by Donald Smith
Harry caught glimpses of Toby smiling, her expression one of wonderment and, he was relieved to see, pleasure. He had won the argument about the garden. At least gained a truce. But he knew better than to gloat, lest she find some other source of discontent. Harry had never known a woman with so many complaints.
“Here we are,” he said as they came to a long, low-slung building on East Front Street. “The Court of Pleas and Quarterly Sessions.”
“But this is a tavern,” Toby said. “You didn’t mention they were meeting in a tavern.”
“The commissioners decided the old courthouse is about ready to fall down. Wonder it hasn’t already happened. What I hear, old man Cogdell is getting five pounds five shillings rent for the week’s use of his place during the day, and he gets it back each night. We are pledged to keep good order and not let anything get damaged too badly.”
In all the evenings Harry and Toby had spent at Cogdell’s, it never had looked like this. The main room had taken on a cavernous aspect. Tables gone. Chairs and benches were arranged in rows for onlookers, who were beginning to shuffle in and take seats. The raised platform used for entertainments and the occasional political harangue now served as a podium. Two tables set end to end and seven chairs awaited the arrival of the magistrates.
Toby chose a front-row seat. Martin sat next to her and helped get writing materials out of her basket so she could make notes. Harry took a position to one side of the platform. Only one other peacekeeper had arrived. Chief Town Constable John Blinn, a muscular, bald-headed blacksmith with an unexpectedly high voice, had put himself at the front door. Harry wondered if the two other officers enlisted for the week’s duty would show up for the last day. Absenteeism was a continuing problem in their ranks, despite the threat of a two-shilling fine for each offense. Not everyone honored to be asked to volunteer for two or three years of constable duty or the town watch took it as earnestly as Harry and John Blinn.
The rumble of conversation quieted and all stood as the justices filed in. They were wearing their scarlet summer-season robes and freshly powdered white perukes. Chief Justice Olaf McLeod was the last to enter. Six feet, two inches tall, muscular for his age, wisps of graying red hair straying from the edges of his wig, and a large, bony face weathered from years of managing his four-thousand-acre plantation to the southwest of town. The land had been a gift from the king for financial assistance during the late invasion of England by some of McLeod’s deluded Highland neighbors. George did not let such acts of fidelity go unnoticed.
McLeod rapped his gavel and said, “You may be downstanding. This court be now in session,” in a raspy Scotch voice several degrees coarser than usual due to a spell of a summer cold. Harry could smell spirits of turpentine, the distilled essence of pine that worked miracles as a liniment when smeared on the chest.
Trouble broke out right away.
People were loosening their clothes to let body heat to escape into the room, already rank with humidity and lingering vapors from the floodwater. Two men began squabbling over one of the remaining seats. McLeod had barely got his words out when they were throwing clumsy punches. Blinn, the first to reach them, suffered a glancing blow to the cheek. Harry came up behind Blinn’s assailant and pinned back his arms. Blinn restrained the other and they wrestled both outside.
“Get your hands off me, Henry Woodyard,” said the one in Harry’s grasp as soon as they were clear of the door. The smell of rum was heavy on him. Harry let him go. Suddenly finding himself without support, the man pitched face forward. He landed in the road muck, which contained a fresh line of horse droppings.
“There is no cause for roughness,” he said, turning onto his side and wiping the filth away from one eye with a forefinger. “Me and Reuben was having a private argument.”
“I’m sorry, Abel.” Harry reached down and helped him to his feet. The man started back toward the door. Harry blocked his way.
“I can’t let you back in until you’re sober.”
In an effort to get around, Abel slipped and fell into the sludge again.
“Look at yourself,” said Harry. “Both of you. You’re a disgrace.”
Abel mouthed the words back with a sneer. “Oh, you’re a disgrace.”
“Really, how can you ever hope to amount to anything until you straighten yourselves up, stop acting like a couple of rapscallions?”
