Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  “Any luck today?”

  He shook his head. “Seven stops. No one is hiring.”

  She studied him for a moment. “You’ll find work. Seen Matthew today?” She walked back into the kitchen to return with a glass of buttermilk and a platter with sliced bread and a saucer with butter.

  “No.”

  She set them on the table, and Caleb took his place. She sat down facing him.

  “He said there’s a strong chance he and Billy will get the Covington shipping firm.”

  Caleb reached for the bread without saying grace, and Margaret did not correct him, nor did she reveal the pain that rose in her heart.

  Caleb spread the butter. “Something happened today?”

  “The bank sent out someone to look at the ships and go over the books. They’re interested.”

  Caleb spooned stew into his mouth and took a bite of the buttered bread. “Matthew say anything about cargo? What’s he going to carry in the ships?”

  “I think he said rice from the South. Maybe tobacco from Virginia.”

  “What will he carry from here down south?”

  Margaret shrugged. “Didn’t say. You’ll have to talk with him.”

  “Where’s Brigitte? The children?”

  “Up at Matthew’s. Should be home soon. School tomorrow. What’s your plan for tomorrow?”

  Caleb heaved a huge sigh. “Just like yesterday and today. Look for work.”

  There was a rustle at the front door and Margaret called, “Brigitte? That you?”

  “We’re home.”

  “Things all right at Matthew’s?”

  Brigitte walked into the dining room with Adam and Prissy following, all working with the buttons on their coats. Their faces were red from the cold. “Fine. He thinks the shipping business thing will happen soon.”

  “He mention what cargo he would carry down south?” Margaret asked.

  “Something manufactured. Nails, or stoves, or plows.”

  “The baby all right?”

  “He’s a terror. Into everything.”

  Margaret laughed as the three of them walked back into the parlor to hang their coats and scarves.

  Caleb stood. “Got enough wood for morning?”

  “Yes. Adam brought some in.”

  “Been a long day. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  The room fell silent as Caleb walked through the archway, down to his room, without joining the family for evening prayers. Adam looked at Margaret, and she walked back into the kitchen to the dirty dishes without a word.

  Inside his room, Caleb lighted the lamp and removed his shoes. For a time he sat on the bed, staring at the yellow light, working with his thoughts.

  Judd. On the dock, alone. Ten o’clock. What will I do?

  He removed his shirt and trousers and socks, and settled between the sheets in his long underwear, then twisted the lamp wheel. His thoughts ran on in the blackness, taking on size and fears larger than life. Five years ago he had humiliated Murphy with the entire regiment watching, and thought their trouble was finished. He could not know then how wrong he was; he would have to kill him to end it. Today he had beaten a second bully to the ground, and before the day was finished had flushed a man out of the shadows to learn Judd was looking for him. He lay on his back staring into the blackness, then put his arm over his eyes, fist clenched.

  What was I to do? Stand there and do nothing while Judd killed that man? Was that what I should have done? Watch one man murder another? Tomorrow at ten o’clock I meet Judd once more. No matter what he or I say, will it come down to one of us killing the other to end it, like Murphy? Will it?

  He drifted into a tormented sleep, tossing and twisting, and in the night Margaret heard him mumbling.

  Daybreak found him outside the kitchen door in his coat, swinging the ax to split rungs of pine for the fireplace. He ate hot oatmeal porridge and drank hot chocolate with the family, buttoned his coat back on, and walked out into the street. At nine o’clock he was leaving the office of Jeremy Chandler’s book bindery because they had no need of a hired man, and ten o’clock saw him walking past the old, abandoned fish house near Griffin’s Wharf, working through the dockhands as they loaded and unloaded the few ships tied to the dock. He was close to the place of the previous morning’s fight when he saw Judd’s head above the others. He walked on, and men slowed and then stopped, and began to follow him. Thirty feet from Judd, Caleb peered at the face of the huge man. His nose was swollen and twisted and dark, and both eyes were blackened. Caleb walked steadily on, glancing right and left at the ragged dockhands, gathering like jackals to a killing. Far to Caleb’s right was Loman, watching intently. Next to Judd was the little man who had followed Caleb.

