The Constable's Tale: A Novel of Colonial America

by Donald Smith

  *

  A packet of fresh air moved in that night and with it a light rain. Toby accepted Harry’s touches hungrily in the coolness of their room. But she seemed unusually quiet afterward, turning over directly to go to sleep after they had finished. As Harry began drifting away he pondered the fact that her diary had gone missing from the place she usually kept it, a table beside the spinning wheel in the side parlor. He guessed that if she could find a place to hide a sack of gold coins, she could hide a book.

  His last waking thoughts were of what she might be writing in it now.

  CHAPTER 11

  49: Use no Reproachfull Language against any one neither Curse nor Revile.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  THE RIDE TOOK FIVE AND A HALF DAYS. HARRY LED THEM SOME MILES out of their way to save money that would have gone to ferries. He skirted the western side of the Great Dismal, and as the morning of the fifth day fell they crossed the Virginia boundary. Or the place he reckoned it to be. The exact location was a matter of disagreement, an issue awaiting settlement in London. Harry was sure only that he had passed into unknown country. Along the way Noah jotted down Latin names of plants and the occasional animal. Now and then he would point to things Harry would not otherwise have noticed: how the vegetation was steadily changing as they made their way off the tidewater flats and toward the more hilly country in the west.

  By the next evening they were only a short distance from Williamsburg, but rather than pressing on and arriving after dark, they decided to have an early supper and stay the night at the ferry-landing inn on the north shore of the York. The establishment, which the owner had fancifully named Heavenly Gate, turned out to be most the luxurious they had stayed in. Their meal of boiled beef and cabbage, though cold, was pleasingly tender and cheerfully served by the owner’s daughter. That night they had a whole bed to themselves.

  Back on the road shortly after daybreak the next morning, they came to a pair of stone pillars marking the entrance to a plantation. Its name was etched into one of the rocks.

  ROSEWOOD

  LEVIUS • QUAM • AER

  Harry reined in Annie and stared in silence. He had known their path would take them near Ayerdale’s holdings, but he had not counted on running into the flagship property itself. His thoughts flew to a long-ago night, the one Natty had spoken of. A desperate seventeen-year-old boy stealing away with his beloved.

  “Isn’t that . . . ?” Noah began.

  “Unless there’s more than one plantation in Virginia of that name.”

  “The phrase below is Latin,” said Noah. “It means ‘lighter than air.’ A family motto of the Ayerdales’, I imagine.”

  Harry guided Annie between the pillars onto a tree-lined lane that was wide, straight, and long. Vast fields nearly flat as baking pans, some green with clover and some lying fallow, lay on either side, ending in lines of trees.

  A mile farther they came to a large white house with a pillared portico. A short distance from that, Harry spotted two horsemen. They could be seen only from their saddles up, as though standing in a shallow gulley. Both had their gazes fixed on the ground. One was Richard Ayerdale. His hair matted from exertion in the morning damp.

  As Harry and Noah drew nearer, the object of their attention came into view. A dark-skinned Negro girl wearing a sack of unbleached homespun was kneeling before them. She must have been ten or eleven years old. Ayerdale got off his horse and began striking the girl across her shoulders with a strip of rawhide. He did not look to be in a temper. The blows were calm and methodical, as if it were some everyday task, like chopping wood.

  “Say there,” Harry called out. “Why are you whipping that girl?”

  Ayerdale recognized Harry and bade him a cheerful good morning.

  “My overseer and I have just come upon this young blackamoor skulking over yonder among some underbrush. She claims her father accidently locked her in their cabin when they were leaving for this morning’s field work. She further states she got out by pushing a plank off and crawling away and was just on her way to the field.”

  Then, returning his attention to the girl, he said, “This won’t do. Now, tell me the truth. You were trying to hide out for the day, weren’t you?”

  The girl began to speak in a high-pitched voice, but her words were hard to make out because of her ragged breathing.

  “You have not got enough yet,” Ayerdale said. “Pull up your shift and lie down on your back.” The girl instantly complied.

