The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “So, after his release from the Iroquois, Rag was no man’s minion. It is said he honors nothing but his word, having no faith in God, King or Country. He did not fight in the Revolution, and rather sold his wares unashamedly to both sides. He was clever and tough enough to keep his business, even after the war was won by his neighbors. He deals mostly in weapons and rum. He’s got seven ships. He knows all about you, and how we have forty-thousand pounds of sugar just sitting in our hold. He laughs at how you’ve thrown all the sharp tricksters aside. He likes you from afar.”

  “It is a sure bet your meeting was no coincidence. But I think I want to meet this man. Set it up.”

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  “If we do business with him, there will be a bonus for you.”

  “Merci, Monsieur.”

  ***

  They met in Rag’s office. Xavier had with him l’Oublié, Avenir, Vaux and Deschenes. Rag had his men as well. Xavier thought if it came down between them with knives and pistols, it would be a fool’s errand to call the winner. Rag was of German or English descent, white as rice, with black hair and black eyes, and perpetual whiskers. He had strange scars and burns on his skin - everywhere one could see. There wasn’t much small talk, not even the offer of a drink. “Well, what can I do for you, Monsieur Traversier?”

  Xavier spoke, “Forgive me, my English is quite poor.”

  “Prob’ly better than mine,” Rag said, ruefully.

  “I need ships. I wish to meet someone who can provide me with ships.”

  “I know of one for sale. A cedar-hulled Jamaican sloop called the Taino Rock.”

  “I do not need a ship. I need ships.”

  “Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, was it?”

  “No, Monsieur. But that is what I want to do. I want to build Rome.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Your Rome is bigger than mine.”

  “I paid more for it.”

  Xavier tipped his hat in respect.

  Rag shrugged, “I ain’t never understood the French. I don’t know why so many of y’all came over here and died for us. You have a king and we were trying to get rid of one.”

  “We were against the British, more than for American freedom, truth be told.”

  “Interesting. Anyway, I ain’t never understood the French. Someone would say me and you are polar opposites. I’m north Maine, and you are east Siam.”

  “Maine is named after a river in France. Perhaps I am Maine.”

  “You saying I’m Siamese?” Rag asked evenly. Xavier shrugged. Rag continued, “It don’t matter. Because we are not opposites at all.” Xavier said nothing. “You’re a kindred spirit, Monsieur Traversier. We’d both die for our word. We’re tough but generous to our people, and straight as arrows when it comes to business.”

  “You can tell all of this from the few words we have spoken?”

  “Nah. I’ve had men - and women - following your troops, asking questions, getting information from the sober and the drunk. I know what I’m about.”

  Xavier went with his gut. This man was an American. From his experience, he knew they were indeed the opposite of the French. For them it was coin and contracts, and only then anything else. “I will call you Boston Rag.”

  “Yep. That’s all right.”

  “Boston Rag, I have forty-thousand pounds of sugar worth thirty-one thousand livres – or fifty-two hundred dollars, if you please. Take the sugar. All of it. I have a lot more in Port-Au-Prince - five-hundred and sixty thousand pounds, to be exact. I’ll pay you for your help transporting it here.”

  “Flying the stars and stripes? What are they gonna charge me down there? As an American, I mean. Gonna tariff the nose right off my face.”

  “We are going to turn all of your ships into Frenchmen. I have the forged paperwork and the flags to do it. You will keep the paperwork, and turn your ships into Frenchmen whenever you wish.”

  “Kinda clever of you, ain’t it?”

  “Baise la taxe. I get charged ten percent by the church, and I do not even attend mass. I have no loyalty to the Throne and its war debt.”

  “So, we get the sugar. Then what?”

  “I need to commission the building of at least two more ships. I want a hundred-ton three-masted barque as soon as possible. I’m willing to pay two-hundred thousand livre, up front, for the barque, using the sugar. If you have the contacts, and they have the resources, I will pay for two - up front. I’ll pay twenty-thousand for the sloop, and will give you forty-thousand for your transport and agent fees, for finding the ships and supervising the sale, or the building of them.”

