might wish togoto… ?”

  “I have no one anymore!” the twice-orphaned lad accused them. “Damn you! Damn you all!”

  “You could come into town with us, Andrew,” Livesey offered as he fumbled with his own hat. “We could … you’d be more than welcome.”

  “Never with you, sir!” Andrew shot back. “Nor any of yours!”

  Andrew spun and dashed back into the recesses of the house, his curses lingering and fading as he dashed up the stairs and far away.

  Livesey heaved a great, regretful sigh. Andrew was a sweet boy, with a promising future—or had been. Now, no matter how blameless he had been in all this, there would always be that taint on him from his uncle’s crimes. Livesey looked into the magistrate’s eyes, as if in search of some answers, some solutions—but Marsden could but do as Livesey had: heave a bitter sigh, and toss his shoulders upward to Fate, or God’s will.

  They left the veranda, almost slinking shamefully down the wide stairs to the mid-landing, then the brick walk and into the coach,just as the pine tops began to lash and flag to a strong gust of wind from the Sounds, as a pall of storm-weather gloominess swept the skies dark, and Livesey could smell the fresh-water dampness of the rain, shiver as the temperature plunged.

  Andrew Hewlett, such a trusting lad … now blighted, Livesey sadly thought as they bustled into the coach, making a tight foursome once more. He supposed he’d have to break the bad news to Bess that Hewlett would have nothing to do with Liveseys the rest of his life.

  And there was Georgina a widow … Anne Moore blig
hted, too, of a certainty, and Osgoode and his rectitude, leadership of the faction, perhaps even his law practice blighted as well. Biddy? How would she be received in Wilmington, at Saint James’s? Another rumor of hot-blooded murder laid on her father Eachan MacDougall—no matter if they acquitted him as totally blameless, the rumor would stick, no matter where he drifted.

  “There were a few more things I’d have liked to ask Lakey,” he mumbled, half to himself, looking at Marsden. “For instance, how was he so sure …”

  “It’s over, Mr Livesey,” Marsden suggested, his eyes tight shut in attempted repose as the two soldiers boarded the postillion-bench and the coachee whipped up. “Over an’ done. Let it be.”

  Over? Livesey thought. It didn’t look, to him, as if it was even close to being over. The repercussions, the people scarred, the shame of it! The anger he felt for being so well-fooled most of his life—along with everyone else, which was no comfort to him—by a witty and clever dissembler who’d had no real affection for anyone but himself, well… that might be hardest of all to bear.

  No, this wasn’t over yet, he told himself. He imagined that he could hear a mourning bell tolling, one that could ring ‘til the next Epiphany, fifty Epiphanies, ‘til he and all his children were dead and gone, and would never quite cease its doleful echoes.

  With the hiss of waves rushing ashore on the barrier isles, the rain arrived, great dram-sized dollops that battered on the coach top like liquid hammer blows, seething and splashing in the fields beside the road and spurring the overseers into gallops for shelter, and the slaves to shambling runs for their cabins with their precious iron implements protected from rusting under their shabby shirts or aprons.

  And with their old master gone, would the mourning bell strike for them, too? What distress in dispersion might await them as well?

  Matthew Livesey laid his head back on the high leather bench on which he sat, one hand extended out the open coach window to be soaked by the rain. As Pontius Pilate washedhis hands, he sourly imagined.

  Cool, cleansing, sea-born, early-summer Carolina rain.

  Chapter 33

  MATTHEW LIVESEY bade his children as fond a goodbye as he could muster, levered himself down off his front porch, and stumped through the damp, sandy soil of Dock Street, in the brisk coolness of a workaday Tuesday morning, a little after sunup. He tugged down his waistcoat, shot his cuffs and peered about for taunting children or angry geese—wearing his “Publick Phyz” for the world to see, that of a respectable, upright gentleman, a credit to his family and his community.

  Thankfully, the few children present seemed strangely subdued, as somber as their parents surely must be since Mr Marsden, the magistrate, had revealed the identity of Harry Tresmayne’s killer at his inquest the morning before … and all the sordid details that accompanied that revelation, too. Wonder of wonders, even the most impish lads seemed awed to silence by his presence; though he doubted that would last.

  Livesey stumped along, head down in a bleak study, with no eyes for the Thoroughfare and the wharves and ships at the foot of Water Street, for a change. He felt no pleasure this day, for so much had been on his mind that he had barely gotten a wink of sleep once the truth had come out.

  Plans and contingencies, possible responses to the crises thrust upon him the last couple of days, the duties which must be borne with a willing Christian’s endurance, had put him in the “blue devils.”

  Biddy MacDougall to shelter, for one—’til Osgoode Moore ousted his wife, Anne, and laid a Bill of Divorcement with the General Assembly, complete with inquest testimonies and the approval of Rev. McDowell. And further convince that worthy minister to let them attend Services, even as non-communicants for a time, before McDowell performed a quick marriage ceremony … before the next Moore offspring was born “on the wrong side of the blanket”!

  Samuel, with help from that free Negro, Autie, and his Pap, would take a hired dray ‘cross the rivers today and fetch off Biddy’s things, some that would end in his house, or be stored at the chandlery for a while before Osgoode could move her under his own roof as a legal wife.