  Men stepped back, and Caleb walked to within six feet of Judd before he stopped. His voice came loud.

  “I’m the one who beat you yesterday.”

  A wicked smile formed on Judd’s face, and a tiny trickle of blood started from his battered nose. He reached to wipe at it.

  “I know who you are.”

  “You want to settle this?”

  “I’ll settle it.”

  “I won’t fight you. No good can come from it. It’s over. You win.”

  Judd snorted, “It’s not over until I say.”

  “Then say. I won’t fight. I’ll leave. You win. The waterfront is yours.”

  Judd took a step forward, towering over Caleb by seven inches and seventy pounds. His voice was choked with rage. “You see what you did?” He pointed at his face. “Hit me when I wasn’t expecting. You’ll look worse when I finish. Maybe dead. Then it will be finished.”

  Caleb shook his head. “Then do it now with these men watching. I won’t fight back. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets, and then I’ll get the sheriff. You’ll go to jail for assault. You want to go to jail?”

  Judd shook his head, grinning wickedly. “Nobody here will see anything but a fair fight.”

  Caleb glanced at the men. Their eyes were shifty, their faces a blank, and suddenly Caleb realized that Judd had warned everybody but his own men to stay away from Griffin’s Wharf until he said otherwise.

  Rage rose to choke Caleb, and he stood silent until he could control it. “I came here to end this thing without trouble. I’m through. I’m walking away. Leave it alone, and the docks will be yours.”

  He turned to walk away and heard a heavy grunt as Judd lunged, and he pivoted to his right and ducked as he heard the high, shrill shout, “Stop it! Stop it!” and felt Judd’s huge fist land heavy on his shoulder and fall away as Judd’s lunge carried him past Caleb. He straightened and faced Judd as he recovered from his missed charge, then backed away, hands still in his pockets as Judd came on once again, massive arms extended to grapple and rend. Suddenly Loman was between them with one hand on Judd’s chest shouting up at him, “Stop it! Stop it! You’ll go to jail!”

  Judd looked down at him and he saw the pinpoint eyes beneath the shaggy brows and understood he dared not smash the little man, and he slowed. Loman kept his hand against Judd’s chest, arm stiff, still shouting up into the face of the brute.

  “You can beat him if you do it legal!”

  Judd peered down at him in wonderment, unable to grasp how he could legally beat a man to death.

  Loman did not stop. “In a fair fight. Hands wrapped. Professional. Rules. Someone to keep the rules. Spectators. A purse for the winner. Winner take all. Legal!”

  Caleb gaped as it struck him. Money! Loman had said there was money to be had from this. Loman was in it for the money!

  Loman kept shouting, shaking a finger in the face of the astonished Judd. “Only one thing. No matter how it turns out, it’s over. You will never fight this man again, and he will never fight you again. Do you understand?”

  Judd batted his eyes, unable to put it all together in his head. “You mean we fight for money?”

  Loman’s frustration showed. “Judd, listen! Listen! Yes. For money. Like a professional. With
spectators. Rules. You can beat this man half to death, and no one can ever accuse you for it. Do you understand?”

  Judd shook his head, unable to grasp it. “Legal? For money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s to be decided.” He turned to Caleb. “This is the only chance you have to end this thing. If you don’t, there’ll be another man follow you home and Judd’ll find you. When he does, there’ll be a killing, one way or the other. Make your choice.”

  Trapped! Anger and outrage leaped inside Caleb. Fight for money? Like a professional? Dorman flashed in his mind—scarred around the eyes and mouth, no bridge to his nose, brows heavy with scar tissue. He saw it and felt the revulsion, and then from deep inside came the certain sureness.