  “Sweetheart, where have you been my whole life?” said Rag, and Xavier and his men tensed. Such a statement could be cause for a duel. But Rag and his men laughed good-naturedly. Xavier made a subtle gesture to his men to stand down. Rag took out a long pipe, “Do you partake, Monsieur?”

  Xavier shrugged, “Oui.”

  Rag started the pipe, “Maybe your ships could be American, if need be. Least I could do.”

  Xavier smiled. His instincts about this man were right.

  ***

  The Taino Rock would sail home with the Nooit Sterven. Xavier and Avenir would captain them with two of the four skeleton crews they brought along. They would pay their taxes as if the Taino Rock was the only proceeds of the trip, and then load up with linen and other trade goods and return to Africa, Saint-Domingue and finally Boston once again. Deschenes and Vaux were to stay behind in Boston, with the other two crews, and work for Rag, at least for the nonce. Hopefully, by the time Xavier and Avenir returned in the two sloops, the two barques would be ready. All four ships, captains and crews, would then leave together for Africa. At the end of that third journey, in Nantes, all of the profits from that particular run would be disbursed solely to the four crews and captains, minus Xavier. That would make them all rich men, from sail master to carpenter’s assistant. That was the deal that lured four good crews and captains, on one small sloop, away from home for nearly a year, under the harshest of conditions.

  After that, things could go back to normal. There would then be a fleet - four ships and counting. They would slowly expand even more as they found good, reliable crew possessed of discretion. They would insure the fleet against loss. They would share profits regularly, and Xavier would allow himself a salary that would enable a lifestyle appropriate to his station. If there was war, they could change colors and be American. Xavier had Boston as a new home, if need be, and Rag had Nantes. Mademoiselle Anne in Gorée would be their permanent contact in Africa.

  It all seemed so easy now, and so clear. And yet Xavier realized it had been ten years since he had regularly slept more than six hours a night.

  But he could not rest, not now. His regimen was to continue for years to come, though his coffers filled at an exponential rate. Xavier did not stop, did not rest, until his wealth and power were titanic, monstrous things – gigantic spiked towers of basalt and iron.

  But somehow, akin to the illusion of the powerless strikes against the African’s leg, those towers never seemed to be good enough protection, the architect only too aware of their weaknesses and flaws.

  By 1788, he was the richest and most powerful man in Nantes, and Traversier was once again the premier family of Brittany.

  But nothing really changed for Xavier, not even then.

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jake stared at the man through the thick bars of the jail cell. He was in his late seventies, and looked to be one-hundred-fifty. He was a mass of dirty wool garments; overwhelming beard and long grey hair streaked with white, both impossibly thick and curly. He was awake, muttering and shaking like a leaf on the stone floor. He smelled of alcohol; horrid, slimy sweat - and the privy.

  This pitiable specimen was Jake’s last hope. If this man was incapable of coherency, this trip would be for naught.

  The night before he left the Chateau Meilleur, Jake did not sleep.
Instead, he spent the night formulating a coded letter for The Society. On its surface, it seemed like an apology to Isaäc, asking for his forbearance in the late payment of his bill. In reality, it spelled one word in code: Londonderry. He posted the letter from the Château Meilleur right before leaving for the coach. It was nine days to Calais from Nantes on two separate coach lines, the change occurring in Paris – where he dared not tarry.

  The Calais channel ferry took him to Great Britain, to Dover, which was, in Jake’s opinion, an amazing place. Huge chalk cliffs rose directly from the beach. At the top of the cliffs were rolling hills – nearly all of which held a fort or castle. It was as if every generation built a fortification above the town for a thousand years, and never was one demolished. The town itself was a grey border port, full of travelers, secrets and sailors.

  It was odd to speak English again.

