Murder in the Marsh

by Sara Whitford

  The rest of the way back to Beaufort, they avoided the topic of Aunt Celie or slavery. Instead they talked about the news they’d learned at James Davis’s print shop, including the bit about the canal, as well as the couple that had been attacked several days earlier.

  Adam said he couldn’t wait to get back to Beaufort and tell his grandfather about the canal plans. Martin said he couldn’t wait to get back to Beaufort so he could go drinking with Ricky Jones.

  Jones had been on the Carolina Gypsy when they went to Havana and wasn’t usually in Beaufort for very long, but Emmanuel was having some substantial repairs done to the sloop, so Martin and Jones, as everyone called him, seemed to be trying to work in as much wild living and mischief as they could in the time that was available before Emmanuel sent Jones out again with the crew. Since Emmanuel knew all too well the kind of entertainment that Martin and Jones generally sought, he had put his foot down about allowing his grandson to go out carousing with the two of them.

  As they sailed down the Neuse River out to the Pamlico Sound, they noticed the weather was getting colder. By the time they neared Cedar Island, they were grateful that they were on their return trip and only had about another twelve hours of sailing ahead of them—that was, if the winds and seas were cooperative.

  Chapter Seven

  ADAM AND MARTIN ARRIVED IN Beaufort early Saturday. Martin went straight home to sleep so he’d be ready for a night out on the town. Adam, on the other hand, wasted no time telling his grandfather about the canal plans almost as soon as he’d made it up to the living quarters.

  “This will change things, you know,” said Emmanuel. “But it will be a long time before it happens, so don’t get too excited. The changes may not even come in your lifetime, and certainly not in mine.”

  “Why not?” Adam asked, incredulous.

  “Well, my boy, apart from this being an enormous undertaking that will cost a great deal of time and money, they’ve also left it to the civic-mindedness of local citizens to fund the effort.”

  “I wouldn’t think that should be such a problem,” said Adam. “The men who give their money and put up labor to build the canal will make their investment back with the increased shipping traffic, wouldn’t they?”

  “How long do you think it will take to cut the canal?” Emmanuel asked.

  Adam could tell his grandfather’s question was a rhetorical one, but he answered it anyway.

  “I don’t know. A year or two?”

  Emmanuel’s eyes grew enormous and he let out a loud “Ha! Is that what you think?” He stood up from his favorite chair and went into the kitchen. “Oh to be young and so optimistic!”

  Adam raised his eyebrows, then followed behind him. “What? What does that mean? How long do you think it will take?”

  “Five years at a minimum,” Emmanuel responded as he used a cloth to take the kettle from the fire and pour hot water into his cup and made tea. “And that’s if everything goes off without a hitch. A decade or more is a likelier projection.”

  “Ten years? You mean because it will take so long for them to get started, right?”

  “No. I mean because it’s one thing to present a bill and have it signed into law, but the bill has no provision for the oversight of the assembly, and its dependence on a volunteer effort comes at a dreadful time.” Emmanuel took his cup of tea and went back to his chair in the sitting room.

  Adam knew he didn’t need to ask why. His grandfather would tell him—probably more than he even wanted to know. He followed him again and sat on the settee beside Emmanuel’s chair.

  “What else have they recently signed into law there in New Bern? Hmm?”

  Adam shook his head. “I don’t know. All kinds of things. What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t we just talk about the fact that they just passed a substantial budget for Governor Tryon to build his palace in New Bern? Rest assured he’ll spare no expense to have one of the finest homes in America! Never mind the number of taxpayers here is but a fraction of that of the more populous colonies.”

  “If you knew this project would take so long, why have you been so eager for it to be passed? I’ve heard you talk about how much we’ve needed this ever since I came here.”

  “Because I knew it would take so long, of course! I wanted at least to know there was some plan in place to see this come to fruition before the Lord calls me home.”

  “Don’t say things like that!” said Adam. “You have right many years left, I’m sure. You may see that canal built before it’s all over with.”

  Emmanuel shrugged. “Who knows? But I think it highly unlikely. Nevertheless, I still think there is cause for celebration.”

  Adam raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Alright. What’d you have in mind?”

  “Since the weather’s turned—I can tell because my joints are killing me—they’ll no doubt have their annual hog killing over at Laney Martin’s estate. I want you to go over there and talk to Cyrus and get us a pig. We’ll dress it and put it on the pit Friday morning and have a barbecue on Friday. Put the word out that everyone’s invited.”

  Adam nodded. “Will do.”

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER A TYPICAL SUNDAY IN Beaufort, with church in the morning and rest all afternoon, Adam welcomed a regular workweek on Monday. They received some crates at the warehouse on a shipment from England. All day and night the warehouse was empty and otherwise quiet, except for the sounds of Adam’s footsteps echoing up to the rafters as he crossed back and forth across the floor while counting and organizing the contents of a shipment.

  Boaz worked through lunch, so by about four o’clock in the afternoon he was ready to quit for the day, but Adam had some inventory work to finish before he could stop for supper. Somehow he had ended up with a crate packed with what seemed to be every single variety of tiny item that had ever been received at Port Beaufort.