  “Sir, I really must protest.” This from Noah. “It would be easy enough to find her father and see if he would verify what she has said. In any case, your behavior is entirely out of bounds.”

  Ayerdale gave no sign of having heard. He resumed striking the girl as before, except now the blows landed not on her shoulders but on her naked loins and thighs and then her back and flanks as she twisted to avoid them. She screamed and pleaded for Ayerdale to stop. Yet she made no effort to run away.

  Harry had never seen a child flogged this way. But harsh measures against Craven County’s growing population of Negro slaves were not uncommon. He disliked seeing such things but had come to know they were outside his power to stop and that interference likely would result in worse punishment for the victim. But Noah lacked the benefit of this understanding. He got off his horse and took a few belligerent steps toward Ayerdale, fists clenched. At that, the overseer made a show of pulling out a pistol and aiming it at Noah’s belly.

  “Take just one step closer and I will make sausage meat of you,” he said in a voice full of purpose.

  “Get back on your horse, Noah,” Harry said. “We’re leaving.”

  They heard more screams as they made their way back toward the lane. Harry resisting the impulse to ride back and shoot them both. Finally, the cries subsided into choking sobs and groans. They looked back to see Ayerdale and the overseer cantering toward them. Ayerdale still in a jovial mood.

  “She meant to cheat me out of a day’s work,” he said. “And she has done it, too.” He looked around at the overseer, grinning as if he had just made the best joke. “But never mind that. I am surprised to see you here, Master Woodyard. And your friend. Burke, isn’t it?” Ayerdale touched his forehead with his crooked index finger, as if doffing an invisible cap. Under the circumstances it seemed more a taunt than a sign of respect. “Might I inquire what brings you gentlemen to Virginia?”

  “I am chasing whoever murdered the Campbells.”

  “And you believe you might find them here on my plantation?”

  “As you recall, I found a Freemason’s badge on the floor of the farmhouse. One of our New Bern merchants believes an acquaintance in Williamsburg may be able to identify the owner.”

  “Williamsburg is that way,” said Ayerdale, jabbing his finger northward.

  “I recognized the name of your plantation as we rode by and thought we might pay our respects. But I see you are busy.”

  Ayerdale affected a warm smile. “Well, welcome to Rosewood. Since you’re here, won’t you stop over for a small beer and bite of breakfast? I’m afraid you’ve missed the delectable Miss McLeod. My fiancée took the phaeton into Williamsburg yesterday. I will be joining her there on the morrow.”

  If Ayerdale’s aim was to aggravate Harry by calling Maddie “delectable,” the shot landed true.

  “I would be shy of trying the food at this place you call Rosewood,” said Harry. “I’m afraid that after tenderizing one of your blacks with a whip, you might roast her for supper.”

  Ayerdale’s handsome features took a puzzled shift as he seemed to consider whether the jest was meant in good humor or bad. He made up his mind and his face turned sour. “Here in Virginia, sir, such a remark would invite a contest of honor. Since you are a friend of my beloved, I will not press the matter. But I advise you to look after your tongue, lest you part with it in a way you would not find amusing. Now, please get off my land.” He wheeled his horse roughly and galloped away, the animal prote
sting with a coarse whicker. The overseer gave them a backward glance as if fixing their faces in memory.

  “You continue to astound me,” Noah said as they continued toward the gate. “And there is nothing wrong with your tongue. It would be at home in the drollest of company.”

  “I’ve never thought of myself as being smart with words,” said Harry, basking in Noah’s approval.

  “Maybe you just need the right inspiration. Human bondage is a powerful muse.”

  “I’ve heard Natty say he’d rather go back to living in a swamp than buy another man’s life. I feel the same way.”

  As they regained the postal road, Harry wondered if Maddie had any idea what sort of a man she was to marry.

  CHAPTER 12

  37: In Speaking to men of Quality do not lean nor Look them full in the Face, nor approach too near them at lest Keep a full Pace from them.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  WILLIAMSBURG LOOKED MUCH LIKE NEW BERN, EXCEPT OLDER AND cleaner. No animals in the streets, which, though about the same width as the ample avenues of the North Carolina town, were better kept. Shops were shuttered and the streets nearly deserted, it being a Saturday. Harry guessed people were at home or off on diversions.