“Why don’t you go bugger yourself,” said Reuben. He reached down to help his brother to his feet, nearly getting pulled down himself.
“Now is not a good time to talk about this,” Harry said. “But when you’re both in a more sober frame of mind, I would like to come around and see you. I can show you some things that would improve your status in New Bern. Some very simple rules of behavior.”
“You’ve changed, Harry,” Abel said as he and Reuben turned to walk off, each bracing the other. “You’ve forgot your old friends. You don’t even come into Speight’s no more.”
“Our boy prefers the company at Cogdell’s nowadays,” said Reuben.
They proceeded away, Abel laughing at another remark Reuben whispered in his ear. Some recollection, Harry judged, of the days when they and Harry were partners in tomfoolery.
CHAPTER 2
16: Do not Puff up the Cheeks, Loll not out the tongue rub the Hands, or beard, thrust out the lips, or bite them or keep the Lips too open or too Close.
—RULES OF CIVILITY
THE HOURS WENT BY QUICKLY AS MCLEOD PRESSED FORWARD THROUGH the docket, settling with a stroke of his oaken gavel matters that had been festering since the last session of the court. A man was ordered to pay recompense for killing a neighbor’s hog that had wandered onto his property. A store owner was warned to stop mistreating one of his servants, a woman who had accused him of taking liberties. A fine of twenty pounds of tobacco was levied against a town resident who had failed to attend public worship—his third conviction on such an offense. A runaway servant had six months tacked onto his five-year indenture for his eleven days of freedom. Two sailors were sentenced to four hours each in stocks for public drunkenness. For the crime of slander, a woman was ordered to pay into the county coffers the handsome sum of seventy pounds’ proclamation money. She had told some neighbors what she called the real reason the wife of a respected member of the General Assembly had spent two months in Charleston, claiming that while there the lady gave birth to “a Negro bastard.” The magistrates did not demand proof of this statement in either direction. A slander was a slander, true or not.
The court also approved a number of administrative recommendations of the town commissioners and the vestry of Christ Church, including placement of the latest crop of orphans and illegitimate children in several different foster homes. The children, two boys and four girls from four to nine years old, huddled together to one side with expressions ranging from confused to desolate as they heard their fates read out. One of the older girls wore a defiant look, as if daring the adults to do their worst.
An odor of turpentine entered Harry’s nose as he and Martin were helping Toby pack up her writing tools. Judge McLeod, now free of his robes, clapped him on the back.
“Fine work today, my boy,” he said. The man standing beside him nodded in agreement. Craven County High Sheriff Randall Carruthers looked uncomfortably warm in his red hunting jacket, which he had opened halfway down his chest, exposing a dark tangle of hair. His naturally fierce aspect was enhanced today by a bandage covering one eye, the result of recent combat with a disgruntled taxpayer.
Turning to Toby with the faintest notion of a bow, McLeod said, “It is a great pleasure to see you, Mistress Woodyard. And looking so prettily done up. I hope you found our proceedings edifying, if not altogether entertaining.”
“I found them fascinating,” said Toby. “Although you have your share of slackers and miscreants in North Carolina, I have met enough good people here to know it is one of His Majesty’s finest plantations.”
McLeod’s old eyes, wo
rn from the day’s work, became merry. “Mister Woodyard, you have got yourself a real prize here.”
“I know,” Harry said. He felt a glow inside and at the same time worried that Toby might say something further that would challenge the judge’s good opinion.
“I would be glad if you would join the sheriff and me in a glass before you make your way home,” McLeod said. He gestured toward one of the tables that tavern employees were noisily hauling back into the room.
“The pleasure would be ours,” said Toby while Harry was trying to put together a courtly response. All he could think about at the moment was the overpowering smell of medicine. He was tempted to ask about the judge’s bad cold and whether his treatment was helping but decided silence would be the safest course. The Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour were very clear about avoiding frivolous remarks when conversing with a person of quality.
