by Donald Smith
“No, Harry,” she said, more a breathy plea than a command. He retreated, the reality of who he was and what he was doing intruding into his dream.
“I am so sorry,” he began. But she put her hand to his lips.
“My love, there is a way we can be together without betraying your wife. Do you remember how?”
Before he could answer, she was unbuttoning his breeches.
CHAPTER 21
81: Be not Curious to Know the Affairs of Others neither approach those that Speak in Private.
—RULES OF CIVILITY
HE WOKE UP TO VOICES. HUSHED CONVERSATION. MEN. TWO OR THREE of them from the sound of it, talking in low tones inside the great room. Plainly unaware of anyone on the balcony. Harry lay sprawled on the sofa, clothes in disarray, his now-flaccid manhood in full view of the starry sky. It was becoming a habit. Forbidden pleasure, the slumber of the sinful, then abandoned.
Taking care not to make a stirring of the sofa’s rattan weavings, he got up and rebuttoned himself and straightened out his waistcoat. His borrowed jacket, which he had taken such care not to crease, lay crumpled on the floor. He slipped into it.
His first thought was to announce himself to whomever was there, then just walk in. But he had no idea how long they had been there. If he suddenly appeared now, they might assume he had been eavesdropping the whole time they had been talking. A natural assumption and hard to disprove. None of the rules he could think of came close to covering this situation. He tried to imagine Judge McLeod’s reaction if news reached him that his renegade constable had been caught spying on somebody.
While thinking on his next move, he could not help but pick up snatches of the conversation, which was increasing in volume. Probably a sign they were just settling into it. Something about the war in Canada. General Wolfe and the troubles he was having with the French. Overcome by curiosity, he squatted on his haunches and peeked around the curtain. A trick Comet Elijah had taught him. Stay low to the ground and motionless when surveying from hiding. Most people do not look below eye level unless movement draws their attention.
In the candlelight he could see Governor Pownall, High Sheriff Loring, and the militia officer, Browning. Loring was standing with his back turned, facing the sofa, where the other two were sitting. Harry took this tableau back with him as he returned his head to behind the curtain.
“Marie may well have been the one who enabled Montcalm’s lucky guesses,” the militia major was saying. There was a pause, a rustling of fabric. Then Pownall said, “I’ve long thought Shirley himself incompetent and seldom miss an opportunity to say so, but I’ve never believed he was an outright traitor. That is inconceivable.”
“But his little Parisian whore might be another story,” said Browning.
“Wife,” corrected Loring.
“A tawdry substitute for Lady Frances.” Browning again. “God rest her soul.”
Pownall said, “If Montcalm did indeed have an agent in our midst, we can’t disallow the possibility it was Marie. As far as I know, she remains a practicing papist to this day.”
“Well, with the Shirleys tucked away in London, there’s not much harm the woman can do now,” said the sheriff.
“There’s talk he is to be posted off to Nassau,” said Pownall. “God willing, he can do little further damage to British interests there other than bugger up passports.”
“I suspect we yet have a turncoat in our midst,” said Browning. “Amherst should have driven off the French by now, what with all the redcoats and cannonballs he has at his disposal.”
“Montcalm has spies everywhere,” said Loring. “Me and my boys are ever on the watch for doubtful sorts lurking about the docks and billets.”
Browning said, “One can go only so far guessing the enemy’s aims just by watching movements of troops and ships. The best information comes from someone with entrée to high levels.”
“It is certainly possible, even likely, there was a spy at some point,” said Pownall, “but I have the impression Whitehall believes the issue has been dealt with. My latest communications with the Leader indicate no continuing concern about any high-ranking traitor.”
“At three thousand miles’ remove from Canada, Mister Pitt can more easily afford disconcern,” said Browning. “A front-line soldier may be forgiven his suspicions.”
After a moment Pownall said, “Are you still leaving tomorrow?”
“I sail on the tide aboard a mail packet. I just missed a supply ship, so the packet will have to do, though it is smaller and makes several stops along the way. With any luck, though, I should be in Louisbourg within a week, then another week to Quebec. Either the citadel will have fallen by then or I will have the honor of joining in the final attack.”
“Are you sure your leg has mended well enough?”
“By the time I’m on the Saint Lawrence, I am certain my poor abused leg will be fit and ready for a scrap,” said the major with a ruffling laugh.
There were clinking sounds of glasses being refilled. At length Loring said, “How fares the lady Jacqueline?”
“She fares well indeed,” said Pownall.
Another lull, then Pownall’s voice again. “I know what you’ve all been thinking, and I forgive you. She is French, and she was in the Shirley household much of the time he was governor. But I assure you, gentlemen, Madame Contrecoeur is above reproach. I have made inquiries in London as to her background, and it is well known that her family long ago rejected the Catholic faith. They are staunch Calvinists and enemies of Louis. And they have suffered for it. Anyway, she is not part of my circle of confidants, and I share nothing with her during our moments alone. We are on friendly terms socially. That is the extent of it.”
“Our earlier defeats may have been simply a matter of British bungling,” said Loring. “For all their high-handed manners, these jackanapes in red coats can be complete idiots.”