  Both Boaz and Emmanuel had suggested he just stop for the day and come back to it in the morning. There was no rush, they told him. But Adam hated leaving a project undone. It would be on his mind all night, and he wouldn’t be able to rest. No, when he set out to meet a goal, he intended to do, it and he wouldn’t quit until he was finished.

  It was close to nine o’clock when he finally counted the last of the patch boxes and was able to stop for the night. He was desperately curious to know if the crate beside it promised more of the same sort of contents, but he resisted the temptation to look inside. Even though taking inventory was a time-consuming process, when it involved crates filled to the brim with merchandise that had never before been seen by eyes in the American colonies, it could be as fascinating, just as at times as it could be tedious.

  When Adam was first apprenticed at the shipping company the previous year, his curfew was eleven, but after he returned from Havana, Emmanuel told him he could stay out till midnight so long as he made it to work on time the next day. Most nights he was already knocked out and fast asleep before ten—after all, his day usually began at sunup—but this night he thought he’d take some extra time down at the tavern to unwind. Since it was understood that if any of the workers at his grandfather’s warehouse worked especially late they were entitled to come in to work a little bit later the next morning, he knew it wouldn’t be a problem.

  From some distance away Adam could already hear the music coming out of the Topsail Tavern. It was a welcome sound. Valentine had gone for a couple of years without hiring regular musicians to play in his establishment, all thanks to a particularly nasty brawl that broke out one balmy spring night. During the summer, however, Mary finally convinced Valentine to bring in some decent regular musicians to play again, insisting that it would brighten her spirits while her son was traveling in the Caribbean. (Adam knew good and well that musicians playing in the tavern would have little effect on his mother’s mood while he was away, but he also knew she was clever enough to use Valentine’s concern for her own happiness to do som
ething good for the tavern—something that Valentine was too stubborn to agree to for any other reason.)

  It was change welcomed by everyone when Valentine finally started hiring some professional musicians to play on different nights of the week. The Topsail had its share of amateurs who would come in with fiddle, fife, or guitar in hand just to try and liven up the atmosphere—free of charge, of course—but the quality of that music was hit-or-miss, and more often than not left a lot to be desired.

  The walk from the warehouse to the tavern chilled Adam to his bones. The weather had turned sharply cold in the past few days, and the wind coming off of the water seemed to drive the chill right through his layers of clothing.

  When he opened the heavy door and stepped inside, he welcomed the warmth that filled the place from the great fireplace in the center of the dining room. There was Valentine, seated as always behind the bar, somehow simultaneously reading the paper while keeping an eye on the crowd for any customers in need of service or getting into mischief.

  Three musicians—one with a guitar, one with a fiddle, and one with a tin whistle—were in the opposite corner of the establishment, performing a lively tune, while many of the patrons bobbed their heads from side to side and clapped their hands in time. Some of them even tried singing along, though few knew all the words. They didn’t care. The patrons would just make something up and keep singing anyway.

  It was Monday night, so Adam wasn’t surprised that his mother had already gone to bed. While it was an unusually long workday for him, she had taken to turning in most nights before nine.

  After giving a wave to Valentine, Adam found a seat at a small table near the kitchen, as the bar was full.

  “What can I get for you?” asked Jackson.

  The young server had moved up the ranks from being a busboy at the Topsail to a waiter the summer after Adam left for his apprenticeship.

  “Hmm.” Adam thought for a minute. “Tonight… tonight I think I’ll have bumbo.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “Yeah… I haven’t eaten yet. What did she make today?” Adam inquired.

  He was, of course, referring to Aunt Franny, the old cook who’d been at the tavern since long before Adam was born and in fact was there even when his mother, Mary, first went to live there as a young girl.

  “She made right many things,” said Jackson, “but all that’s left is fish stew, collards and fatback, and some sweet potatoes, I think. And corn fritters.”

  “Bring me some of all of it. I’m starving.”

  Jackson nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. While Adam waited on his food, he enjoyed listening to the music. It was nice to finally be able to just sit and take it in—a luxury he didn’t have back in the days when he still lived and worked at the tavern. After another song the musicians took a break. The fellow with the tin whistle then started to play an old ballad, and things calmed down a bit.

  Adam was taken by surprise when a man he did not know came up from behind him and said, “Mind if I sit here a bit, son?”

  “Uh… no, sir… of course not. Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair at the opposite side of the table.

  The man, who looked to be in his forties, had black hair with silver strands running throughout. He sat down and appeared to look around for a server.

  “If you’re looking for the waiter, he’ll be back here directly. He’s got to bring me my supper.”

  The man smiled at Adam. “Your supper? It’s awfully late to be eatin, ain’t it?”

  Adam tipped his head to the side and clicked his teeth. “Well, when you work late, what choice do you have?”

  The man nodded. “True enough, I reckon.”

  Suddenly, it dawned on Adam that the man was the guitarist who had been playing that lively music just moments earlier.

  “Oh, you’re one of the musicians,” he said.

  The man nodded. “That I am, boy.”

  “You’re new here. You play the guitar, right?”