  If he could not find a way to stop it now, it would end as it had with Murphy. The evil of the thing would not be satisfied until one of them, himself or Judd, was dead, unless he could find a way to stop it now.

  His thoughts ran on. Would Loman’s maniacal scheme stop it?—save a killing?

  Caleb turned to Loman. “End it forever?”

  “If Judd agrees.” He turned to Judd. “One fight with rules. That ends it forever. Do you agree?”

  For three seconds no one spoke while Judd pondered. “I’ll do it.”

  Loman turned back to Caleb, grinning in anticipation, eyes glittering. “There you have it. Agreed?”

  “Yes. But not in Boston. Across the Back Bay, in Charlestown.”

  Notes

  The characters and events in this chapter are fictional. For the history of the conflict between Caleb Dunson and Conlin Murphy, and the role played by Charles Dorman, see volume 5 of this series, A Cold, Bleak Hill, particularly chapters 1 and 31, and parts of volume 6, The World Turned Upside Down.

  Annapolis, Maryland

  December 23, 1783

  CHAPTER XX

  * * *

  Never had there been such a flood of ecstatic buzzing in the small, Chesapeake Bay town of Annapolis!

  The citizenry had walked a bit livelier and held their heads a bit higher when Congress adjourned at Princeton, New Jersey, on November 4, 1783, to reconvene at Annapolis on November 26. Hosting the United States in congress assembled created a momentary national stir and provided a slight nudge upward in the Annapolis hotel and tavern businesses and gave the local fledgling newspaper a few headlines and a modicum of bragging rights. But soon enough the citizenry learned that the luster of politics is a thin, transient veneer that can quickly fade into the humdrum everyday business of life. The newfound celebrity of the small town soon dulled and began slipping away.

  That was November.

  No one in the country was prepared for the bombshell that burst over Annapolis in December.

  On Saturday, December 20, startled citizens had slowed in the streets at the sight of a cluster of army officers with gold braid on their tricorns and large epaulets on their shoulders, riding high-blooded horses through the streets toward the state house. In the midst of the group, a full head taller than those around him, was General George Washington, astride his tall, dapple-gray mare, ramrod straight, blue-gray eyes watching everything. The officers tied their horses to the hitching posts in front of a large, white building, and walked beneath the columned portico, through double doors into the entryway, then down the hardwood hallway with their boot heels tapping, to the large hall where Congress was seated.

  Upon their entry, the hall quieted. When he could collect his wits, Thomas Mifflin, president of the body, inquired the purpose of the unexpected but most welcome visit. General Washington stood at attention facing him.

  “I wish to tender my letter of resignation from the office which this august body conferred on me in the year 1775.”

  Audible gasps echoed, followed by stunned silence, then a spontaneous outburst of exclamations from every congressman in the room. Washington remained at attention, chin high, eyes locked onto President Thomas Mifflin—the same Thomas Mifflin who had been suspected of collusion with generals Thomas Conway and Horatio Gates in the infamous Conway Cabal five years earlier, in which it was suspected Conway and Gates were covertly attempting to undermine General Washington and replace him as commander in chief of the Continental Army. If rancor against these men still had a place in Washington’s heart, it was not evident as he stood on the floor of the United States Congress. He appeared before Mifflin as a servant of his country, subject to the will of the people, through their congress, and its president.

  His letter of resignation was read and returned to him. A motion was made, loudly seconded, and unanimously voted in the affirmative: that on Monday, December 22, Congress should entertain the general and his aides with a day touring the city of Annapolis, followed by a sumptuous supper in his honor. Further, that at twelve o’clock noon on Tuesday, December 23, 1783, Congress should receive the general to formally accept his letter of resignation and conduct such other business as he desired to bring before it.

  Within minutes of the vote on the motion, the news was outside the state house, and it leaped through Annapolis and the surrounding countryside before the wintry December sun had set. Every shop, every tavern, every ship in the harbor was alive with outbursts and exclamations, and by evening the pending resignation of General George Washington was the single topic that buzzed in every home.