As they were sitting down, McLeod made a signal to two men who had been lingering near the door. Harry had noticed them earlier at court. One looked to be in his middle years, wearing the plain black cassock of an Anglican minister. The other was more remarkable in appearance. He was about ten years older than Harry and a little taller, with a trim physique and military bearing. Smooth, sun-blushed skin and hair the color gold might turn if it could be burned. He nearly glimmered in a well-tailored light blue jacket with buff facings and silver buttons. The man’s only visible flaw was a scar that curved up from the corner of his mouth back to midcheek, like an extension of his mouth, forming a fixed smile. A farming accident, possibly. Or a saber cut. He looked like the sort of man who might engage in trials of honor.
“I would like you to meet my houseguests,” said McLeod. “Harry, Toby, may I present Reverend Ian Fletcher and Colonel Richard Ayerdale?”
The golden man’s last name made an echo in some corner of his mind, but at the moment he could not think why.
McLeod said, “The reverend has come from London on a mission for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts. He is on his way up the seacoast, from Charleston to Boston, to evaluate the state of the church in the provinces.”
The minister allowed himself a smile and a stiff bow.
McLeod said, “And Richard is from Williamsburg. He is a colonel of the Virginia militia, in our midst on behalf of the British Army to judge our readiness for the rest of this year’s campaign in Canada. I am also proud to announce that he is soon to wed my granddaughter, who has just come back to me from Scotland.”
McLeod supplied the part about the granddaughter in an offhanded way, as if an afterthought. When it sank in, it disrupted Harry’s thinking so badly that he caught only bits of the rest. That Ayerdale was from a family of Virginia planters dating to the previous century. That one of his great-grandpaps had relocated himself and a hoard of gold, plate, and jewels from England and the civil war that was going on there. That the family’s network of plantations between the York and James Rivers was one of the largest individual landholdings in British America. And so on. Finding himself awash in his own past, Harry struggled to pay attention to any of this. He was drowning in recollections of a lost and, he thought he had tricked himself into believing, forgotten love.
Maddie.
He had the impression that everyone at the table, including his wife, was staring at him but only while he was not looking. Even more nightmarish, it seemed they were guessing every thought going through his head exactly at its moment of passage. Especially Toby. Shortly after their first bedding, while Toby was still under bond, he had confessed about Maddie McLeod. At least given the general outline of the story. He had no idea how much more detail she had gathered from gossips. So far, nothing of it had made its way into Toby’s diary—not as far as he knew. With time and distance, Harry had more or less forgotten about Maddie. But every so often he had to remind himself not to think about the girl with curly red hair who loved riddles.
He was trying to make this one of those times when he realized that Toby was talking. Looking cool and unfazed, she congratulated Ayerdale on his engagement and asked how he’d met his future bride. It sounded like polite conversation.
“It was last August, while I was in Scotland on some tobacco business,” said Ayerdale. “We found ourselves together in Glasgow at a birthnight ball for the king. I was immediately charmed by Maddie’s beauty and clever conversation.”
Harry noticed that Ayerdale’s smile never fully revealed his teeth. A sure sign, he took pleasure in guessing, of dental problems.
“I don’t suppose we Scotch are yet allowed to resume our fashion of wearing tartan to the king’s celebrations,” said McLeod. “I still have my father’s plaidie tucked somewhere among my things awaiting the lifting of the proscription. God willing that I live that long.”
“Unfortunately, memories of the forty-five are still too fresh. The wearing of plaid is granted only to members of the king’s brigades. So, too, the playing of the bagpipe. Those are the legacies of your bonnie prince.”
“He ain’t my bonnie prince. The man is a lunatic.”
Ayerdale said, “There were rumors when I was last in London that he persists in skulking about Europe, trying to raise support for another Jacobite army. For all anyone knows, he might be plotting with the French at this very moment to cross the Channel.”
Harry remembered now why he was rarely invited into the company of the judge and his friends. He knew little about the current topic and had nothing to add. But Toby seemed to be following right along. All turned toward her when she laughed.