  After procuring the necessary paperwork for his journey, he was off. Travelling in Great Britain was a relief, after the muddy lanes and misbegotten coaches of France, for Britain had extensive rail lines. A horse-drawn coach with special wheels could be placed on a rail, and was henceforth nearly immune to bad weather, terrain, and mud. Entering the Midlands, and the industrial heart of Britain, the horse-drawn coaches on rails were sometimes replaced by the marvels of propelling steam engines, called locomotives, that carried one or more coaches at an even faster pace. The distance from Dover to the sprawling port of Liverpool was easily as far as Nantes from Paris, yet it was just shy of a three-day trip.

  Jake kept a careful eye for anyone who followed his journey, but no one did. The people who temporarily shadowed his movements in England had not been with him in France. He decided that if The Society, or agents of Tyran, were following him, that they were either very clever, or invisible. He began to relax.

  Britain was a marvel. Jake had to admit that the countryside of rolling hills and forest copses was even more beautiful than France. The women were lovelier as well. The people in general were politer, more civilized, and more conservative. Every time Jake turned around, he saw something new and interesting. Great Britain was a technological marvel, at the cutting edge of a new age.

  The architecture had left much to be desired, however. Every new building in Britain seemed to be made of bricks. Modern architecture was an ugly and atrocious addition next to the graceful stone and wood creations of more graceful times. The cities were dirty, and full of the poor.

  A steam-sail ship – another wonder - took him from Liverpool to Londonderry - the three-hundred-odd miles easily eaten in less than two days.

  But Londonderry was in Ireland, and Ireland was a different creature altogether.

  Londonderry was a small, industrious town composed mostly of sturdy and unimaginative buildings. However bustling during the day, it might as well have been a Roman ruin after dark, there being no life to the city at all.

  Jake found out the land called Ards, forest and otherwise, was owned by a local lord by the name of Stewart. Jake arranged a meeting with Lord Stewart, using an interesting lie designed to pique his interest.

  Lord Stewart was a florid, arrogant sort. His every word seemed to carry judgement, as if everything and everyone were being constantly reevaluated for propriety. Jake showed him the captain’s log, and told him he was working for the heirs of Captain Eltis in an attempt to find the Cross – which was, in this particular lie, simply an ordinary thing of value. Jake explained that the Cross was rightfully the property of the Eltis family, and not that of some ridiculous Irish slave girl.

  Lord Stewart seemed to warm to the prejudice.

  Jake revealed that he wanted to find out if the girl came home to Ards. Lord Stewart was intrigued by Jake’s story, had no designs upon the Cross whatsoever – wishing to see it back in its rightful hands - and promptly set up a meeting between Jake and his Master Huntsman, Lord Ivor MacInnes.

  Ivor proved to be old and scary-looking, but otherwise quite similar to the other Presbyterian inhabitants of Ulster with whom Jake had met: religious, dour, staid, and conservative. “Ards is in north Donegal,” he said, in a voice like scratchy burlap, “Nearly twenty-five miles away. We will be armed to the teeth, for ‘tis Catholic country. We will travel on horseback to Creeslough, then walk the rest of the way.”

  It took some time for Jake to convince Ivor that he had never been on horseback. When he did, Ivor was helpful and taught him the basic techniques, and minded Jake’s horse as much as his own.

  It was a cold, wet journey to Creeslough, where they slept at an inn. It was not much better when they woke the next morning, and walked into the forest. They stopped perhaps a mile and a half inside the trees, in a spot that looked like any other part of the forest.

  Jake was hungry, cold and wet. Ireland was proving to be a foul, damp, misbegotten place, and he vowed never to return.

  “Here it was,” said Ivor, “None of these trees were here back then. The Ó Brollachain village was right in this very spot. They wore wool garments woven by their own looms, and slippers carved from white oak.”

  Jake remembered seeing Irish arrayed likewise on the road on the way up. It seemed these Catholic Irish were all hopeless peasants - dirty, scraggly families of a dozen children or more. Between their wide-brimmed hats and long beards, the men were sometimes hard to tell apart. The women wore wide-brimmed bonnets, flowing long-sleeved dresses, covering their necks to the jaw, arms to the wrist and legs to the ankle. They were mostly black-haired and blue-eyed, but could also be remarkably dark. Their houses were made of sod, wood and thatch, and their small plots offered potatoes and beets. They were a humbled people, a broken and beaten people of no account.