  Resign? It had never occurred to either Congress or the nation that he would resign, or even that he could resign, for he had risen above mortality! He had become the Revolution! How does a Revolution resign? Through eight years of cannon and musket, freezing, sickness, starving, struggling with an untrained, ragtag army, his inspired vision of a free country and his unwavering iron will had been their anchor, their cornerstone, their rock, leading them steadily on through the storm to the impossible victory over the mightiest military power on earth. In the memory of living men, none could recall a mortal more deserving to be their king for as long as he lived. It was his right!

  Resign? The thought struck fear into their hearts. To whom would they turn? Whom could they trust? What was to become of their foundling nation?

  On Sunday the general attended church services in a simple, small chapel that was jammed to the walls with citizens seeking to catch a glimpse of him, with a crowd waiting outside to watch him pass to his carriage. On Monday the streets were lined with people of every age, every description, watching, saluting, waving, as the general was escorted through the town. Aides and soldiers had to force a path through the crowd that surrounded the dining hall where the great supper was served, then again through the throng that gathered along the route to the ballroom where the finest Annapolis had to offer in music and entertainment and dancing was provided.

  Tuesday morning the general spent in quiet reflection in his quarters, writing notes regarding some details he felt necessary to personally attend, and then composing a few remarks he wished to make to Congress at the time he would formally present his letter of resignation. At fifteen minutes before noon he left his quarters in company with his aides and his escort, and walked through the throng to the state house. At noon he entered the building and proceeded to the doors behind which Congress waited. The hallway was jammed with hushed men and women in their best attire. The sergeant at arms requested that he wait, then disappeared inside the assembly hall. Moments later he reappeared, escorting Charles Thomson, a beloved colleague of the general who had served as Secretary of Congress when Washington had served as a member. The two men clasped hands warmly, then Thomson, now a senior and revered member of Congress, opened the door and escorted Washington into the chamber. President Mifflin designated a chair, and Washington sat down. Citizens of high standing and their ladies were shown in and given preferred seats. Then the doors to the chamber and the gallery were opened to the public. In seconds there was no place to sit, or stand; the room was jammed to the walls, with people crowded into the corridors and halls, fervently hoping for a glimpse of Washington and to catc
h a few words.

  The secretary stood and gaveled the tumult to silence, then turned to President Mifflin, who rose and addressed Washington.

  “Sir, the United States in Congress assembled are prepared to receive your communications.”

  The air was electric. Everyone knew they were witnessing an event that would stand alone in the annals of history for all time. No one dared breathe aloud. Every eye was on the general to catch his every expression, every ear strained to catch his every word.

  The general stood, and he bowed! He bowed! He to whom every person in the building would have gladly gone to their knees, bowed to them. Then he drew a piece of parchment from his pocket, carefully unfolded it, and held it with hands that were visibly shaking. He paused for a moment, and then he spoke.

  “Mr. President. The great events on which my resignation depended having at length taken place; I have now the honor of offering my sincere Congratulations to Congress and of presenting myself before them to surrender into their hands the trust committed to me, and to claim the indulgence of retiring from the service of my country.”

  He stopped and he choked, and struggled to regain his composure. He waited until he could control the shaking of his hands. Tears were running down the cheeks of every human being present, and none thought of it, or cared. The great man continued, his voice regaining its strength as he spoke.

  “Happy in the confirmation of our Independence and Sovereignty, and pleased with the opportunity afforded the United States of becoming a respectable Nation, I resign with satisfaction the Appointment I accepted with diffidence. A diffidence in my abilities to accomplish so arduous a task, which however was superseded by a confidence in the rectitude of our Cause, the support of the supreme Power of the Union, and the patronage of Heaven.

  “The successful termination of the War has verified the most sanguine expectations, and my gratitude for the interposition of Providence, and the assistance I have received from my Countrymen, increases with every review of the momentous Contest.