  He fished from his pocket the card du Plessis had given him and looked at the name written on the back, fixing it in his mind.

  Thomas Bannerman

  They were passing an enormous brick building, larger than any structure Harry had ever seen and surrounded by at least an acre of lawn. A man trimming bushes said it was the governor’s palace. “Bannerman’s store is over there,” he said, making a vague gesture toward the northeast. “But he ain’t going to be in today. Most everybody is off to the horses. Excepting me, that is.” He added with a smile that uncovered several missing teeth, “Me good woman hath laid down the law.”

  The racetrack bore only the broadest resemblance to the one in New Bern. The course itself looked about the same size, a mile loop, but fancier. The viewing stand was sheltered by a shingled roof to keep sun and rain off spectators. Banners the size of bedsheets, including a Union flag, flew at intervals, giving the place a look similar to prints Harry had seen in books about medieval times. Men and women in working clothes filled most of the seats, but a sizeable faction wore rainbows of silk-and-brocade finery and, in the case of the men, powdered wigs. Negroes mixed freely among the crowd.

  A lull in the activity coincided with the arrival of Harry and Noah while jockeys, Negro boys and slightly built young whites, brought in fresh mounts for the next race. Harry asked around for Bannerman until someone pointed to a man wearing a jauntily cut jacket with white silk lace at the throat and a consternated look on his face. He was standing on the ground at an entrance to the stands with a group of other well-dressed people. Among them Harry spotted Maddie and, beside her, the Anglican minister Fletcher.

  Seeing that Bannerman might be in an ill temper, Harry gave a fleeting thought to saving his business until later. But he already had been seen by Maddie, who was staring at him as if she had just seen a Chinaman. Knowing he could not escape without notice now, he nodded toward Maddie, then headed over toward Bannerman. Begging his pardon, he said, “Someone told me you might be able to identify this for me.” Holding up the Masonic badge.

  Barely giving the object a glance, the merchant said, “Young man, I do not conduct appraisals at the racetrack. Just now I have lost a great deal of money. If you would like me to evaluate your little gewgaw with a more dispassionate eye, I suggest you make an appointment at my shop.”

  “I apologize if this is an inconvenient time,” said Harry, reaching deep into the bag of wordings he saved for important occasions. “But I am not seeking an appraisal. This article was found at the scene of a murder. I am told that you may be able to enlighten me as to its origins.”

  “A murder, you say?” The question came from a tall young man with a large pockmarked face. He was standing next to Maddie puffing on a clay pipe. “May I ask where?”

  “In North Carolina.”

  Bannerman turned and began walking away. “Call on me on the morrow and we shall have a look,” he said without bothering to turn his head. “If we haven’t hanged ourselves by then.”

  A thin, patrician-looking sort in his midfifties stepped forward. “I am Francis Fauquier,” he said with a slight bow. “I wonder if I might be of service.”

  “The governor of Virginia?” asked Noah.

  Fauquier made another mannerly bow. “Officially speaking, my title is ‘lieutenant governor,’ much like that of your own Arthur Dobbs. But the gentlemen who bear the loftier titles have never set foot in America. So the good people of Virginia and North Carolina have to make do with us, the less exalted but more directly serviceable agents of the king.”

  While the rest of the company tittered their admiration of Fauquier’s self-effacing wit, Harry raked through his memory for a Rule of Civility that could guide him. He had been brought up by his grandfather never to make any gesture of servitude toward anyone, on the ground that no one was better than a Woodyard. That was certainly not the spirit of the Rules, and it was all he could manage to keep his hand from rising toward his forehead of its own will. He recalled something about needless flattery and affectations of ceremony. These were to be avoided on the whole but should not be neglected when due.

  “Governor Dobbs sends his compliments,” he said.