  Lord Stewart had previously acknowledged little regard for them, “Allow me to illustrate the nature of the Irish. Despite foreknowledge, and our best efforts to educate in prevention, cholera came to the island last year and spread quickly. Of course, happily, the Virgin Mary came down and spoke with them,” his voice dripping with sarcasm, “It seems if peat was taken from a particular hearth fire, and rubbed on the walls of a house, cholera would not strike there. So, they divided it up, and began rubbing it on houses. Oddly, as the turf traveled, its very nature began to change. In one town, it was magic sticks, in another, blessed water. Soon the entire country had a cure for cholera, except it was a different cure depending on how and when the original story was altered through the telling. So instead of moving their dung heaps from right outside their front doors – which would have helped tremendously - they rubbed their huts with magic sticks. This secret conspiracy was so vast, so pernicious, that we thought another rebellion was being plotted. Imagine our surprise at the truth! Cholera has claimed nearly fifty-thousands of these woebegone creatures already. This Catholic superstition was even given a name by the newspapers – the Panic of the Blessed Turf, no less.”

  Jake emerged from the memory, and turned to Ivor, “What happened to the village?”

  “It was burned down. Every Taig swept from the forest.”

  “What is a Taig?”

  “I am assuming you are Reformed Protestant, being an American from Boston.”

  “I am a man of the Enlightenment, truth be told.”

  “I dunno what that means, but I assume you take no orders from the Pope.”

  “No, indeed.”

  Ivor nodded, satisfied. “A Taig is an Irish Catholic.”

  “Do you know the story? Of what happened?” Jake asked.

  “Aye. It’s part of the local lore, and is well-known.”

  “I would hear the whole story, in as much detail as you are able to recall.”

  “Very well. Do you wish now to dig or search here, in the ruins of the village?”

  “Here? Hell’s bells – no. No, thank you, no.”

  “Let us walk back toward the road then,” said Ivor as he headed west. “The Forest of Ards, at that time… When was it? 1759, I believe. The forest was part of the demesne of Lord Wray. His estate was far closer to Londo
nderry, you probably noticed it on the road.”

  “If it was large and fair, then I did indeed.”

  “Back then, the Irish were still discontented. The whole island crawled with our soldiers. Our place in the world was far less assured, you see. Nowadays, Britannia fears nothing. We are the greatest power on earth. But back then, the Irish would rise, every time we turned our backs to deal with a threat. They always have, these bastards. Allied themselves with every enemy we’ve ever had, until we put them down proper in 1649. Even then, the island had to be an armed camp.”

  “Le village, Monsieur?”

  Ivor gave him an odd look.

  Jake realized why. “If you could please continue, Mister MacInnes.”

  Ivor did, “Young Lord Wray, the eldest son, was intent upon hunting on his lands in the Forest of Ards. It was a bit far from Londonderry, and they had never hunted there before.”

  “Perhaps that is why he was so intent.”

  “The ways of lords are strange, but we obey.”

  “I’m an American, remember.”

  “Your people will come back to the crown, someday. Your way of life is not natural.”

  Jake chuckled, Ivor did not. “Perhaps, but please go on.”

  “Young Lord Wray formed a hunting party. The Wray hunt master, Rowan Craig, three dozen beaters - farmers in the main - the kennel master, four helpers, dogs – mostly retrievers. Cooks and valets, and so on. The hunters would be the young lords Wray, Gore, Brooke, Hampton and Scott. Off they went, in their fine coaches, which bogged down along the way.”

  “The road coming here was terrible.”

  “Indeed, and worse back then, for the weather was colder and wetter.”

  Jake found that hard to believe.

  Ivor continued, “The famers were nervous, for the woods of Donegal were said to hold Irish bandit clans, those who fled to the forest rather than being subject to English rule. The lords were not threatened in the least - they positioned themselves near our inn, which was not there at the time, and the beaters spread out through the trees across the forest’s width, perhaps starting a mile in, maybe less, and beating to the west.”