  “I do tonight, but sometimes I play the fiddle.” The man’s blue eyes twinkled as he talked about his talents. “Sometimes the flute. Sometimes even a little harpsichord.”

  “So you play all kinds of instruments? I can’t even play one.”

  The man laughed. He extended his hand to shake Adam’s. “I’m Benajah Hamilton. Friends call me Ben.”

  Adam shook his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ben. I’m Adam Fletcher.”

  Ben looked around as if he was thinking of what to say next. Finally, he said, “You from around here? You come here often?”

  Adam nodded. “Yep. This is my family’s tavern. Valentine over there”—he tipped his head over in the direction of the bar—“is like my grandfather.”

  Ben turned around and looked over at Valentine, then looked back at Adam. “Hmph. I’d have never known.”

  Adam nodded. He really wasn’t in the mood for small talk with a stranger. He was tired and didn’t feel like doing the mental work that was necessary to carry on a conversation with someone who didn’t have much to say, or a clear point to make.

  “Hmm,” said Ben. “So I reckon that confirms my suspicions.”

  Adam straightened his brow and glared at him but said nothing. His heart started to beat a little faster as he wondered if this man had any connection to Havana.

  Ben could apparently see that Adam bristled at his comment. He seemed quick to speak up to clarify himself. “You must be Mary’s son.”

  That wasn’t helping. This man was on a first-name basis with his mother, or at least he thought he should be.

  “I’ve spoken to her some.” Ben was beginning to sound a little nervous at having to explain himself. “Well, obviously, since she works here every day. She’s a right handsome woman, you know.” He smiled at Adam. “You favor her, I’d say. Same hair, same eyes.”

  Adam made a genuine effort to relax his demeanor. He realized this man fancied his mother, and that was neither unusual nor alarming. Living in a port town, he’d seen that more times than he could count, though it was usually with salty sailors rather than multitalented musicians.

  “That’s kind of you,” said Adam. “A lot of people say I look like my mother, but those who know my father say I look exactly like he did at my age.”

  Ben’s face fell. “Your father?” He stammered, “Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize your mother was married… I mean, she didn’t—”

  Adam chuckled. “She didn’t mention it? Well, I reckon she doesn’t make a habit of discussing her personal life with strangers. You understand.” He grinned.

  “I sure do,” said Ben.

  Jackson brought Adam his mug of bumbo. “I’ll get your supper out to you in just a minute.” He turned and asked Ben, “Another beer?”

  Ben nodded and waved over one of the other musicians.

  “Toby, come on over here,” he said.

  The tall, red-haired man who had been playing the fiddle made his way across the dining room and turned a chair around backwards and sat straddling it. He held out his hand to shake Adam’s.

  “Tobias Cole. You can call me Toby.”

  Adam shook his hand. “Adam Fletcher. Nice to meet you.”

  Toby gave a little whistle to get Jackson’s attention, then made a motion to him that he’d like a beer like Ben was having.

  “Y’all sound real good,” said Adam. “Been performing together long?”

  “Together? Not too long,” said Ben. “But long enough that we know how to read each other’s cues.”

  Adam took a sip of his bumbo and gave a little nod. “I see.”

  “You got yourself some professional musicians here,” said Toby. “We’ve probably got near about a hundred years of playing experience combined, but hardly any time playing together, and yet we sound like we’ve always been a trio, don’t you think?”

  Adam nodded. “I do. It’s really lively, really adding some spice to th
is place.”

  Ben grinned. “That’s what we do best, I reckon.”

  “My gracious,” Adam remarked. “A hundred years’ combined playing experience. Boy, that really sounds like something impressive when you put it like that.”

  Toby and Ben chuckled.

  “That’s the idea,” said Toby. “It is true, though.”

  Ben nodded in agreement. “You got three of us, all in our forties, and we all been playing music since we were knee-high to a grasshopper, so there you have it—near ’bout a hundred years’ experience.”

  Adam chuckled. “Very clever.”

  The three men sat sipping on their beverages. Adam felt a little awkward wondering what else they’d have to talk about. He hoped Jackson would come soon with his food.

  Finally, he said, “So y’all aren’t originally from around here, are you? At least I don’t remember seeing y’all around until recently.”

  “Ah, well,” said Ben, “I’ve been working my way down the coast from Maryland to get to my sister in South Carolina, playing music from place to place and taking on odd jobs to pay my way.”

  “James over there”—Toby motioned to the man playing the tin whistle—“and myself, we actually have been in this area before, years ago. We used to play over at Russell’s, but we each went our separate ways for a time. When we met up again not too long ago, we tried to get work there again, but he said he already had plenty of musicians.”

  “So you heard Valentine was looking for somebody?” asked Adam.

  “Mm-hmm,” said Toby. “And it just worked out fine for all of us.”

  “Are y’all staying here at the tavern?” Adam asked.

  Toby nodded. “Yep, for the time being, anyway. The three of us are sharing a room for now.”

  “Not for long, though,” said Ben. “I don’t reckon I’ll be staying around here longer than it takes me to get enough money together to move on down the coast. Then James and Toby here will be able to spread out some in that room upstairs.”