  Thankfully, Fauquier appeared flattered and maybe impressed by Harry’s supposed connection to the North Carolina executive. It seemed a safe bet he would never find out that Dobbs had never sent any such thing.

  “Sir,” Harry continued, “I am looking into the murder of a British family.”

  “An entire family?”

  “Husband, wife, and child. It happened about a week ago. I discovered this piece of jewelry on the floor. I’m sure it did not belong to the victims.”

  Several standing closest leaned in for a better look as Fauquier plucked it from Harry’s hand.

  “Here on its face is the sign of the Freemasons,” the governor observed, pointing for all to see. “On the back is a pine tree. Although we have many pines in Virginia, as I am sure you do in North Carolina, I believe this is the accepted symbol for New England.”

  “They are a different species,” Noah commented in a quiet voice, almost to himself. Then, noticing he had gained their attention, he said, “In the South you have Pinus palustris, longleaf pine. New England has northern white pine, or Pinus strobus.”

  Harry introduced him to the company as a schoolmaster in New Bern, originally from Pennsylvania.

  “Would you by chance be related to Peter Burke of Philadelphia?” asked Fauquier.

  “He is my father. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him.” To the company he said, “Peter Burke is one of our country’s finest students of natural history. In London I sit on the Royal Society board, which has approved publication of several of his letters.”

  Noah’s face colored. “I hope one day to be known for my own works, not those of my father.”

  Fauquier registered this with a single blink, then turned his attention back to the badge. “As to these markings underneath the tree, from their appearance they are a Masonic code.”

  “I’ve been told that Mister Bannerman deals in jewelry especially made for Freemasons,” said Harry. “He may even have been the one who sold it to the person I seek.”

  “Are you a relative of the victims?”

  “They were dear friends.” Then, an afterthought: “I am the constable for Craven County.”

  A woman in the company with a pleasing French accent said, “Is it not unusual for a constable to be pursuing a killer for so long a time after the crime has been committed? In my country, if the hu e cri is not immediately successful, the perpetrator is rarely discovered.”

  She looked a few years older than Harry and was outfitted in a lavender silk taffeta gown whose tight bodice exposed a subtle swell of br
east. A parasol shielded her pale features from the sun. Harry took in at a glance her small but sharply defined nose, pronounced cheekbones, and silky black hair done up in a tower of swirling curls. Her eyes nearly matched the subtle purple shade of her gown. They seemed large for the rest of her face but somehow the overall effect was perfect.

  “An old Indian has been arrested and charged with the crime,” Harry said, trying to make himself sound casual, as if he often treated with such unnerving beauty. “I believe him to be innocent. I am not only trying to catch a killer, I am trying to prevent a wrongful execution.”

  “May I present Madame Jacqueline de Contrecoeur, Baroness de la Roche?” Fauquier said. “But before you arrest her as a spy, you should know that she is a fellow Huguenot. She opposes both the popish religion and King Louis’s intentions in America.”

  Fauquier turned to Maddie as if to introduce her, but Harry headed him off by saying that they were old friends. Maddie, who first had appeared surprised beyond measure to see Harry, now seemed just annoyed.

  “You may already have met Reverend Fletcher,” said Fauquier. “He has recently arrived from your city on his mission of assessing the condition of the Anglican Church in His Majesty’s American plantation.”

  “Good day, Mister Woodyard,” Fletcher said. “I must say I am finding these Virginians considerably more generous with their clergy than your countrymen in North Carolina.”

  “The saving of souls is a more luxurious occupation here than anyplace else on this side of the ocean, I do believe,” said Fauquier. “In Virginia, Anglican clergy are potentates.”

  As Fauquier and Fletcher continued bantering, Harry had a closer look at the tall, thin young man with the clay pipe. He looked roughly Harry’s age, regally dressed, standing at least a head above the rest of the company in an erect military fashion. Stovepipe legs encased in tight leggings. A ribbon fastened his thick dark blond hair in back. Gray-blue eyes. Other than the pits on his face, an all-too-common blemish, he was a picture of youthful, masculine vigor.