“I am sorry,” she said, “I was just imagining French soldiers sitting down to a haggis alongside tablemates with bagpipes and filibegs.”
“The haggis served with a proper sprinkling of peat-bog whisky, I should hope,” said McLeod.
“The French are seeing pipes and filibegs aplenty in Canada right now,” said Ayerdale. “God willing, it will be the last thing many of them see on this earth. Two regiments of highlanders were with General Wolfe when they entered the Saint Lawrence River four weeks ago. I will be joining them directly. I hope to be there for the final assault on Quebec.”
“I trust you are finding our poor province helpful in those efforts,” said Sheriff Carruthers.
“North Carolina has done its share. Especially for a plantation so far removed from the immediate threat. Your men contributed much during the second march against Fort Duquesne. Secretary Pitt has requested that his personal thanks be conveyed to Governor Dobbs, and I intend to do so before I leave.”
“Thanks be to Mister Pitt and his determination to finally rid this country of the armies of the pope,” said the churchman. It was the first complete sentence Harry had heard Fletcher utter. Harry had the fleeting thought that, for a preacher, he was not overly talkative. But his words had an energizing effect on McLeod, who abruptly raised his glass and said, “Long live Pitt.”
“And God save the king,” said Fletcher, triggering another round.
“We must hurry off,” said McLeod, bringing his empty glass down hard on the table. “I am planning a small supper at my house this evening in honor of my granddaughter’s return and the forthcoming nuptials.” Then, to Toby, “Unfortunately, we have run out of space at our table. Otherwise, we should be pleased to have you and your husband join us.” Toby took in this blatant lie with a smile.
*
Cogdell’s was filling up with some of New Bern’s better people coming for an evening’s eating and drinking and visiting. The menu offering was the owner’s famous rendition of roast beef. The tavern served beef at least once a week, most often boiled up with potatoes and carrots and turnips and what other vegetables were ready in the garden at the time, all cooked together in the same pot. Roasting required a few extra steps and more judgment as to the amount of heat applied for the best result and generally was reserved for holidays and other special occasions, which included the last day of the Court of Pleas and Quarterly Sessions.
Harry recog
nized a gaunt face at a nearby table. Since his arrival in New Bern from Philadelphia two months prior, Noah Burke had been teaching reading and arithmetic to Andrew Campbell, the nine-year-old son of Edward and Anne Campbell on their small plantation to the northwest of New Bern. His wages consisted of lodging and meals. This week the family had given him leave to take a temporary paying job. In the absence of any available grandmothers, Burke was supervising children whose parents were involved in court business. Now relieved of his charges, he was free to drink.
After they had eaten, Harry ordered another round of ale. Toby declined, saying she was tired and ready to go home. Harry promised they would start back well before dark. But after his glass arrived he said he wanted to pay a social call on Constable Blinn and his wife, who had just come in. By the time he returned to their table, a half hour had passed and Toby and Martin were gone.
Harry rejoined the Blinns. He was fully drunk when a young man in tradesmen’s clothes burst in, holding a wailing infant.
CHAPTER 3
20: The Gestures of the Body must be Suited to the discourse you are upon.
—RULES OF CIVILITY
“MY NAME IS NICHOLAS,” THE MAN SAID AND THEN TRIED TO TELL his whole story in one breath. Horrible murder at a plantation. Bodies placed in strange positions. Considerable blood. Only the infant left alive.
Harry and Blinn brought Nicholas to a seat and Blinn’s wife scooped up the baby. They quickly determined the victims were Noah Burke’s employers. Shock upon shock. Although far from the richest family in Craven County, the Campbells were among the best liked.
Trying not to slur his words, Harry summoned Burke. “Do you understand? The family you’ve been working for has been killed.”
The schoolmaster straightened up. Pursing his eyebrows, he said with careful enunciation, “Please, call me Noah.”
“When were you last at their house?”