Laughter relieved the tension that Harry sensed when Loring mentioned the baroness. But it could not chase away Harry’s jealousy, the thought that Pownall no doubt had unfettered access to the whole of Jacqueline’s tantalizing body, with its provocative smell of flowers. Alarmingly, Harry felt a new stirring in his breeches.
“We shouldn’t take such delight in deriding our cousins,” said Pownall. Then, solemn again. “If there is some highly placed agent still active on our shores, that person could give them just the advantage they need to hold out in Canada until the fighting season ends. We have them boxed in for now, but if they are still there when the snows come, it could change the entire proposition. Wolfe would have to leave to avoid having his ships frozen in. Giving His Gallic Majesty the opportunity to get resupply and troop ships through our blockade once the ice melts come spring.”
“The very thought haunts my dreams,” said Browning.
Pownall said, “Conceivably it could turn the tide of the war. Britain can withstand only so much more drain on its pocketbook, not to mention loss of life. I’ve seen reports of recruiting officers’ being set upon in the streets of London and Liverpool. Nothing to worry over unduly for now. But if this war lasts much longer . . .”
If Pownall finished his sentence, Harry did not hear it. Only sounds of more liquor being decanted. Then a renewal of hushed words. The lowering of voices must have been instinctive, possibly signaling that they feared being overheard. Harry looked around for a place he might hide in case one thought to come out and look or just for some air. There was nothing but the sofa, which would not stand much scrutiny. Nevertheless, he crept behind it and hunkered as close to the floor as he could. It was the best he could do, and it put him farther away from the conversation.
In the hum of talking he thought he picked out a familiar name. At first he dismissed it as a misunderstanding of a word not well caught. He redoubled his concentration.
“may be nothing to it whatsoever,” he made out from what Browning was saying. “hesitate to bring it up . . . plan to keep an eye on him when I get to Q
uebec.”
Loring’s voice. “met the gentleman on a number of occasions . . . passing through on military business.”
Browning said in a more normal tone, “I confess I took a dislike to him at the outset. It was at a planning session with General Amherst and some other senior officers, and he just made a bit of a sour impression on me. I began making inquiries and discovered that he was in the vicinity of a string of defeats we suffered early in the war. In each case he was supposedly on some errand for the governor of Virginia. Checking on the strength of the garrison, status of supplies, readiness to fight, that sort of thing.”
“Of course, Dinwiddie wanted to have his own reports as to the conduct of the war,” said Pownall. “As does the current officeholder, Fauquier.”
“But here’s the interesting part. In each case, he managed to leave just ahead of the French attack. Not just once or twice but at least four times. At the Monongahela, Fort Bull, Fort Granville, and the fortress Oswego.”
“Very curious,” said Loring.
“At the Monongahela he was toward the rear when the Indians fell upon Braddock’s vanguard. Our man got away without a scratch, unless you count the little fuss he got into with a British officer before the fighting started.”
“Little fuss?” Pownall.
“As I’ve heard it, he and some grenadier captain had gotten off on a bad footing to begin with. I guess the captain was something of a jackass and not at all fond of provincials. He wouldn’t allow his men to help out in the road-building work, which would have meant associating with Americans. He even ordered them to set separate camps with their own passwords. Well, the proud Virginian is not used to being looked down on, especially by people he would outrank were they not regular British Army. The flash point came when the captain ordered him at swordpoint to pick up a shovel and move some dirt. Our man told him to bugger himself, at which point the officer struck him broadside across the face with the flat of his hanger. The colonel still carries the mark where the edge dug into his flesh.”
“We all have chafed under British arrogance,” said Loring, “but I’ve not heard of more insufferable provocation.”
“Still, he is from one of the Dominion’s oldest and richest families and one of the best connected,” said Pownall. “I’ve entertained him at my own table several times, both before and after I became governor. My predecessor even threw a banquet for him, honoring his service to the Crown. How could such a man as Richard Ayerdale betray his country?”
Although he already had guessed who they were talking about, Harry felt his pulse quicken. There was another pause in the discussion. Then, in a voice so low that Harry had to strain to hear, Browning said, “I know a secret.”
Harry wished he dared look around the curtain again. If he could not entirely make the words out, he might guess from the shapes of Browning’s lips as he spoke. He settled for cupping both ears.
“learned from a friend . . . moneylenders in London . . . reluctant to tell . . . violate a confidence.”
“For heaven’s sake, man, what is it?” said Loring.
Another pause. Suddenly through the wicker weavings he saw a pair of shoes stepping onto the deck. He lowered his eyes. Comet Elijah once had told him that the whites of eyes reflecting starlight were as good as signal lanterns to a trained eye. Whoever it was paused, as if having a quick look around. Harry offered up a prayer of thanks for the dark shade of his coat, while searching his mind for a believable explanation for his presence crouching behind a sofa. But the shoes turned and retreated into the great room.
In a clearly audible voice, Browning said, “Richard Ayerdale is flat broke.”
Silence. Of a stunned nature, if Harry read it correctly. Reflecting his own reaction.
“But how could that be?” Pownall again. “To my understanding, he owns one of the largest assemblages of land in America. And hundreds of enslaved Africans to go with it.”