  A wedding to plan, which almost made Mr Livesey twitch with annoyance, for he knew little of how such things actually got arranged, though he fearfully suspected that Bess and Biddy did, and would plague his household for months on end!

  Biddy’s father, Eachan MacDougall, well … there was another thorn. Livesey had offered both abject apologies and a better-paying situation at his works on Eagle’s Island, as amends for the way he had been treated, and to soften the blow of Biddy leaving his hearth—and her fall from Innocence. Both offers, and him, MacDougall had damned to Hell. Still, Eachan might come ‘round … for Biddy’s future happiness, and for his coming grandchild. Weddings seemed to mellow people.

  Bess to cosset, too, Livesey sourly pondered as he neared the riverfront. Her sympathetic letter to Andrew Hewlett had been returned with its wax seal unbroken. Ah, well, even did young Hewlett stand to become the master of Lakey’s Lodge, there probably had been no future in it, after all. Bess, to his mind, was still much too young to make binding commitments… to leave his hearth! Perhaps the giddy doings of Biddy’s wedding would engross her, then … a season to mourn, as the Good Book said, then even more seasons to dance, mature and meet more-promising lads, before …

  Matthew Livesey stopped his slow stroll and turned to look back up Dock Street to the front of his ravaged, simple house. They needed a new facade soon as he could arrange it, but … what style, what color paint? Could he afford brick or ballast stone this time, or dare they risk wood again? And it was small. His gaze swept uphill toward the east of the town. Beyond Fifth Street, the eastern boundary of the borough so far, a new batch of larger lots had been cleared, the pine forests and wilderness shoved backjust a bit further.

  Had they sufficient profits come winter, when the shipping-trade abated, might the Liveseys aspire to it, and did Providence provide the means, could they build a whole new house? he fantasized: a modestly grander house, something substantial, more respectable and sober … a sign that they had sunk their transplanted rootsjust that much deeper into the soil of the Cape Fear. A little uphill from St. James’s, with a grand view of the Thoroughfare, the river and the sunsets! Matthew Livesey imagined deep porches and balconies where he could rock in the coolness, of having separate parlors and dining rooms to entertain neighbors and friends, host parties…

  “Blast,” Livesey growled at his own imaginings, then turned back to face the river and resume his awkward stroll. After all that had happened, would Liveseys have friends; would anyone accept their invitations? Might he have blighted his own, and his children’s, prospects in the region by exposing Harry’s sins and failings? Shattered so many folks’ illusions, brought a progressive faction low, and … brought a smear of shame, and heartbreak, upon dear Georgina’s name?

  With a physical shake of his head and body that would have done a waking bear proud, Matthew Livesey refused to meekly accept the onus, for it had been Harry’s doing, Anne Moore’s and Thomas Lakey’s sins and deceits, and crimes, that had brought them all to this despicable condition! And could he find it in his nature—might God excuse him the blasphemy just for once—he would have, at that moment, succumbed to weakness and heartily damned them all to the hottest fires of Hell… and right out loud, too!

  Had be been able, but …he couldn’t.

  He reached the sturdy, grey, cypress-timbered wharves along Water Street and turned south to thud his cane and the foot of That Thing on the weathered boards, but…

  There, in the Thoroughfare, was a saucy packet-brig, just let go of her moorings and beginning to stand down-river for the sea, ghosting on the cusp of a high tide’s ebb, with only her spanker, a flying jib and a foretop-mast stays’l standing to give her steerage way. Gulls wheeled ‘round her and mewed, and Matthew Livesey stopped again to watch her go, the faintest hint of release from joylessness taunting the corners of his mouth and brig
htening his dulled eyes.

  “Little Sally Rackett!” the bosun sing-songed from leather lungs as a lone fiddler climbed atop the forecastle and began to play.

  “Haul her away!” her crewmen on lifts and halyards roared back.

  “She sailed off’board a packet!”

  “Haul her away!” Sailors aloft were freeing tops’l canvas, hauling on braces to angle them about to cup a breeze. Men on deck pulled to hoist tops’l yards from their rests on the top platforms.

  “An’ she never did re-gret it!”

  “Haul herrr awwayy!”

  “With a hauley heigh-ho!”

  “Haul her away!”

  And for Matthew Livesey, who’d grown up ‘round ships and the sea since he’d left swaddling clothes, that call-and-response, pulley hauley chanty was nigh to a celebratory hymn. And to stand and watch a ship come to life and stir, almost of her own volition, was nigh equal to a mystery as old as Time, and a miracle, every time to him.

  Livesey stumped his way to the very end of the wharves—scaring up a nodding pelican, being scolded by a pair of black-headed laughing gulls—suddenly rapt by this small and fleeting pleasure. Yet it made him achingly wistful, too.

  God, how different things would have been if he had managed to run away to sea when he was young. It was what less-constrained lads of harbor towns did!

  “Farewell to th’ Dram Tree!” the bosun bellowed as the sailors had enough sail spread for the brig to manage, for a moment, and boys dashed about to serve out small tots of neat rum or brandy as she came level with the gigantic old cypressjust a bit down-river, where ships’ crews had established a tradition particular to Wilmington for entering or leaving port.