“It seems that Mister Ayerdale is not immune to the economic tides that affect us all,” said Browning. “Especially our countrymen in the South, vulnerable as they are to agricultural markets. Falling tobacco prices, combined with the demands of a lavish way of life, have hurt Ayerdale on a scale commensurate with his wealth. In addition, it seems he is addicted to gambling. My information is that in recent years he’s lost heavily at cards and racing tracks in a number of cities here and abroad. It seems the worse off he became, the more recklessly he risked what he had left.”
After another moment Browning said, “I have no reason to doubt the truth of my information, even though my London friend was drunk at the time. Perhaps all the more reason to believe him, since he was speaking unguardedly. Of course it would be pure speculation to go further, link Ayerdale’s financial condition to suspicion of traitorous conduct. But we all know the French pay well and concoct elaborate schemes to gain information. I cannot see how the possibility of such a connection can be ignored. Especially now, when the man is on his way to the scene of what could be a decisive battle. A victory, we hope—or else a debacle that could have the direst consequences for the future of Britain on this continent.”
“This information is astonishing,” said Loring. The sofa creaked; then, measured footfalls. Pacing. “But how could anyone publicly point a finger at such a man without proof? Lacking evidence, the accuser might face the ruin of his own good name. Not to mention the ill effects it would have on Ayerdale, were he proved innocent.”
“Precisely why I have not already made my information public,” said Browning.
“I agree with the sheriff: any such allegations would require unchallengeable evidence,” said Pownall, sounding like he was announcing his conclusions as he formed them. “The case would need to be shown beyond dispute, well enough to stand up in a good Massachusetts Bay court.”
“Governor,” Browning said, “you and Joshua are the only ones I’ve spoken to on this matter. In all candor, you are among the few people I feel I can trust. I’m not inclined to share it with any redcoat, no matter how high up. If we are being deceived, who knows who else might be in on it. In my opinion, the fewer who know of my suspicions, the safer our country.”
“That being the case,” said Pownall, “your course seems clear. When you get up with Wolfe, seek out Ayerdale. Watch him as close as you can. It appears that watching and waiting is all that can be done for now.”
Harry was trying to steady his breathing lest the noise of it give him away. Richard Ayerdale, a traitor. Ever since the disappointing outcome of Harry’s meeting with George Johnston, Harry had been steeling himself for his return to North Carolina with nothing to show for his efforts. Ruination assured. Whatever small edge of grace he had gotten a fingerhold on, lost. Now, suddenly, the world had rearranged itself.
He needed time to reflect on this new order. He would have preferred to do this someplace else, but the party in the great room seemed to be laying in for another round of drinks. Their talk turning to some local political matter. Once again satisfying himself that he was as well hidden as he could be, Harry let his thoughts wander.
At first impression, Comet Elijah’s prospects did not seem improved by this new turn. Additionally, Harry felt he had to reconsider why he ever thought Ayerdale might have killed the Campbells, other than the fact that he might have been in the vicinity of the farmhouse at the time. The crime of betraying one’s country, rather than the murder of an obscure farm family, seemed a more appropriate fit with Ayerdale’s standing in the world.
On the other hand, all was far from lost. What if Harry followed Ayerdale into Canada and there proved, or helped prove, that he was a spy? Even if he could not save his old friend, at least Harry himself would be vindicated, his reputation not only salvaged but advanced. Surely he would be hailed as a hero, his name toasted in the households of New Bern. In fact, in every important city from Boston to Charleston. Surely in that case he could intervene in Comet Elijah’s case, at least enough to save his old friend’s life.
But what of Maddie? Even if Harry fell short of exposing Ayerdale as a turncoat, Harry certainly could inform her about Ayerdale’s finances. What reason could remain for marrying him? If Harry acted in time, he might spare her from coming under the thumb of one who not only was a beast, but penniless as well. She could do with the information as she wished, beginning with confronting Ayerdale. Preferably in the company of someone who could defend her in case the conversation turned violent. An outcome Harry suspected possible.
He imagined himself facing off against the princeling of Virginia. Beating a confession out of him if need be. It might end with Ayerdale’s suffering more damage to his handsome face than the lone scar that now ran along one side of it. Harry might not escape injury himself. But he was no cringing slave child, but rather a full-grown man trained in the art of killing and maiming, combat in the style of some of America’s most fearsome peoples, the Tuscarora Indian nation.
The discussion seemed to be breaking up. Harry was all but done convincing himself that his way forward lacked only details to be worked out. But a new complication disrupted his thinking. The single reason he might reconsider everything. The trip to Quebec, warning Maddie, exposing Ayerdale. Why he might turn around and head back for North Carolina on the first ship south. Leave it to Major Browning and his friends in Boston to unmask the enemy. And hope such a thing would happen before the wedding.
The single reason was Toby.
CHAPTER 22
13: Kill no Vermin as Fleas, lice ticks & etc in ye Sight of Others, if you See any filth or thick Spittle put your foot Dexteriously upon it if it be upon ye Cloths of your Companions, Put it off privately, and if it be upon your own Cloths return Thanks to him who puts it off.